-32-
Grant
As soon as I handed over Tara’s journal, the guy slammed her door in my face.
I stood in the hallway, shouting my apologies through the door, until he yelled back that if I didn’t leave, he’d call the police.
My head was a jumble of terrible Afrikaans words, all ones I’d use to describe myself. I’d fucked this up on so many levels, I didn’t know how I was going to undo any of it. How I was going to make it right. Was that even possible?
I texted Ruby from the steps outside Tara’s apartment building and told her I needed to see her immediately.
Ruby: I’m at Kyle’s.
Ruby: I mean my place. Come over, you can help us unpack boxes.
My jaw set. I’d forgotten she moved in with him yesterday, and in my foul mood, I didn’t want to deal with McAsshole. But I didn’t have a choice. I was desperate for her advice, and they were a package deal now. Maybe he’d be able to help.
I’d never been to his apartment before, and when I arrived, my irritation escalated. Not only was Ruby on the far side of town from me now, but she lived in a penthouse. The end unit was all windows and spectacular views of the Chicago River.
“You look like shit,” she said. We stood in the kitchen area beside the marble-topped island. Kyle was nearby, pounding nails into the wall to hang her series of pictures. He looked weird being handy. He was one of those guys who was always put together and polished. Like he’d just finished doing an Instagram photoshoot. He seemed more likely to know how to use a hair dryer than a hammer.
I scrubbed my hand over my face. “Rube, I fucked up.”
She looked alarmed. “What’d you do?”
I set my hands on the countertop and hung my head. It was embarrassing to admit it, especially with him hanging around, but at the same time, I deserved it. I was a glutton for punishment right now.
“Tara keeps a journal. It’s a long story, and I can’t really get into the ‘why,’ other than I’m a curious motherfucker and a bloody idiot, but . . . I took it.” I sighed. “And I read it.”
Kyle’s hammer stopped mid-swing so he could raise an eyebrow. “You read her diary?”
“Are you insane? What’s wrong with you?” Ruby demanded.
“I just told you, I’m a fucking idiot.”
She put her hands on her hips and scowled. “Does she know?”
“Oh, she’s quite aware.”
Ruby rounded the island and put her hands on my arm, shoving me toward the door. “What the fuck are you doing here? Go apologize.”
I was nearly twice the size of her and locked my knees, which made me immovable. “You don’t think I’ve done that? I just came from her place. She won’t talk to me.” I stared at my best friend, hoping she’d have the answers. “What the fuck do I do?”
Her eyes were compassionate and her voice gentle. “Do you love her?”
I hadn’t said it out loud, but it was easy. It came without hesitation. “Yes.”
“Then you don’t give up.” She exchanged a look with Kyle. “You keep trying until you find a way to get through to her.”
All I wanted was to talk to her. Five minutes to tell her the truth about everything. But I wasn’t a fool. I’d hurt her, and she was smart. She wasn’t going to let her guard down or let me get near her.
She can’t see you if she’s blindfolded, and can’t avoid you if she’s restrained to a table.
Well, that wasn’t going to work either. Julius wouldn’t let me near her or his club.
My gaze settled on Kyle.
Last year, Ruby had slipped up and mentioned the blindfold club. It was the first I’d heard of it. She’d been the one to plant the seed in my head and set me in search of the place, even when she said she knew nothing about it and to leave it alone. It had only been a misunderstanding with Kyle, she claimed. So, I knew he was somehow involved, but she had locked up any discussion. It was all attorney-client privilege, according to her.
He was an attorney as well. Would he be able to talk? It was worth a shot.
“Rube,” I said, “do you mind giving Kyle and me a minute alone?”
He went wooden. It might have been the first time I’d used his real name to address him. At least, that was the way they both were acting.
She hesitated, unsure. “Uh, are you going to be nice?”
I eked out half of a smile. “Yes.”
She gave me the evil eye. “Okay . . . I guess.” She went to him. “What about you? Are you going to be good?”
His tone was loaded with innuendo. “Me? I’m always good.”
