Bondage And Bureaucracy Read online

  Table of Contents

  Bondage & Bureaucracy

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PRAISE FOR AUTHOR

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Chapter One

  Also Read

  Thank You

  Bondage & Bureaucracy

  by

  Rynne Raines

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Bondage & Bureaucracy

  COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Rynne Raines

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewilderroses.com

  Publishing History

  First Scarlet Rose Edition, 2014

  Print ISBN 978-1-62830-576-0

  Digital ISBN 978-1-62830-577-7

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To second chance, happily ever afters.

  PRAISE FOR AUTHOR

  Rynne Raines

  AND HER BOOKS

  LEGALLY BOUND

  “I absolutely inhaled this story. Non-stop heat and chemistry pulled me in. I couldn’t get enough of their heat, and I devoured this book in one sitting. One cold shower later and I was researching Ms. Raines’ other works and then started the whole process over again.”

  ~Moonflower, Long and Short Reviews

  Chapter One

  Centralized air hissed from a vent inside the office of Langdon and Associates, the most reputable law firm in New York City for specializing in quick and quiet divorces. The company was rumored a godsend among high profile clients who couldn’t afford “loud and messy.”

  Fiona McBride poured ice water from a stainless steel decanter while the lawyers negotiated over the cherry oak curio. She didn’t care about the expensive cabinet. Neither did she care about the pretentious artwork, the flatware, or the BMW that sat in the garage of their half-million dollar house only to be driven twice or three times a year. None of it mattered. She only wanted her share of the house sale and…her life back.

  She took a small sip of water and saw her soon-to-be-ex-husband vigorously twirling his wedding band around his finger. Anyone who didn’t know Daniel Forrester might mistake the gesture as a tendency to sooth grief or sadness over the end of a marriage.

  Oh, but I know better.

  There was no love lost between them. Not now. Not ever.

  Daniel only ever fidgeted with his ring when his temper was on the verge of detonation. At the speed he was spinning the shiny band, Fiona imagined he was a nine on the furious scale and closing in on ten. Again, she couldn’t have cared less.

  “Once the estate is liquidated the monies will be distributed in accordance to the terms of the written agreement in front of you,” the lawyers started, but all Fiona heard was, Freedom. Freedom. Freedom. “Until then, either of you can reside in or access the residence, but we often advise against it. Do these terms satisfy both parties?”

  Fiona inclined her head and waited for Daniel to do the same. It took him a minute, a long minute in which he used to stare daggers at her before he even acknowledged that the lawyer spoke. She remained silent under his hard stare. Of course he was angry. The Senate election was in two months and voters didn’t look kindly on divorced candidates.

  His problem. Not mine.

  “Daniel, he asked if the terms—”

  “I heard him,” he snapped, then snatched the pen from an outstretched hand and pressed the tip hard to the legal document in front of him. “You do know this is going to fucking ruin me, don’t you?”

  She continued to hold his bitter glare but didn’t answer.

  Maybe it would ruin him. Maybe a more compassionate woman would have felt guilt seeing the man she’d been married to for eight years so terribly upset. Fiona only felt relief. Relief and joy. If for one minute she thought he mourned the end of their relationship, she might have felt different. But that was not the case.

  Daniel wasn’t upset because their marriage failed. She knew damned well there was only one thought in his thick head: When this news breaks, how can I swing it so I still come out looking good in the voting public’s eyes?

  Maybe he’d concoct a story that she was a pill popper, a cheater, or a kleptomaniac who couldn’t enter a building without stuffing some random object that didn’t belong to her inside her handbag. All would be lies. But if his campaign manager was smart enough, those little lies would be enough to keep the scrutiny off Daniel’s shortcomings until the news of their divorce faded into the background of someone else’s scandal.

  However he chose to spin it was fine by Fiona. Certainly no one wanted to be splashed across the tabloids as a thieving and unfaithful drug addict, but she’d steal, fuck, and snort if the alternative meant remaining married to Daniel a day longer.

  I’ve tried to mold my life according to public opinion, to be the good wife and daughter at the cost of my happiness for too long now. I won’t do it anymore.

  With the affirmation fresh in her mind, she scrawled her signature on the dotted line next to Daniel’s. I should have done this ages ago. Better yet, I should never have married him in the first place. Coulda. Shoulda. Woulda. She was doing it now. That was the important thing.

  When she glanced up and noticed Daniel trying to negotiate fees, she quickly handed the pen to her lawyer and assured him the check would be in the mail. Then she gathered her organizer under her arm and made a dash for the door, hoping to escape another argument with her beloved ex-husband.

  Long, quick strides carried her down the hall to the elevators. There was more bounce in her step than there’d been in ten years, she thought with a grin. Was this how all divorced women felt? she wondered. Relieved? Joyous?

  What about the women who had found their husbands in the beds of other women? The ones who had loved their men with all their hearts only to be faced with the realization that they were never loved back? She hardly thought those women felt relieved and joyous.

