Five days. Five goddamned days since I decided to take a walk to the edge and send that cocktail napkin back with my number written on it. I also haven’t even spotted Malakai in the building once since that Friday afternoon. Granted, there are probably two hundred other residents in the downtown high rise where we live, but I assumed, since we have assigned parking, that I would at least run into him in the parking garage. Well, you know what they say assuming does. Because it is Wednesday, I am on a shift at the Crisis Center, doing what I love most. And though it is something I am passionate about, and not just a job, my mind is elsewhere. I’m imagining Malakai’s strong hand gripping that pen as he relays that message that would reveal his identity to me. I remember the way his hand felt against mine, the current of attraction that raced through my blood as our skin brushed and made contact. That chemistry is foreign to me, so naturally it rules my thought processes. When I realize my constant distraction is not leading to a productive shift, I decide it best to ask for the rest of the day off. I could make the hours up tomorrow if they need me to, but my focus is paramount when it comes to helping one of our callers regain their hold on life. I keep seeing Malakai’s face, hearing that deep, smooth-as-whiskey voice of his telling me to be safe. The level of concern in his words perforates my psyche. I don’t think even my family cares so much. But I need to snap out of it. It is obvious I misread whatever was in his eyes, as he has not even attempted to contact me. That tells me all I need to know.
I step into my program supervisor’s office to request early leave. “Mrs. Reynolds, can I have a moment with you?” I ask, knowing her days are more unpredictable than mine.
“Yes, Carrie, come on in. I have a minute. Is everything okay?”
“You know I love being here, and helping these kids is my passion …” my voice trails off.
“Carrie, you’re not quitting on me, are you?” Mrs. Reynolds values all her employees and proves it every day.
“No, of course not. It’s just that …well I’m a bit distracted today, and I know that it is most important that I keep my head in the game at all times. I was going to ask if I could head home a few hours early and make up the rest of the time tomorrow. That’s if you need me.” I knew I didn’t necessarily need the money, but I hate leaving my comrades high and dry. In a city as large as Houston, we tend to stay fairly busy, due to its metropolitan population of several million, including the suburbs. Our jurisdiction covers not only the city limits, but also the area still within the county but outside those edges of the city.
“Carrie, this isn’t like you. Do you want to talk about it? You know I have an open-door policy and will always listen to anything my staff needs to vent about or wants advice on.” And this is how she continues to show that she is more than just our boss.
“No, thanks, Mrs. Reynolds. If it’s all the same to you, I would just like to take the rest of my shift off.” Mrs. Reynolds is good at reading people so I’m hoping she can’t see right through me.
“Okay, but any time you need to talk, you know I am more than willing to lend an ear.” And that’s my boss, one of the most compassionate people I know.
“Thank you so much. And if you need me to come in tomorrow, please let me know.” I figure I would go home, get in bed and get Malakai out of my system for good.
With that, I turn on my heel and exit Mrs. Reynolds’ office, shutting her door behind me. I am grateful being the subordinate to someone who is flexible with our personal needs. But then again, our mental and emotional health is important to ensuring the same of those we help every day. Sometimes, I even look to her like a mother, someone who occasionally dotes on me as a parent would.
As I stride out the building to my car, my cell rings. I dig through my purse, hating that I can never find anything in it. I recover it, but miss the call. I don’t recognize the number, because it’s not a Houston area code. Probably one of those robocalls, but I take my chances and dial it back.
“Carrie, thank you for returning my call. I don’t like getting your voicemail.” Malakai. At first, I feel this nervous excitement that he’s finally calling me, but then it morphs into irritation. He has some nerve.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Where does he get off disapproving of my not answering the phone? “And furthermore, what was all that at the club? When I told you I was going to Park 59, you could have said you owned it. You failed to mention it was your establishment. How did you even get my last name to put me on your little list? I don’t recall giving it to you.” By now I’m fuming. This is the man that has my mind racing? Maybe I need to second guess my judgment.
“Carrie, princess—”
I cut him off immediately, feeling a physical reaction come over my body at that nickname, the one Troy used when we were in scene. “Do not ever call me that. I am not your princess. I am nobody’s princess. Get that through your head right now.” I take deep breaths, trying to stave off an anxiety attack. I haven’t heard that term of endearment in years, unaware of what would happen if I ever did. I get to my car, leaning against the driver’s side door, trying to recover from a flashback of what happened three years ago. Remembering my one attempt to submit, and how I was attacked by my dominant in a fit of unwarranted jealousy, I grip my chest where I feel my scar. That man cut me down my torso and could have easily killed me. My balance is shaken, and this time it isn’t from the timbre of Malakai’s voice.
“Okay, Carrie, I sincerely apologize.” He’s silent for a beat. “Have dinner with me. I’ve made reservations for us at seven p.m. at Fiorelli’s.” How presumptuous of him. His tone is certainly apologetic, but also still has that demanding way that tells me he will not take no for an answer.
As my racing heartbeat starts to calm, I realize that he is asking me out, or more like telling me I will be accompanying him out. Either way, my heart rate picks up again, but for a whole other reason. I let out a deep sigh. If I give in this easily, am I weak? From the moment I’d met Malakai, I’d been enraptured. Oh, what the hell? What harm will it do to have dinner with this man? This very beautiful, tantalizing man. With a resigned sigh I say, “What time should I meet you downstairs?”
“I’ll have a car come pick us up at six-thirty, but I will be at your door at six-twenty-five. Be dressed and ready to go.” This man really needs to control everything, and if I’m honest, it doesn’t bother me. It calls to a deeper longing inside of me that I think I’m finally ready to explore again.
“And Carrie?”
“Yes, Malakai?”
“Wear those red shoes from Friday night, a dress, and make sure you aren’t wearing any panties.”
“Excuse me—”
“Those are my terms, Carrie. You’ll learn I’m a very particular man.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever you say, Mr. Jackson.” My voice drips with sarcasm at the salutation.
He chuckles, “See you at six-twenty-five, sharp.” I hear the call end, and I proceed to unlock and dip down into my car. It’s a good thing Mrs. Reynolds let me leave the crisis center early, because now I’m torn between actually drinking or taking an hour long cold shower. My nerve endings are on fire. The dilemma is this: follow this man down the rabbit hole into a world I left years ago, or refuse what I feel is right for who I am, to my core. People who practice the BDSM lifestyle understand it’s a piece of who they are, and without it, there would be a void, an incomplete puzzle. Sometimes I feel like I’m one of those people. With this, I resign myself to the fact that Malakai may just be my renewed chance at becoming whole again.