Blackmail (Skeleton Key Book 1) Read online

  Blackmail

  -------Skeleton Key Book One-------

  Anna James Watson

  Begin Reading

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Copyright

  The author and publisher have provided this e-book to you for your personal use only. You may not make this e-book publicly available in any way. Copyright infringement is against the law.

  For David, who taught me the value of admitting one’s own fantasies.

  For my husband, who indulges mine.

  And for anyone and everyone who has ever known what it’s like to love someone you wish you didn’t.

  Part One

  Author's Note

  I know that, as a reader, sometimes I just really need to get to the good stuff. So, if you'd like to skip to (pardon the pun) the climax, click here.

  – Mia –

  I fell asleep in the Philosophy Department lounge—again. The Philosophy lounge was hardly ever used, and had huge overly cushy armchairs that just begged to be slept in. If you were in your junior year at Yale and had just pulled an all-nighter writing a twelve-page essay, you would probably have done it too.

  Well, maybe you wouldn’t have. Actually most juniors wouldn’t have during this particular semester; they would have been on their absolute best behavior, terrified of doing anything that made them look less than super human—because the second semester of junior year is when you can be tapped to join a secret society.

  I genuinely don’t care about being tapped though. I do, however, care quite a bit about being chosen as editor-in-chief for the Yale Daily News, which I have spent the last two and a half years pouring my soul into. So forfeiting sleep, writing essays at the last minute, and even occasionally skipping classes are all sacrifices I am willing to make for the Daily.

  Quick footsteps and male voices break the silence of my sanctuary, painfully jolting me out of a dream I was destined to forget. My eyes shoot open as my ears come into focus well enough to recognize those voices—one of them belongs to Tristan Masters, the loathsome asshat I have the misfortune of sharing a dorm floor with; the other belongs to Julian Roth, my grad student teacher’s assistant who is in charge of eight percent of my grade for Neo-Kantian Ethics. Shit!

  I quickly tap my phone: 11:47 blinks up at me. Shit, shit shit! I slept through his discussion group! And now he’s about to catch me!

  I look around—the lounge door is open, the edges of two shadows are hitting the wall, they’re only steps away from the door. I spring out of my tattered armchair, reflexively fling my backpack over my shoulder, and practically dive into the only hiding spot available—the supply closet.

  I manage to get the door closed to within an inch before shadows are replaced by flesh and blood figures. Julian strolls in first, talking enthusiastically about the rise of utilitarian normative ethics. Next to him, Tristan, looking as cocky and self-assured as always, runs a hand through his freakishly perfect long blond hair.

  I’ve known Tristan since freshmen year. We’re both in Berkeley College, and somehow, all three years in a row, we’ve been placed on the same floor. Unfortunately, in that time he’s somehow only become more awful. He’s spoiled and self-important because his parents are ridiculously wealthy; used to getting his way because, although I am loath to admit it, he is unnaturally gorgeous; and predisposed to treating people like a means to an end. Our dislike has been mutual from the moment we met, probably because I don’t care about his looks or his money, which I’m happy to let him know whenever provoked, which is often.

  Julian I met last year, the first year he was working as a T.A., when my roommate, Leanne, and I happened to sign up for a discussion period he was teaching. We’ve both taken every opportunity since to take classes with him. He is intelligent, witty, always willing to discuss topics at length, and he grades papers fairly. However, despite Leanne’s attempts to Internet-stalk him, I don’t know much about him outside of academia.

  “Isn’t that just paraphrasing Hume?” Tristan drawls as I decide against closing the door all the way, lest it creak, or click, or do anything to draw their attention to it.

  “Not exactly,” Julian responds, “if you consider what Hume meant by—”

  Great, this could take a while. I internally sigh, sink back onto a pile of cheap toilet paper and boxes of coffee straws. If I get hungry there are little packets of Splenda to snack on. Yum.

  Click.

  What was that? I think. Then I hear a harsh sliding noise, metal on metal. Did they lock the door?

