Chapter 1

Gillian LeBrun - Friday, July 10th, 2015

“Ida?” That heartless bitch was hovering over Ida. I had watched from the elevator doors. All I had to do was walk out and take out a taxi. “Jesus, girl, get ahold of yourself.”

“Mais non,” There was no going home for me. I smiled and hurried over to the desk. She was slow to respond, “Ida, cherie, avec moi, s’il te plait.”

“Go home, Gigi!” I glared at the despondent dirtbag. No, I wouldn’t let ma fille leave like this.

“You are a mess,” I had to use both hands to witness Ida’s wet eyes. Her mascara threatened a flood.

“I’ll be fine,” She hiccoughed. I had to drag her to the back room. I sighed. It was a quarter after eleven. I’d be here till three. I started to unbutton my shirt.

“God, here!” Ida panicked; I smiled, “I don’t like girls. I know I did some shit this week but--”

“Tais-toi, pervert,” I slapped a hand over her mouth. I wasn’t a lesbian either, but I knew how to have fun. She stared at my chest and blushed like a teenager. I had to shake her again, “Take my shirt and give me yours. I’ll finish the rest of your shift.”

“I’m sorry,” The first strike of her crying hit her. Her shirt was a size large on me but that was because she was taller.

“No, you’re heartbroken,” I stroked her hair, “Cherchez votre amies. You’ll need ice cream and cheesy movies.”

“I honestly prefer pot and mini-golf,” She snuffled.

“That is because you are l’idiote.” I finally got a smile from her with a little kiss. She let me chase her out of the hotel.

“What? God, I can’t believe you put up with the tramp,” I was welcomed back to the front desk.

“Ida is a gentille fille,” I replied, “She’ll be OK.”

“Whatever.”

Our shift drifted on for the next fifteen minutes. I was immediately abandoned for a cigarette. Perfect, I had to plaster on my my practiced smile as le malotru came out of the elevator. He made my skin crawl. His attache looked beaten. I would be glad to go home to Pierre.

“Bonjour, M. Cooke,” I smiled, “How can I help you?”

“Oh, I was expecting that younger one,” He smirked.

“Monsieur?”

“Nevermind,” He laughed, “My client left?”

“Qui--Who do you mean?”

“Mr Reid.”

“Oh!” I smiled truly, “Yes he checked out a few moments ago.”

“Checked out?”

“Oui.”

“Excellent,” He slipped his keycard from his pocket, “I’ll be on my way as well.”

“Merci,” I accepted the card.

“Please print out the receipt,” He explained as he tapped into his iPhone.

“Juste un instant,” I smiled, “Is your credit card information correct?”

He glanced at the screen and nodded. His driver came in the front door holding a small black bag. He had similar tastes to Matthew. I suspected that was purpose.

“Mr Cooke?” She asked with discomfort. I understood.

“We’ll be leaving today, Florence,” He explained.

“Do you have everything you need?”

“It’s all here.”

“M. Cooke, votre receipt.” I slipped the paper towards him across the counter. He smiled and grabbed my wrist above where I had worn my bracelet. I should have kept it, but Matthew had asked for it back. Ida was still wearing hers. That wasn’t important, I forced my brain through the surprise, “Monsieur? S’il te plait? Let go. Now.”

I kept my voice clear without screaming but he gripped tighter. His girl walked around the counter to me.

“You can’t come back here,” I shrank back from the blonde. She took a leather strip out of her bag. I almost screamed but M. Cooke dragged me across the counter and covered my mouth. There were cameras! The woman choked me with the leather cord. It was a dog’s collar. I struggled, kicked back but--

“Let’s go Florence. I apologize Ms LeBrun,” And I was let go. I reached for the collar and he stopped a few steps away, “That was out of line. Come with me to the car so I can apologize.”

I was a smarter woman than this. I shouldn’t have gone but I was around the counter a moment a later. Florence held the door for us. He followed me into the car.

Florence Rutger - July 10th, 2015

We had been driving for nearly eight hours. My new Master and his first catch were having their fifth tryst on the back bench. She was learning to be a screamer. I felt the goosebumps on my arms as we headed down the TransCanada. I had never been this far East. M. Fournier had been adamant about stepping on other toes. We didn’t go further West than Edmonton or further South than Detroit.

“Fucking hell!” Growled Master. I swallowed air as he dropped Gigi to his left. She was smart enough not to cry until he was napping. Not smart enough to crawl into his lap and clean his cock.

“Just let me go! Let me go home!” He pushed her face back down to his cock.

“You’re dangerous,” He explained, “Florence, what’s wrong with her?”

“Is she yours?” I caught his eyes in the rearview. A mistake, I looked back to the tractor trailer ahead of me.

“Are you mine?” He pulled Gigi up.

“I’ll never be yours!” She growled.

“Then why’d you come to the car?” He sounded so smug. But she was just addled from her owner’s disappearance. She wasn’t his. She was the others. This is why we didn’t step on each other’s toes. It was easier for M. Fournier. His neighbors hardly shared his proclivities. Master wanted to win. To win you need a game, you need an opponent. He had defined his.

