Rebecca's Lost Journals, Volume 4: My Master by Lisa Renee Jones Page B
Authors: Lisa Renee Jones
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logic. Which is exactly why I need to be writing this.
• • •
R alph just poked his head into my office and held up a piece of paper that said “61 days,” his score card of the number of days my fellow sales rep Mary has been nice to everyone. It’s a record, and I suspect it has to do with the fact that she discovered a couple of pieces of very special art that Mark bought for a steal for the July Riptide auction. Of course, she hates that I’m coordinating the auction, but I think she finally feels like she is on solid ground at the gallery again. Thank you, is all I can say. Give her a big commission and keep her happy. Her meanness to me this past year has been the shark in the gorgeous water that is the gallery for me.
I laughed at Ralph’s antics, as he intended me to. I love Ralph, I really do, but I don’t let myself get too close to him. He wants to know too much about my private life, and that isn’t going to happen.
I’d stopped writing at work because I was worried about someone finding one of my journals. It’s why I don’t use names. It would be bad enough to have my innermost personal thoughts exposed, but worse to expose someone else’s secrets through my writing. And this time I bought a journal with a lock attached to the cover. No one needs to read my thoughts, not even “him.”
I can just imagine if Ralph found one of my journals. Okay, leave it to Ralph to make me smile again, because thinking about the look on his face (he’s quite prudish) if he read just one of the erotic scenes I’ve described since heading on my submissive journey makes me want to laugh. I might wound our quirky, sweet little accountant for life.
Yes. My life outside this place is definitely not for anyone else’s consumption. I started a friendship with Georgia O’Nay that I pulled away from for the same reason. She was too close to people I know, too close to the things that would allow her to know my secret lover. But it turned out she knows anyway, for no reason I could control. The truth is, there are several people who know, and fighting public knowledge is probably a lost cause. This bothers me. It really does.
Eventually it’s going to come out that I am with him. Eventually every bit of success I’ve had will be questioned. If I believed in where he and I were headed, it would be okay. I’d deal with it. But I guess that’s what it really comes down to. I don’t believe in where we are headed.
Maybe . . . maybe I need to leave the gallery, to find another job in art—but wouldn’t I still be in the same circle of people? And I’ll never make the money that I make with Riptide, and I’m alone, with no one else to count on.
Yes, I have him.
But for how long?
8:00 p.m.
An hour before closing . . .
I ’ve decided I need to go home to my apartment tonight. I’m not looking forward to telling my Master that. We’re at contract negotiation time again and I know he’ll freak out and think I’m pulling away from him. Maybe I just won’t tell him. He won’t know; he’s off in another state right now.
I’ll decide later. I just need some space of my own. Of course, all of the things I use daily are at his place. I’ll have to go by there, and I wish I didn’t. When I smell his scent, see his things . . . it’s hard to turn away, but I feel like that is where this is headed. I need more than another contract, and less of what he’ll want included in the new one, anyway.
I just don’t think he can give those things to me.
11:00 p.m.
M y apartment. It’s so very strange to be here, but nice. A whole lot more humble than my Master’s elaborate place, but I like that. This is me, with my overstuffed, overused couches and my down comforter on my full-sized bed, which I’m sitting on now with all my old journals surrounding me. It’s a cozy little place, made cozier by it being mine, something I claim ownership of. He tried to pay my rent as part of our last
• • •
R alph just poked his head into my office and held up a piece of paper that said “61 days,” his score card of the number of days my fellow sales rep Mary has been nice to everyone. It’s a record, and I suspect it has to do with the fact that she discovered a couple of pieces of very special art that Mark bought for a steal for the July Riptide auction. Of course, she hates that I’m coordinating the auction, but I think she finally feels like she is on solid ground at the gallery again. Thank you, is all I can say. Give her a big commission and keep her happy. Her meanness to me this past year has been the shark in the gorgeous water that is the gallery for me.
I laughed at Ralph’s antics, as he intended me to. I love Ralph, I really do, but I don’t let myself get too close to him. He wants to know too much about my private life, and that isn’t going to happen.
I’d stopped writing at work because I was worried about someone finding one of my journals. It’s why I don’t use names. It would be bad enough to have my innermost personal thoughts exposed, but worse to expose someone else’s secrets through my writing. And this time I bought a journal with a lock attached to the cover. No one needs to read my thoughts, not even “him.”
I can just imagine if Ralph found one of my journals. Okay, leave it to Ralph to make me smile again, because thinking about the look on his face (he’s quite prudish) if he read just one of the erotic scenes I’ve described since heading on my submissive journey makes me want to laugh. I might wound our quirky, sweet little accountant for life.
Yes. My life outside this place is definitely not for anyone else’s consumption. I started a friendship with Georgia O’Nay that I pulled away from for the same reason. She was too close to people I know, too close to the things that would allow her to know my secret lover. But it turned out she knows anyway, for no reason I could control. The truth is, there are several people who know, and fighting public knowledge is probably a lost cause. This bothers me. It really does.
Eventually it’s going to come out that I am with him. Eventually every bit of success I’ve had will be questioned. If I believed in where he and I were headed, it would be okay. I’d deal with it. But I guess that’s what it really comes down to. I don’t believe in where we are headed.
Maybe . . . maybe I need to leave the gallery, to find another job in art—but wouldn’t I still be in the same circle of people? And I’ll never make the money that I make with Riptide, and I’m alone, with no one else to count on.
Yes, I have him.
But for how long?
8:00 p.m.
An hour before closing . . .
I ’ve decided I need to go home to my apartment tonight. I’m not looking forward to telling my Master that. We’re at contract negotiation time again and I know he’ll freak out and think I’m pulling away from him. Maybe I just won’t tell him. He won’t know; he’s off in another state right now.
I’ll decide later. I just need some space of my own. Of course, all of the things I use daily are at his place. I’ll have to go by there, and I wish I didn’t. When I smell his scent, see his things . . . it’s hard to turn away, but I feel like that is where this is headed. I need more than another contract, and less of what he’ll want included in the new one, anyway.
I just don’t think he can give those things to me.
11:00 p.m.
M y apartment. It’s so very strange to be here, but nice. A whole lot more humble than my Master’s elaborate place, but I like that. This is me, with my overstuffed, overused couches and my down comforter on my full-sized bed, which I’m sitting on now with all my old journals surrounding me. It’s a cozy little place, made cozier by it being mine, something I claim ownership of. He tried to pay my rent as part of our last
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