Chapter 43

Kathleen

Eve dithers between ordering a salad or the soup of the day at our favorite café. I've told her the news regarding this upcoming lunch my father informed me about, and now I'm pretty sure Eve's brain is broken from all the hilarious implications.

"Soup, please," she tells the server. I go with my usual chicken salad. "And you need an exorcist at this point. Pretty soon everyone will be in your casual sex business."

I shush her, for all the good it does. While the exclusive café isn't the busiest I've seen it today, there are still enough people milling about who could overhear what we're discussing. I'm not in the mood for Ira and me to show up on Page 6 under the juicy sex scandal and gossip section. I'm tired of my sex life being other people's business. Eve is right about that!

"I don't know how this got out… aside from Ira hinting to her father, and her father telling her mother…"

"Ah, there you go."

"This is so stupid." I look around to make sure no servers will surprise me with their presence. "She and I are fully grown adults. We have our own places in the city. We have had multiple love lives independent of each other. Why are they making such a big deal out of this?"

Eve shakes her head at me. Is she mocking my naiveté I didn't know I still had? Probably. "The simple answer is that they're parents and want to at least pretend to care about their kids' romances. Hey, you're a step above my parents." She shrugs. "Peaced out to Wyoming years ago and barely call to say hello. I think they only talk to my sister because she runs everything now. I don't dare think about the gay thing."

"Sorry."

"No worries. The complicated answer is that you're, well, you. The Mathisons care a lot about that because you're the type they would love to see their only kid get hitched with. Again, consider yourself lucky. My sister's been dealing with Dad's disdain ever since Monique became a thing. Nobody wants Jacqueline Love's ex who basically runs a legal brothel in the family…"

As usual, every topic diverts to the Warners. Sometimes it's charming how self-involved they can be. Other times, like now, I want to smack my friend upside the head.

"What do you mean I'm someone worth getting hitched to? It's not like that anyway."

"Yeah, yeah, so you keep repeating. What I mean is that no matter what one of these rich pairs of parents says around here, they all want their kids to marry laterally. Sure, some may posture that they don't care if Ms. Jane or Mr. John come from a blue collar family in Factory Town, but they totally do. Marrying rich means more money in the family pockets, a new family member who knows how to behave and what's what, and that good, delicious breeding nobody's allowed to talk about these days without sounding like a classist, racist asshole."

She's got a point. I don't want to think about marrying Ira, though.

I'm sure she would make a great spouse for a lucky woman out there. She's those things my father would want in a son-in-law and more. Handsome, courteous, a real go-getter in the family business… Doesn't matter if Ira is "different," because this is 2024 and my father knows better than to express opinions like that in front of his loud and proud bisexual daughter. He'd just be happy that Ira is masc and can pass as a man when safety counts.

Ira is far from spouse material for me, however. Besides the Domme thing – which I know I don't want to experiment with more than a few times – we are both way too independent to deal with the other person full time.

When I imagine a longer-term relationship with Ira, I see it like this: we'll meet up maybe once a week at most, but more like a couple times a month when we're done working together. Depending on my mood, we might have vanilla sex or we could play around with the Dom/sub thing. I'll stay the night – or she'll stay the night, since we could use my place too – maybe we'll have breakfast and watch TV, and then we part ways until next time.

Maybe we'll see each other at Midnight, let alone with other people. That's fine. Maybe I'll feel a little jealous. I don't doubt that she would too, but it's for the best. I need to get my Domme kicks, and Ira Mathison is not going to give me that, no matter how many times I get on my knees and call her Mistress.

She shouldn't have to, if she doesn't want to. It wouldn't be fun unless she was 100% wanting it anyway.

Can I say I'm disappointed by that? Because I am. I admit it. I still wish I could dominate Ira for a change. Although now that we've gone deeper in our sex life, I think about tying her up less. I don't know if it's because I can't see her that way anymore…

Or if because I don't want it anymore.

I look at Eve, who is so self-assured in her identity. Today she's wearing a loose silk tank top and white cotton pants that accentuate her long legs. White stilettos. A blue teardrop necklace. Diamond earrings. That stylish hair that screams classy soccer mom or raging lesbian.

