FalltoPieces

  Fall to Pieces

  Paisley Smith

  Rockabilly crooner Polly Purefoy can’t believe her luck when she’s approached by Mallory Hayes, a Nashville record producer, with an invitation to join the Honkytonk Angels. There’s just one problem. Ms. Hayes moonlights as a dominatrix and she’s formulated a theory that submissive band members will make her job easier. Intrigued, Polly agrees to meet sultry Domme Vivien Blackheart.

  The pretty songbird obeys Vivien’s illicit commands with a vulnerability that chips away at the seasoned Domme’s icy exterior. But Vivien has been hurt before. And she’s resolved never to let another sub into her heart.

  From their first encounter Polly enjoys every decadent punishment Vivien metes out, but the long, lust-filled sessions in Vivien’s dungeon leave Polly wanting more than just spankings from her seductive Mistress. She wants love. And she’ll do anything—anything—to get it.

  Inside Scoop: From the moment Vivien orders Polly to take off her panties the two engage in wicked-hot BDSM play.

  A Romantica® female/female erotic romance from Ellora’s Cave

  Fall to Pieces

  Paisley Smith

  Chapter One

  Raucous country twangs and fiery fiddle music spilled onto the streets from the honkytonks lining Lower Broadway. Mallory Hayes threaded through the throng of Nashville tourists, wishing she blended in a little better. Her Louboutin stilettos and pinstriped pencil skirt struck a glaring contrast against the sea of sneakers, cargo shorts and t-shirts. In Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge she’d immediately be pegged as industry by anyone with a good eye.

  She wrinkled her nose at the sharp stench of horse piss wafting up from the hot pavement, where the carriages waited to cart tourists around the downtown area for top dollar. Overlaying the earthy scent of horse hung the boggy pall of the Cumberland mingled with the thin bite of domestic beer, fried foods and diesel exhaust from the Metro Transit buses.

  Amidst this throng of sketchy panhandlers and wide-eyed travelers anxious to soak up the Southern music scene flocked the desperate hopefuls from all over the globe who yearned to be discovered—pickers, fiddlers and songbirds, soundalikes and those who thought they possessed that special something different that would get them noticed.

  Mallory dodged a duo of enthusiastic harmonica players who’d drawn a small crowd of onlookers eager to toss a dollar into their tip bucket.

  These neophytes only saw the bright lights and red carpets. The fame and glory. They didn’t see the long, hard hours in the studio, the endless weeks on the road, late nights, the desperation to repeat that first success—or the rigorous lifestyle changes required by record houses and the fan base of conservative listeners.

  Unlike any other genre in the music industry, country still clung to the past, a squeaky-clean mix of sweethearts and cowboys with no room for anything or anyone who didn’t fit the mold.

  When she’d come over from the UK, Mallory had hoped to be producing good old grassroots blues and rockabilly. After all, most Southern music stemmed from the Southerners’ Irish, English and Scottish heritage. It was music she knew, music she could feel.

  Culture shock had set in as soon as she’d stepped foot off the plane at Nashville International.

  Like all people, Southerners had their share of skeletons, which were accepted as long as said skeletons stayed hidden in their closets.

  In the UK she hadn’t had to hide the fact she was a lesbian—nor that she was a part of the London BDSM scene. But now she’d arrived in the South she was glad she’d chosen a pseudonym under which to wield her vast array of floggers. Under the name Her Majesty she’d entertained submissive women from all walks of life in her dungeon. From commoners and world travelers to royals, she’d bent them all to her will and had loved it.

  She’d even drawn from her clientele to fill her office at the record studio. Well-trained submissives made stellar employees. They didn’t tend to have the gargantuan egos that led to office infighting and power-struggling.

  They were so well-dispositioned at work, in fact, she’d formulated a theory. Would submissives work well as a band? Would they be easier to mold and be more willing to keep their lives private to serve the rigid whims of country music listeners?

