Unmasked Secrets

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

Unmasked Secrets Copyright © 2017 Brenna Zinn

Edited by Linda Carroll Bradd

Cover design and photography by Croco Designs

This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

Smashwords Edition

The publisher and author(s) acknowledge the trademark status and trademark ownership of all trademarks, service marks and word marks mentioned in this book.

Chapter One

If he was truly serious about being a stripper, he’d have to invest in a better mask. Preferably made of something soft, like leather, rather than the cheap plastic one he’d used for the Iron Rods strip club audition. The phantom marks of rough edges cutting into his face from the disguise still lingered on his cheeks and around his eyes though he hadn’t worn the damned thing since yesterday’s practice.

Mack Garner sat back on his friend’s couch and traced the line of abraded skin above his cheekbone. Although his flesh burned slightly at his touch, his well-earned placement on the entertainment team for Austin, Texas’ one and only strip club for women was worth the sting and the roughened red marks on his face.

Yes, indeed. They certainly were.

And, if the appreciative looks or hoots of approval he’d received from the crowd of women while unbuttoning his tuxedo shirt and revealing his abs at the audition were accurate indicators, he’d have the paying clientele on Iron Rods’ opening day eating from his hands—not to mention stuffing money in his thong. Especially when they saw his opening number. His dancing, the mask and the props chosen specially for his act would slay the ladies. Simply slay them.

Here.

Something cold and wet made contact with the side of Mack’s neck, scattering his thoughts of women and stripping.

Neal Gordon rounded the couch and handed off a Shiner Bock. Do I even want to know what you were thinking? he asked before pushing thick glasses up his freckled nose. The grin on your face made me want to lock up my neighbors’ daughters.

Just the Iron Rods audition, Mack said in his lazy drawl. He raised the beer in thanks, then drank. The cold brew flowed down his parched throat and hit the spot below. A perfect drink to celebrate his new summer job and relax his overtaxed muscles. After practicing his strip routines for over a week, his arms and legs were sore. He’d have to do a lot more stretching to avoid feeling as though someone had beat him with a hammer while he worked in the club. Plus, a lot less drinking if he wanted to look hot in his thong.

He frowned at the brown bottle in his grip. Beer and sculpted biceps didn’t mix. Not at all. With only a few months to earn cash as a stripper, he’d have to work out even more and watch what he ate. The kids were counting on him.

Sighing, Mack took one last, long swig. He had to learn the choreography for his team’s dance number in a few hours, anyway. Better to arrive sober and ready than have the other guys strut circles around him. Especially if Angel, the guest stripper from Miami, was there. For some reason, the guy already had a major chip on his shoulder about Mack. No need to give him any ammunition.

Mack pushed aside several old newspapers and X-box wireless joysticks on the coffee table with the back of his hand before reluctantly setting down his drink.

Adios, drinking buddy. At least, until the end of August.

I can’t believe you’re actually going to take off your clothes and dance around with your butt cheeks hanging out for a bunch of strange women. Neal settled on a nearby chair and adjusted his perpetually wrinkled button-down shirt over his belly. As usual, the many creases made his khaki pants look as if he’d worn them five days in a row. I mean, gosh, that’s a lot of exposure. Even for you.

Even for me? Mack raised an eyebrow. What’s that supposed to mean?

His friend shrugged, the curls of his shoulder-length red hair catching in his unkempt beard. "You’ve always been rebellious. You know, ‘fuck authority’ and all that. But stripping in a club is…it’s just insane is what it is. No. Strike that. You are insane. Aren’t you afraid you’ll lose your teaching job if someone finds out?"

Nope. Mack crossed a leg over his knee then casually stretched his arm across the back edge of the sofa. To begin with, no one will see through my act. The guy on the stage is the masked man from Scotland who doesn’t look a thing like me. I’m a man of the south. The other guy is a Scot. Big difference.

I’ve heard your Scottish accent, Mack. It’s horrible. The worst.