  “What—” Tristan says, but then he goes silent and there is a quick thud, followed by a scraping noise, like the sound of furniture sliding across the floor.

  “Shut up,” Julian hisses, his voice suddenly dark, husky, controlling. Then another strange noise, something sliding against clothe maybe?

  What the hell?

  I stand up and carefully peek through the tiny crack in the door. Without opening it further all I can see is half a body—Tristan’s legs. His body looks like it’s bent forward over a couch, and Julian is behind him, his groin is pressed against Tristan’s ass. I twist myself around just a little, accidentally opening the door just the tiniest bit. I cringe, but no sound is made.

  Now I can see more. Julian is holding a black belt, and it is strung through Tristan’s mouth, forcing his jaw open, gagging him. It looks painful. What the fucking hell?

  Julian’s other hand travels from the dip in Tristan’s lower back around his waist, under his thigh, not stopping until his fingers possessively clutch a handful of crotch. His legs are between Tristan’s, spreading them apart, forcing him lower onto the couch. Julian bends over even further. I can’t see either of their faces now, but it seems like he is whispering something to Tristan.

  What the hell is going on? I ask myself again, my heart pounding with adrenaline, my mind spiraling, trying to understand what I am seeing. Tristan isn’t exactly struggling, but he has a belt in his mouth…And…and Julian is our TA…Is he using his authority to make Tristan have sex with him? This is, this is like a form of rape. Tristan is a complete jackass, but he doesn’t deserve to be raped. I’ve got to do something! What can I do? I can’t physically stop Julian? I can’t—

  I can record it, I realize, then Tristan will have proof and Julian can be prosecuted.

  I pull out my phone and carefully position the camera so that it gets everything that can be seen through the door without opening it any further.

  Through the phone’s screen I watch Julian bite down on the back of Tristan’s neck with the same elegant and terrible precision that a lion uses to kill a gazelle. Tristan, his tongue suppressed by the belt, makes a noise that sounds like a moan of pain. Julian’s free hand fumbles around between Tristan’s legs, and his fingers slip into Tristan’s now loosened waistband.

  With a few practiced tugs, Julian has Tristan’s pants over his hips and ass and onto the floor. Tristan’s legs, lean, long, and practically the color of moonlight, stand out in stark contrast to the black boxer briefs that are already being invaded by Julian, who doesn’t show the slightest sign of hesitation. They slide down, revealing a very erect penis, which, free from its binding, swings up only to be caught by the couch cushions he’s pressed against.

  Julian touches the base of it with just the tips of his fingers and brushes them all the way up to the tip then back down. His hand disappears again between Tristan’s legs. Tristan’s eyes are now closed, his brow scrunched, his jaw lax, and the moans he makes, while still muffled, no longer sound to me like moans of pain or struggle.

  My eyes slide from the phone screen upward, so I am watching them directly now. Julian slid
es his chest down Tristan’s back until he is kneeling and his nose is brushing the crevice between Tristan’s ass cheeks. Julian tilts his chin and slips deeper. I can’t tell what he’s licking, but he’s definitely licking something.

  My heart starts pounding in an entirely different way now. I guess I was wrong, I realize as Tristan’s moans turn into groans, and my eyes accidentally flick back to his hard cock. If Julian were forcing him to do this I don’t think he’d be enjoying it.

  Julian lets go of the belt, and it falls away from Tristan’s face as his hands move to Tristan’s hips. After one last hungry twist of his head—like he’s drinking life itself out of Tristan’s skin—Julian pulls away, spins Tristan around and pushes him onto the couch. Tristan falls with grace, his face flushed and his legs wide open. Julian’s head is instantly between them, the tip of his tongue trailing all over Tristan’s balls.

  Tristan’s eyes are closed, his head reclining more and more. His hands lace through Julian’s hair with increasing desperation as Julian’s light touches turn into full, broad-tongued licks. On one of these upward licks, Tristan bucks his hips and Julian’s mouth opens to catch the head of his cock.

