If only

Her phone rang, and she gave the display a quick check. Ugh. Frank. He’d taken to calling her every couple of days since they’d split up, which was ridiculous. She swiped the REJECT CALL icon.

“So, where’s the laptop?” Dan’s desk held only a regular computer flat screen. Beside the monitor lay an open folder labeled Harvest Association. Oh, she knew that name. They were the organization who’d been kidnapping women for slaves. Leaning forward slightly, she casually did an upside-down read, and… Wait just one little minute here. “Why’s my name in there?”

Dan frowned and moved the paper out of reading distance.

Spoilsport.

Behind her, Master Z chuckled. “You might as well save yourself some nagging, Daniel, and indulge her curiosity.”

“Guess it’s not confidential information any longer.” Dan glanced up at her. “Last fall, they had you targeted to be kidnapped.” A corner of his mouth pulled up. “Seems they thought you’d be perfect for the rebellious slave auction.”

“Me?” A chill ran through her as she realized she’d have been a slave if Master Z hadn’t sent her away. Linda and Kim had suffered horrors at the hands of the slavers. “Haven’t those stupid Federal agents closed the Harvest Association down yet?”

“All but the northeast section.” Turning his chair around, Dan motioned toward a table against the wall. “There’s the laptop. After I escort Z out, I’ll be back to give you some ideas of what Brendan thought his password might be.”

Oh please, as if I need help? “Sure.” As the two men left, Sally started toward the laptop…and paused to stare at the report containing her name. She could swear it was calling to her. Saaaaally. What had the asshole kidnappers said about her?

Curiosity itched at her worse than any mosquito bite. And, look, her cell—complete with camera—was conveniently right there in her hand. Ignoring her second—and third—thoughts, she snapped shots of the papers scattered over Dan’s desk.

God, I am a bad, bad person.

After shoving her phone into her pocket, she virtuously sat down in front of the laptop.

Such was the power of a guilty conscience, she’d finished the job before Dan returned. Not that hacking in was difficult. Seriously, what kind of fool uses a pet name for his password?

* * *

In the Shadowlands that weekend, Sally set dirty glasses from a table onto her tray. The pounding bass of Nine Inch Nails from the dance floor drowned out her heavy sigh. I’m tired. My bare feet hurt. I want to go home.

As she stretched the ache out of her back, she looked around. On the left, a new Dom had completed setting up a suspension scene.

On the right, Mistress Anne was flogging a lanky male submissive.

At one time, Sally would have stopped to admire the slender brunette’s technique.

Then again, at one time, Sally had loved being in the Shadowlands.

But somehow, the magic had faded—damn you, Frank—and she wanted it back. Maybe she could carry a Tinker Bell wand. Instant magic, right? Or maybe a stick like Harry Potter used. No, Tinker Bell’s wand was prettier and required less effort.

“Here you go.” A sour-looking Dom walking past handed her a dirty glass.

“Why, thank you, Sir,” Sally said in a saccharine voice. Someone was in dire need of a little happiness charm. What would he do if she bopped him with a magic wand? Nah, the sparkling dust might catch in his overabundant chest hair and look like stars in bondage.

Shaking her head, she swiped a wet cloth over the table. Jeez, she was in the Shadowlands. Why did she feel so miserable?

The BDSM club hadn’t changed. The sounds were familiar—the music, the slapping of whips, floggers, and hands against tender flesh, the crying and moaning punctuated by occasional sharp cries. The perimeter of the mansion’s bottom floor held St. Andrew’s crosses, spanking benches, cages, rope spiderwebs, stocks, and chain stations. In the center, at an oblong, gleaming wooden bar, members chatted with the gregarious bartender.

So if the Shadowlands hadn’t changed, the problem must be with her. What a purely upsetting thought.

She swung by the bar to unload the empties and nudged past some single Doms scoping out a group of unattached submissives.

Sally knew the Doms. Had played with most of them. Had usually annoyed them. None had clicked for her. And wasn’t that a stupid phrase? Had clicked. Did that mean when meeting the right person, something inside would make a noise like hitting a button on a mouse—select this man.

Didn’t that sound a little ridiculous to anyone else?

And yet, what she wouldn’t give to have some clicking going on. But face it, her God-I-want-you mouse selector was busted. None of her scenes had been that great, and she was tired of playing with bungling Doms.

She nodded a greeting at the men and headed out to clean more tables and take orders. Be fair. Most of the guys weren’t incompetent. She was too fussy. And…and withdrawn. Even with skilled Doms, she somehow tucked her emotions away to a place where nothing could reach them…probably in the same location as her broken clicker.

With a snort of exasperation at her idiotic thoughts, she stopped to watch Master Marcus restrain Gabi in the stocks, then tease her with his hands until her face flushed pink.

Gabi and Marcus had clicked right away.

Why could everyone else find a good Dom, when she couldn’t?

For a little while, she’d thought she had found someone. She’d even quit the club’s trainee program to be his slave. Yes, Frank had been intelligent. Had been masterful. Had been perfect.

Frank had been Frankenstein.

“Hey, it’s good to see you, Sally. Where’ve you been?” A burly, older Dom smiled at her.

“I-I just took some time off for a bit.” Thinking I’d found the Dom of my dreams.

Her smile was so unsuccessful that his eyes narrowed in his bulldog face. “Right. I heard that you hooked up with—”

Before he finished, she pretended to recognize someone and hurried past. She felt the heat in her cheeks. Poor submissive couldn’t find herself a Dom, even after being a trainee for so long. Master Z felt sorry for her that she’d fallen for a loser. Maybe all the other Doms did too.

Excuse me, but did I issue invitations to a pity party? She was the only person allowed to feel sorry for her.

“Oh, sister, what’s wrong?” Rainie walked over, a tray in one hand. The trainee’s belly dancer’s costume made the most of such lush curves that Sally felt underendowed. “You look like you just stepped on your pet turtle.”

Sally shuddered. “Ew. Major disgusting.” She could almost hear the crunch of the tiny shell.

“True, but that’s how you look.” Rainie bumped a hip against Sally’s. “You’re supposed to be overjoyed to be back, not all quiet.”

Bouncy Sally, that’s me. Scene with anyone, fuck them as well. The more the merrier. Why had she thought screwing around with everyone would find her a Dom? “Guess I need to work my way back into it.”

“I know what you need—some fun. It’s time to raise some hackles, upset some Masters. How do you feel about pissing off the unpissoffable Mistress Anne?”

“Well.” Picking on the average Doms wasn’t a challenge, but going after the experienced, powerful Shadowlands Masters and Mistresses? That took skill. Courage. Daring.

Intrigued, Sally leaned a hip against an unoccupied leather couch. Pulling a joke on Mistress Anne would be about as safe as playing catch with nitroglycerin. Perilous pranks—a surefire way to raise her spirits. “We’ll die in