Breakfast in Stilettos Read Online Free Page A

“I did a review of their little bistro and suggested that we cover the club, but of course Kenner wouldn’t let me near it.”
    This was news. “They have a restaurant, too?”
    “A very sexy little place, all dark and red. Mmmm. Mmmm. Mmmm. The food is delicious. So are the waiters. Look up the review.”
    I made a note. “Got it. However, food I understand. Where I’m a little content-free is concerning sex clubs. I called Frank when I got the story and he suggested I research BDSM.”
    Jason gave me that cautionary look that I have come to associate with all my family, friends and co-workers when I mention the “F” word, and I held up my hand. “No I’m not going out with Frank. I’m just doing research. BDSM.”
    He shrugged and then moved in closer with that conspiratorial look so well executed by all my gay men friends. He leaned out of the cube to make sure no one was within earshot. “Well, I didn’t get a tour of the club when I was there. And frankly, I’m not much of a resource when it comes to—you know—S and M, but I have seen some interesting scenes. Lots of gay guys are into leather, you know, leathermen .” He made Jazz Hands with the monkey “o” mouth, which was his code word for all hunky men. “But the Slutterati Salon isn’t really a gay place. Mostly straight or bi.”
    He looked at my screen. It still showed the animal role-play page, which had a duplicate image of the pony girl. He shook his head, whispering. “I don’t think you’ll see much of that there.” Then he pointed to the screen. “If you got that link from Frank, he is clearly fantasizing. You run girl.”
    “No, Frank just said I should look into BDSM. But he wasn’t too specific.”
    He thought about it for a moment. “ The Salon is a pretty tame place, from what I understand. You should maybe start with BDSM 101 instead.”
    He patted my arm and then gave a thumb’s up as he scooted back out of my cube. “I better get back to it. Some of us have real work to do.” But he smiled before disappearing into his cube.
    I stared a moment more at Someone’s Little Pony and decided I needed a change of venue. Maybe Sal was home. I needed a woman’s perspective. And no Jazz Hands.
     

 
     
Chapter 4: Home with Sal
     
    The drive home was faster than I expected. Since the freeway was at its usual standstill, I took a meandering route of back streets, through Fremont and past Green Lake. Even on such a cold, rainy day, the usual hard-core group of exercisers were walking or running the three mile paved perimeter. I’m a fair-weather exerciser.
    Even on a nice day, I prefer to walk on the treadmill at the club rather than circle the lake. I can listen to an audio book and not worry about tripping over tiny rat dogs, navigating stroller clusters, or getting side-swiped by newbie rollerbladers. Jogging should never be a contact sport.
    As I drove along, I took the time once again to admire my neighborhood. Green Lake is just across the freeway from the University of Washington. A row of regal old mansions line the lake, with tidy bungalows clustered along all the back streets between the lake and the more upscale Ravenna district. Ravenna’s mansions are perched on either side of a gorgeous little ravine that slices through a pristine, foresty path from Ravenna to the University District, where the old mansions have been transformed into frat and sorority houses.
    I didn’t live in any of these mansions, but rather in a quaint little Craftsman-style bungalow within easy walking distance of all.
    I arrived home at 4:30. Thirty-five minutes to drive exactly 5.56 miles. Google maps said the trip should take ten minutes. It’s taken me two hours during full-on-rush-hour-with-drawbridge, so I counted myself lucky.
    My neighbor, affectionately known to one and all as “Asshole Bob,” was out sticking flyers on all the parked cars he didn’t recognize. The members of the big church across the street invariably