The Effing List Read online

  Chapter One

  March

  * * *

  Humming to herself, Valerie entered the small Vietnamese restaurant near campus and breathed in the heady aromas of lemongrass, mint, herbs, and fish sauce. Thankfully, the sound of her stomach gurgling was drowned out by the clattering of tableware and conversations in various languages.

  She was so hungry. It was good her careful budget would keep her from ordering everything on the menu.

  Was Queenie here yet? She swept her gaze around the crowded room.

  “Excuse me, please.” The deep, raspy voice came from behind her.

  Oops, she was blocking the doorway. “Sorry.” She edged sideways, bumped into a chair, and started to trip over someone’s purse.

  The man caught her upper arm in a firm grip. “Steady there.”

  Grace in motion, that’s me. “Thank—” She looked up, and her mind went blank.

  He was six feet of lean and deadly. His clean-shaven face was darkly tanned. Short, curly, steel-gray hair and weather-beaten skin indicated he was about her age. His green eyes held a keen intelligence.

  As all his attention focused on her, her breathing tried to stop. Honestly, woman, you’ve seen men before. “Thank you for the save.”

  “You’re very welcome.” With an unexpectedly charming smile, he released her.

  Giving him a friendly nod, she stepped out of his way. Her arm still tingled from where he’d held her. He certainly was strong.

  Especially for a professor. She’d seen him at a couple of faculty receptions…and the man totally demolished the stereotype of an amiable, forgetful professor.

  “Here!” The high-pitched call and raised arm pinpointed Queenie’s location near the back. The English professor was a friendly sort—and another person who loved the wonderful variety of Asian restaurants near campus.

  “Happy beginning of March. Sit, sit.” Pushing her red and purple streaked hair back, Queenie motioned to a chair. “I already ordered your usual for you.”

  “Perfect, thank you.” Valerie took a seat across from her. “I’m past ready for something uplifting like good food and conversation.”

  Queenie’s eyebrows shot up. “What’s happened? Student problems?”

  “Nothing so serious. My ex-husband called. He wants me to pick up the boxes the children left there.”

  Queenie’s eyes narrowed. “He has your old house, and you mentioned once you’re in an apartment, but he’s going to make you store the boxes?”

  “I might have objected, but he has”…slaves… “guests who are snoopy and destructive.” She wasn’t going to let Kahlua ruin the things her children wanted to keep.

  “Ugh. No wonder you need feel-good food.” Queenie grimaced. “At least your kids are grown. Dickface and I battled constantly about custody, vacations, and child support until ours were gone.”

  “Ouch. I hope my ex and I don’t come to bickering over holidays. Thankfully, at Christmas, he and my son went ocean fishing so I could spend the day with my daughter and the most adorable grandbaby in the world.”

  Queenie grinned, then shook her head. “You were lucky. I predict problems for future holidays.”

  A dismal thought. Because when it came to conflict, Valerie would lose. Or give in. Or run.

  Change the subject.

  “How are your classes going?” Valerie had mostly upper-level students in her philosophy and world religion classes. They were actually interested in the subjects.

  Poor Queenie’s English composition lectures were filled with freshmen.

  “I hate eighteen-year-olds.” Queenie rolled her eyes. “One of them was still drunk from the weekend, and the fumes rolling off him turned my stomach.”

  Valerie grinned. “Ah, the sweet bouquet of hungover freshmen, hmm?”

  Queenie laughed.

  As the waiter arrived and set their food out, Valerie recognized him as one of her students. “Jamail, everything looks wonderful.”

  “It is. In fact, I can personally vouch the food is excellent here.” His smile stretched across his face as he gave a small bow. “Thank you so much for helping me get this job, Dr. Winborne.”

  “It was my pleasure. I’m sure they’re delighted to have you.” And they were feeding him well, she was happy to see.

  As he strode away, Queenie lifted an eyebrow in inquiry. “You found him this job?”

  “He kept getting skinnier, so I called him in for a talk and learned his part-time jobs didn’t pay enough for food and rent. I suggested a restaurant job where he’d get free food, then told the owners here he was a hard worker. It’s a good match.”

