She dragged out her large suitcase from under the bed. Placing it open on the mattress, she began to empty her closet and drawers into the case—no work clothes, just her comfy weekend things, along with her BDSM outfits and gear. She added her jewelry, her Kindle, her makeup bag and toiletries and her favorite pillow.
Pulling the wheeled suitcase into the living room, she retrieved her computer bag from the hall closet and packed her laptop, phone charger and the files and important personal papers from her desk.
At the last minute she grabbed the briefcase. She’d ship the entire contents to Aiken when she got around to it. He could sort it out.
She glanced around the apartment, thinking how little she’d accumulated, and how little what she did have mattered. Let the landlords have it. She didn’t want any of it. She’d start fresh. And she’d start now.
Sitting at the desk, she pulled out a red marker from the drawer and wrote across the eviction letter: Thanks, but no thanks, and scrawled her signature beneath it. She tucked it into the stamped, self addressed envelope the law firm had so thoughtfully provided, and dropped the letter into the mail chute while she waited for the elevator to take her down and out into the wide, open night, which was suddenly filled with possibility.
~*~
It was three o’clock the next day when Jordan pulled into another in a series of rest stops. Propelled forward by nervous energy, she’d been driving nearly nonstop since the night before, stopping only to grab a few hours sleep along the way.
Taking her cell phone from the car charger, she called Betsy. “I did it,” she announced.
“Hello to you too, Jordan.” Betsy laughed. “You did what?”
“I left. Packed my bags and hit the road.”
There was a brief pause, and then, “You did? Really? Where are you?”
“Just outside of Chicago. I have no idea where I’m going, but it feels great.”
“You quit your job? What about your apartment?”
“I haven’t officially quit yet. When I got home last night, it turns out they want to evict me anyway. I took that as a sign from the universe. It’s time to get the hell out of Dodge.” Jordan laughed.
“That’s great!” Betsy enthused. “You sound like your old self, too. I haven’t heard you laugh in ages. So what’s the plan?”
“No plan. I’m just driving. I have no idea where I’m going. Crazy, right?”
“Not so crazy. I’ve got an idea, if you’re interested. You’re on I-80?”
“Yep.”
“Just stay on it another couple thousand miles,” Betsy said with a laugh. “Seriously, though. I have friends in San Francisco. They own a really cool club out there. You could get a job there. Start fresh. If you needed some money I could—”
“That’s okay,” Jordan interrupted. “I’ve got some savings. I’m good.”
“Okay. Well, know I’m here if you ever need me. Meanwhile, here are the details.”
~*~
Jordan lifted her hips and pushed her hand into her jeans pocket. She extracted the piece of paper, now crumpled, and smoothed it open on her thigh. Behind her somebody honked their horn, and she glanced up at the light, which had turned green.
“I need coffee,” she said aloud, though she was alone. Her eyes burned and her butt was asleep. Her car clock, still on New York time, read 8:22 am. The sun was just rising, or more accurately, trying to push its way through the San Franciscan fog on that Monday morning.
Jordan pulled into a donut shop and climbed stiffly out of the car. As she stood, the piece of paper fell to the asphalt of the parking lot. She bent to pick it up.
The Bondage Wheel – 225 Columbus Avenue. Ask for Gene.
Folding it back into her pocket, Jordan entered the shop and sat down at the counter. The woman behind the counter was placing donuts onto angled racks that lined the back wall. She was wearing a pink uniform with a white apron. She didn’t seem to realize Jordan was there.
Jordan clinked her keys onto the counter to get her attention. After she’d sorted the last of the donuts, the woman finally turned and faced Jordan. A plastic name badge was pinned over her left breast that read, I’m Mary, and just below that, How May I Help You?
“Morning,” Mary said in a dull voice. Her mouth was drawn down at the corners in a frown and she looked haggard. “What can I get you?”
“Morning,” Jordan replied. “I’ll have a medium coffee with cream and two sugars and,” she paused, looking over the various donut offerings, “I’ll have one of those maple frosteds and a glazed.”
