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for that shit, you know.”
    “Are you?”
    “No.” Nate sat on the chair and leaned back. “It’s not as simple as leather, chains, and whips, Bee. It’s about trust. People think it’s all the rage and think a set of handcuffs translates to BDSM. It doesn’t.”
    “You sound knowledgeable.”
    “I know some folks who are into that lifestyle. Not for me.”
    “I’m curious to know how to control a man’s orgasm. They say—”
    “Christ! This conversation has gotten weird—”
    “I read that there’s this sub-space—”
    “Stop!” Nate growled. He reached for his sticky pad and scrawled a word on it. “Here. It’s Friday night. Now get out of here. I need to get some shit done.”
    Grinning triumphantly at a scowling Nate, and with the password to the BDSM club safely in her clutches, she gave him a quick hug and skipped out of the room. Friday was the day after tomorrow. Caitlin should be back by then, and Emily was easy to persuade. She didn’t need to tell them exactly where they were going. For the first time in days, Beatrice felt more like herself—in control and conniving.

CHAPTER THREE

    “I know, Mom. I wish I could visit for Thanksgiving, but it’s a bad time for me right now.”
    She also didn’t like the idea of flying to California on the most traveled holiday of the year. Lorraine Woodward divorced her father fifteen years ago when Beatrice was seventeen. It had been an amicable divorce unlike the simmering resentment that reigned throughout their marriage. Any child would be hurt when their parents’ marriage ended, but Beatrice had been relieved.
    “You should stop wasting your life away in that job, Beatrice,” her mother scolded. “Find a nice young man to settle down. You’re becoming too much like your father.”
    She’d heard this lecture before. Her mom had already laid into her about the Eric Stone debacle when it first happened. She was surprised the topic had not come up again. So she said what she always did, “I love you, Mom.”
    Her mother sighed. “I’ll talk to you before Thanksgiving.”
    Obligatory Friday morning call to her mom over, Beatrice switched on the television and set it to the international news channel. She pulled a couple of files on her lap and started working, but her thoughts drifted back to the events leading to the divorce. Beatrice didn’t remember much from her childhood, except her mother’s constant drinking. Her father was rarely home. There was a point when her mother lost it and just went ballistic and attacked her dad. Beatrice had cowered under a writing desk and heard her mom screaming about her dad’s ambition ruining their marriage. The fight ended with a slamming of doors.
    Beatrice emerged from under the table. She took tentative steps down the stairs and found her mom on her knees, quietly sobbing into her hands.
    “Mom?”
    Her mother looked at her and tried to smile. “I’m okay, bumblebee.”
    “Where’s Dad?”
    A pained expression came over her mom’s face. “I tried, Beatrice. He can’t be here for your birthday.”
    She knelt beside her mother and hugged her. “It’s okay. We’ll be okay, Mom.”
    Her mom only sobbed harder into her shoulder. It was then at the age of almost ten that Beatrice started to shoulder her mother’s tears.
    Despite her mother’s bitterness with the state of their marriage, Beatrice was thankful that during the times she was sober, she performed her parental duties well. But because she’d been drunk half the time, Beatrice had learned to be independent, so she had taken more responsibilities at a young age. She’d forged her mother’s signature on payment checks and on her school release forms. She would race home from school to fix dinner. Some of her friends picked up on her mom’s nickname for her and turned it to “Busy Bee” until it was later shortened to “Bee” and the name stuck.
    Beatrice suspected it was during her high school graduation that her mom had