  Queenie shook her head. “Most of us think we’re doing an excellent job if we counsel students about course material and grades. You take it a step further, don’t you?”

  “It’s all part of the whole.” Valerie moved her shoulders in a half-shrug. “If starving, how can a child study?”

  “There is that.” Queenie turned to her food, letting the subject drop.

  Valerie gazed fondly at the redhead. The two of them would never be besties—their views on the world were too different—but Queenie was a fun colleague and lunch date.

  After a few minutes of contented eating, Queenie eyed Valerie speculatively. “Hmm.”

  “What? Did I forget to wear makeup or something?”

  “You never wear makeup. Very funny.” Queenie nibbled on a shrimp spring roll. “Remember when a group of us were talking about the Fifty Shades stuff, and you said you and your husband tried it?”

  Valerie winced. Post divorce in January, she’d had too much to drink at one of Queenie’s parties. The alcohol hadn’t helped her depression and neither had oversharing. “And?”

  “You see there’s this club—”

  Hastily, Valerie held up her hand to stop her. “I’m not a member of any clubs.”

  “No, no, that’s not what I mean. So, this place, it’s not a swinger’s club where there are people watching and jerking off. This one is supposed to be classy, like, in a mansion, and all BDSM. It’s really private and exclusive, but they’re having a night when visitors can see what it’s all about. Even get a kind of sampling of what they do.”

  “Like a taste test?”

  “Exactly.” Queenie waggled her eyebrows. “Don’t you think visiting a BDSM club sounds interesting?”

  More like avoid-at-all-costs. In a way, BDSM had destroyed her marriage. Or maybe it was merely the final blow.

  “A club, hmm?” She and Barry had considered trying a club, but they were all expensive. Instead, they joined a small group who played in one guy’s house. And it’d been fun, at first. Especially when one Dom showed Barry how to spank her…

  No, don’t think about that.

  After Barry brought in Alisha, they’d quit the group. Probably because someone had criticized Barry’s techniques and offered pointers.

  Barry didn’t take criticism well.

  “What do you think, Valerie? I really don’t want to go by myself.” Queenie gave her an appealing look.

  “No, going alone wouldn’t be wise.” They were friends…well, lunch friends, anyway. And Queenie had gone out of her way to introduce Valerie around on campus, show her where things were, and generally help her figure things out. Teaching in a small community college had been quite different from being a university professor.

  Valerie pursed her lips. “I’ll admit, I’ve never been to an actual BDSM club.”

  “See? I’m really curious. Most of my hookups are jump on, pump away, jump off. A BDSMer must have a more extensive repertoire.” Queenie wrinkled her nose and made Valerie laugh. “Although I’m not exactly a nubile young thing anymore.”

  Queenie was only around forty. Valerie shook her head. “Try being fifty.” Probably no one would even notice her.

  Barry had certainly lost interest.

  But this wouldn’t be like a real BDSM night. How could she turn Queenie down?

  “All right. Let’s
do it.”

  Later in the afternoon, Valerie slid out of her car and faced the house where she’d lived for twenty-five years. On each side of the entry, bird-of-paradise plants stood as sentinels. Vibrant pink flowering azaleas were bright against the white front. Butterflies danced above the white flowers of the viburnum.

  When they’d moved in, the front yard had contained only grass. She’d worked hard to make the yard colorful. Welcoming.

  But there was no welcome here for her.

  Not my home. Not my house. Not my family.

  Despite the painful squeezing in her chest, Valerie repeated the words under her breath and pushed the doorbell on the ranch-style house.

  “A Country Boy Can Survive” rang out. Barry had been so pleased when she had the new doorbell installed with his favorite song. It’d been their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary.

  Their marriage hadn’t made it to the twenty-seventh.

  The briny air from the Gulf of Mexico swept through the small residential neighborhood, making the palm trees sway, easing the warmth of the March afternoon. Not having gone home to change after her last class, she was still in khaki pants and a button-up shirt.