No, it’s not. I sound just like Gerard Butler.

Neal shook his shaggy head. Not even close.

"Yes, I do. And what does a techie like you know about Gerard Butler, anyway? You spend all of your time on your computer watching YouTube and Doctor Who on Apple TV."

For the record, Neal pointed his beer bottle in Mack’s direction, "Doctor Who number twelve happens to be Scottish."

And he speaks with a Scottish accent on the show?

Yes.

Mack threw his hands in the air. Whatever. I’ll have the ladies so mesmerized by my six-pack and dance moves, they won’t even notice.

But what if someone does? What if someone recognizes you?

Santana is ninety miles from Austin. Plus, I’m putting temporary dye in my hair and will be wearing brown contacts and a mask when I strip. My costume is bulletproof. You worry too much. Mack glanced at the half-empty longneck on the cluttered coffee table. One more sip wouldn’t hurt. Not if he worked out a few extra minutes in the morning.

And you’ll be running around naked to make money for your after-school program? Your job, not to mention your dignity, is a lot to risk for a handful of high school students.

I won’t be naked. I’ll be wearing a thong.

Neal rolled his eyes. We’re talking about your teaching career here. You’re thirty-five, not some immature kid. The job market is tight, especially for professionals. I should know. I get calls from people looking for work all the time. The big guy leaned forward, holding his bottle of beer between his knees. Take a moment to reconsider what you’re doing before it’s too late.

Mack had taken an entire day making up his mind to audition for one of the twelve available slots on the Iron Rods stripper team, plus ten minutes to find a mask at Lucy in Disguise costume shop on South Congress Avenue. Way more time than he’d given any other career decision, including his short stint as a movie stuntman. But even that job, and the bones he’d broken because of it, hadn’t been a mistake. The experience had simply helped him re-evaluate his priorities.

His priority was now helping the kids at Santana High stay in school and out of trouble. Since the new principal cut the funding for the Thespian Club, not to mention the budget for next year’s theater productions, Mack had to find money to keep the programs alive. If that meant secretly dancing for women who might also want him to show up at their motel rooms for a night of down-and-dirty sex, so be it. No one could ever say he hadn’t given his all to help his students. Then again, hopefully, no one would ever know what he’d done.

Okay. I’ll reconsider. Mack slowly scratched his chin and made a show of looking as though he was giving serious thought to the situation before nodding. Done. I’m still doing it.

I don’t know why I bother. There’s no sense talking to you. Neal raised his beer to his lips and gulped. After wiping his wet mouth with his forearm, he added, Why can’t your students sell wrapping paper and cookie dough like everyone else? I get kids coming to my door all the time selling fundraising stuff.

You live in Travis Heights. You can afford to buy that crap. Look at this place. Mack waved an open arm around Neal’s living room. Compared to the average home in Santana, this is a palace. A filthy palace, but a palace nonetheless. He picked up his beer. The damn Shiner Bock was too good to let go warm and practically a sin to leave unfinished. Santana’s one of the poorest communities in the state, Mack added after a last pull of the tasty brew. Most of the students have one or both parents working minimum-wage jobs. Those families can barely afford to put food on the table. Buying stuff to raise funds for school activities is beyond their reach.

That’s not your problem. You’re the drama teacher, not a social worker.

Really? Did that just come from your mouth? Mack’s jaw clamped and he sat up. You, of all people, know what growing up in a poor family is like. We both know neither of us would be where we are today had it not been for Mr. Farley. He may have only been a math teacher, but he kept our asses busy and out of jail.

Although that might be true, Farley didn’t put his johnson in a banana hammock and parade around a strip club in order to get us the help we needed, Neal countered. "Have you even considered how to get the money you make from stripping into the school’s books? Do you think you can just hand a bag of cash to your principal and say, ‘Here. I want to donate this to pay for next year’s production of Wicked. Don’t mind the damp bills. It’s only sweat from my balls.’?"