“Here or to go?”
“Here. Uh, do you have a restroom?”
The woman jerked her head to the left. “Back there.”
Jordan went into the bathroom, peed and washed her face and hands. She stared at herself in the mirror and ran her fingers through her short hair, which was standing up in unruly tufts around a face that looked tired, dark smudges under her eyes.
Just the same, Jordan flashed herself an incredulous smile. “I did it,” she whispered triumphantly to the mirror image. “I’m in San Francisco! I’m free!”
She patted the piece of paper in her pocket and returned to her stool, sliding up onto it and taking a sip of strong, hot coffee. She took a big bite of the maple frosted donut and washed it down with another sip of coffee. Two people came into the shop while she was eating, ordered donuts and coffee to go and left.
When she got Mary’s attention again, Jordan said, “Is there a cheap motel somewhere around here?”
Mary shook her head. “Nothing’s cheap in San Francisco. But there’s a Motel 8 a couple of blocks over. Where you from?”
“New Jersey.”
“What brings you all this way?”
“I ran away.”
Mary looked her up and down, her expression skeptical. “Excuse me, but you look a little too old to be running away from home. No offense.”
Jordan laughed. “None taken. I’m twenty-seven today, in fact. It’s my birthday.”
“Well, happy birthday.” Mary smiled a genuine smile, making her look suddenly younger than Jordan had initially thought.
“Thanks.” Jordan smiled back.
“Here.” Mary turned to grab a donut covered with pink frosting and colored sprinkles. “A birthday donut.”
Jordan smiled at the kind gesture, though she would have rather had another maple frosted. “Thanks,” she said, taking the donut.
“So you ran away, huh,” Mary persisted. “What from?”
Jordan shrugged. “Maybe run away isn’t the right term. Escape is more like it.”
She leaned forward on her elbows on the counter, still not quite believing herself what she’d done. “Ever get to the point you just want to get in the car and keep on driving?”
Mary offered a hard, angry smile. “Just about every day,” she said. “Look where I’m working.” She waved her hand around the small coffee shop. “I spent twenty-two years with the same company. Then they merged with another company and suddenly I became redundant. That’s the word they used. Redundant. They gave me two weeks pay and let me go. Just like that. Out the door.”
“That sucks,” Jordan said sympathetically.
“Yeah,” Mary agreed. She refilled Jordan’s cup. “So what about you? You redundant too?”
“Nope. I’m homeless and jobless, but redundant? Never.” She laughed, feeling absurdly light. A text buzzed on her phone and Jordan looked at it. It was from her boss.
I need you in early this morning. Complications with the loan packet.
Jordan’s gut clenched reflexively, until her brain reminded it she was free!
She texted back: So sorry. I won’t be in today.
Aiken responded: I don’t care if you’re puking your guts out. If you don’t get your ass here pronto, you’re fired.
Jordan’s thumbs actually shook as she typed back: Too late. I quit.
Then a grin spread over her face and she laughed out loud as she d
ropped her phone into her purse.
“You sure seem happy for someone with no job or place to live,” Mary remarked, as she topped off Jordan’s coffee.
“I just told my boss, I mean my ex-boss, that I quit.”
“No kidding. That must feel good.”
“Feels great,” Jordan agreed. She took a bite of the pink-frosted donut, surprised by how good it was.
“Sounds like your job must have been pretty bad, huh?”
“The job itself wasn’t so bad, I guess, if you like getting paid less than your male coworkers even though you have more experience and do a better job. And if you like making cold calls to companies, trying to get them to borrow money from you that they don’t need, because the ones that need it can’t qualify for a loan. And if you enjoy sitting in endless, mind numbing meetings with a bullying boss who pits the loan officers against each other and motivates through fear and aggression. Oh, and if you don’t mind when he dumps a big stack of files on your desk on a Friday at six o’clock and says you better be ready to present the loan package first thing Monday morning for a company that has no business borrowing funds, but the owner is a special pal of the boss, and if the deal doesn’t get approved he’ll fire your ass in a New York minute.”
