The Bondage Club Read online

  The Bondage Club

  By

  Alexandrea Weis

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © Alexandrea Weis 2014

  First Edition Alexandrea Weis July 29, 2014

  Licensing Notes

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews.

  Book Cover: Bookfabulous Designs

  Editor: Maxine Bringenberg

  Chapter 1

  The glare of the overhead lights only amplified the hangover plaguing the lean man in the fitted black suit as he strolled down the aisle of the Los Angeles Convention Center. Keeping his head down, his bloodshot green eyes stayed focused on his black leather loafers in hopes of easing his queasiness. As his long legs kicked out, he noted how the black carpet beneath him was already worn and dusty, despite it only being the second day of the convention. To the side, various booths and tables set up by book retailers, authors, publishers, distributers, and other ancillary services catering to the book industry were packed together, vying for attention at the annual Book Expo. The din of a thousand voices filled the convention center despite the early morning hour, making the attractive businessman feel as if he were already running behind before his long day of meetings, marketing pitches, and backroom deals had even begun.

  Ahead, he sighted a dark blue banner with a sixteen-pointed gold star, designating the Donovan Books exhibit. A Greek symbol made famous by the Argead Dynasty of Alexander the Great, the company logo was designed by Jim Donovan, the founder of the publishing house. An absolute nut about the ancient conqueror, he had insisted that the star would bring success to the company he had started over forty years ago.

  Beneath the banner, a gray-haired man with sharp features and an impatient frown stood checking his expensive stainless steel watch.

  “You’re late,” he snapped.

  “Back off, Chris.” The green-eyed businessman pulled back the sleeve on his black suit jacket and checked his own stainless steel watch. “I’m right on time.”

  “What was her name, Hunter?” Chris pestered. Placing his hands behind him, he rocked back and forth on his fancy black Italian loafers.

  “Who?” Hunter Donovan grinned, making his five o’clock shadow highlight the boyish dimples in his chiseled cheeks.

  “The blonde I saw you doing shots with at the hotel bar last night. I figure she’s the reason you look like shit this morning.”

  “Miranda, I think.” Hunter’s eyes skimmed the convention floor. “Or it could have been Melinda.”

  “It’s a good thing you’re my little brother, Hunter, and not some schmuck Dad hired to run the company, or I’d fire your ass,” Chris told him, reaching inside his gray pinstripe suit jacket.

  Hunter peered over at the arrogant man next to him, wondering if they were actually related or if he had been switched at birth. Despite being a few years younger than Chris Donovan, Hunter always felt the world-weary shadow in his brother’s blue eyes made him seem much older than his forty-nine years.

  “Yeah, well, I didn’t want to run the company, remember? You talked me into it, so you could go and kiss ass with the authors,” Hunter countered, running his hand through his thick mop of curly brown hair.

  “And be thankful I did make you take over the company.” Chris waved the cell phone in his slender hand about the convention center floor. “Otherwise you would be like all the other writers here, trying to hawk their books.” Chris’s eyes twinkled with disapproval. “You’re a better publisher than a writer, Hunts.”

  “Don’t call me that. I hate that name.” Hunter’s wide mouth turned down at the edges. “You know I never got a chance to be writer.”

  Chris chuckled, sounding more aggravated than amused. “You got your chance. You spent what? Three years living with that photographer, Kathleen, while Dad footed the bill, but you never finished that masterpiece you kept telling us you were writing. You have to actually finish writing a book before you can be considered an author, little brother.”

  Hunter glared at Chris’s smug grin. “Are you finished?”

  “Finished?” Chris snickered. “The point is you never finished anything, Hunter. How many sports did you go through? How many art classes, music lessons with I can’t remember how many instruments? And then there were the chess lessons, and—”

  “I get it, Chris,” Hunter edged in. “You don’t have to be a dick about it.”

  “Hey, I stuck with things.” Chris pointed to his brother. “You didn’t. That’s why Dad wanted you to run Donovan Books. You had to do something with your life.”

