Page 60 of Gamble
Christ, what am I going to do about that?
For the past five days, ever since he’d been texting with Reagan daily and falling deeper under her spell with each conversation, he’d been wrestling with the same question. It was hard to believe, but he’d never had to tell a vanilla woman that he was involved in the BDSM lifestyle? He’d dated a lot of women back in his stuntman days, but none of those relationships had lasted long enough to even have to worry about sharing the darker side of his sexual desires.
And now, he’d have to figure out how to explain that he didn’t just participate—but was the Dungeon Master at one of the most exclusive kink clubs on the West Coast. A job he was not only great at, but that he loved.
He’d almost convinced himself this week that the kind thing to do would be to end things before they got too serious. Reagan deserved someone who could give her the normal relationship she probably wanted. Someone her own age who didn’t have a closet full of floggers, paddles, gags, and restraints.
But then Wednesday night had happened. That three-hour phone conversation that had started as a simple check-in and developed into the kind of deep, intimate talk he’d never experienced with anyone. They’d discussed everything—childhood memories, career dreams, favorite books, places they wanted to travel. She’d laughed at his stories about disastrous movie stunts and listened with genuine interest when he’d confessed fears about aging and limitations he’d never voiced to anyone.
And somewhere around two in the morning, as her voice had grown soft and sleepy, he’d realized he was falling in love with her. Not just attracted to her body or charmed by her personality— genuinely falling in love.
That realization had changed his perspective.
If he was falling in love with Reagan Murphy, then she deserved the chance to make her own informed decision about what she wanted. She deserved to know who he really was, what he was into, and what being with him would mean. She was a grown woman, a successful professional, and she had every right to decide for herself whether his lifestyle was something she could embrace or something that would send her running.
He had decided that tonight, after dinner, he was going to show her his private dungeon and let her know his role at Black Light. He was going to show her his world and let the chips fall where they may.
The decision had been both terrifying and liberating. So terrifying that he’d done something he never did—he’d called in Tyler to give him advanced warning that he might bring his dateby the club. If not tonight, in the future. Tyler had already agreed to cover for Elijah as he took a rare Friday night off, but he had called to threaten his number two that he’d better not make a big deal about Elijah bringing a woman to the club for the first time—at least not in front of her because he knew she’d already be nervous as hell.
Elijah grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and stepped out onto the back patio, surveying his domain with satisfaction. The outdoor space was his pride and joy—the one area where he’d invested serious money in upgrades. The covered patio extended from the back of the house, creating an outdoor room complete with a built-in grill, prep space, and comfortable seating. String lights crisscrossed overhead, creating a warm ambiance when the sun went down. The hot tub sat in the far corner, surrounded by privacy screens and mature landscaping.
It was a space designed for entertaining, for intimate dinners under the stars, for long soaks in the hot tub with a beautiful woman pressed against his chest.
His phone buzzed in his pocket, and he pulled it out to find a text from Tyler:Everything’s under control here, boss. Have fun on your date. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.
Elijah chuckled as he typed back:That doesn’t rule out much, you pervert.
True. Get laid, old man. You need it.
If only Tyler knew how much Elijah needed it. Not just the physical release—though God knew that was part of it—but the connection. The intimacy. The feeling that someone saw him as more than just the guy who kept order at Black Light or the has-been stuntman with too many aches and pains.
Reagan saw him. She saw the man he was underneath all the roles he played, and she liked him. That was a gift he’d never expected to receive at fifty years old.
Elijah checked his watch: five-thirty. He had an hour and a half before he needed to pick up Reagan, and he wanted everything to be perfect when he brought her back here. The patio furniture could use a quick wipe-down, and he should check the hot tub’s chemical levels one more time. And the string lights needed to be tested again—nothing would kill the mood like half the lights being burnt out like the last time he’d been in the hot tub.
He headed to the garage to grab his stepladder and cleaning supplies. The ladder was an old aluminum one he’d had for years, and it wobbled as he set it up under the string lights. He should probably replace it, but like so many other things around the house, it still functioned well enough that he kept putting off the expense.
The first section of lights tested fine, each bulb glowing warm and amber in the afternoon sunlight. He moved the ladder and climbed up to check the second section, stretching to reach the far corner where the lights connected to the outdoor electrical outlet.
That’s when everything went wrong.
Later, he would never be sure what had happened. Maybe the ladder legs weren’t level on the patio stones. Maybe he’d overreached, shifting his weight too far from center. Or maybe it was just the inevitable result of asking a fifteen-year-old ladder to support a fifty-year-old man who’d subjected his body to decades of abuse.
All he knew was that one second, he was reaching for the electrical connection, and the next second the world was tilting sideways. The ladder collapsed beneath him, and he felt the sickening sensation of falling sideways with nothing to break his six-foot fall except the unforgiving stones of his patio.
The impact drove the air from his lungs and sent a lightning bolt of agony up his spine. His left hip—the same hip that hadbeen giving him trouble for months—took the brunt of the fall, and he heard something pop in a way that wasn’t supposed to happen. His knee twisted as he landed, adding its own sharp note to the symphony of pain that consumed his nervous system.
For a long moment, he lay there on the warm stones, gasping like a fish out of water and wondering if he’d done permanent damage. The pain was unlike anything he’d experienced since his worst stunt accidents, a deep, grinding agony that made his vision blur around the edges.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
He tried to sit up and regretted it as fire shot through his back and hip and down the full length of his left leg. Whatever he’d done to himself, it was bad. Possibly ambulance-worthy bad.
But even through the haze of pain, all he could think about was tonight. About Reagan waiting for him in that green dress he’d imagined her wearing. About the reservation he’d made at Mastro’s, the champagne he’d ordered, the carefully rehearsed speech about wanting to share details about his secret lifestyle.
And finally, about how he was going to cancel all of it.
Elijah lay on the patio stones for what felt like hours but was probably only minutes, taking inventory of his body and trying to decide if he could move. His back was screaming, his hip felt like someone had taken a sledgehammer to it, and his knee was already swelling inside his jeans. But nothing felt broken. More like everything had been knocked out of alignment.