Even as she rambled on, Jordan knew she was saying too much, and to a perfect stranger at that. It must be the sleep deprivation of the past days, along with the giddiness at her new situation. “Pardon the rant.” She smiled sheepishly at Mary. “You must think I’m nuts.”
“Not at all,” Mary assured her, her tone earnest. “It’s like some kind of movie. Everyone’s fantasy—to just get in the car and keep on going. Is that what happened?”
Jordan nodded, amazed anew at what she’d done. “Pretty much. I’m supposed to be at that meeting right now, selling the loan committee on a bad piece of business. I’ve been at that job for six years and I still haven’t paid off all my student loans for a degree in finance I never should have gotten in the first place. I guess it was the eviction notice taped to my apartment door when I got home from work that put me over the edge. They’re turning my apartment complex into a co-op apparently.” She shrugged, still grinning. “I just packed up the stuff I care about and left the rest. Let them deal with it.”
Mary was grinning now too. “You go, girl!” she enthused.
“I’m Jordan, by the way.” Jordan extended her hand across the bar.
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Mary.” Mary touched the plastic nametag on her uniform. “By the way, I think they’re hiring at the gas station next door. I could put in a good word for you.”
Jordan smiled at the stranger’s kindness. “That’s really nice of you, thanks. I’ll be all right for a while, but I do need to find someplace to stay.”
Mary reached into her apron pocket and took out a pad of paper. “I’ve got a cousin who has a garage apartment over in North Beach. She just lost her tenant and is going to be putting a want ad in the papers. You’d need to have two months’ rent and the place is pretty tiny, but—”
“Sounds perfect,” Jordan interjected.
“Okay.” Mary tore a piece of paper from the pad and handed it to Jordan, along with a pen. “Write your phone number here, and I’ll have her give you a call.”
~*~
Jordan drove past the club twice looking for a parking place. It was bad enough parallel parking on the busy street, but the fact it was on a steep hill did nothing to help matters. It was a few minutes before seven, the sun not yet set on a clear June evening. Gene had told her to come by at seven for an interview. She could hardly believe her luck—at this rate she would have a job and a place to live within days of arriving in a new city! It must be fate, she decided with a satisfied grin.
Before checking in at the motel, Jordan had placed a call to the human resources department at the bank to let them know she would no longer be working there, and had been told her last check would be deposited into her account, along with whatever vacation pay and accrued sick time she was owed. Meanwhile she had $5,400 in her checking account, enough to last her a little while, even if she didn’t find a job right way.
She’d spent the afternoon crashed out on an overly-soft mattress at the Motel 8 near the donut shop, sleeping for nearly ten hours before waking to take a shower and head out in search of food. She checked her phone in case Mary’s cousin had called, but the only phone messages were from Aiken. Jordan erased them all without listening to them, her spirit lightening each time she hit the delete button.
Now Jordan climbed out of her car and tugged at the hem of her slinky black dress. There was a cool, damp breeze and she shivered, pulling her silk shawl around her shoulders as she walked carefully in her heels to the front door of the club. There were no windows and no real indication of what was behind the large red door, but that was typical for this sort of club, where discretion was paramount.
Still, for a moment she worried she was at the wrong place. Then she noticed the small brass placard over an intercom box, with the words: The Bondage Wheel – Members Only. Licking her lips and taking a deep breath, Jordan pushed the buzzer on the intercom and stepped back, waiting.
After a few beats, a voice came through the speaker. “May I help you?”
“Yes. I’m Jordan Heller. I called earlier?”
“Yeah, okay. Hold on. I’ll be right there.”
After another few moments, there was the sound of a bolt being pulled back on the other side of the door, and then it swung inward. A big man of about forty with a thick mop of curly blond hair and kind eyes smiled down at her as he extended a beefy hand.
