Page 54 of Cherry Auction

“What the fuck do youmean,you broke her?” He’s so fecking alert now he’s shouting down the phone.

“Do you know somebody or not?”

“Jesus fuck, you’re gonna get the club in so much fucking trouble?—”

“Caleb!” I yell, covering Brooke’s ears. “Focus. Brooke needs help. If I need to take her in somewhere, fine. I just know from shit with Moira that too many head-houses are pill mills that don’t know shit about actually helping someone.” No matter how much you pay. Some just have betterbrochures. “I need realhelp. Fucking now! Anyone in the clubknow someone, know someone?”

“We have strict fucking rules for a reason,” Caleb starts in on me, “so no one getsbrokenat the club. I can’t believe?—”

I squeeze Brooke closer to me, trying to warm her up with my body heat. She’s still shivering so bad. Fuck, I want to kick myself. Of course she’s not warm enough. I keep the basement a solid seventy-two degrees, but I haven’t lived down there naked. She’s probably been freezing the whole time.

“What?” I ask, ready to hear Caleb’s worst. “You can’t believe what?”

He’ll be right, whatever he says. I might be a sadist, but I’ve prided myself on sticking to the rules. I tried to tell myself that they didn’t apply to Madison but it’swrongfor anyone to treat her like this?—

I’ve become just like the monster I spent my entire life loathing. I started out thinking it was some sort of poetic justice. Because I wasn’t even smart enough to see that as a pitiful veil for the truth: I’m just another pathetic statistic, turning into my own abuser.

Caleb lets out an explosive breath. “I might know someone, actually.”

“Well give me their fucking number already!”

TWENTY-ONE

DOMHNALL

I paceback and forth in the hallway while Caleb stares at his phone.

“Where’d you get this woman, anyway?” I ask for what feels like the hundredth time, glaring towards the door of the room where the young therapist insisted on talking alone with Brooke.

What kind of doctor shows up with messy hair in a bun, wearing a stained t-shirt and loose pajama pants? Sure, we called her at the ass crack of dawn, but still. It doesn’t seem very professional. Not to mention, it took her about a thousand years to get here.

And then, once she finally did, she didn’t listen when Itried to explain to her that I needed to stay in the room with Brooke. Brooke just stares lifelessly at the wall when I’m not there. But the therapist only looked at me nonplussed, then ushered me out of the room, anyway.

Caleb waves a hand, not looking up from his phone. “She’s in contact with the club.”

I storm over to where he’s standing. “You keep saying that. What the fuck does that mean? Is she someone’s sub? A domme who wants confidentiality? Fuckingwhat?”

He finally puts his phone down. “She’s a local student getting her Ph.D. in Abnormal Psych. She’s been emailing the past few months, asking if she can interview members of the club for her dissertation.”

“Tell me you’re fucking joking.”

He holds up his hands. “Obviously I can’t let her, for confidentiality reasons. And I told her this was strictly off the books but that if she wanted to come in as a voyeur sometime, maybe I could arrange a strictly anonymous visit.”

“That’s not my fucking point. I need a professional. And you brought me a fucking hack?”

“Not a hack. She sounded very informed on the couple of phone calls we’ve had and has some impressive publications. She knows her stuff. She was the best person to call.”

“You mean she was the only person you had to call.”

He shrugs. “If she can’t figure something out, we’ll take Brooke to a real doctor.”

The door finally opens, and I leap forwardsto confront the woman who’s curly haired bun is now lopsided, glasses falling down her nose. She shoves them back up, then glances at me before immediately focusing back on Caleb.

“She’s in a depersonalized state,” she starts.

“What’s that?” I butt in. “Like dissociation?” I don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about, but I feel like that’s a word I heard in my dominant training somewhere along the way.

The therapist—Professor Roberts—glares back my way. “It’s a type of dissociation.”

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