Page 66 of Wait for Him

Walking back into my apartment earlier had felt like walking the plank. David hadn't stripped the bed like I asked, although he did leave the key on the counter, which represented the absolute ceiling of his ability to follow directions under stress. I stood there holding it for a while, staring down at this tiny piece of metal I'd spent weeks convincing myself was a symbol of emotional growth when in reality it had mostly functioned as unrestricted access for adultery.

Very inspiring.

Jackson had put me in the guest bedroom last night, which I hadn't even realized until this morning. Some quiet instinct of his had decided I wouldn't want to wake up in the bed where I'd found David, and, because the man is exhausting, he was right.

He's always fucking right about me at the most inconvenient times.

So when I finally went into my bedroom this afternoon and saw the sheets still twisted across the mattress, I didn't cry. I didn't scream. I didn't throw anything.

I became administrative.

By the time I walked back out, every piece of furniture in the apartment had been scheduled for removal.

All of it.

The bed obviously had to go because it was now a crime scene in my mind and I refused to negotiate with it. The sofa went because David and I had fucked on it, and once that standard was established, the dining chairs became vulnerable because two of them had also participated in activities not covered by the manufacturer's intended use. Somewhere around the coffee table, I realized I was no longer making individual judgments and had moved into full regime change.

Fine.

Take it all.

I wanted anything David and I had touched gone, anything David and Jet could conceivably have touched gone, and anything I looked at too long and developed an irrational suspicion toward gone for good measure. Fresh furniture would arrive tomorrow, and until then I'd happily eat dinner standing up.

A fresh apartment for a freshly amputated chapter.

Efficient.

Expensive as fuck, but still efficient.

And still probably cheaper than the number of therapy sessions I'd need to stop imagining Jet losing a fistfight with his pants every time I walked into my bedroom.

Two hours later, I'm in the elevator dressed, made up and on my way to RAGs.

I catch my reflection in the mirrored wall and give myself a once-over. Hair behaving. Makeup flawless. Dress fitted tightly enough to remind me that God remains benevolent in certain very specific departments.

Much better.

No crying. No David. No Jackson or his irritatingly competent hands or stupid beautiful face.

Fucker.

Tonight, I'm going somewhere the rules make sense. And if I happen to work out a little emotional inflammation while I'm there, well. Physical therapy is important at my age.

Three years ago, I took the bones of that old app I used back in the day and built them into something with walls, a roof and a liquor license.

Red, Amber, Green.

RAGs.

Most people assume the name is clever branding. The members know exactly what it means. Red means stop. Amber means slow down, check in, something needs attention. Green means keep going. Simple language for situations that can get complicated very quickly, which is precisely why I built the entire place around it.

RAGs is a nightclub if that's all you want it to be. Drinks, music, dancing, beautiful people dressed in things that would get them escorted out of most respectable establishments. But underneath all of that, it's a controlled space for Dominants and submissives who want somewhere they don't have to explain themselves. Rules are explicit. Consent is explicit. Security is excellent and very large. Anyone who forgets the first two gets personally introduced to the third.

I built it because I needed somewhere to put myself.

Some women take up running after heartbreak. Some repaint their kitchens, cut bangs or go on a spiritual retreat where they drink pond water and rediscover their inner child.

I built a sex club.