THREE The HARD Way {Under Construction}

Three The HARD Way

         Fuck, this party blew... 

         The club was noisy, a cacophony of brittle, grating sounds that pulsated like a migraine.  Voices, most raised to an obnoxious pitch competed to be heard over other voices, other conversations, everyone in the place convinced that what they had to say was more important than anyone else.  People doing a lot of talking with very little listening.  If she had been claustrophobic Ashley would've already lost her mind.  She was hemmed in by bodies and body odors, the funk of alcohol sweating through skin already doused with bad perfumes and worse colognes.  Aftershave and failing deodorants mingling with the unmistakable odor of just-smoked cigarettes made what passed for atmosphere in here equally obnoxious.  Recent legislation made it illegal to smoke in bars, clubs, and restaurants now.  No pall of cigarette smoke hung just above their heads, no exhaled plumes of smoke hitting you in the face but smokers never left their habit far behind.  That bottom of the ashtray smell still clung to everything, so much so that Ashley wondered what the point of the ban was in the end.  It had been nearly a year and a half since her last quit, but damn if the scent combined with the aggravation wasn't bringing the itch on in a big way.

         Ashley wanted a cigarette.  She wanted something familiar to do with her hands, with her mouth.  They called that urge "oral fixation".  Oral fixation...  She thought of her Master, of how she'd like to orally fixate on Him.  It was only fair since it was because of him that she didn't smoke any longer.  The law said she couldn't smoke in certain public places but He forbade her from smoking at all.  Not at work, not in the car, not at this or any other party, not outside.  No smoking, period. 

         Attempting, she hoped, to mute the signs of disdain she was feeling Ashley pushed deeper into the throng of her co-workers greedily getting their collective free drink on.  With at least another hour of obligatory face time to put in at this "party", she desperately needed a means to make this---what would her Pops call it?---a cluster-fuck...?  Yeah, this was one steaming cluster-fuck if ever there were one and all she wanted was a way to endure it without going postal.

         She shifted a little, the thought of her Master making her feel guilty for wanting what He said she could not have.  There were rewards for her surrender, for her obedience and fidelity though here and there she also endured sacrifices.  "Remove a vice and find a virtue," he had repeated often, principally while stripping her of habits He disapproved of.  It took work to follow that lead.  Effort.  Dedication.  Unwavering obedience.  Trust.  Desire. 

         A smile drew up the corners of her mouth, no thought of Him ever seemed complete without the idea of desire attached.  "Hey!"she yelled when someone's arm bumped her in the chest.  Ordinarily that kind of  "accident" was an old move guys pulled to get a hands-free grope of her breasts.  Ashley stared at the hapless guy she recognized from the provisioning department.  There had been nothing suave or orchestrated in the collision; the goof hadn't been aiming for her Victoria's Secret-wrapped ladies at all.

         "Sorry," the guy elbowing past her said.  She was sure the impatience in her eyes as she stared him dead in the face had more to do with the apology than any sense of remorse.  In shoving her aside he also managed to spill some of whatever he was drinking on her new shoes.  Ashley felt the liquor splash across her bared toes, the alcohol tingling against her skin and making it sticky.  Wiggling her toes didn't make the situation better.  Looking up from her foot she saw the offender was already gone, lost in the crowd.

         Bastard. 

         Her feet felt disgusting now, compounding the discomfort she was experiencing because she'd never worn these shoes, hadn't broken them in.  She had been on her feet for hours, unable to find a stool or chair that wasn't spoken for.  Four inch heels on concrete floor was not a recipe for comfort.  Sure, they were strappy and gloriously sexy on her but in this mob, nobody could see to appreciate them.  That they were open-toe had only proved another liability; nothing like the bottom of a man's shoe to ruin a pedicure and inflict merciless agony.  Ashley didn't even want to think what her feet would look like when she woke up tomorrow.

         Unfortunately, this wasn't the worst of it.  Staring across the room Ashley saw that the tone-deaf woman from shipping was climbing onto the karaoke stage again.  Joan---"Joanie"---had been torturing them all night, hogging the microphone like she was better than anything on American Idol and had three Grammy's sitting on a shelf at home.  When Ashley realized the song coming up was Celine Dion's theme from the movie TITANIC, Ashley wished she had her Grandfather's gun.  She was torn between wanting to shoot that wasted heifer or just put herself out of her misery. 

         "Yoooouuuuuuuurrrrrrrrrr'e heeeeeeerrrrrreeeeeeee, there's nuuuuuuuuuuuuuuhhhhthiiiiinnggggggg to feeeeeaaarrrrrrrrr..."

         Oh good Lord. 

         Ashley shook her head, wondering if her ears had started bleeding.  She couldn't smoke but drinking was allowed and for everyone in her company---marked by the neon orange wristbands they had to wear---the first two drinks were free, the next four were a dollar.  Time to get to the bar.

         "Come on, move your bag already.  You've been sitting by yourself, you don't need two stools."

         Obviously not bleeding, Ashley's ears tracked the aggravated voice ahead.  Familiarity enabled her to find the person it belonged to over near the end of the L-shaped bar.  It was Reggie from tech support and he was talking to some woman she had never seen before.  Not unlikely, her boss had only hired out the rear section of the bar for the party so the rest of the place was still open for normal business.  This woman was apparently not with the company party as anyone's guest.   