“Je suis desole! I’m sorry!” Gigi broke crying and collapsing in the space behind my chair and the back bench.

“Florence!” I checked my mirrors and checked my speed. I shivered and shuddered. He growled, “Fix her.”

“I don’t think I can. We should let her go.”

“How would that help?” He grumbled, “Fine, pull in somewhere I’m starving.”

“You’ll let me go home.”

“I’ll give you back to Reid,” He decided. The sobbing breaths evened out.

“He left me,” She rose up and took her seat on top of her clothes.

“And I’ve corrected that,” Lewis announced, “Get through tonight and you’ll be with him tomorrow.”

“Promettez?”

“What now Frog?”

“She’s asking you to promise.”

“Yes, I promise,” He stroked her hair, “If you don’t give me any trouble.”

“OK, whatever you need tonight. Tomorrow we meet Matthew.” She edified in moments. She must have had ice in her veins. Eight hours to break and moments to pull herself together. She was why master was so terrible.

“Clean yourself up. I expect a civil dinner.”

“Oui, I’ll need a ladies room.”

“Of course, Florence will keep an eye on you.”

“I will.” I agreed so that Gigi would be certain I couldn’t be bent.

“Can I call mon mari?”

“No.” I answered making the mistake to meet Cooke’s eyes again.

April Garrett - July 11th, 2015

The three who walked in under the bell at the door weren’t our normal patrons. We got a lot of truckers. A lot of locals. An a tourist family now and again. The women cut straight to the washroom. I figured it was an in and out and maybe a cup of coffee for the man.

“Can I sit wherever?” He asked despite claiming the booth near the door.

“Sure can,” I smiled and slipped three menus under my arm and took the pot over to him, “Coffee?”

“I like it black, darling,” Better than most deliveries of that flirt, I had to admit. Still, I heard that twice a shift when it was dead in here.

“And for the women?”

“Just one more,” He flipped over the cup across from him, “And what do you recommend for energy tonight?”

“Ha!” I laughed. I wondered which woman was going to get it. The brunette looked more his speed than the centerfold blonde, “You want the venison stew with extra dumplings.”

“You’re a good woman,” He grinned putting his coffee back down.

“One of the best,” I smiled. His suit looked expensive but well worn and that he had ironed it with an octopus. Still, I wagered I was going to get a great tip.

“Get started on mine, darling. They’ll make their decisions when they sort themselves out,” He grinned.

“Will do.”

“And keep the coffee coming.” I flashed a smile over my shoulder and rang in his order. Food was up just before his girls came out of the washroom.

“Hello ladies,” I welcomed them to the table, “Take a few minutes with the menus I’ll be around when you’re ready.”

The brunette was let inside the booth and the man slipped back in. The blonde handed a strip of leather to the man. I let it slide and turned to leave.

“La soupe, s’il vous plait?” I turned, seemed the brunette was asking the man as much as me. She wasn’t wearing the choker like the blonde but it seemed they had some sort of hierarchy there.

“C’est creme de champignons? Ca va?”

“D’accord,” She smiled wanly. The blonde was still flipping through our menu. He was watching me.

“I’ll be right back,” I smiled for, walked away, tapped in, spooned up, and came back.

“Merci,”

“De rien,” I smiled.

“You speak lovely French,” He grinned.

“Maybe to your ears, I bet she’s hearing nails on a chalkboard.”

“Non, it’s very well done.” She slurped her spoonful in. She was much older than me. Maybe 40, maybe a little less. The blonde was closer to my age. Maybe their daughter? But probably not. I’d bet one of these two was a stepparent. Probably the Quebecoise.

“Merci beaucoup,” I gave a little curtsy in my uniform dress.

“We’ve got a fair bit of driving left. Do you know a motel we could get a quick nap at?”

“The Spring Wedding Inn is just off the next exit. It’s clean, inexpensive.”

“Thank you kindly,” He smiled and looked down to my nametag, “April.”

“No worries, I’m just a whistle away,” I grinned and they ignored me whispering to themselves. I don’t eavesdrop, I used to, too many conversations about hockey or the election glazed my eyes over. I didn’t think to listen in until I was called for a refill.

“I need to know it will work, Florence.”

“So long as they’re not someone else’s it’ll work fine.”

“It better, I only have so many tags,” He growled.

“Qu’est-ce que c’est tags?” whispered The brunette.

“Like Reid’s bracelets,” He explained and smiled at me as I pulled away the coffee. I guess I took a moment long to leave.

“You all ready there?” I asked the blonde, Florence, to cover. Who doesn’t go by Flo? I guess someone with a bucketful of nieces and nephews maybe.

“Scrambled eggs and a garden salad?” Again she posited to the man in the group. He nodded imperceptibly. I could never be in a relationship like that, but if that’s their thing, that’s their thing.

“Sure thing,” I grinned, “French dressing or Italian?”

“None, please,” She said. And I left before I got to hear more about Tags or Reid. Shame. I rolled their conversation over in my mind a few times but couldn’t quite parse it. Tags, like bracelets? That made no sense. I had her plate a few minutes later. She thanked me as I put it down.

“Didn’t like it, eh?” I asked of the man’s big empty plate.