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“I see. So much pressure.” A common story. For whatever reason, the local bigshot families weren’t into bigger families. They also tended to be old-fashioned, with daughters marrying into other families while sons strived to take over the family business, even if they weren’t suited for it. Monique didn’t know anything more about Helen than what she already shared. Maybe she was perfect for her family in every way but her lack of a spouse. “And you aren’t into the lifestyle?”
“Lifestyle?”
Monique gestured to the way her ladies doted on their patrons, making them happy and ensuring they would keep paying their monthly fees to call these women their girlfriends. “Maybe not exactly like this… but something like it.”
“You mean the whole BDSM thing.”
“Why, yes, I do.”
Helen neither bristled nor smiled as she ate her last piece of steak. “Question for the ages, isn’t it? What about you, Miss…”
“Monique. Monique Grant.”
“Ms. Monique. You into this sort of thing?”
“Of course, I am. Do you think I could run this sort of establishment if I didn’t understand the nuances of such relationships?”
“I suppose not. Excuse me for asking.”
Monique wasn’t ashamed of her tastes. She had been involved in the lifestyle for years. It was second nature to her, and her preference. Why not run a place like this if she had to run a business?There are far worse ways to make a living.She gave herself a warm bed, healthy food, and good company most nights. That was more than many women could expect in their whole lives.I’ve been through a lot to get here.She wasn’t ashamed. She refused to be ashamed.
Dessert and more drinks were served in the nearby salon. More conversation flowed with the liquor, loosening up more than tongues. Monique finally relaxed a little.Things are going well.Soon enough, the pairs of lovers would retire to rooms, or they would go with their guests into other rooms to continue conversations, games, and whatever else they decided to get into that night. It wasn’t unusual for a patron to share their mistress with a guest… sort of like Grace’s patron, who continued to rub her wife’s thigh and make her blush behind her Champagne. It didn’t take long for the three of them to excuse themselves for the evening.
Soon the only three left in the room were the Witherspoon party.I’m jealous. Monique had watched everyone but Chelsea exit the room with men – and women – draped on their bodies, whispering sweet promises to be anything but sweet that night.It’s been too long. Monique’s last relationship ended months ago, and she hadn’t touched or been touched since. A woman’s heart began to ache much longer before that.Especially when that woman is in love.
Around ten, she got up and excused herself from the party. The trio of revelers bade her goodnight, and Monique finally had time to wash up for the evening and sleep. Or at least that was her plan until she caught a strange look from Helen, who sat on a chaise lounge with an empty glass in her hand. The glimpse she gave her stopped Monique in her tracks – as if Helen’s blue eyes personally bade her farewell.
“Good night, Ms. Helen,” Monique said with a slow nod. “Take care here.” She did not break her gaze as she left the room, latching the salon door behind her. She waited until she was alone by the grand staircase to shiver. Whether pleasurably or in fright from recent memories, Monique did not know.
Chapter 2
Lock & Key
Perhaps Monique’s worst habit was her fixation on current events. No, not politics. No, not the economy – although she had to keep up with that to know what her clients talked about. No, she liked to read the police reports, the terrible crimes appearing on Page 1, and any sort of atrocity she could get her hands on.
She picked up the habit late into her previous relationship when things were dark and she wondered if she would make it another day without hurting herself – or if her ex would kill her.It’s nice to know that others have it worse than me. What a morbid thought. Monique couldn’t help it, however, as she sat at the table early the next morning, eating her breakfast of eggs and toast. Page 1 had a story about a man killed during an attempted robbery in his own home.“Was like my son,”his neighbor said.“Such a kind, charitable man. I don’t understandwhy something like this happened to him. Who would do such a thing?”
Monsters. Monique put down her paper and stabbed her scrambled eggs topped with spring onion. She would know something about monsters. That last lover made sure she knew how many terrible people there were in the world. At least she didn’t have the chance to kill Monique. This poor man in the paper was dead.Killed by a stranger!What a way to go.
“Ugh, I forgot where I was for a second.”
Startled, Monique caught sight of a disheveled Helen standing in the dining room entryway. Her dress was wrinkled in the wrong places and hardly pressed for an important business meeting. Her shoes had smudges on them. Her wristwatch was upside down, and her hair… her hair! Where the hell had she been sleeping? Those dark blond locks, once combed to perfection, now stuck out every which way. If Monique didn’t know her, she would guess that Helen was a vagabond, lost without direction.
“Ms. Helen!” She leaped from her seat, nearly upending the eggs. The newspaper with the awful story fell to the ground. “Are you all right? What happened?”
She held up her hands before Monique could get too close.She reeks. Sweat. Alcohol. Possibly sex. All three were likely after a weekend night in the Manoir.
“Please,” Helen said, “I’m fine. I need to sit down. I had too much to drink last night.”
Hungover Helen sank into one of the dining chairs while Monique summoned a maid from the kitchen. A girl arrived with a fresh towel and a glass of water. Monique sent her back to the kitchen to get some oatmeal, bananas, something. “You certainly do not look all right. Did you fall asleep in the salon?”
“I must have. I don’t remember it… the last thing I remember is playing charades with Sam and that friend of hers… I don’t know where they are.”
Probably in her room.It wasn’t unusual for weekend clients – let alone patrons – to spend the night. Monique had seen Mr. Carlisle slink his way through the Manoir an hour ago. “I can have someone find her for you.”
Helen took the towel and water. “I appreciate it, but that’s not necessary. I’ll shake this off and be on my way in no time.”
Still, Monique insisted that Helen use a guest bathroom to shower and freshen up. She was in there for a while, long enough for Monique to finish her breakfast and fret about the poor woman left to pass out intoxicated on a salon sofa.
