Cursed Read Free Page A

The cross-promotion on the Fetish Box Web site was helping . . . maybe helping a little too much, actually. He thought he might have to hire extra security to keep away the crazies the Fetish Box seemed to attract.
    He turned around in his chair to admire the plaster of paris statues of Greek gods in various states of flagrante delicto that he’d commissioned from a local artist. He was pleased with all the decorations so far; he’d even brought some from his apartment. Still, he hadn’t wanted to do too much—the focus should remain on the art, after all, but the idea of a haunted sex mansion worked pretty well. Mandy had occasionally thrown Halloween fetish parties at the Box, but she hadn’t done so for a few years. His favorite had been the naughty fairy tales. He’d dressed up as the Pied Piper . . . and his pipe had been shaped like a massive cock. He still had it in his desk drawer. He thought Mandy would be proud of his latest effort. He’d put together a soundtrack of whips cracking, moaning, and the occasional climactic scream to play in the background. A part of him wanted to leave it on all the time, though his assistant had rolled her eyes at that idea.
    He still hadn’t figured out his costume for this party, though, or even if he was going to wear one. He wanted to—he loved dressing up—but he ought to let Mary and Lille steal the show this time. Especially Lille, though he was a little disappointed in her at the moment. He’d thought that after the night when she’d seen Max performing in the bar, she’d come around and start seeing him exclusively. It was clear they were sexually compatible—Carl didn’t really get the idea of self-denial—but today he’d heard from Mary that Lille had a date for the party.
    â€œLike she could do better than Max,” he muttered.
    His assistant, Jo, brought in another box. “Fake spiderwebs, Carl? Surely not.”
    Carl shrugged. “It was an idea.”
    She rolled her eyes. “Okay, well, if you want my opinion . . . too tacky for the art.”
    â€œTacky is fine if you do it right.”
    â€œCarl, honey, only Rodney Dangerfield did tacky right.”
    Carl’s lips twitched. “I knew there was a reason I put up with you.”
    â€œHmm . . . ” She dropped the box on a pile of papers on his desk.
    â€œHey, Jo,” he called her as she turned to the door.
    â€œYeah?”
    â€œWhat do you think of Max?”
    She stopped and turned around, her young face lighting up. “The gorgeous Irish bartender with the tats?”
    â€œYeah, that one.”
    â€œI think he’s the kind of guy girls like because they can’t have him and they know it. He is, in two words, emotionally unavailable.”
    Carl leaned backed, tapping his fingers on his chair and nodding. “You’re wise beyond your years. Would you go out with him if he asked you?”
    She fanned herself. “Break my heart on that one? In a heartbeat.”
    Come by the pub tonight.
    The text came in as Lille stood in the closet of the Box, digging through some of Mandy’s—Mary’s mother, the previous owner of the Box—clothes, looking for something to wear to Carl’s Halloween party.
    Lille looked at the number and took a quick breath—Max.
    It was like him, too—an order, not a request—but she was surprised that he’d reached out to her at all. He seemed a little too proud or at least unwilling to make himself vulnerable. She understood the feeling—she didn’t like it, either.
    She pursed her lips. If he was willing to make the first move, she supposed she should at least go by the pub. Mary had been pressing her to, anyway.
    A sharp crack and then the tinkle of glass jerked her attention away from Max’s text.
    She hesitated. There were plenty of people in the Box—Mary, Jordan, Kim—but none