Honestly, she makes me insecure.

She has to know what she wants, so she does. She always looks so polished and sophisticated, even when she's at the club spanking a girl or in my apartment wearing a T-shirt and jeans and stuffing her face with popcorn. I don't have a crush on her. Not like that. But I admire her ability to blend in seamlessly anywhere, even if she sticks out like a sore thumb bruised seventy times over.

I wish I could be so confident.

You may think it's silly that me, a woman born with a silver spoon in her mouth and all the trappings with it, would be so insecure. I even realize how lucky I am to feel okay about my body and appearance. I'm not in love with how I look, but I don't blanche from the mirror…

Yet it's not easy, no matter how much money you have. People judge you. They want you to fit into a mold, and across the class board, that mold means knowing my place. I'm fortunate to have enough money to fuck off. I've met many women in my various campaigns who never had that kind of luxury. They can only make the best of a less fortunate situation.

Ira is the first person in this society who made me blissfully not care about who I am. When I'm with her, I not only feel good looking, but valuable and intelligent…

Even when she's doing those things to me…

"Kat?"

I look up in time for the server to bring me my lunch. Eve removes her snapping fingers from my face with a twist to her mouth. As soon as the server leaves and we have our food, she says, "Stop daydreaming about her for two seconds, huh? If I knew I would be having lunch with you and Ira in spirit…"

"Hardly!"

"Don't play that with me. You're thinking of Mathison like I'm thinking about this bacon."

We eat and attempt to change the subject to our usual fare. My mother's most recent letter from Germany, Poland, Austria… I'm not sure where she is. Eve's mother and her terrible jewelry that she keeps sending her daughter. Eve's sister and what a mess the wedding planning is. Grad school, both her classes and my memories from a few years ago.

I'm thinking we can get back to normal when the owner of the restaurant walks through the door, escorting a young woman carrying a basket full of…

…Kittens.

Eve snorts into the back of her hand, and I know right away that it's Jamie Joy, the eager girlfriend of billionaire Etta Coleman. While I've never met the woman on a one-on-one basis, she has an infamous reputation in our circles for being…

Well, let's say she means well, but lacks a lot of the manners so many of us are bred with. It's the main issue with people who marry up into these families instead of laterally… aw, fuck, this is what Eve meant, isn't it?

The Mathisons are interested in pushing me to be Ira's girlfriend and maybe wife down the road because they don't want her marrying a Jamie Joy. Who, presently, is talking way too loudly with the owner and cooing over the juvenile cats in her big woven basket.

Lots of people bring their pets to a place like this. While most of them are those little lap dogs that are more or less well-behaved, there is a couple who bring their cats on leashes.

A basket full of kittens is another story, and it's taking every bit of decency Eve and I have to not completely lose our shit.

Jamie looks in our direction and drops the smile. I turn away, blushing.

"I mean… I see what that woman sees in her…" Eve mumbles over her salad. "I go over to Coleman's office enough to see her there. Even met her when she was Coleman's, ahem, assistant." Billionaire fucking the hot assistant. Tale as old as time… and how Carolyn Graham became a Graham-Mathison. "She's pretty, acts cute, and grew up poor like Coleman."

"What's that last one have to do with anything?" I'm whispering, even though Jamie is far on the other side of the restaurant.

"Honey, haven't you been listening to what I'm saying all day? Someone like Etta Coleman, who grew up in the fucking ghetto on the other side of town, isn't going to want to spend her life with women like us. We're too high maintenance. Our standards are on Venus, not the moon. Can't be helped."

She's got a point, which makes me think of Stephanie May, a girl who grew up middle-class but still "poor" compared to us. Would Ira want to marry a girl like that? Or just fuck her?

Would she rather marry someone with my background?

I've long known that if I'm going to get married, it would have to be with someone as or even richer than me. Men, even the submissive ones, don't like it when their girlfriends have more money, more social power in my experience. It invalidates their masculinity, which is already the most fragile thing on this planet, I swear to God.

As for submissive women? I seem to only be attracted to the lifestyle type, which I am not, and I don't want that kind of responsibility on my shoulders.