  She cringed every time she thought of what happened to the Dixie Chicks. She’d attended their concert in London and had witnessed lead singer Natalie Maines’ statement about conservative President Bush and the Iraq War that effectively blacklisted the band for years. As soon as Maines uttered the words, Mallory had known the Dixie Chicks’ rocket ride to the top had ended.

  The same for velvety-voiced crooner k.d. lang. While fans admitted she possessed the voice of an angel, many country listeners refused to buy her albums because of her lesbianism.

  Country music desperately needed those unique voices and after following the trends Mallory realized the rockabilly scene was about to go gangbusters. She was dying to produce an all-female band in the genre.

  One problem.

  Rockabilly musicians and singers were mostly twentysomethings who lived on the far fringe of normal. If she wanted the band to garner the audience needed for a widespread following, they had to—at least in some ways—conform.

  And what better conformists than a group of submissives trained to please?

  Mallory smiled to herself. The plan was almost diabolical in its simplicity.

  By the time she arrived at the lavender-hued landmark, the daylight tourists, consisting of families and older travelers, had begun to thin out in Tootsie’s, making room for a younger crowd ready to party.

  It didn’t matter what night of the week it was. All downtown Nashville nights were equally boisterous and as the sun set on Lower Broadway liquor poured faster and the music blared louder.

  “Welcome to Tootsie’s Orchid Lounge!” a barker at the door boomed over the mob. “Tonight hear the Westside Blusers featuring pretty Polly Purefoy!” He lowered his voice as a couple approached the door. “IDs please?”

  A cute blonde and her husband produced their licenses. He perused them with a well-trained and quick eye before stamping their hands and allowing them through the door. He glanced at Mallory and gestured with his head for her to go inside. “Good to see you, Mal. You’ve got a seat at the front table with Sherri Clark tonight.”

  “Thanks.” Mallory gave him a wink as she tucked her clutch tightly under her arm and slipped inside. Sherri was a local girl who’d attained a certain amount of national fame playing for tips on Tootsie’s front stage. Now they paid her a handsome stipend to bring her entourage and sit at the table nearest the door so patrons would see someone famous when they visited.

  Mallory blinked as her eyes adjusted to the low light. The place hadn’t changed a bit in the nearly half-century since it had opened its doors.

  People standing shoulder-to-shoulder wrapped the bar. Those who couldn’t find seats choked the narrow aisle in between the tables, making it all but impassable. Stagehands and band members hurriedly worked to weave through the crowd to set up their instruments on the cramped platform in the front corner.

  Though Mallory had been in Tootsie’s a hundred times she still marveled at the musical history of the place. Even before it’d become a tourist destination autographs had been scrawled on every bare inch of the walls not covered by cheaply framed signed photos of various performers who’d frequented the landmark.

  “Mal!” Sherri waved from her perch in the circular booth in front.

  “Pardon me,” Mallory said as she navigated her way between two tall guys in Titans jerseys. Both men eyed her in blatant appraisal but she didn’t acknowledge their looks as she slid into the booth.

  She leaned close to Sherri. “Remind me how much they’re paying yo
u to sit amongst this mob again.”

  Sherri chuckled and took a long draw off a domestic longneck. “Not near enough,” she joked, her Tennessee drawl even more present since her rise to stardom. “What’re you havin’? It’s on the house, you know.”

  “A club soda with lime,” Mallory replied.

  “You ain’t drinkin’?”

  Mallory shook her head. “I’m on the job.”

  Sherri’s head moved from side to side, setting her red corkscrew curls in motion. She hailed the bartender. “Another round for me and a club soda with lime for my friend.”

  Mallory laid her clutch on the table. “So tell me about this little songbird.”

  “Polly?” Sherri inhaled and drained the contents of her bottle. “She’s hot.”

  The corner of Mallory’s lips twitched as she tried not to smile. Sherri’s friends knew Sherri was a lesbian, but her fan base had been led to believe she was dating a well-known country singer who still lurked in the closet himself.

  “How does she sound?” Mallory asked.

  A harried waitress squeezed between some people near the stage and set their drinks on the table before scurrying away.

