Page 41 of Surviving the Merge
“We can take my bike to the furniture store,” Sam suggested.
“I am not riding on that deathtrap, Sam.” I bypassed her Harley sitting in front of the building. “We’ll take my car.”
“But I brought a helmet for you,” she whined. In response, I made my way to the tenant parking lot at the side of the building. To my car. Mysafe, sleek car. Sam grumbled behind me, then caught up. I smiled to myself.
“What did a motorcycle ever do to you, huh?” She glanced back longingly at her bike.
“Damon had a motorcycle years ago and crashed it. The scar it left behind serves as a reminder of what I almost lost. I’ll never willingly get on one again. Neither will he.”
“Who’s Damon?” Sam asked.
“He’s my husband,” I said, absently, as I fished in my pockets for my key.
“Huh? I thought your husband's name was Blake?” she asked.
Shit. “Blake’s his middle name.” Not ready to divulge everything, yet, I went with the technical truth.
A few miles down the road, we pulled into a semi-rundown strip mall, passing a biker bar and an exotic costume store before parking in front of the furniture store. I began to get a sinking feeling. We were still in an area of Kisla, but one I’d never visited.
Sam wiggled in the passenger seat. I knew enough to know that her excitement should worry me. I took a last look around at the other shops, unsure if they were abandoned or just uncared for. Sam reached over to cut the engine, then yelled, “Let’s go!’
She jumped out and rushed to the shop’s glass door, holding it open, waiting impatiently for me.
Stepping through the doors, I immediately came to a full halt. Sam bumped into my back.
“Hey, why’d you stop short?” She came around, rubbing her nose.
I appraised her. The wild, curly mane of dark hair, the black leather tank-top, skin-tight black jeans with holes through them and ending at the spiked boots. Then I peered around the store again and muttered, “I should’ve known.”
“Don’t judge it ‘til you’ve fully seen it. There’s some great stuff in here.”
“Everything has whips and chains hanging from it, and if it doesn’t, it has implements in place that you can attach said whips and chains to.” I walked in further and turned in place. “I mean, I’m all for a little rough play—believe me. But I don’t need my furniture informing everyone who walks through my door of exactly what goes on when the lights go off.”
“We’re not here to furnish the whole apartment, Justin,” she said with mock-patience. “We’re here to buy a bed. The only person coming through your door that needs to see the bedroom is your hot-as-hell husband.”
She had a point. But still… She gripped me by the shoulders, spun me around, and pushed me in the direction of the bedroom furniture.
We entered that side of the warehouse-style store, and my mouth gaped open. “Holy... hell.”
She peeked around me to see what caught my eye. Satisfaction leaked through her voice. “I told you so.”
Before me stood the biggest four-poster California King bed that I’d ever seen. I approached and touched it reverently. Made out of solid black steel, the posters were so long I feared they might touch my ceiling. There were metal railings that extended diagonally from the top of each post, meeting in the center, all connecting to a huge steel ring. A canopy-style bed, but no one would mistake it for something you draped with soft, sheer curtains. This bed was made for fucking. Hard, wild, unrestrainedfucking.
The circular opening of the ring sat right above the center of the bed. Thick metal eye bolts were screwed tight into the sides of the ring where long chains hung. At the end of one chain was a set of handcuffs and, at the end of the other, a ball gag. I touched both and tugged experimentally to see how firm the hold was.
“It won’t break,” said the approaching salesman.
The name plate pinned to his denim and leather vest readBig-D. I didn’t want to know what the “D” stood for. And it appeared that he and Sam shopped at the same clothing store.
“Ain’t it a beauty?” he asked.
Yes, it is.It screamed danger and serious intent, but there was also something aesthetically pleasing about it. It demanded respect. You knew when making the decision to usher it into your home that you did so to use it for its intended purposes. If not, you left it behind.
At the head of the bed, welded into the posts on either end, was a lowered rail that went across horizontally, serving as a sort of handlebar. It’s the only part of the bed that contained a material other than metal. I touched the rough leathered surface and deduced that its purpose was to provide a secure grip when needing to hold on tight.
“The four ends have clawed feet and can be nailed down to the floor if needed,” Big-D said.
I hadn’t yet made it that far into my inspection but, in between the clawed toes on each foot of the posts, were holes where nails could be driven in. A memory resurfaced of Damon telling me we would need something that could be nailed down, and I heard myself saying, “I’ll take two of these.”