The mewling kittens reach our ears toward the end of our lunch. Looking over my shoulder, I see Jamie still talking to the owner while her gaggle of cats fall over each other, nap, and sniff at her food. They're short hairs with black and white markings. Cute.

She catches me looking again.

"You need to knock that off," Eve hisses at me. "Last thing you want is her thinking we're some sort of mean girls."

"People think that about us already."

"Yes, but ‘people' aren't fucking and pumping money out of the likes of Etta Coleman. Who, I may remind you, is a good friend for any family around here to have."

She doesn't have to tell me twice. Besides, the last thing I really want is some poor lady like Jamie thinking I'm making fun of her. Even though I kinda am. That's only because she's such a rarity around here. Most rich assholes with their poor-to-rich-girls keep them hidden away to minimize the social gaffes. Not Etta. The woman doesn't give a shit, and I admire that.

So after she catches me looking a third time, I know I need to get off my ass and go over.

"Oh, boy," Eve mumbles, staying in her seat for her own good.

"Jamie!" I say sweetly, standing next to her table. The owner excuses himself to oversee something, leaving me with Etta Coleman's sweetheart. She's done up in a stylish blue and white sundress that flows around her legs and accentuates her black, strappy heels. Her long, wavy black hair has a sparkly blue hairclip in it, and her makeup is minimal but striking. Yes, I can see why anyone would go nuts for her – even with the stripper name.

"Oh, you are…"

"Kathleen Allen." I extend my hand, which she shakes with trepidation. "We've met a couple of times before. My father does some business with Ms. Coleman."

"Oh!"

That was easy.

"I only wanted to tell you that I was… entranced by your gorgeous style." I can practically see Eve banging her head against the table behind me.

I chat Jamie up, making sure that we're on the same page when it comes to me not intending to be a bitch. As I said, I have nothing against this woman, and the last thing I need – as Eve mentioned – is Etta Coleman thinking I slighted her girlfriend.

Yet if I didn't know this woman's background before, it becomes painfully obvious when she loses the words for things that are so simple in our world. She struggles to be articulate, yet she isn't a terrible conversationalist.

Besides, there are other more pressing things to talk about. Like this basket full of cats.

"Aren't they adorable?" Jamie plucks one out, a mischievous tabby with sparkling blue eyes. It clutches her shoulder and holds itself there. "These are the cats we found on our property up in the hills. They're cute, but such a handful… I've been trying to find homes for them, but it's not like the old days when I could sit on the side of the street with a box full of kittens… I guess people around here aren't really into cats."

"Unfortunately not. People here prefer their lapdogs." I look into the basket. How many are there? Six kittens? Five? Seven? It's hard to tell where some end and others begin.

This basket seems to be pulling double-duty as Jamie's purse. Sectioned off to the side is an open compartment full of the usual things a woman carries. A wallet. Change purse. Small makeup case. A spare tampon.

A collar.

I glance away before she notices me looking. Shit, I'd almost forgotten that Etta Coleman was also a kinkster, let alone that I've seen this couple at Midnight a time or two. Jamie does not come off as submissive, if you ask me. So if she's carrying around her collar, it's because she has to be ready to go at her Mistress's whim.

Flashes of Ira presenting me with my own collar enters my mind. She said it would help me know when we were doing a scene or "being ourselves," wherever that line is blurred now.

Maybe it's the same for this girl. Maybe her girlfriend – and Domme – set up the same situation to keep her placated. Now I'm looking in this woman's face and wondering how many times she's worn this collar.

Before she can question me, I look into the basket again, where at least four kittens are piling on top of each other. Ira has a cat. A really pretty cat. Last time I spent the night, I woke up to find that cat curled up next to me and purring like a happy motor box.

I've always liked animals…

Ira opens her door to find me holding a cat.

She promptly attempts to close it again.

"Hey!" I whack my hand against the door and squeeze through the tight opening, scoffing. The cat in my arms wiggles, but I made sure to pick out the most docile one. A cute black and white female with what looks like a patch over her eye and a heart on her butt.