  Hunter noted the way his brother nervously tugged at the sleeves of his freshly pressed designer suit. “So where is he?”

  “He’ll be here.” Chris’s condescending eyes ran up and down his brother’s wrinkled suit. “Did you sleep in that thing?”

  Hunter patted the front of his jacket. “Not quite. It spent the night on the chair by the bed.”

  “Have you ever heard of a hanger?”

  “Sure have, but I never bothered to ask her if she had any.” He placed his hands in the pockets of his black trousers. “I was kind of distracted at the time.”

  “Stop being such a smartass, and for once try and concentrate on the business. We need to impress this writer and you show up—” Chris shook his head, clenching his teeth. “This guy is already a New York Times Best Seller, and if we can sign his next book, we could cash in.”

  Hunter stepped closer to his brother, dropping his voice. “I don’t know why I have to be here. You’re the salesman, not me.”

  “He needs to meet the president of the publishing house. I just manage the talent.”

  “Manage? Is that what you call it?” Hunter snorted abruptly. “You didn’t manage Monique Delome too well. You’re the idiot who lost us her latest book. A Chance With You hit number three on the NYTB list. Do you know what that would have done for our company? Haley Books raked in millions on it. Just because she dumped your ass for that oil guy didn’t mean you had to let her go as our client.”

  Chris’s blue eyes appeared as if they were going to pop out of his head. “Don’t bring her up again. I told you we needed to wash our hands of her. That last book she wrote was nothing but bondage and rough sex, and not what Dad ever intended for our company.”

  “Dad is seventy-one and not up on the book scene anymore. Everything has changed since Fifty Shades of Gray. We need to get edgier with our books.”

  “No, Hunter, we need to stay true to our old man’s vision. Jim Donovan’s ideals are our ideals.”

  “Chris, unless we pump out some meatier books with a lot more hard core sex in them, there won’t be a Donovan Books.”

  “Bullshit!” Chris glanced to the booths surrounding them and lowered his voice. “There’s always going to be a market for the kind of books we publish. Values haven’t gone in the toilet for everyone just yet.”

  “Have you been watching the news lately?” Hunter hurled back.

  Chris waved off his comment as a stocky man with thick-rimmed glasses approached. He wore an ill-fitting blue suit, brown shoes, and a blue woolen cap. Hunter thought he looked as out of place as a donkey at The Preakness.

  “Here he is,” Chris whispered to him. “He’s from Charleston, so emphasize our interest in Southern fiction.”

  Hunter scowled. “We don’t have an interest in Southern fiction.�
�

  Chris plastered a fake smile on his face. “We do now.”

  Hunter waited as the man waddled up to them and shook hands. Unimpressed with his woefully weak handshake, Hunter instantly tuned out anything the Tennessee Williams wannabe had to say.

  Why are all these aspiring Southern writers short, dumpy, and donning berets?

  Hunter stood impatiently to the side as Chris put on his best salesman persona.

  “You will be very happy with Donovan Books, Mr. Mallory,” Chris began. “We’re progressive and hooked into both chain and local bookstores across the country. Our list of book reviewers includes some of the top names from the New York Times, Chicago Tribune, Los Angeles Times, in addition to USA Today. And I can assure you as your manager that we will get you spots on all the primetime news networks, as well as the morning shows. At Donovan Books, we look at all our authors as family, and want you to stay with us for many years to come.”

  The drab little man feigned an indulgent smile on his pasty white face. “Well, I am in the market for a new publisher that can get me into higher-end bookstores,” he replied in a nasally voice, making Hunter wonder if he had sinus problems or was actually trying to sound like an intellectual. “My books are better suited to upper-class readers; the kind who want to pursue philosophical discussion about relevant social issues.”

  Hunter suppressed a hankering to laugh. “All that is fine on paper, Mr. Mallory, but can you pursue that philosophical discussion on your pages with a smattering of sex? We need sex to move the book.”

