Prologue
November
Happy fiftieth birthday to me. And it was time and past time to make some decisions. Valerie Winborne rolled out of the narrow bed in the bedroom that had once been her daughter’s. And was now hers.
Two weeks ago, when her husband invited a second slave into their bed, Valerie had moved to this small, very bare bedroom. Who would have thought she’d miss her daughter’s garish posters on the walls?
In the tiny bathroom, she frowned at the sad-looking woman in the mirror.
A purpling bruise was obvious on her cheek. Yes, she had decisions to make.
Pudgy. Limp, dark blonde hair. Sallow complexion. Pitiful.
Removing her nightgown exposed the tiny red wound and bruise on her right breast. A lump on her mammogram resulted in a biopsy a few days ago.
The findings were negative. She was all right.
But the days of thinking she might have cancer—might die—had shaken her world. And today, she was fifty—and her husband had hit her.
She tilted her head to the ceiling. Listen up, all of you gods, I really don’t need wake-up calls like this. Right?
Once out of the shower and dressed, she retrieved her briefcase from under the bed and unlocked it. There were student papers to grade before the community college’s Thanksgiving holidays next week.
She started to set it on the desk and stopped abruptly.
Oh, wonderful. There was a sludgy puddle in the middle of a pile of papers. A pungent orange scent wafted up.
Someone, undoubtedly Kahlua, had dumped orange juice on the desk.
Anger roused…and faded to frustration.
No harm done, after all. The jealous, petty slave had vandalized things before. It was why Valerie kept her paperwork in the locked briefcase. All Kahlua had destroyed this time was years-old unclaimed homework that had been left out as a decoy.
From the kitchen, Kahlua’s shrill voice rose. “It’s not my fucking turn, you bitch!”
“You slut, it is your turn. I cooked yesterday,” Alisha yelled back.
Something shattered. Probably a plate.
Barry yelled, “Keep it down.”
As cupboards slammed in the kitchen, Valerie started to open her briefcase, then shook her head. The essays needed to be graded, but if she didn’t have coffee first, she’d probably mark every paper with an F. With a rueful laugh, Valerie rested her head in her hands, feeling the onset of a low-grade headache.
A morning person she was not.
Food would be good, but neither Kahlua nor Alisha liked to cook. After tasting their grudging efforts at making suppers, Barry had decreed that Valerie would cook in the evenings, despite working a fulltime job.
She would have refused, but she preferred her food to be edible.
It just wasn’t fair the two slaves brought in no money and didn’t do much of anything around the house.
Yet their presence was partly her fault. When Valerie had mentioned how a colleague talked about the fun in exploring BDSM, Barry’d been interested since his friends often boasted about their kinky lifestyles.
She’d thought trying something new might be fun too. After all, they’d been married for years; the children were raised and gone.
And the sex was, face it, boring.
They’d joined a BDSM group. She’d learned something about herself—like how she reacted to pain and domination and sex.
Unfortunately, all Barry learned was he liked having someone serve him. At the end of summer, when he wanted someone totally submissive to him—a slave—she’d reluctantly agreed to let Alisha move in. To give polyamory a try. In the BDSM group, some of the poly Masters had two or three slaves, and the women were all very happy. Sister slaves they called themselves.
She’d always wanted a sister.
Instead, she’d hated the whole thing. Two weeks ago, after the agreed-on three months trial, she told Barry it wasn’t working, and Alisha needed to leave.
Instead, he’d added Kahlua.
Valerie had almost walked out right then.
But she’d been married to him half of her life. Wasn’t this merely one more storm to weather?
No, no, it isn’t. She shook her head. Barry’s slaves would never be like sisters to her. In fact, she didn’t like them at all.
Valerie pulled in a breath. Why was she putting up with living in misery and anger and resentment? Had the gods given her a scare to force her to answer the hard questions? If your life ended in the next few months, what would you be pleased about?
What would you regret?
Pulling a pad forward, she started a list of things that made up a balanced life.
Health: Before the biopsy results came back, the doctor had mentioned her weight and lack of exercise could be a contributing factor to getting cancer. Well, she sure didn’t want to go through this again, so she’d fix it.
Exercise? Ugh. But she’d do it.
At least menopause hadn’t reared its ugly head quite yet.
Friends: Ha! That’d be nice. She liked people, but Barry always oh-so-subtly discouraged her friendships with other women. And when Alisha moved in, subtle disappeared. “Vanilla people don’t understand us, Val. You don’t need other friends; you have Alisha now.”
Spiritual: Got it covered. Meditation kept her sane and from murdering the other two women.
Financial: There was a mess. Barry’s construction contractor earnings fluctuated with the housing market, but her community college job brought in stable wages. They should’ve been doing all right but not when supporting two other people. Not when Barry kept buying the slaves expensive presents and alcohol. He’d decimated their joint savings account.
She tried to be a generous person, but nope, not any longer.
Work: Teaching her classes—world religions and philosophy—was her crack. What better way to utilize her experience of growing up in the Middle East?
She’d hoped to apply for a university job after earning her doctorate in philosophy last year, but Barry had discouraged her. She frowned. Had he viewed her success as competition?
Family: They’d been partners, raising their two children, loving each other, supporting each other.
And there was the crux of it, why she hadn’t acted before this. Instead, for months, she’d refused to believe that what they had was gone. That love had…died.
All she was to him now was a…housekeeper. Tears welled in her eyes.
And he was no longer the man she’d married. Before the children were born, he’d promised to abstain from drinking and had kept his promise.
Then Kahlua had arrived, bringing in more than attitude—she’d brought in alcohol.
Barry was drinking every day now, and his behavior had changed.
Last night, when Kahlua deliberately broke Hailey’s ceramic handprint from preschool, Valerie had sworn at her, using the Arabic insults she’d learned as a child.
Barry had turned on Valerie. Yelled at her. Slapped her.
She gingerly touched her bruised cheek. In all their years of marriage, he’d never struck her.
Straightening her shoulders, she rose and walked into the dining room.
Kahlua was serving Barry a plate of pancakes. Her husband looked good for a guy over fifty. During a mid-life crisis and with a receding hairline, he’d shaved his scalp. Being in construction, he’d stayed muscular.