Master Me Read online

  © 2020 by Eidyllio Publishing

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-64893-000-3

  Audiobook ISBN: 978-1-64893-002-7

  Print ISBN: 978-1-64893-001-0

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Plea from the Author

  Coming July 2020

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  The long leather whip swings by my side and tears stream down my cheek. Bright red welts form in lengthy stripes around each arm. My entire body trembles. His breath falls on my neck.

  "Stop it. Right now. Emotions have no place in this business. Confidence is on the outside first. I don't care how you feel, I care what you exude. Do it again." He hisses against my ear.

  The whip flies across the room at the snap of my wrist…

  A loud alarm startles me from the odd dream. His words haunt me and I stare at the ceiling, working to settle the jumble of images.

  "Good morning, James."

  "Good morning, Ma'am. I noticed that you only got four point two four hours of sleep. This is not adequate to support a healthy lifestyle." The disembodied British voice reverberates through the speakers overhead.

  I roll my eyes at the automated voice.

  "Set status to morning program."

  "Present status changed to morning program."

  The thick window blinds slide open, ushering in the dawn as it lights the sky. The room changes as it increases in the incremental brightness.

  "Ma'am, the current time is six zero two am. Inside Temperature: sixty-six degrees Fahrenheit, new inside Temperature setting to sixty-nine degrees Fahrenheit. Outside Temperature: sixty-eight degrees Fahrenheit, feels like sixty-six Fahrenheit. They forecast today to be near the same temperature as yesterday. Showers possible. It is partially cloudy with winds from the northeast at five miles per hour. The humidity is thirty-seven percent and the Barometric Pressure is twenty-nine point seven five and falling. Sunrise: six thirteen am. Sunset: seven fifty-eight pm. Air quality: good. Ozone: satisfactory. Pollen: high. House status: coffee is complete. Current Mode: Awake," he says, completing the computerized report.

  "Set oven to broil," I call back.

  "Oven Temperature confirmed to broil."

  "Start shower. Set Temperature to one hundred and five."

  "Shower started," James affirms the command.

  For a few minutes I stare up at the ceiling, as the light of the day increases and it inches its way over the horizon. Finally, throwing off the covers, I walk into the bathroom and start my morning routine as the steam wafts into the bedroom.

  I roll my shoulders and stretch, struggling to drag myself into the day. I ponder on the dream that haunted me on the edge of slumber, as I step into the shower.

  Life was once simple. Get up, go to school, eat, party, repeat. The not-so-simple part was the constant push and struggle to succeed. My dad meant well, but his expectations were always impossible to meet. With him gone, how will I know when I’ve achieved enough? I sighed at the thought, I am still numb at the reality—part of it still hasn't registered.

  Six months ago my cell phone rang at seven thirty in the morning. James announced my dad was on the phone. I thought it was odd he was calling so early, but when I took the call, it wasn't him, and I realized in that moment I would never hear his voice again. His best friend's cry rang through the speakers in my penthouse, a place my dad had never seen because my success was not ‘traditional’. It didn't come from a ‘real job’, so I hid my entire world from him and tried to make him proud in other ways. That day I recognized it would never happen.

  The scorching water sluices the dark thoughts from my mind, as the steam engulfs me like the hands of a caring lover. I scrub away the last vestige of sleep and try to focus on the day ahead.

  "Shower off," I demand, frustrated that it didn't settle me.

  The water works into a trickle as the stream dies.

  I dry off and dress in one of my favorite ‘bum around the apartment’ outfits, and head to the kitchen.

  The smell of dark roast coffee greets me at once, making my lips stretch into a grin. I pour it into a large mug and add heavy cream along with a couple spoonfuls of sugar. It is a decadent cup, but its richness settles me, helping me wake up my lagging senses.

  Turning to the stove, I grab a skillet before beginning to beat the eggs with Parmesan, salt and pepper. I put the mixture in the pan and let it sit, while I shift my attention to the last preparations of the frittata. My mind drifts to the story on my writing desk as I continue to chop the ham and asparagus. I put the rich egg dish in the oven.

  A few minutes later, the aroma blooms in the kitchen. The light fluffy texture and golden brown top of the frittata makes my mouth water. I cut a piece and place it on the tray along with my coffee pot and head for my writing studio.

  "Open all patio doors," I call out along the way.

  "Patio doors opening."

  The early breeze of the dawn blows through the condo. The sheer curtains billow in a soft undulation. I set the tray on the side table then survey my writing desk, struggling to find a place to start. For the next hour I do everything else, but write.

  I pull up the most recent reports for the club and the PR firm, sort through emails I don't read, then click on a game of solitaire. My mind tries to find inspiration to jump start my current story, but I lack focus.

