Page 20 of Brave
The time Ethen had been sentenced to wasn’t anywhere near what he deserved.
Spencer glanced at the calendar, not pulling the pages up, because what good would it do to stare at the man’s possible release date, circled in red so it wouldn’t be missed? He couldn’t stop Ethen’s impending release. Nothing he could say would reverse the parole board’s decision, because really, none of the abuse had factored into the excuse the prosecutor had used to put him behind bars to begin with. The man had mentally, physically, and sexually broken four women, and it had barely come up at the trial. It was the financial fraud that eventually convicted him. The beatings and rape… those had simply, quietly, and litigiously swept under the figurative rug.
He frowned at his computer, but he knew better. There were rules in place here, especially in regards to the confidential handling of the private information Black Light held on its members. In a case like this, however—he scooted his chair in close enough to take command of his keyboard—he just didn’t feel good about not sharing what he knew. Especially after what he’d just seen.
It only took a few minutes to print off the small cache of newspaper articles he’d saved over the course of the trial. After that, his hardest obstacle was overcoming his own sense of right and wrong as he tucked those pages into an envelope small enough to be slipped into Carlson’s locker through a ventilation slit.
Chapter 7
Old Ebbitt Grill was one of the best-known late-night bars in the D.C. area. Although it had been razed three times throughout its long history, it still had an old Victorian air complete with mahogany wood paneling, frescas on the walls and ceiling, four interior bars, and oysters served half-price for as long as they still had them or until they closed the kitchen at two a.m. on weekends.
Carlson loved the history of this place. He’d been coming here since he was a kid. The wait staff was always friendly, the atmosphere was lively. It had awesome entertainment most nights, although it was pretty quiet tonight. That quiet was about to become the bane of Puppy’s sitting abilities, too. If she looked in her wallet one more time, he was going to put her over his knee and spank her right here in the booth.
“What can I get you to drink?” their server asked. A young man in his twenties, he waited while she scoured a one-sheet menu and had very quiet conniptions over the prices. She made no sound at all, but as her gaze bounced from item to item, her eyes very clearly showed the rapid proliferation of her internal worries. And then, surreptitiously under the table where she thought he couldn’t see it, she’d check her wallet again.
“I’ll have a Coors,” he said, and then hoping it might bring an end to the price problem, added. “This is also one ticket, and it comes to me.”
Their server nodded, before turning to Puppy. “And for you?”
“Water,” she said softly.
Hands in his lap, one thumb tapping out a Morse code of irritation against his thigh, Carlson waited until their server headed for the bar. “I’ve got this, okay? Don’t worry about paying me back—”
“I can pay my own way,” she said stubbornly, but her eyes said that was a lie and the way her gaze kept bouncing over the menu he knew she was still looking only at the prices.
Old Ebbitt Grill was as far from a McDonalds as any restaurant could get, and yet it wasn’t really what he’d consider pricey either, especially for D.C. The burgers and sandwiches ran about $15, with entrees ranging between $18 and $21, but the portions were decent, the food was beyond good, and he was determined to see she got something in her stomach before he took her home.
“I’m paying for dinner,” he repeated. “No strings attached. No hidden agendas or obligations implied. For both our peace of mind, sex is off the table, okay? The minute we leave here, I’m taking you back to your house and dropping you off so you can get a good night’s sleep. But that’s then, and this is now. And for right now, we are going to order drinks, dinner, and a dessert, and I expect you to eat all three. So, now that you know my plans for the evening, would you like a beer?”
She recoiled.
“Soda? Juice?”
Her instant headshake was more of a flinch. “I can’t.”
“Why not? And don’t say it’s because of that other fellow, because we agreed before we left Black Light that he was the past and I’m right now. You made me your Sir, and I don’t share my submissive. Particularly not with assholes. Now,” he said, determined to keep his temper in check. “Do you like apple, orange, or cranberry juice? I’m pretty sure they’ll have all three behind the bar.” He signaled their server.
“I’ll have water,” she repeated.
“This is not a date,” Carlson said bluntly. “If it were, I would have no problem taking your feelings into account or splitting the check. What this is, is aftercare. It’s a dominant making sure his submissive gets what she needs after a night at the club, and you can get used to this because while I won’t always take you out to dinner after we leave Black Light, I will be making sure you get what you need. That’s my job now. I take it very seriously, and what I think you need more than anything else right now is about two or three weeks’ worth of regular meals and at least as much uninterrupted sleep.”
“What can I get you?” the server asked, appearing at their tableside with his pad, his pen and a smile.
“Water,” she said, and tried to hand the menu to him.
Carlson took it before the server could. “Where’s your bathroom?”
The server pointed them out.
“Can you give us a few more minutes, please?” Carlson asked, pasting on a smile.
The server went back to the bar and, dropping his napkin from his lap back onto the table, Carlson slid out of his side of the booth.
“Come on.” He held his hand out for hers.
“I don’t have to go.” Her breaths were coming a little too fast and a little too shallow, and she refused to look at him. She had a right to be nervous, although right now she had no basis for her reaction. Yes, Carlson had read the print outs someone had left in his locker. When he got home tonight, he had every intention of doing a more in-depth internet search on this Ethen fellow, but he was not that guy. He was, however, a dominant with limits and she had just reached one.
Reaching down into her lap, he took her by the wrist. “Come on,” he said again, every bit as gently and yet as firmly as his grip.
