Justify Me (Stark Trilogy 4.5)

"Simple," he says. "Tomorrow night, I'm going to take you to The Firehouse."

Chapter Four

"I can't believe you're going to a BDSM club," Aly says as she digs into the breakfast tacos I've brought with me. "I'm so jealous." She falls back against her pillows with a sigh. "Then again, I'm so tired of being in bed that I'd be jealous if you told me you were going to Starbucks."

"I wouldn't need to borrow an outfit if I was going to Starbucks," I point out as I step into her roomy closet. I pull out a pair of buttery soft, black leather pants along with a matching leather overbust corset with a front zipper and side laces to adjust the fit and the amount of cinch.

I carry them both out of the closet and hold up the two hangers, one in each hand. "And why exactly do you have clothes that are stamped with the BDSM seal of approval?"

"Oh, please. That's totally tame. And it's from my days clubbing in Manhattan. You might as well keep both of them." She points to her belly. "After this little guy makes his appearance, I doubt I'll fit back into them. And my boobs were always too big for that thing, anyway."

I laugh. "Thanks a lot for the cold, hard truth." I've got a slim build, and the barely-a-B-cup tits that go along with that.

All she says is, "Trust me," which seems like a total non sequitur. "Go on," she continues, with a regal wave of her hand. "Try it all on."

I shrug, then strip down to my panties and step into the pants. Since I've known Aly forever, there's not a bit of modesty between us, but the truth is, I've never been the shy type. Probably fortunate, I think, since I'm heading to a BDSM club tonight.

"How come you don't already have something to wear?" Aly asks. "Didn't you go with Lyle and his wife and that producer recently?"

"Yeah, but I pretty much blew the dress code that day, I think." Maybe not, because Matthew obviously knew the drill, and he said I looked fine. But he also knew that we were there only to observe, so no one really cared if my plain black leggings and simple silk tank were completely wrong for the occasion and location. In other words, I'd worn an outfit that telegraphed that I was there to observe, not to play.

According to Riley, this time I'm not going to observe, I'm going to get noticed. The goal is to draw the stalker out so that Riley can swoop in. According to him, we're going to slide into the rhythm of the club. Make ourselves noticed by whoever. Lure them out. I'm not entirely sure how he intends to do that. But I'm definitely the bait. And the bait requires a wardrobe.

I tug up the back zipper and allow myself a happy sigh. The pants are a perfect fit, soft and pliable, and they hug me like a second skin.

"Damn," Aly says. "I guess it's just as well I'm giving them to you. You look so much better than I ever did. No--" she says, before I can protest. "It's an empirical fact. You have an ass, and my butt is as flat as a pancake. You, my friend, own those pants. All I could manage was to wear them."

I don't say it out loud, but I have to admit she's right. Not about how Aly looked in them--I never saw her--but about the fact that they look damn good on me. More than that, I genuinely like them. The weight of the leather. The tactile sensation of the material against my skin. I feel sexy and powerful, and as far as I'm concerned, that's a good thing. Because I started this day feeling confused and out of sorts.

And not entirely because of my stalker.

With a frown, I push thoughts of Riley from my head. I'd spent the night tossing and turning as he'd invaded my Firehouse-filled dreams, inserting himself into the situations and scenes I'd witnessed during the research tour of the place. I'd awakened just seconds before a massive orgasm ripped over me, my skin hot, my nipples tight, and my inner thighs slick with desire.

It wasn't the first time Riley had invaded my fantasies over the years, but it had definitely been the most intense, and the most frustrating. And not just because I know damn well that nothing is going to develop between us outside of my dreams, but also because I woke without any memory of what he'd done to get me in such a state.

So, yeah, I felt a little cheated.

"Quit admiring your excellent ass and put on the top," Aly says.

"What?" Her words startle me out of my thoughts and I realize that I'm still wearing my M. Sterious cast and crew tank top. "Oh, sorry." I tug it over my head, then unlatch the front hook of my bra and let it fall behind me.

"Now I feel better about my ass," Aly says. "At least I have tits."

"Hey, I brought you breakfast tacos. You're not allowed to be mean to me."

"Just soothing my bruised ego," she says. "You look hot." She broke off to look me over from head to toe. "Well, half-naked and hot. And I look like a beached whale."

"You look amazing," I say sincerely as I grab the corset and connect the two halves of the zipper. "You're glowing."

She rolls her eyes, but I can see she looks pleased. "That's what Ben always says, but I figured he was just blowing smoke up my ass."