"What is that?"

I face Ira, kitten prominently in my arms. "It's a cat, dumbass. Thought maybe we could have a play date with our kitties."

Sure enough, her cat perks up from the couch, stretching and pretending that it doesn't care about the new feline intruder.

"I'm not sure if you're crazy or just batshit."

"Don't worry, I didn't get her for you." I cuddle the kitty against my chin. At this very moment, I have Annie out buying everything I need for a kitty. Beds. Bowls. Food and flea medicine. Brushes. Oh, and a litter box. And litter.

I'm very dedicated to this cat I surreptitiously plucked from another woman's basket.

"What brought this on? I didn't think you were into animals." Ira leans against her kitchen counter, drinking coffee. She's dressed like she's about to go to a meeting. It's hot but doesn't scream "fuck me now" like her usual outfits. I don't get the vibe she's in the mood. Fine with me. I'm only stopping by for a minute.

"I like animals. Just because I didn't have one before now…"

"All right, all right."

My smile won't get off my face. "Her name is Sinéad."

"Sinéad?"

"What? At least you can pronounce this name. Unlike, uh…" Her cat is draped along the back of the couch, waiting for me to fuck up its name.

Ira does not look amused. "Saoirse."

"Seer-sha…"

A meow sounds in the not-far-off distance.

"So, let me get this straight." She doesn't offer me coffee. She doesn't kiss me hello. This Ira Mathison is the one I've known for years, although there were no problems with me strolling in like I belong here. "You randomly get a cat that looks like it could be related to mine… and also give it an Irish name."

"I was inspired, okay?"

"Apparently."

"You make it sound like I don't know how to take care of a cat. I'll have you know that my mother had tons of them while I was growing up. One even spent most of its time in my room when it got old. Okay, so I've never cleaned out a litter box before…" I see it, Ira. I see you grinning behind your coffee cup. "But I've got a cleaner to help me with that. I know how to feed and love on a kitty. Hey, I've put up with you before, haven't I?"

"Har, har. You're so funny, Kathleen."

"What's gotten into you?"

She gestures her cup toward me. "Not pussy, that's for sure."

"Tasteful."

"Fine. I suppose I'm annoyed because…"

"Kathleen!"

Oh, no.

I hear Carolyn's voice long before I see her out of the corner of my eye. There she is, the woman who used to look at me as an equal, if not a younger version of herself. Now here she is, lip trembling as she looks between me and her child. Don't do it, Carolyn. You're making my new fur child squirm in my arms.

"Look at you two!" She struggles to do it, but somehow Carolyn plants a hand on both of our shoulders. "Having a lover's chat in such an intimate setting as this. Oh, Kathleen, you should come have dinner with us!"

"Kathleen was about to leave," Ira says, putting down her coffee cup and shrugging her mother's hand off her. "She's got a long day tomorrow. Was just telling me that she has to go to bed early but wanted me to see the new cat she got."

Carolyn looks at Sinéad. "It must be related to Saoirse! Look at these markings… oh, a little heart!"

She's practically screeching. Carolyn, the woman who is known to take no prisoners in the boardroom if it means the advancement of her bottom line. She's shrieking over a cat because she's somehow perceiving it as being a link between Ira and me.

Dear Lord, help me.

"She's right, I really must be going." I accept a kiss on my cheek, although Carolyn is this close to squishing my kitty. "Sorry to have disrupted your night."

I see myself out, grateful to have missed that onslaught. No wonder Ira was standoffish toward me. Any sign of affection caught by her mother? We'd both be dead from the saccharin.

Sure enough, I receive a text in the elevator.

"Sorry about that. Didn't want her to be even more annoying than she already is. The cat is cute. Look forward to seeing her at your place sometime. ;)"

Why am I so jittery? Why does the thought of Ira being in my apartment for a change make me want to pet the shit out of this cat?

"See you when we sign the papers and get the keys to The Ace. Better dress for business and pleasure. I hear the Anderssens have quite the party planned for us afterward."

Whatever we're doing, her mother better not be there. Or her father. Or anyone with a vested interest in us getting it on every time we have a moment to ourselves.