  “Sounds as good as she looks.” Sherri reached for her cold beer.

  Mallory squeezed her lime and dropped it in the club soda. “Is she…seeing anyone?” Mallory had checked out Polly Purefoy’s social media pages. All of them. With her platinum hair and glossy, red lips, she seemed as chaste as her name suggested. But there was something in the girl’s chocolate eyes…

  That something was even more evident in her song lyrics.

  Kiss me. Taste me. Pull my hair.

  She was a lesbian. Of that Mallory was certain. More importantly she was a submissive. Mallory’s experience told her that and she’d never seen the girl in person.

  “I asked around after you contacted me and no, she’s single,” Sherri said. “Why? You lookin’ for a hook-up?”

  “Oh no not me,” Mallory said quickly. “I just don’t want there to be any…messiness.”

  Two band members climbed onto the stage. The one who picked up a guitar wore his black hair greased back to reveal two thick Elvis-style sideburns. A pair of turquoise-blue socks flashed like a neon sign between his shiny black-and-white wingtips and widely cuffed black jeans.

  Another musician slid his lanky frame behind a snare drum. His slicked blond pompadour came to a roll on the top that fell carelessly over his forehead as he began twirling his drumsticks through his fingers.

  This pair certainly had the look and Mallory didn’t doubt they possessed the sound to match. Not just anybody got the coveted opportunity to grace Tootsie’s front stage.

  The crowd clapped wildly as another fellow ascended the stage. With the collar of his black shirt turned up and wearing Roy Orbison black glasses, he was quite the cool cat as he stooped to retrieve an upright bass.

  “Two, three, four…” he counted off and Tootsie’s blazed to life with pure, raw rockabilly.

  Mallory craned to look for Polly and finally caught sight of her beside the stage. A man standing nearby gave her a hand and when she climbed up the throng cheered. With wide eyes so deep and dark Mallory couldn’t determine the color from her booth Polly looked too innocent for the reputation that preceded her. Dressed in a sweet blue-and-white gingham frock that was just long enough to tease a person into thinking they might get a glimpse of frilly panties, and with her platinum hair done up in the front in two oversized victory rolls, she certainly captured the audience’s attention.

  Colorful tattoos decorated both her arms. Roses. Pinup girls. Hearts.

  Her ruby lips brushed the vintage microphone as she caressed it with short, fire- engine-red manicured nails.

  Her look alone screamed star quality.

  Mallory offered up a silent prayer to the gods that this bird had a voice to match. She almost forgot to breathe as Polly began to speak.

  “Welcome to Tootsie’s, y’all.” Her voice sounded like thick, sweet molasses over the jerky rhythm of her band’s riotous music.

  A chorus of cheers rang out. Regulars hollered the titles of their favorites. But Polly was fixed on her set. She cut her eyes at the bass player—the obvious leader of the band—and all at once the music changed to a mix of bluegrass and old-style rock.

  Mallory leaned forward in her seat.

  For all Polly’s mix of vintage innocence, a bad girl emerged when she opened her mouth to sing. She belted out the first notes of the song and at once the music transformed her. Throaty and edgy, she churned out the lyrics like a punk songbird.

  She leaned and twisted and kicked, playing to the crowd of enthralled admirers. Polly’s voice was near perfection but her tone bordered on effortless. She focused more on delivering a spirited performance than worrying about keeping every hair in place or singing every note on-key.

  All that could be ironed out in a studio. Besides, the rockabilly audience loved their slightly flawed heroines.

  By the fourth song Mallory leaned back against the vinyl-padded booth. A smile played on her lips. She was exactly what she’d been looking for.

  She could make the girl a star.

  Mallory withdrew a card from her purse and wrote I’d love to speak to you, Polly on the back. She downed her club soda and put a five on the table. “As always, Sherri, great to see you.”

  After Mallory offered her cheek, where Sherri pecked a quick kiss, she slid out of the booth and dropped the card and a twenty into the tip bucket.

  When Polly’s red lips blossomed into a smile of thanks, Mallory knew she’d chosen wisely.