"Totally true," I tell her, then glance down at my chest. "This can't be right." The leather just sort of hangs on me, not nearly as flattering as I'd hoped.

With a laugh, Aly motions me over, then reaches for the laces at the side. She tugs and tightens, then repeats the process on the other side, binding me into the thing. "Now look," she says.

I turn, do as she says, then gasp.

I've got tits. I mean, I've got actual, bouncy, overflowing tits.

"I think I love you," I tell Aly. "And I know I love this corset."

She laughs. "Told you so. And you know who's really going to love it? Riley."

A tingle of anticipation spreads though me, but I tamp it down. I don't need to be thinking about Riley that way. "Just so long as I blend at the club. No," I correct. "No blending. The idea is to be seen."

Aly bites her lower lip as she studies me.

"What?" I demand.

"It's just--" She makes a face, then barrels on. "Are you sure you're okay doing this?"

My eyes go wide. "If it gets a stalker out of my life? Yeah, I think I can deal with going to a club."

"No, I don't mean the club," she corrects. "I mean Riley. Maybe you outgrew it--maybe you're just ignoring it--but I still remember."

I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. "Remember what?"

She rolls her eyes. "You. Riley. All of it. You used to have the biggest crush on him, and don't even try to deny it, because I'm the one you happy danced in front of when he finally noticed you. I mean, you two could have been a thing if it weren't for--"

"Stop," I say. "None of that matters anymore."

"Why?" I can hear the sympathy in her voice, and I hate it. "Because of your dad? Come on, Nat. You can't really--"

"Just drop it," I snap, my voice thick. I turn away, not wanting my best friend in the whole world to see the way I'm keeping my eyes unnaturally wide in an attempt to keep a fresh wave of tears at bay.

I draw in a breath, then turn to her. "I'm sorry for snapping," I say, meaning it. Where Riley and my dad and that whole horrible year are concerned, my nerves are always frayed. "But I'm thirty years old now. I'm beyond crushes." I've moved on to safe. To practical.

"I don't think you're ever beyond crushes," Aly says gently. "And I'm going back to my original question--are you sure you're going to be okay? Because when you open your door tonight and Riley sees you... Well, sweetie, I'll bet you a million dollars that boy's cock is going to bust right out of his jeans."

"You don't have a million dollars," I point out, fighting a smile.

She lifts a shoulder in a casual shrug. "Won't need it. Because this is one bet I'm totally going to win."

I'm still thinking of Aly's ridiculous bet later that evening as I feel the leather mold to my ass when I bend to scratch Pumpkin behind the ears. A ginger-colored mutt of a cat, I'd found her hiding behind a dumpster when I'd gone to look for packing boxes before moving into my current Studio City rental. She's now the most pampered indoor cat in Southern California, and at the moment, she's annoyed with me for not picking her up to cuddle.

"I'm sorry, baby." She's a kneader, and I don't want to risk her claws in the pristine leather--or on my bare shoulder, for that matter. "Come on. I'll open a can of tuna."

I see her ears twitch--I know she can understand me--but she's in a pissy enough mood that she doesn't follow me to the kitchen. Not, that is, until I start to run the can opener. Then the lure of tuna overcomes her annoyance and she trots into the kitchen, does a figure-eight between my legs, then parks herself by her Miss Kitty placemat that I keep by the sliding glass door that leads into the backyard.

I hear her purr as I put the plate down and know that all is forgiven.

Too bad all problems can't be solved as easily.

Since I'm in the kitchen anyway, I open the fridge and pull out an already open bottle of Chardonnay. I tell myself I only want a drink because it's late summer and the house is warm and I'm decked out in meteorologically inappropriate leather.

Which is ridiculous.

I want a drink because I'm going to a BDSM club.

Or, more accurately, because I'm going to a BDSM club with Riley.

I fill the glass, toss back a long swallow, and for about the millionth time wonder what the hell I was thinking.

That's not a question I have time to consider, however, because the doorbell rings and my stomach pretty much drops to the floor.

That boy's cock is going to bust right out of his jeans.

Aly's words once again ring like klaxons in my head, and as I hurry to the front door, I can't erase the image of faded blue denim riding low on Riley's hips, the material hugging his thighs, and his equipment so hard that the button fly is about to burst. Oh, dear Lord in heaven.

By the time I reach the door my mouth is dry and I've decided to murder my best friend.

As soon as my hand reaches the doorknob, I hesitate, remembering not only the situation, but the town I live in. "Who is it?"