  Chris shot him a dirty look. “We are avid proponents of important books that push the edge of modern-day thinking is what my brother meant to say.”

  Mr. Mallory turned his Coke-bottle covered brown eyes to Hunter. “Yeah, it’s got a lot of sex in it. I’m not an idiot, Mr. Donovan. Sex sells and I have bills to pay, you know?”

  Hunter smirked at his brother. “In that case, we’d love to publish your manuscript, Mr. Mallory. If we can work out a deal, I can guarantee you a two-year contract for print and e-book release, with another two-year option to follow if the sales are good. We would own character rights if you were to write any sequels, world wild distribution, and will pay for all the PR, pre-release copies to reviewers, and set you up at the Book Expo next year for a signing.”

  “That all sounds fine, but you haven’t read my manuscript, Mr. Donovan. So how do you know you will like it?” the confused author questioned, scratching beneath his cap.

  “I don’t have to like it, Mr. Mallory; I just have to know if it will sell,” Hunter insisted. “Send me a copy and I’ll take a look at it. I will send you a contract next week.” Hunter pulled a business card from his pocket. “Here’s my cell number and e-mail.”

  Mr. Mallory took the card and gave Hunter a short smile. “All right, Mr. Donovan.”

  Chris stood to the side, turning red as Hunter took Mr. Malory’s hand and gave it a firm shake.

  “I like your style, Mr. Donovan,” Mr. Mallory said with a lispy roll of his tongue. “I don’t like the hard sell, myself. Just lay it on the line, and I’m fine with that.”

  Hunter gave his brother an indulgent side-glance. “Yeah, me too.” Checking his watch, Hunter instantly felt the need to escape from beneath the condescending gaze of his brother. “Well, if you would excuse me, Mr. Mallory, I have another meeting. I look forward to reading your book.”

  Hunter left Mr. Mallory and his brother chatting on the floor of the convention center while he went in search of some much needed coffee. He did not understand why they had to meet the little man at such an early hour, but with his first appointment of the day out of the way, Hunter was glad to have some downtime before he had to once again play the role of the savvy book publisher.

  “Savvy?” He snickered at the idea. “I’m about as savvy as a kid on his first day of kindergarten.”

  To the side of the convention center floor was a concession area serving breakfast, and a line of customers snaked around a metal checkout table. Bypassing the food, Hunter headed straight for the large silver coffee urn and grabbed the biggest cup he could find. As the dark liquid filled his paper cup and tantalized his nose, Hunter flashed back to his night with the leggy blonde whose name still eluded him.

  She had been very attractive, looking for a publisher for her novel, and, from what he remembered, flexible as hell. He had left her that morning, promising to read her novel and follow up their tryst with an intimate dinner at a restaurant of her choice. But Hunter knew he had no intention of ever seeing the woman again. Second dates led to talking, which led to sharing of life stories, which for Hunter tolled the death knell for any relationship. One-night stands and brief interludes were better for him; there was less chance of things getting complicated, and one thing Hunter Donovan hated was complications.

  Taking his desperately needed caffeine jolt to the checkout line, he felt better prepared to handle the rest of his tedious day. While standing in line, he discovered small packages of aspirin for sale and grabbed two of them. After leaving the concession area, he headed onto the convention floor, eager to walk, drink his coffee, and peruse the various exhibits in peace.

  He had just downed two aspirin and a few gulps of his coffee when he was unexpectedly sideswiped by a short blonde, who sent splashes from his coffee cup onto his jacket sleeve. When she turned to him, the first thing Hunter noticed was the way her full, red-painted lips were heart-shaped like that of a doll. Over her round face she wore dark-tinted glasses that hid the color of her eyes. Her slim figure was more childlike than womanly, reminding Hunter of something he would find on a middle school playground and not walking the halls of the Book Expo.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she professed in a lovely soft voice that instantly attracted him. She dabbed at his sleeve and clucked over the stain. “I’m so clumsy.”