“Jordan. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Gene Mueller.”
Her small hand was swallowed in his huge one. Letting her go, he stepped back. “Come on back to my office and we’ll talk.”
Jordan followed, thinking as she often did that it wasn’t what you did so much as who you knew when it came to things like housing and jobs. Thank goodness for Betsy!
The front room of the club had a fully stocked bar flanked by high leather stools. Gene led her through the barroom to the main dungeon play area, which included all the usual BDSM equipment and toys any well-stocked BDSM club contained. In addition to the crosses, whipping posts, stocks and displays of whips, paddles, canes and floggers, a huge bondage wheel had been mounted on the back wall. It was completely covered in black leather, save for a red leather X in the center of the circle. Restraining cuffs were placed at intervals along the red X.
“Wow,” Jordan enthused. “That’s fantastic.”
Gene smiled proudly. “Isn’t it great? We had it built special for the club when we opened.” He moved toward the wheel and gave it a spin. Though Jordan would have liked a turn with it herself, Gene was already continuing on through an opening that led to a series of doors. Jordan followed him into a large office with windows that looked out on a parking lot.
“Betsy told me you might be calling,” Gene said as he settled behind a glass-topped desk and waved Jordan into a chair. “She says you’re into the scene. Always happy to meet a fellow enthusiast.”
Jordan nodded. “Yeah. I’ve been active in the scene for about five years now. I definitely know my way around a whip. If you need a pro Dominatrix, I’m sure I could learn whatever’s needed to fill the position.”
Gene shook his head. “My partner, Donovan, is our Master in residence. The Master, as folks call him, has made quite a name for himself in the fetish and leather community. He does a stage show just about every night to standing room only.”
He leaned forward. “We do, however, have need of a waitress and someone to help the bartender. I like to hire within the community when I can and you’re a nice piece of eye candy, if you don’t mind my saying. You have any experience waitressing?” He looked Jordan up and down. Normally she would have bristled at this, but she understood she was being interviewed for a job at a sex club, and she had dressed the part, too.
Jordan nodded. “I put
myself through college working tables.”
“Excellent. The club opens at nine,” Gene said. He leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head. “You would need to be here at eight to help with set up. There’s a small parking lot around back you can use.” He waved a hand toward the window. “We’re open Tuesday through Saturday nights. It’s the usual lousy waitstaff pay but you get to keep all your tips. Interested?”
“I sure am,” Jordan said. “I’m curious though, alcohol at a BDSM club?”
“It’s never been a problem for us. Not everyone who comes here comes to scene. A lot of them just come to gawk.” Gene grinned and leaned back in his chair, his eyes still roving over Jordan. “As you saw, the dungeon is fully equipped and there’s space for folks to do their own scenes. The serious players know better than to drink and play, and we keep a bouncer on the premises just to make sure nobody does anything stupid. That’s Tommy. He also functions as an extra if folks need a little help in their scenes.”
Gene leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his desk. “Your timing couldn’t be better. The last girl gave notice this past week due to family problems and we’ve been having a hell of a time without her. You can start tomorrow if you want. We provide the uniform, which is in keeping with the spirit of the club. What are you, a size six?”
Jordan nodded, impressed he had guessed correctly. “What’s this uniform made of? I’m not big on those PVC cat suits, I can tell you right now.”
Gene laughed. “No, no cat suits for the servers. It’s more like a French maid outfit, polyester with a little spandex thrown in, though the bustier is leather. Here. I’ll show you.”
He stood, moving toward a large wardrobe in the corner of the office. Pulling open the double doors, he rifled through the rack and pulled out an outfit that consisted of a very low cut black dress with spaghetti straps, a white frilled apron and a soft black leather bustier with satin ties that laced up the front. “The bustier goes right over the dress. No bra needed. Try it on before you go. The staff changing room is right next to my office. You can keep your stuff there while you’re at work. We keep the uniforms here and they’re professionally cleaned every week.”