  My breaths become slow and sharp. Somewhere in the back of my mind the notion that I should stop watching—this is a private moment—strikes me, but it is easily ignored and quickly forgotten. I lower the phone, but I can’t drag my eyes way from Julian and Tristan.

  Tristan’s eyes are closed; his mouth hangs open, frozen in ecstasy. Julian’s eyes, though, are open, looking up at Tristan with triumph and satisfaction. Watching Julian slide Tristan’s cock in and out of his mouth, watching the way he moves his whole head up and down, practically burying his face in Tristan’s blond curls…I feel tingles start at my knees and crawl their way up my legs. My eyes trail to Julian’s hands, wrapped around Tristan’s thighs, pulling them in a slow circular motion. My own thighs quiver just a bit, as if I can feel the ghost of his fingers in the exact same spots.

  Eck. What is wrong with me? Asks some part of me that most of me is not listening to. Tristan is a stuck-up, self-important, utterly vile bully, and Julian is my TA, who, generally speaking, I like, but…but…they are not attractive!

  Yes they are, chimes in every part of my body from the eyes down.

  Tristan’s legs are spasming now, his fingers are clenched tight, desperately pushing Julian’s head down. A little trickle of warmth slides down my labia. I can’t help but rub my thighs together.

  Tristan’s toes curl. The bulge in Julian’s pants has grown so large that he reaches down, unzips his fly and—

  RING, RING, RING!

  FUCK! I shove my hand into my pocket and frantically squeeze the sides of my phone trying to silence the ringtone. I succeed, but it’s too late—the moans have stopped, replaced by alert silence.

  Shit shit shit! I look around the dark closet—there’s nothing for me to hide behind. I am so screwed.

  I hear quick, direct footsteps. In only a few seconds they stop right in front of the door. Light floods in, interrupted only by the angry face and disheveled hair of Tristan Masters.

  “You,” he sneers, as fury replaces shock, “what are you doing here?”

  “I—I fell asleep,” I stutter, utterly caught off guard. “What are—why are—why are you here?”

  “I’m pretty sure you’ve already deduced why,” he quips back. “You fell asleep in a supply closet?”

  “I, well, I…I didn’t fall asleep in the closet, I…” My eyes automatically wander as I try to think of something that won’t get me into even more trouble. Unfortunately, my wandering eyes, quite accidentally, get snagged on the hem of Tristan’s shirt, which is tucked behind his impressive penis—still very erect, despite my interruption. “Uhh…”

  Before I can come up with anything that resembles actual words Tristan’s eyes land on the phone in my hand, and my eyes follow. Shit—the video app still open, even though the call stopped the recording, what I’d been doing is obvious.

  His expression goes from annoyed to livid as he violently snatches the phone away.

  “Give that back!” I demand, automatically reaching for it. Unsurprisingly, he does not oblige, and my attempts to grab it back are pointless. Tristan has got at least six inches on me, and he merely steps away when I lunge, holding the phone out of reach with one hand, and swiping the screen with his other. A few finger taps later and it’s obvious by the combination of fury and horror on his face that he’s scrolling through the video.

  I reluctantly leave the closet, and out of the corner of my eye I catch Julian trying to button his fly despite the bulge putting up resistance. However, when our eyes meet, the panic in his subsides, quickly replaced by amusement, even mischief. I detect the hint of a smirk at the corner of his left lip. “Mia,” he greets.

  “Hi,” I squeak. “I was, I just, I was going to come to class but I just—I just—Anyway, sorry to accidentally have been hiding in the closet. I’ll just leave and let you guys, umm uhh, continue.”

  I turn toward the door, but Tristan practically leaps in front of me. “You’re not going anywhere,” he growls, holding my phone out accusatorially. “You took a video of us? How long have you known about us? What were you planning to do with this blackmail?”

  “Blackmail?” I gasp, taken aback. “I’m not trying to blackmail you. Why would I?”

  “Then why were you recording us from a supply closet?” Julian asks, bemused.

