Pleasure doing Bussiness (Whip 3) ✔️

Chapter 6

NIKLAS

The door shuts behind Mr. Jones with a loud slam, making me frown.

I've been observing the man the entire day and try as I might, I can't quite get a read on him.

The man had seemed relaxed, almost nonchalant as he spoke with the police officers, and yet, every time he looked at me, there was something beneath the surface that spoke of a storm brewing, ready to unleash at any moment.

He's under a lot of stress; I know that despite his efforts to act like all of this is unimportant. But just the fact that I'm here, is enough of a tell.

I've checked him out before I agreed to the meeting, something I always do before taking any job since people are likely to tell you what they want you to hear while their paper history never lies.

And as far as I was able to find, or in Mr. Jones's case couldn't find, Michael Jones is a stand-up citizen if a bit controversial.

Of course, the controversy surrounding him is only that in certain people's eyes. His former colleagues and the high society he used to frequent among the loudest in their disapproval. The type that acts high and mighty in the public eye, while conducting their dirty business behind closed doors.

I, for one, prefer people who chose to live out in the open, much like Mr. Jones.

And yet, once I got to meet him, that hunch in the back of my mind, the one that had come to my rescue countless times, told me that I was missing something.

There is more to Mr. Jones, and even though I know that I would be better off minding my own business and just doing what I'm going to be paid to do, I can't shake off the urge to dig deeper until I find the truth.

∞∞∞

Once I'm done with inspecting the room that my new boss has provided for me, and seeing that he's still closed in his room, I decide to go back to the hotel to get all of my stuff and check out seeing as I would no longer be staying there.

It takes almost two hours to go there and back, since Mr. Jones lives quite a bit outside of the city, something I can understand since I hate the hustle and bustle of big cities with fervor, but after being on my feet for most of the day and then spending so long in the car, my stump is slowly but surely killing me.

I should have taken the leg off when Mr. Jones went to sleep, even for a little while, but I haven't and tonight I will pay the price.

As soon as I approach the gate, it swings open to let me pass and I make a mental note of correcting that. A note that keeps getting bigger and bigger the more time I spend here.

But one thing that will need to be corrected right away is a security system, as in, installing one in the first place.

Forget the crazy stalkers, how the man hasn't been robbed yet, I will never know.

I park the car and haul myself out of it, taking the bags out of the trunk before making my way in; my limp more pronounced the longer I walk. Small bursts of pain keep shooting up my leg, making me scowl with every step that I take, especially once I reach another set of stairs.

Fucking mansions.

What's wrong with normal, one-story houses?

By the time I reach my room, I'm panting a bit, cold sweat running down my back as the muscles in my leg start to twitch.

I drop the bags and limp my way toward the bed, the familiar anger mixed with shame swirling inside my chest as I roll up my pant leg and click the switch releasing the leg from the stump.

I take off the prosthetic sock sighing in relief as the cool air makes contact with the abused, red skin. I let it be for a minute, watching the muscle of my thigh twitch before reaching for one of the bags and taking out the oil I usually use for a quick massage.

The best thing now would be to take a long bath and then go to bed, let my leg rest for more than a few hours, and seeing as there is still no sign of my new boss, I decide to do just that.

But, speak of the devil and he shall appear.

There is an urgent knock on the door, and then it opens, the man in question bursting in before I have the time to cover up my stump.

Mr. Jones stops in his tracks as soon as he sees it, his eyes bulging out of their sockets at the sight.

"Your leg! You... It..." he starts before shutting his mouth close, a brilliant shade of red spreading across his face as I glare at him.

"Aren't people supposed to wait after knocking, or is that not the rule in America?" I say through my teeth, my jaw clenched so tightly I'm surprised I don't crack a tooth.

I look away, not caring for his answer, as I pull the sock and the leg back on, hot tendrils of anger and shame swirling inside my stomach as I do so.

I know that I shouldn't be embarrassed and that there is nothing shameful about being an amputee, something my former therapist has tried to drill into my head, but it's hard.

I hate it. I've accepted it for sure, but the hate is still there, especially when things like these happen and I can see the disgust or even worse, pity on the faces of others.

"I am so sorry. You're right; I should have waited before coming in. I apologize." he says after a moment, his face still slightly red, and his eyes now glued to the ground.

"Did you need something, Mr. Jones?" I ask, choosing to ignore his apology, as well as the entire situation, still feeling shaken up.

I see the man flinch at the coldness of my voice, but he thankfully doesn't comment on it.

"I know that you only got here today and that you have yet to settle in and unpack, but I need to go out. There is an event at my club tonight and I'm supposed to participate in, something I completely forgot. I..."

"Okay. When do we leave?" I interrupt him, seeing as he's once again rumbling, something I noticed he tends to do when nervous, and wanting to cut both of us out of our misery.

Mr. Jones blushes again, and then frowns at the ground, before clearing his throat.

"Is in 10 minutes okay?"

I simply nod in reply and he does the same, leaving the room after an awkward minute of staring at me until I raise an eyebrow in question.

I sigh as soon as the door closes, sitting on the bed and letting my head fall into my hands.

So much for a restful night.

I think with a snort until I remember just what kind of club I'm about to visit.

My stomach swirls with a strange mix of excitement and dread. I don't know what to expect from a BDSM club since I've never been to one, but for some reason, the idea of going to Mr. Jones's club with the man himself excites me more than I care to admit.