  Footsteps sounded inside.

  Relax. I’m only here to pick up boxes, and I won’t let their snarking get to me.

  Alisha opened the door. “Oh, it’s you. Come for your shit?”

  “I did.” Valerie walked past and flinched at the sight of the filthy carpet, dirty dishes on side tables, and dust everywhere. Even when the children were small, the place had never been such a mess. She’d been gone for only three and a half months and…

  Not my home. Not my circus. Not my monkeys.

  Alisha’s expression turned ugly. “Master Barry doesn’t care what the house looks like. He wants other things from us. It’s a shame you never figured that out.”

  Valerie smiled politely in response.

  Because she had figured that out. Dabbling in BDSM had briefly invigorated their dull sex life. The couple of times he’d spanked her before sex, they’d both been surprised at how hard she’d climaxed.

  But Barry wasn’t into exerting himself when it came to the bedroom. Especially when he’d found two submissives who hung on his every word and serviced him without him having to do a thing.

  Valerie was no young babe. And being a slave? Not my thing. “Where are my boxes?”

  “Against the wall there.” When Alisha turned to point, vivid scratch marks on her neck were visible. Kahlua had probably been drinking last night.

  Valerie shook her head. Even her peacekeeping skills weren’t up to dealing with the belligerent drunk. Thank goodness she didn’t live here any longer.

  Six boxes were stacked against the wall, more than she’d figured. Family albums, baby books, the kids’ precious art projects. Probably even some stuffed animals to hand down to Luca. Valerie’s heart turned mushy. Her two-year-old grandson was the smartest, sweetest, most adorable child in all the world.

  Valerie picked up the first box and suppressed a grunt. Not stuffed animals in this one. What had Hailey packed—rocks?

  She carried it out to the car.

  Returning, she heard a long groan from the master bedroom to the right. Undoubtedly, Kahlua had pushed Barry to have sex right when the ex-wife was scheduled to show up. Because that was how Kahlua operated.

  Alisha smirked.

  Don’t react. Let the ugliness simply pass through into the floor. She picked up the next box.

  Back when Alisha became Barry’s slave, Valerie had been jealous—oh my gods, she’d been jealous. And felt so cliché—the older wife whose husband was chasing after a younger woman. But she’d tried to overcome her feelings, only Alisha had been even more jealous.

  Then, when Barry brought in Kahlua, the two slaves had joined forces against Valerie.

  Valerie took the second box to the car and drew in a long breath of the sultry Florida air, cleansing her lungs of the toxic stench of the past.

  Back inside, there was Kahlua, naked and stinking of sex. “Hey, it’s our pal, Val. The ex who never gets sex.” She ran her hands over her oversized, abnormally high breasts, gifts from a previous lover. “I’m sorry. I should have dressed. I know it bothers you to see someone getting some when you can’t get anything.”

  Responding to nitwits is an exercise in futility.

  Valerie picked up the next box and carried it out. Three more to go.

  Kahlua and Alisha were talking amiably when she returned, obviously having united against a common enemy.

  “So, Val, babe. Got any since you left?” Kahlua asked in a simperingly sweet voice.

  Valerie picked up the next box, her arms aching.

  “Please. You know no one would want her if she even had a sex drive left.” Alisha shook her head in pseudo pity.

  Valerie carried the box out. Returned. Two left.

  “You should take that paycheck you’re so proud of,” Kahlua sneered, “and buy yourself a fun night with a man. Man-hos aren’t picky.”

  Alisha choked on the beer she was drinking.

  Barry walked out of the bedroom, fastening his jeans. “Val, babe. You’re here.”

  Valerie turned. And felt…nothing. What they’d built together—raising children, making a marriage—was gone.

  Kahlua was right in a way. Sex with Barry had been only so-so. Once in a blue moon, he’d go down on her so she could get off. He wasn’t inventive or one to exert any effort.

  “I’m here for the boxes.” Valerie motioned to the wall.

