Three Guilty Pleasures (Blindfold Club 6)

His eyes were dark. “I have people in my life, who I care very much about, who are linked to that place.”

If I wasn’t so desperate, my curious mind would have wanted me to investigate that statement. Instead, my words were weighted. “I do too.”

He considered my admission, and a jolt of surprise went through him. His voice was low. “Fuck. Tara’s last name is Vannett, isn’t it?”

My pulse leaped forward. “You know her?”

“No.” He gave a hard, evaluating look. “But if I help you, you have to promise you drop the story.”

“Easy. Already done.”

He dug his phone out of his pocket and began typing.

“What are you doing?”

“Checking with a friend,” he said. “He used to run the club, so he might have some advice.”

Now my pulse kicked into overdrive. I’d read her journal, which meant I had a good idea who Kyle was texting. My mind raced as I tried to come up with a plan.

“If that’s Joseph,” I said, “I need you to introduce us.”

Joseph Monsato met me for dinner at one of the restaurants he owned.

He was ten years older than I was, a precise man with dark hair and sharp eyes. As he stared at me, they cut deep and peeled back my layers. After introductions, it didn’t take me long to confe

ss everything. What parts I left out, the secrets that weren’t mine to tell, he filled in. He already knew Regan was FBI.

I told the truth, no matter how terrible it made me look, and threw myself at his mercy.

He’d started the blindfold club and been Tara’s first Dominant. He knew her better than most people and was the best judge on whether I had a chance at winning her back.

“I need some time to think about this,” he said, “and what’s best for her.” He picked up his wine glass but paused before taking a sip. “What will you do if I say I don’t think she should trust you again, and it’s better if you walk away?”

My heart was a heavy stone in my chest, leaving hardly any room for hope. “If you convince me that’s what she needs, I would do it.”

He looked pleased. “That was the right answer. I may have an idea.”

After dinner, I went home, and like any intelligent, high-functioning adult, I handled my situation irresponsibly.

I got drunk.

The first thing I did was draft a resignation letter. I hated my job, and life was too short to spend it doing something I despised. Morgan could become someone else’s problem. I had an education, experience, and a great work ethic. I’d saved enough money that I could survive for a while as I searched for new employment. When I sobered up in the morning, I’d see how I felt about it. If I still thought it was the right decision, I’d turn the letter in.

And the second thing I did, since I was already sitting at my laptop and had my word processing program open, was start a new document and begin typing. It would be my journal, only my handwriting was shit. So, whatever I was feeling or thinking, I put it down on the page.

It was supposed to be about me, but all I could think about was Tara. She lived how I wanted to live. She knew who she was and what she wanted, and fuck, it was inspiring. I typed, and typed, until my eyes were blurry, and the red squiggly mark underlined every third word. I closed the computer, crawled into my bed, and sent her a text message.

Grant: I’m sorry. I wish I could take it back.

Tara: Don’t text me again. I’m blocking this number.

Joseph had told me to give her time, but I should have known better. When it came to her, I had no self-control.

-33-

Tara

Monday morning, I had the worst hangover of my life. I’d committed the cardinal sin of “beer before liquor” and therefore, had never been sicker. I spent a good portion of the morning in bed, and the remainder of the day I continued to wallow.