  Draining my coffee mug, I fuss at myself for the procrastination. Without thought, I reach for the coffee pot, and lift the spoon of darkened organic sugar, watching it fall through the air like the sands of a faraway desert. I drop the spoon into the cup, turn to my computer and type.

  He looked down at her kneeling form. The sapphire collar gleams in the waning sun, while the matching leash draped down her ample bosom and into his hand.

  "You look gorgeous, kneeling helplessly before me." He whispered, winding his hand through her hair. He tightened his grip, pulling her head back and lifting her to her feet.

  "You'll look even more glorious under my lash."

  I read the line a shake my head at the sad prose, but at least it's a start. The ideas slowly flow. My pen doodles across the notebook, as part of one snippet flows into the ne
xt and lets me get lost in a world of my creation. In vain I try to ease the frustration. Normally, words flow like a film. They give me a place to slip from the harsh realities of life. Each idea weaves an ever more complex pattern with threads of my vivid imagination, forming a universe where there's at least a Happy for now ending.

  "Ma'am, Miss Kingston is here, shall I let her up?" asks James, his computerized voice reminding me he's a talking box no matter how 'friendly and warm' he often sounds.

  "Yes, James." I release a sigh as I brace for the onslaught that is Samantha Kingston.

  "Excellent, Ma'am," he replies.

  Several clicks and soft whirls work their way through the house as the front door prepares for her arrival.

  "Good afternoon, Miss Kingston. Miss Devereaux is in her writing studio." James' voice resounds through the penthouse.

  Moments later, Samantha comes bounding into the room like a tigger on springs.

  "Atlas, darling," she says in an exaggerated Staten Island accent, falling into a fit of giggles seconds later.

  I raise my head, glancing up from my writing desk, attempting to appear annoyed, so she'll get the hint and leave me alone. All I want to do is sit here in my hermit state, creating the book, so I can meet the rapidly approaching deadline.

  "Samantha.” The acknowledgment is more curt than I intend.

  She looks me up and down.

  I am suddenly conscious of my appearance. My hair is pulled back from my face with pins, my dusty blue t-shirt has holes in it as if moths had a feast, and my jeans are ripped in all the wrong places, or the right ones, depending on why you're wearing them.

  "And what brings you by my ever so humble abode today, Miss Kingston?" I ask without looking up from my notebook.

  "That," she says. a frown is clear in her voice. "You sound like one of your books every time you open your mouth."

  My eyes shoot up, and I glare at her.

  "You're the one who's pushing me to get it finished. It's not like my schedule is empty and I'm lying on a sunny tropical beach sipping Mai Tais while the warm Caribbean water laps at my toes like a foot fetishist who's suffered a long winter."

  Samantha rolls her eyes. "You just compared the Caribbean Sea to a foot fetishist."

  The laugh she attempts to hold back erupts, and she doubles over. I shake my head and exhale while Samantha pulls herself back together.

  "Atlas, in all seriousness girlfriend, you are burning the candle at both ends and in the middle. I know you need to work to keep your mind off of things, and no offense meant, but you're looking worn."

  "No offense taken, but my world doesn't stop just because I'm overwhelmed. We've found that out far too recently. People depend on me and I'm not one to drop it all for some rest and relaxation, or just because I'm weary of all the things going on in my life."

  My tone is pointed, but even I think it sounds tired. I don't want to imagine how raggedy I appear.

  “Besides, I get the basics to keep Alexandra’s appearance up."

  "Yeah, and a few people at the club have been talking about how Alexandra doesn't seem to her normal polished presentation. I'm serious, Atlas, I appreciate you have this whole self-sacrifice, you've got no needs and must save the world attitude, but it will send you to a premature grave. And for the record, there's nothing wrong with hanging out in the Caribbean sipping Mai Tais when you've already achieved an appreciable amount of success. Take a breather for god sake!"

  Her exasperated tone causes me to pause, and then her words hit me.

  "What do you mean people are saying Alexandra isn't her polished self? Do those people appreciate the things that woman does for them? She works her ass off to give them a place to 'play their little fantasy games’, and makes it all look sexy and effortless? Then she has to drive her sorry ass home, no... wait... she has a driver."

  A smile creeps across my lips as the rant flows freely. I can't help letting the laugh escape when I'm finished.

  "After all these years, it’s still hilarious to listen to you talk about yourself in the third person, like your 'persona' is someone unique. It cracks me up every time."

  The tension in the air breaks, and I nod in agreement.

  "But to them she is a distinct individual. Just like the author, Sam McKenzie, who I slave away to ghostwrite her next brilliant novel."