  * * * * *

  Polly gnawed one side of her lip as she navigated through the sterile halls of the Universal Record House Music Company. She’d cut tracks in several seat-of-the-pants establishments and recording facilities. But never at one of the major players.

  Here a professionally dressed receptionist greeted her at the front door. She’d waited in a fashionable, modern lobby and watched as well-dressed suits, working deals over their phones, rushed by and recognizable talent—hiding behind big, dark shades—strolled through on their way to meetings and negotiations.

  Songs URH had produced piped through the halls, seemingly coming from nowhere as Polly stepped off the elevator and followed the signs to Mallory Hayes’ office.

  Ms. Hayes had insisted they meet in person—alone—and Polly couldn’t figure out why. Sure, the band had developed somewhat of a following but—URH interested in her? Really?

  She wanted to pinch herself to make sure she wasn’t dreaming. This had to be a mistake. What if she’d inadvertently infringed on someone’s copyright and Ms. Hayes had asked her here to ride her ass? Or worse, present her with a lawsuit?

  That was just her fear talking—those old tapes that told her she wasn’t good enough, pretty enough, talented enough.

  She forced them back and then she arrived at the door to Ms. Hayes’ corner office. She stopped, took a deep breath and wiped her damp palms on the hips of her red-and-white polka-dot capris. She exhaled and mentally tried to quiet the butterflies in her stomach as she turned the knob and opened the door.

  She recognized Ms. Hayes at once as the woman who’d been sitting in Tootsie’s with Sherri Clark. Though her dark-red lips pulled into a smile Polly didn’t sense any of that friendliness extending to the woman’s eyes. This was all business and that was something Polly knew very little about.

  She’d sailed through her music courses at MTSU, even getting great grades in English and history, excelling in her major field of women’s studies. But she’d taken as few math and business classes as she could and still didn’t know supply from demand or why the alphabet had ever been injected into good old-fashioned arithmetic.

  If music didn’t work out she planned to pursue a graduate degree in psychology.

  Ms. Hayes stood, looking like a model from an expensive luggage ad rather than a high-powered record producer. Her white suit had been tailor
ed to perfection. The gauzy ruffles of her black blouse flirted with a tasteful hint of cleavage and when she stepped from behind the desk Polly’s breathing hitched at the sight of the most wicked pair of black stilettos she’d ever seen.

  “You like them?” Ms. Hayes asked as if she’d read Polly’s mind.

  “Like ’em?” Polly grinned. “Love ’em! I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pair of Manolos in person.” She stopped before asking the woman how she was able to walk in them. Polly loved her pumps and wedges but she’d never braved the highest of the high heels. She tended to buy her shoes at vintage shops. Cheap.

  “Mallory Hayes,” she introduced herself and extended her hand. Her sharp, blue eyes seemed to drink Polly in all at once.

  “Polly Purefoy. Nice to meet you, Ms. Hayes.” Polly took Mallory’s hand, surprised at the firm, retaining grip. Ms. Hayes inhaled sharply and a tendril of desire snaked through Polly. She’d always been attracted to older, more experienced—dominant—women. And this one made Polly wish she’d touched up her chipped, red nail polish this morning.

  “Please call me Mallory.” From head to toe Mallory Hayes exuded controlled perfection. There wasn’t a hair out of place, nor a wrinkle in her suit. Her makeup was flawless. Not too much, not too little.

  Polly wondered if she should have toned down her thick false lashes and cherry-colored, high-gloss lipstick this morning. But rockabilly was who she was. Inside and out. If Mallory had connected with her for that reason then Polly meant to give her the full effect.

  Mallory stepped around the desk, her movements graceful and quiet. An image of the lovely producer, wearing nothing but those high heels, flashed in Polly’s thoughts. Heat settled in the back of her neck and between her thighs.

  Finally Mallory released her hand. “Have a seat.” Her breathy English accent wafted over Polly along with the subtle fragrance of the producer’s expensive perfume.

  This woman is made out of class. What in the hell does she want with me?