  Still naked, Kahlua handed him a beer. Leaning against the doorframe, he put an arm around her. “You’re looking…good, Val.”

  Good, hmm. After all the snark from the two women, Valerie had to clamp down on her urge to let loose, to sound like the sarcastic heroines in her favorite romance novels. But why bother?

  She picked up the box.

  “I miss you,” he said.

  She froze. In December, she’d longed to hear those words. It’d been her choice to move out, but the first month alone had almost broken her. If he’d said something then, she might well have returned.

  Not now.

  “I’d take you back, you know.” Ignoring Kahlua’s angry gasp, he moved close enough to stroke Valerie’s hair. “I might even toss in a spanking or two.”

  The memory blanked her mind. Being laid out on the bed, his hand coming down on her butt with a loud smack, the warmth of an orgasm, the…

  No.

  “Sorry, but no.” Arms encumbered with the box, she couldn’t shove him away, only retreat a step. “We’re done.”

  His mouth tightened, then he nodded. “Have you heard from Hailey or Dillon recently?”

  Dillon had been in China since January, setting up a manufacturing plant. Last week, he’d called, and they’d talked for over an hour. Even men in their twenties could get homesick, it seemed. “Dillon won’t be back for another six or seven weeks. And”—no, she wasn’t about to serve as an intermediary between him and their children—“you have a phone, Barry. Call them if you want to know how they’re doing. Or maybe you should invite them over.”

  “I’ll call them both.” He scowled…because he had been avoiding having the children over to visit since Kahlua and Alisha moved in. He couldn’t avoid telling them forever.

  She sighed. It was bad enough she’d acquiesced when he’d asked her not to tell the children about the slaves. Although, really, how in the world would she have ever found a way to explain? Hailey and Dillon believed Barry could do no wrong.

  “Hey, this box is heavy, and I need to go. Good seeing you all.” Such a lie.

  As she lugged the box out the door, it occurred to her he hadn’t offered to carry it.

  Had he always been such a jerk and she hadn’t realized?

  She drove to her apartment in the “New Tampa” area. Near I-75, the complex was just far enough from the university the place wasn’t filled with students.

  After sto
ring the boxes in a closet, she forced herself to change into running shorts, sports bra, and a loose tank top. Because exercising was part of her new life.

  Ugh, ugh, and ugh.

  I can do it. I will.

  Once out of her apartment complex, she walked to the Flatwoods Wilderness Park, feeling the heat surround her. Up north, people considered March a springtime month, but in Florida, summer was here already. She should probably jog in the early mornings.

  What an awful thought.

  Old-growth pines and oaks lined the paved trail, filling the air with their tangy fragrance. After stretching out, she started off at a slow jog. Admittedly, her speed was barely faster than a walk, but, damn, she was proud of herself. Jogging—go, me!

  She pulled in deep calming breaths and started to relax. The ugliness of being around Alisha and Kahlua had tensed her whole body.

  Conflict was something she avoided. Cruel words and loud voices brought back how her parents would shout at each other…and her…so loudly everyone in the neighborhood heard. It didn’t matter where they were living—Doha, Qatar or in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia or in Muscat, Oman. Mom and Dad never cared what the locals thought. Valerie had been the one who interacted with the Arab housekeepers, and she’d felt humiliated by the sympathetic looks and whispered gossip. The other children, already inclined to dislike her because she was a foreigner—an American—jeered at her.

  Even so, she’d managed to make friends with the nicer locals. And learned to create her own safe place, deep inside her mind.

  But meditation couldn’t help everything, and insults hurt more when they were true. She hadn’t been a cute child…as her parents had, all too often, complained about.

  In her twenties, finally outgrowing her chubby cheeks and awkwardness, she’d been astonished when men found her attractive. When Barry found her attractive. Those had been nice years.

  Unfortunately, part of growing older was…growing older. And, admittedly, she’d gained too much weight.

  She nodded to another jogger, then smiled to herself. Some of those pounds were gone now, and everything had tightened up. But no matter how much she exercised, she’d never be a fresh-looking twenty-year-old.