  I peer down at the notes and Post-its scattered across my desk. The blinking cursor on my writing software demands that I devote the attention it deserves right now.

  "Since you've interrupted my morning, what did you have in mind for today?"

  “I don’t know — something alone the lines of kidnapping Ms. McKenzie's writing slave and having a spa day. We'd spend the day on grand extravagances with her credit card. Enough to force her accountant to wonder why he bothers trying to reign in her spending habits. Then I'll take said writing slave out on a magnificent night on the town where Alexandra's driver will take us bar hopping and everybody will wonder why the famous Ms. McKenzie is hanging out with such rabble."

  Samantha's mischievous grin is infectious and I grin back at her with a conspiratorial look.

  "You know, rumor is, Alexandra is a bitch on wheels when she finds out someone else commandeers her resources without permission."

  "I know, right? But she swings a mean whip and I'm okay with taking a lashing for the both of us… if we get caught, of course,”—her face is an attempt at sober resignation as she nods her head. “I mean, I am a team player."

  "Yeah," I snicker. "Self-flagellation is far easier than self-whipping. Well, unless you are learning."

  Samantha grinned at me and nods.

  "Outstanding, let's go. I arranged for Alexandra's driver to pick us up out front. Her security team has been alerted that she'd be resting all day, and wasn't to be disturbed.”

  Samantha nonchalantly picks up her bag, and heads to the door.

  "James, set for Alexandra Do Not Disturb. Forward all emergencies to Atlas' number," Samantha calls out to the house.

  "Miss Kingston, I can only comply with Miss Devereaux's commands at that level. You only have guest access," James replies in a monotone.

  "James," I say, prompting the computer to be ready for a set of commands. "Set Alexandra to Do Not Disturb, set Miss McKenzie to Do Not Disturb, set emergency contacts for Atlas."

  "Done," James replies. "Confirming current settings: Alexandra—DND, McKenzie—DND, Atlas available. Atlas—emergency referral for all DND. Please confirm."

  "Confirm," I say heading for the door, only to be met with a glare from Samantha as I round the hallway entrance.

  "Really?" her tone drips with sarcasm. "Two-thirds of you is set for DND but you're available. Didn't we just have this chat?"

  "Let it go."

  I try to move past, but her Amazonian figure steps in my way.

  "Turn. It. Off," she says, her expression daring me not to comply.

  I shake my head in resignation. This is the Samantha Kingston that has assured my sanity for the past several months. I love having a friend who pushes me when I can't seem to get there on my own, even if it creates the most irritating of moments.

  "James." I glare at Samantha.

  "Yes, Ma'am?"

  "Set Atlas for DND—emergency on all faces only."

  "Confirmed. Alexandra, Sam McKenzie and Atlas Devereaux are set for Do Not Disturb status. Atlas' number is the emergency number on all faces," the computer confirms.

  "Goodbye, James," I call out.

  "Have a marvelous day, Ma'am. Alarm set to away in thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight, twenty-seven…"

  I nod to the door and follow Samantha into the hallway, listening to the shuttering blinds. Things click and whirl as various settings in as the house moves into a new configuration. The final beeps ping as the security alarm sets. Without a doubt, I know she's already got everything lined up and all I can do is brace for impact.

  "I've got the day all planned out," Samantha twitters on excitedly.
"First, we'll go find you a fabulous new dress and amazing shoes. Then, we'll search for a matching bra and garter belt, with the finest hose to encase those amazing legs. I'm thinking facial, nails, hair… definitely hair."

  "What's wrong with my hair?" I cock my head and twirl a ringlet above my ear.

  “You pull it back so much the poor stuff is breaking off like mad. Seriously? Atlas, when did you last take care of it?" She grabs a handful of the ends and shoves it in my face. "It’s like straw!"

  I huff out a sigh. My life is too busy to take great care of myself. It's enough that I am clean, well put together, when the occasion demands it. Besides, I'm nothing near what one would consider high maintenance.

  "Earth to Atlas." Samantha's voice echoes through the hall, and I glance up to see her holding the elevator doors.

  "Good lord, you think too much. What is racing through your brain now?"

  I laugh, stepping into the elevator.

  "I was thinking how funny it sounds when we talk about my 'other personas' like they are actual people, with genuine lives and if anyone knew they were all me, they'd think I was a little…” I shrug.

  "You're one of the most compartmentalized people I've ever met. I don’t understand how you keep it all together so flawlessly. However, the weight of the world is causing you to fray and tatter. Take some me time. Do something to enjoy your significant success." Her voice is soft and full of worry.

  She knows that I'll pacify her and not change a thing. My life is full of responsibilities. When it slows down, then I'll take her advice.