  “I—well…I thought that—at first I thought—I mean, he’s”—I motion to Tristan—“a student and you’re our teacher and so—I thought that you—that it—that you guys—I thought it wasn’t consensual!” I finally get out. Why am I feeling so flustered? “But obviously I was wrong, so…so it doesn’t matter, and I’ll just go and let you guys get back to—to”—I bite my lip and cringe, feeling utterly ridiculous—“to your activities.”

  “I wish we could just go back to our activities,” Tristan snarls viciously, “but unfortunately we’ve got to do something about you.”

  “I won’t tell anyone!” I stubbornly bite back, rounding on him. “Besides there’s nothing to tell. I thought I was about to see you get raped, and I was trying to give you evidence against your attacker.”

  “Fine, maybe you didn’t set out to blackmail us,” Tristan says doubtfully, “but now you’ve got some if you ever do want it, and I can’t have that.”

  “Just delete the video,” I say, my heart pounding fast. Julian continues to linger in the periphery, for some reason his pants now seem more unbuttoned rather than less.

  “Wish I could, Winters,” Tristan drawls, “but it’s already in the Cloud. It can be retrieved. Maybe you’ve even emailed it to someone else—”

  “I told you,” I exasperatedly insist, “I wasn’t blackmailing you! I was trying to protect you—”

  “Bullshit,” he growls. “You have blackmail on me now and I need to make sure you never use it!”

  “I won’t! I won’t show it to anyone,” I earnestly insist, desperate to just get out of this situation and have the entirely unwelcome throbbing between my legs stop. “I wouldn’t have any reason to; honestly this doesn’t exactly reflect well on me either. I really thought I was about to witness you being raped! I was trying to help you!”

  “Do I really seem like I could be a rapist?” Julian asked, his tone light, but his expression unreadable.

  “No, not at all!” I turn to look at him. “I just…I was asleep…then at first it just seemed…like…I mean you put a belt in his mouth...” My eyes automatically shift down, again, entirely without my conscious intention, landing on Tristan’s still shamelessly erect penis. I blink very hard and jerk my whole head back up, hoping that—somehow—my slip was not as obvious as I fear.

  “Anyway, you’re not, and it wasn’t,” I continue rambling, “so I don’t have any reason to tell or show anyone anything. I don’t care what you guys do behind closed doors. So, I’ll just go.”

 
Again I try to make for the door. This time it is Julian who moves to stand in my path. “Unfortunately, Tristan is right, we need to make sure you’re not going to show that video to anyone. Regardless of our activities being consensual, I am still Tristan’s teacher—and yours—and that means your little movie could get both of us into quite a bit of trouble. So how are we going to deal with this, Mia?”

  Again Julian and Tristan look over my head, at each other. I try to think of something to say, but I don’t think fast enough.

  “We need blackmail on her, something to force her to stay silent,” Tristan immediately answers, glaring at me.

  “You don’t have anything to blackmail me with!” I instantly object, not liking that idea at all. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “You know, you’re really sweaty,” Julian comments, but his eyes aren’t looking anywhere that sweat could be showing. His lips twist upward in an ever-growing smirk, wet, red, and beautiful.

  “I—well—I—I mean it’s very hot in here!” I retort, praying I don’t blush. Unfortunately, by no stretch of the imagination, is this statement true. There are even icicles hanging from the eaves above the windows.

  I glance from them to the exit, which is, of course, bolted. Tristan is still holding my phone, but I don’t care; I’ll report it stolen and get a new one, or find a way to make him give it back to me later, once I’m no longer stuck in a room with him and Julian. I head toward the door with great determination—mostly determination to get to the door without looking at the bulge in Julian’s pants or the miraculously still-erect penis poking from under Tristan’s shirt.

  But Tristan actually bounds across the room and physically blocks the door with his body. “You’re not going anywhere, Winters. We’re going to need some blackmail on you to guarantee that you won’t use what you’ve got on us.”