  Hunter shook the coffee droplets from his hand and then wiped it on the side of his pants. “It was my fault. I should have been watching where I was going.” He spied the ID badge around her neck with her name printed in bold black letters.

  “Ms. Smut Slut?” he queried, raising his dark eyebrows.

  The woman fingered her ID badge and then frowned. “It’s my pseudonym. I’m a writer.”

  Hunter stood there for a second, taking in her black leather minidress that showed off her slender legs. “What do you write?”

  “Erotica,” she replied while shifting on her high black leather boots.

  Hunter cracked a smile. “Really? Big market I hear.”

  “Very big.” She angled over and read his ID badge, hanging about his neck. “Hunter Donovan of Donovan Books. I’ve heard of your company. You publish a lot of sweet little romances, don’t you?”

  ‘“Sweet little romances’?” he remarked in mocking tone.

  “You know, soft sex, nothing hard core. And there’s always a happily ever after in your romances. Not so much the case in erotica. Sex is the story for my genre, and happy endings aren’t guaranteed.”

  “Yeah, well, we haven’t ventured into the erotica market yet.”

  “Yet?” Her sarcastic grin taunted him. “What are you waiting for?”

  He gave her an indulgent smile. “The right book, I guess.”

  Her cheerful giggle betrayed the dominatrix standing before him. She sounded sweet, homey, and like the kind of girl he would have taken to an afternoon at the zoo, and not bent over his knee and spanked with a riding crop.

  “Your publishing company is based out of Atlanta, right?”

  Hunter tried to peer through the tint in her glasses. “Yes, we are.”

  “I’m in Atlanta. I moved there after Katrina,” she disclosed.

  “Katrina? You’re from New Orleans?”

  “Yeah. All my books are based there; stories about love and lust in the French Quarter.”

  Intrigued, he took a step closer to her and then detected a whiff of some exotic, spicy perfume. He had been expecting something akin to cigar
ette smoke or well-oiled leather, but nothing like that.

  “Who’s your publisher?”

  “MandiRay Books,” she answered. “They handle a lot of erotica authors.”

  Hunter grinned. “Yes, I know.”

  A lapse of silence fell between them and Smut Slut took a step back. “Well, I should be going. I have a book signing in five minutes.”

  “Where?” Hunter inquired, never taking his eyes off her dark glasses.

  She waved down the aisle. “At the MandiRay exhibit. I’ll be signing my latest book.”

  “Care to tell me what it’s about?”

  “I’ll save you a copy.” She smiled for him, accentuating the curve of her full, red lips. “So stop by if you have the chance, Mr. Donovan.”

  He dipped his head politely. “I will make a point of it, Ms. Slut.” He shook his head. “I never thought I would be saying that to a woman with a straight face.”

  Smut Slut leaned in a little closer, allowing him a glimpse of her cleavage. “Not all women like the gentlemanly approach, Mr. Donovan. Sometimes a woman likes it when a man lays it on the line.”

  “Is that an offer or a suggestion, Ms. Slut?”

  Her smile deepened. “I hope to see you later, Mr. Donovan.”

  A tickle of excitement erupted in Hunter’s gut. “I look forward to it.”

  When she turned away, Hunter was mesmerized by the way her small, leather-covered butt swayed down the aisle. Shaking his head at her bravado, Hunter wondered if perhaps he had been going to the wrong bars to meet women over the past few years. Every woman he met was perky, pretty, seemingly sweet, and a lot like the blonde he had spent last night with…boring. Very few had been half as self-assured as Smut Slut, or had elicited that sexual spark in him quite like she had done.

  Gazing down into his coffee, he sighed. “You need to concentrate on business, Hunter.” But when he caught sight of Smut Slut’s black leather minidress disappearing around the end of the aisle, he smiled. “Yeah, right. To hell with business.”