Mack let the question marinate in his head. His friend had a point. One he hadn’t considered. How would he get the money to the school to pay for production royalties, script rentals, costumes, sets and everything else that went into a high school play? Shuffling money into the Thespian Club wouldn’t be a problem. It was only an after-school club. He should be able to pretend the students had earned it through some kind of fundraising event like washing cars. Granted, the money he hoped to pump into the club would be substantial, but he could remind everyone that Texas was a hot, dusty state filled with dirty vehicles, and it had been one hell of a carwash.

After hearing the stories you’ve told about your new boss, I just don’t see how you will do it, Neal added. Didn’t she fire someone because he hadn’t reported a second job after she instituted a new job declaration policy? I’m telling you, buddy, you’re playing with fire, and you will get burned.

Ah, yes. Ms. Armstrong. His beautiful blonde principal with the long legs and an equally long stick up her tight ass. No way he could forget her. That particular woman had appeared in his wet dreams on more than one occasion. Too bad she was colder than Siberia in the winter, not to mention being his boss. Given the chance, he’d warm that ice queen up from the inside out. In a way, he probably already was, considering the aggravation he caused.

Tit for tat, baby. You take away my program’s money, I’ll be the biggest nightmare on your staff.

First of all, I’m not one hundred percent sure why Mr. Bridges was let go. Could have been because he was a fuck-up who happened to have a second job that he hadn’t reported. I mean, come on. The man was stoned more often than his students. Mack uncrossed his legs. This conversation was getting far too serious for his liking, making his Southern drawl more pronounced, even to his own ears. Second, I don’t want to talk about this anymore. Aren’t you supposed to be showing me what needs to be done around here while you’re working in Malaysia?

Fine. I’m done. Just don’t expect me to cry you a river when Armstrong cans you. Neal pulled his considerable girth from the chair and gestured to the kitchen. Let’s start in there.

Wait a second, bro. Mack picked up a Home Slice pizza box from a pile sitting next to the sofa. Something shifted inside. Probably a piece of fossilized pizza crust. Please tell me you’ll have the house cleaned before you leave. Since your divorce, you’ve really let this place go to hell.

A look of sorrow filled his Neal’s eyes. His shoulders fell.

Sorry. I’m a little lost without— Neal paused a moment while his chest expanded then contracted. Without Jen. I’ll get someone in here this week.

Damn.

Way to go, Mack, you thoughtless prick.

He shouldn’t have mentioned Jennifer. Though the ink on the divorce papers with Neal’s ex had been dry for a while now, he was clearly still hurting on the inside. No. I’m the one who’s sorry, buddy. I didn’t mean to bring her up. Mack dropped the box back on the pile, self-disgust kicking him in the pants, as it should. His friend was a sensitive soul who only wanted to please. Always had been. Just like in high school, he would take care of Neal until the big guy found his feet again.

It’s okay. I’m good. One day at a time, right? Neal didn’t wait for a response before trudging off to the kitchen.

Jesus. How would Neal survive living alone for two months in a foreign country like Malaysia? The poor guy didn’t even know the language and had no support system there. He would be a total fish out of water.

For several minutes, they discussed the water main cut-off valves, keys, security codes and trash service, and then stood on the patio and looked to the backyard where live oak trees provided dappled shade. Despite the natural canopy, the Texas heat and humidity brought sweat to Mack’s brow. He took in his friend. Wet spots already formed around the armpits and chest of his untucked Oxford shirt.

May as well show you the shack. Knowing you, it’ll be the first place you snoop through when I leave. Neal nodded to the large shed constructed of natural stone near the fence line.

That’s not true. You’ve asked me not to go back there, so I won’t.

Neal frowned.

Ah, come on. I’m not that bad.

"You don’t take no for an answer. You have zero respect for authority. And you don’t follow rules. Neal raised a pointed finger for each tick off his list. You’re like a kid in a grownup body sometimes. I know you better than you know yourself, man. But, he sighed and glanced at the stonework structure, you don’t know everything about me."