  Then again, Fiona doubted those women would’ve been stupid enough to marry men they hardly knew only to get back in their father’s good graces. Talk about daddy issues…

  The self-assurance in her legs started to wane. Fiona gave her head a firm shake to stop the dark train of thoughts, but they surfaced anyway.

  I was young and impressionable. Father’s opinion meant everything to me.

  “And now it doesn’t?” an inner voice asked.

  Well…that’s not entirely true.

  Standing in front of the elevator, Fiona met her reflection in the polished steel door. The only makeup she wore was a clear vanilla-flavored lip gloss and a little mascara to darken her pale ginger lashes. Even with the mascara, her eyes looked small and tired. The crinkles at the corners were not from an excess of smiling ove
r the years but more likely from reading by lamp light on a nightly basis as she lay alone in her cool and empty bed.

  Fiona frowned, remembering a time when she’d thought of her eyes as her most attractive feature. A time when there had been a fire in her eyes. Determination. Passion. Desire…

  “Jesus Christ, just look at you,” she whispered, hardly recognizing herself. “You poor, forgotten woman.”

  In ten years she’d exchanged her blue jeans and cowboy boots for pinstripes and heels. Her dignity for convention. Did her father’s opinion still mean something to her? Of course it did. He was her father. The only difference between now and then was now his opinion didn’t mean more than her happiness.

  The elevator chimed. Fiona stepped into the car after three suits and a skirt.

  “Can you hit twenty-seven, please,” one of the suits asked.

  Fiona offered a polite smile. “Sure.”

  She leaned to press the button and spotted Daniel closing in at as brisk a pace as she’d ever seen. Shit. Her chest tightened. Being as subtle as possible, which was hardly subtle at all, she jabbed her thumb against the door close button.

  “Hold the elevator!” Daniel barked.

  “Excuse me, Miss. I think that man wants on,” another of the three suits said to her.

  Fiona gave him a perplexed look. “Oh, I imagine he does, but see, these buttons just don’t seem to be working.” She tapped the open button while still holding the other to close them blocking his view with her organizer. “Guess he’ll have to wait for the next one.”

  Doors beginning to glide shut, the sight of Daniel rushing toward the elevator delightfully narrowed and Fiona couldn’t help but inwardly snigger. Take the stairs, dickhead.

  Just then, the doors lurched to a stop, and Fiona jerked her chin up to see one of the suits’ hands holding them open. Damn it.

  “Don’t worry, sir, we’ve got it held! Buttons must be malfunctioning today.”

  A huffing Daniel sent Fiona a narrowed glare. “Must be.”

  Damn, so close.

  While Daniel’s hard stare threatened to turn her to stone, she redirected her eyes to the descending numbers above the elevator doors. She frowned. Thirty-five? Really? Why did they have to make these buildings so tall? She knew damned well the moment it was just her and Daniel in the elevator, he’d start in on her again.

  Twenty-nine. Twenty-eight.

  Screw it. I’ll get off with one of the suits and take the stairs.

  When the doors opened on twenty-seven, the three suits and the skirt stepped out. Fiona quickly tried to follow but Daniel blocked her path and caged her in the corner of the elevator.

  “Get out of my way.”

  “The hell I will,” he growled and pinned her with a dark stare as the elevator lurched into motion again. She flexed her jaw and tried to duck under his arm but he prevented her by dropping it lower. “We both know this is ridiculous. There’s still time to go back upstairs and have them tear up the papers before this hits the press.”

  Be calm, Fiona. You dealt with him for nearly ten years. You can do it a few minutes longer

  “That’s not happening, Daniel.”

  “Why? Because you’re hell bent on ruining me!”

  She winced at the harsh echo and rolled her eyes “Yes, Daniel. It’s all about you. It’s always been all about you.”

  “Oh, spare me your fucking sarcasm.” He shoved a hand into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. “It’s because of this damned photograph, isn’t it?”

  Enraged and mortified, Fiona’s face heated. That was in my suitcase this morning. My suitcase.

  “How dare you go through my things,” she hissed, torn between tears and committing bloody murder. But, she didn’t cry or reach out and wrap her hands around his neck. She snatched the photograph and stuffed it inside her organizer. There was no need for her to look at it. She knew what it was, a glimpse of who she had been before succumbing to the pressure of her family. Free and wild and uninhibited. Happy.

  “That’s what this is all about, isn’t it?” Daniel sneered. “Fuck, I should’ve known there was a reason your father was so desperate to marry you off. What? Did your promiscuity threaten to ruin Daddy’s picture-perfect reputation?”

  Promiscuity? Fiona narrowed her eyes and flexed her jaw. Now wasn’t that a far more polite term than Daniel had used when he originally found the photograph. Rotten little man. She looked up at the numbers above the elevator doors and cringed. Twenty floors to go. Did no one in this whole damned building need the elevator?