Her smile was coy as she went into the bedroom and shut the door.
As soon as she was gone, his smile faded, and he looked at me, wary of whatever I was going to say.
“There’s a club here in town,” I said. “A brothel where the girls are blindfolded.”
Kyle’s posture went stiff again. “If you say so.”
“I went there,” I announced. “I wanted to break the story on that place.”
The hammer he was holding was thrown down on the counter with a loud clatter. He looked nervous, but also . . . adversarial? “Don’t say anything else.”
“I lied to get in,” I continued, “and negotiated a deal.”
He glared at me, his eyes full of fire. “Did you not hear what I just said? Why are you telling me this?”
“Because you’re going to get me in there again.”
His expression was pure surprise. “What? No. Why?”
I wasn’t going to give away Tara’s secret any more than I already had. “I can’t tell you that.”
“No,” Kyle snapped a second time. “You’re out of your goddamn mind if you think I’m going to help you. I couldn’t even if I wanted to—which I don’t.”
“Why? You have a client who works there?”
His eyes were dark. “I have people in my life, who I care very much about, who are linked to that place.”
If I wasn’t so desperate, my curious mind would have wanted me to investigate that statement. Instead, my words were weighted. “I do too.”
He considered my admission, and a jolt of surprise went through him. His voice was low. “Fuck. Tara’s last name is Vannett, isn’t it?”
My pulse leaped forward. “You know her?”
“No.” He gave a hard, evaluating look. “But if I help you, you have to promise you drop the story.”
“Easy. Already done.”
He dug his phone out of his pocket and began typing.
“What are you doing?”
“Checking with a friend,” he said. “He used to run the club, so he might have some advice.”
Now my pulse kicked into overdrive. I’d read her journal, which meant I had a good idea who Kyle was texting. My mind raced as I tried to come up with a plan.
“If that’s Joseph,” I said, “I need you to introduce us.”
Joseph Monsato met me for dinner at one of the restaurants he owned.
He was ten years older than I was, a precise man with dark hair and sharp eyes. As he stared at me, they cut deep and peeled back my layers. After introductions, it didn’t take me long to confess everything. What parts I left out, the secrets that weren’t mine to tell, he filled in. He already knew Regan was FBI.
I told the truth, no matter how terrible it made me look, and threw myself at his mercy.
He’d started the blindfold club and been Tara’s first Dominant. He knew her better than most people and was the best judge on whether I had a chance at winning her back.
“I need some time to think about this,” he said, “and what’s best for her.” He picked up his wine glass but paused before taking a sip. “What will you do if I say I don’t think she should trust you again, and it’s better if you walk away?”
My heart was a heavy stone in my chest, leaving hardly any room for hope. “If you convince me that’s what she needs, I would do it.”
He looked pleased. “That was the right answer. I may have an idea.”
After dinner, I went home, and like any intelligent, high-functioning adult, I handled my situation irresponsibly.
I got drunk.
The first thing I did was draft a resignation letter. I hated my job, and life was too short to spend it doing something I despised. Morgan could become someone else’s problem. I had an education, experience, and a great work ethic. I’d saved enough money that I could survive for a while as I searched for new employment. When I sobered up in the morning, I’d see how I felt about it. If I still thought it was the right decision, I’d turn the letter in.
And the second thing I did, since I was already sitting at my laptop and had my word processing program open, was start a new document and begin typing. It would be my journal, only my handwriting was shit. So, whatever I was feeling or thinking, I put it down on the page.
It was supposed to be about me, but all I could think about was Tara. She lived how I wanted to live. She knew who she was and what she wanted, and fuck, it was inspiring. I typed, and typed, until my eyes were blurry, and the red squiggly mark underlined every third word. I closed the computer, crawled into my bed, and sent her a text message.
Grant: I’m sorry. I wish I could take it back.
Tara: Don’t text me again. I’m blocking this number.
Joseph had told me to give her time, but I should have known better. When it came to her, I had no self-control.