         Perched on her stool in an ankle-length black skirt and button-down white cotton blouse, she was sharp and so...elegant in this un-elegant place.  She looked at Reggie clinically, like a scientist studying a monkey with 3 heads.  Giving up on talking, Ashley saw Reggie go for the disputed stool. 

         The one occupied by her purse.

         "Don't," she said with a voice that, even with all the surrounding noise, came through clean as a razor.  "That bag is worth more than sixty of your... outfits.  Find someplace else."

         Reggie hesitated.  The woman kept staring at him.  Line drawn, her piece said, no room for negotiation existed in her posture or her tone.  Reggie was a wide-body, nearly six-foot-three hairy-backed inches, carrying two hundred and ninety-odd pounds (on a slow day) of principally beer gut.  If he wasn't balding he could've probably passed for a Grizzly.  He loomed over the slim woman but he didn't touch her bag.

         Or the chair.

         Ashley was impressed.  At five-foot-three and three-quarter inches (when she rounded up) Ashley was always acutely aware of size differences during confrontations.  She'd been intimidated by her fair share of men that blunted the quick-sparking attitude she had in spades with just their physical presence but this woman, this woman had faced down a guy big enough to make three---possibly four---of her and did it like it were nothing.

         Like she did it regularly.

         Reggie lumbered away, shaking his head and likely burning through every combination of the word "bitch" he knew as he did so.  His departure left a visible gap at the bar and before she had thought it out Ashley moved into it, nothing dividing her from the woman but the purse that had kept its own stool.  Up close Ashley immediately understood the significance, the purse looked like genuine---

         "Crocodile.  Black Caiman, to be exact."

         Ashley blinked, realizing she must have been staring.  "Excuse me...?" she said awkwardly, hating being caught off-guard and fumbling the recovery so badly.  The woman didn't seem bothered.

         "The purse, I couldn't help noticing you looking at it.  It was made from a Black Caiman, a seventeen foot long bull killed in South America by a...friend.  The hide was custom cut and provided me with that purse, two pair of glorious heels and some other...accessories."

         "Seventeen feet long...?"

         "Yes, massive, and from what I understand rare in this age to find one so large.  Even harder to find one and acquire it, they're protected."  Something about that made her smile but she didn't elaborate, turning instead to one of the bartenders.  "Jack Daniels Single Barrel," she said.

         "You're joking, right?" he asked, flipping a towel over his shoulder.

         "No.  Is there a problem?"

         "This isn't exactly a top-shelf place, we make our money on volume, not quality.  Straight Jack only, we don't carry the Single Barrel because---"

         "Save the excuses," she said dismissively.  Reaching for her purse the woman stood, Ashley's eyes following her upward.  Steep, four-inch heels made the woman a full head taller than her.  The woman looked down, an eyebrow arching.  "This place is worthless, care to go somewhere more accommodating?"

         Ashley looked into those eyes, the ones with such a familiar intensity and considered the offer.  The woman waited, smoothing a hand down along her tapered skirt.  Her inky black hair was pulled back tightly in a knot, not a strand out of place, its darkness a perfect contrast to her almost porcelain skin.  Judging by the two encounters she had seen, the woman had finite degrees of patience and Ashley found herself not wanting to be on the wrong side of that limit.  "Sure," she said after checking the time on her cell.  "But I didn't drive---"

         "Neither did I but that isn't a problem."

         Questions sprang up at that but Ashley never found the voice to ask them since the woman had already turned and begun threading through the crowd.  It seemed almost effortless, while not aggressive in the normal sense, people---even this inconsiderate bunch---somehow knew to move out of her way.  Ashley wondered how she did it---and how she moved so quickly in that skirt and those heels---while trying to keep up and not have her own feet stepped on again. 

         The night air had a welcome freshness as they stepped out of the club, pausing curbside when they had cleared the double doors and the people loitering out front, waiting to get in.  It was between Christmas and New Years, the temp had dipped to a "chilly" fifty-four degrees but the woman didn't have a coat and didn't seem to care.

         "So, we're taking a cab?" Ashley asked, about to reach for her own phone to make the call.

         "No taxis," she said with a brief glance over her shoulder.  "No need, a ride is waiting."

         And, on cue, a burgundy car pulled alongside and stopped.  The badge, she noticed, said Jaguar.  The woman leaned back slightly, arms folded, purse just under her left arm on its short strap.  A man, a tall man with broad shoulders and angular features stepped out of the idling vehicle.  She circled around the front of the car and moved past him like he were in her way.  "Go home," she told him, taking her place in the driver's seat.

         "Yes ma'am," he replied in a clipped voice, closing the door for her.  Ashley watched him straighten, unable to read his mood before he stepped back and walked away.

         "Getting in?" the woman asked after lowering the passenger side window.  Only fidgeting a little, Ashley opened the passenger door and slid into the embrace of supple leather upholstery.

         "Is this your car?"

         "It is now," she smiled.

         "You're taking it, but the guy that was driving...you just told him to go home.  Are we going to your place?"

         The woman laughed then smiled again at Ashley.  "We may get to my place eventually, but that isn't where he is going.  My home is mine, not his.  Nothing is his."

         "But---"

         "In...now," she insisted, revving the engine. 

         Ashley obeyed.

{ Be Patient Please, I'm Writing As You Read!}

If it weren't illegal, that smell would have been the last straw. 

    A personal law---His law---the rule had been stated to her in flat, specific language.  She would not smoke again, not ever.  Not and still be His. 

She couldn't currently get to him and she was denied the tried and true nicotine back-up.