  “God only knows what the public would think of the Governor after seeing his precious daughter splashed across the front pages of the Times bound and gagged and waiting for a fat cock. Frankly, I’d hate to know what the person taking the picture must have thought of you posing like such a…such…”

  “Slut?” she answered in a deliberately pleasant tone and delighted in seeing Daniel’s jaw drop. Three weeks ago she might have crumbled under his harsh opinion of her, but today was a new day. As the pieces of her fabricated world tumbled down around her, she felt an unusual sense of calm.

  “To tell you the truth,” she smiled sweetly, “I don’t remember the photographer having any complaints. After all, he was the one who tied me up and posed me. That is before he bent me over and fucked me until my throat was hoarse from screaming. Best sex of my life,” she added, pushing a little harder.

  His mouth snapped shut, and his eyes sharpened to daggers inside his hardened face. “That’s what you get off on, isn’t it?” he ground out. “Being tied up and fucked like a filthy whore?”

  “Maybe it is,” Fiona shot back, unflinching. “Fortunately for both of us, what gets me off isn’t your concern anymore.”

  The elevator chimed, and the doors opened to a crowd. Lucky for her, Daniel wouldn’t dare make a scene in front of potential voters. Wrestling for control over his temper, he lowered his arm and stepped aside.

  Straightening her blouse, she squared her shoulders, held her head higher than she had in years and strode across the vast lobby. With each step, a figurative tumbler fell into place inside the lock that would close this chapter of her life forever. She’d spent the last decade living in a stranger’s world, with a man she’d never loved or wanted. With a man who never loved or truly wanted her. She had transformed into a bland and mediocre comparison of her former self, into the perfect politician’s wife, a woman to whom her mother and father could respect and relate. After so many years, she’d finally gained the nerve to end the pathetic charade.

  I’m free.

  Like the peasant who’d slain the dragon, Fiona puffed up her chest and shoved through the revolving smoked glass door. A shrill squeal locked in her throat as machine gun spatter of fat rain drops pounded down on her.

  “Shit, shit, triple shit.” A gust of icy wind swooped straight up her skirt. This time the shrill squeal escaped. Squinting through the waterfall of rain pouring down her face, she looked up and down the street for a cab.

  In the eight years she’d lived in New York, this was the first time she’d ever seen a cab shortage.

  “Just my lucky day, I guess.” Water sprayed off her lips as she huffed an irritated breath.

  Here she’d worn thigh-high stockings when apparently she should have worn long johns. Without a cloud in the sky this morning, she hadn’t even thought to bring a coat. Icy rain rushed beneath the collar of her blouse and spilled down her chest. A shiver bolted through her. She could turn around and go back inside the building until the storm gave. Maybe she and Daniel could chat about the stock market or how badly he was going to lose the Senate election in the fall.

  She snorted and mumbled, “I’d rather freeze to death.”

  There had to be somewhere she could wait out the rain without Daniel finding her. Blinking back water, she looked across the street. A neon orange sign blinked back. There stood a rickety little coffeehouse that stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the elaborate archi
tecture and the walking suits. Maybe it was a landmark. Whether it was or it wasn’t didn’t matter to her. The important thing was that Daniel wouldn’t be caught dead setting foot in a place like it.

  ****

  A tacky little bell chimed as Fiona put her shoulder into the door of the coffeehouse. The door swung shut behind her and muffled the sound of the storm. The rich aroma of freshly-brewed coffee filled her nostrils and she did a quick visual scan while arching an eyebrow. The inside was no more impressive than the faded brick on the outside. The checkered floor tiles were scuffed and worn. The lighting buzzed and gave off a hue that was more yellow than white. Even the walls screamed for a fresh coat of paint.

  But oh, it was dry and more importantly, Daniel-free.

  She approached the counter.

  “Large, decaf. Please.” Teeth chattering, she shoved a handful of sopping curls back from her face and then fished through her organizer for cash. “How much?”

  Brown eyes wide, a Latino boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen slid a cup of coffee toward her. Offering a broad smile, his teeth appeared stark white against his dark skin. “On the house, señora.”

  Fiona cocked her head and narrowed her eyes. She wasn’t born yesterday. “Free?”

  The kid nodded.

  “Why free?”

  The kid shrugged.

  “Is it old?”

  “No, señora.”

  “Does it taste bad?”

  “I do not think so, señora.”

  She studied his chubby face and felt herself soften when he continued to grin at her. Her earlier observation was wrong—he wasn’t older than thirteen. With the worn state of the building, it shouldn’t have surprised her that there’d be a kid working the register on a school day. With the economy in the shitter, she imagined there’d be a lot more families putting their kids to work in the future.

  “So, you’re telling me you’ve got no agenda?”

  “No agenda!” he insisted with his hands in the air. “Señora is cold. Hot coffee will help.”

  Now how can I argue with that?

  Fiona sighed. “You won’t get in trouble for this, will you?”