That comment caught Mack’s attention. What? Like you’re a serial killer? A closet hoarder? Will I find some woman chained to the wall in there?

Though he’d only been kidding, Neal flinched.

Not exactly. He took a step toward the tin-roofed building.

Mack grabbed his shoulder. You don’t have to do this. If it’s all that bad, I don’t want to see it.

Come on. I know your little masked secret. You may as well know mine.

The hairs on the back of Mack’s neck stood on end. His senses jumped to high alert. Whatever Neal had in the shed, he was pretty sure he’d be better off not having anything to do with it.

Come on, you big wuss. Neal beckoned, waving his chubby hand. His friend pulled a loaded keychain from his pocket. He took only a second to find the one he wanted, a red novelty key covered with yellow flames. After unlocking the deadbolt, he pushed open the door.

Following Neal inside, Mack slowly stepped into the dark space.

Neal brushed his hand against a wall and clicked a switch, then everything in the room came into dim view.

Mack blinked once, shook his head, and then blinked again. His brain had difficulty comprehending what he saw.

Aside from the stone walls and brown cement floor, the room had metal sconces with flame-like bulbs befitting a medieval castle. The fixtures provided just enough light to keep the space from being pitch black. In one corner of the shed, metal climber hooks dangled from a large wood X attached to the wall. At the opposite corner sat a tall padded bench. In the middle of the two, various-sized floggers and paddles hung in four neat rows.

Mack turned and noted an unremarkable set of black cabinets near the door. You want to fill me in on what I’m seeing here?

This… Neal began as he walked to the bench, is a private dungeon.

Oookay. The word dragged uneasily from his lips as he rubbed the small space between his eyes, not sure he wanted the answers to the questions his mind generated. Some things a man simply didn’t need to know about another man and his sex life. But, the expectant look on Neal’s face when he turned back suggested they’d have a discussion about the shack whether Mack wanted one or not. And you have a dungeon because—

Because Jennifer is a Domme, Neal said simply.

Because Jennifer is a Domme, Mack repeated, as though saying the words out loud would make them easier to accept. It didn’t. Neal’s ex was a successful psychiatrist and a Domme. The secrets in their marriage were deeper than he could ever have dreamed.

She wanted me to be her submissive.

Mack bobbed his head and did his best to school his features. He’d already upset his best and oldest friend once today. He wouldn’t let it happen again, regardless of how absolutely uncomfortable and weird things got. And things felt particularly funky at the moment. I’m not sure where to go with this.

Neal hoisted himself onto the bench and sat.

Mack’s stomach dropped. Apparently, their conversation would last longer than he’d hoped.

One of the main reasons Jennifer and I split was because she wanted me to be a full-time submissive. I only wanted to be a sub in the bedroom. I like being dominated sexually. It helps me not be awkward when it comes to sex, plus it’s a turn on.

Mack let out a quiet moan as his stomach continued to fall. He cared for Neal like a brother, but, Jesus, this was too much information. Well, I can see how that might be a problem, he finally managed to say.

She’s also a sadist. She likes to inflict pain. He pointed to the floggers hanging from the rack and shrugged. I’m not into pain, at least, not a lot of pain. Mainly just domination.

No surprise there. Neal had always been a follower, not a leader. He’d trailed behind Jennifer as though he were a lost puppy. But Mack thought that had more to do with her being a strong, intelligent woman than anything else.

I’ll be honest with you, buddy. Mack ran his fingers through his hair. I’m sorry you and Jen couldn’t make things work in the ol’ dungeon, but I really don’t know much about this stuff.

Which is one of the reasons we need to talk about it.

Huh? You completely lost me.

Didn’t you say that your stripper stage name is going to be The Dom? Neal arched an eyebrow.

"Yes. It’s only a stage persona though. The manager of Iron Rods and the woman designing the costumes concocted the idea. They said BDSM is