Chapter Eleven
The next time I get Cris’s contract, I’m in Provo. When I review it, I’m more entertained than annoyed that the damn conversational clause is still there. If he wants to keep trading decadent lunches and personal information for the one-word answers I’m inclined to give, fine by me.
Instead of flying directly home when I wrap things up, I change my flights to make a stop in San Francisco, feeling the need for a tune-up from my pit crew.
Rey picks me up in the Maserati he’s driving these days. I’m not sure he appreciates what a fine car it is. What he does enjoy is everyone else’s attention, and we attract quite a bit of it. As we settle into the high-backed banquette in a prime corner of the nouveau French place he’s brought me to, he gives me the eye.
I glare at him until our champagne cocktails arrive. “What’s your damage, Walter?”
“Nothing, bluebird.”
He’s perusing the menu as if he hasn’t already ordered our food, as if our first course won’t arrive at any minute. Rey doesn’t leave these kinds of thing to chance. Or to me. He knows better. I draw the tip of my finger around the rim of the flute and narrow my gaze until he looks up with a faint smile.
“I was expecting an angry phone call yesterday, that’s all.”
Right.
“I decided it wasn’t worth getting worked up about. What the hell do I care if he wants to have a little chitchat before we fuck?”
“Chitchat?” Rey’d better knock off that smugly amused look before I knock it off for him.
I scowl as I take a deep sip. “What—you missed the India Burke shitshow?”
“No, there’s plenty where that came from.”
“Then what?”
Rey picks up the slim, silver dinner fork from the place setting in front of him and twirls it in his lithe fingers, back and forth like a baton. After a minute of this hypnotic party trick, his eyes meet mine.
“You should know he had a question about your stipulations for the contract.”
That’s not surprising. They usually do. I have some very specific requirements. The only thing that’s strange is that it’s taken this long for him to ask. “What about?”
The corners of Rey’s mouth tug down ever-so-slightly. This is going to be bad. “He wanted to know how firm your line was on sharps.”
My response is automatic. “I don’t do sharps.”
“I know, little one,” he placates, “that’s what I told him.”
“If that’s going to be a problem…” Then we’re going to have a problem.
Rey’s gaze skates over my alarm-widened eyes, my fingers tightened around the stem of my cocktail, my chest rising and falling too rapidly. I don’t do sharps. It’s non-negotiable. That’s why it’s under hard limits.
“It’s not.” Rey’s easy response lets my shoulders drop a couple inches. He must’ve given Cris the third degree when he asked, maybe threatened him. Rey’s not a pushover. If anything, he’s harder to please than I am. That’s why I trusted him to negotiate my first contract with Hunter and every contract I’ve had since. If Cris’s answers satisfied him, they’d appease me, too.
“Then why are you telling me this?” As long as Rey has full knowledge, ignorance is truly my bliss.
“I didn’t want you to be blindsided if he asked you about it during one of your little tête-à-têtes, that’s all.”
A waiter comes by and places bowls in front of us.
“Vichyssoise?” Of course it is. It’s one of my favorites.
“Eat up, kitten.”
I dip my spoon into the bowl, the thick potato base coating the spoon, and curse the damn talking. If this were anyone else, I wouldn’t know. Rey would’ve either told the guy it was a no-go and to stick it somewhere else or decided it wasn’t going to be an issue and sent me on my merry way. Now I need trigger warnings for my lost weekends? For fuck’s sake.
* * *
I’m halfway through my plate of chicken marsala when Cris asks. Frankly, it’s a relief. I’ve been anticipating this moment since Rey mentioned it over dinner last week. I’d been trying to decide what to do about it since then, and I still haven’t made up my mind.
Cris has just finished telling me if he could go anywhere in the world, it would be County Donegal.
“Ireland?”
“Where’d you think I was going to say?”
“Maybe the Gold Coast or Jeffrey’s Bay.”
His face contorts in confusion before it breaks into a grin. “Been doing your homework, have you?”
My mouth drops open before I can clamp it shut. No, I have not been doing research on surfing. Because that’s what I need to do with my time. More research. It was honest curiosity. I mean, there must be something about it if Cris is so into it, right? And I’ll admit that there’s something appealing about the artistry of it. Not to mention I’d liked picturing Cris shirtless and wet, crouched on a board, riding a curling wave. I’d thought to keep my little endeavor to myself, but now he knows. As if he needed a bigger head.
“Wait,” he says before I can splutter an answer. “That’s not my question. I take it back.”
Slick save, but I get the feeling that was more for my benefit than for his. At least I don’t have to give verbal confirmation of my mortifying extracurricular activities.
“But you’re on the right track. Bundoran Beach, a few hours outside of Dublin. I’ve surfed all over the Pacific, but never in the Atlantic. It’s a different ballgame. I guess it wouldn’t hurt to get some culture while I was there, either. Never been to Europe.”
I was right about the surf destination. Smugness curls in my belly. I know you, Cris Ardmore. The weight of satisfaction is abruptly seesawed by the way he lays a broad hand on the table, blunt fingers resting on the wood surface.
“My turn.”
“Yes.”
Please ask me about my preferred vacation destinations. Or, perhaps, don’t. I traveled extensively through law school and up until my last year of grad school, but I haven’t left the country for years. I even let my passport expire. What do I need it for? I spend any vacation time I get on this side of the divide, and I don’t particularly relish telling him about my other assignations. If Cris has spent his life searching for the perfect wave, I’ve spent mine looking for the ideal fuck.
He takes a breath, deeper than normal, that screams, Should I or shouldn’t I? His index finger taps the table a couple times before he’s resolved.
“What’s the deal with you and sharps?”
“I don’t do sharps.” It’s my kneejerk response, and I can’t stop it. Not even to replace it with a veto. I hear the word—sharps—and it barrels out of my mouth. Knives, needles, razors—not even that Happy Meal toy of kinksters, the Wartenberg wheel. And especially not scissors. No sharps. Ever. What do I need to do, silkscreen it on a T-shirt? I’d tattoo it on my ass, but you know… No. Fucking. Sharps.
“That’s been made crystal clear. If your contract didn’t spell it out in black-and-white, which it does, Mr. Walter read me the riot act the last time we talked. I know it’s off-limits. It’ll stay that way, I promise.”
“So why are you asking?”
“Call it curiosity.”
“Curiosity killed the cat.” And if the scars dotting his body are any indication, I’d bet Cris doesn’t have many lives to spare.
“It also got a wet dream of a woman delivered to my doorstep, so curiosity and I are on good terms at the moment. I’m still not sure you’re real.”
Flattery. I try to smother that increasingly familiar bloom of pleasure and weigh my options. If I veto, he’ll drop it, back off and ask me something innocuous. It’s what he does when he knows he’s pressed too hard. An apology I’ll accept. Cris isn’t stupid. He’s probably put two and two together, and showing him how that adds up to six isn’t going to make a difference.
“You really want to know?”
“I do.”
“It’s not a pretty story.”
“They usually aren’t.”
I could actually tell him some very pretty stories—stories that would cause his eyes to go big as saucers and make him harder than he thought humanly possible. But this one…
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
There’s a soft shake of his head, and I expect him to give me shit for asking another question when it’s my turn to answer but he doesn’t. “No, I’m an only child.”
I’d thought so. There are a couple of framed pictures around the main house of people who must be Cris’s parents, and a few of the three of them. Still, you never know who or what’s been cropped out of photographs.
“I have a sister. An older sister.”
I’m sure he’s perplexed as to why I’m telling him this, but he doesn’t let it show. Only sits there, leaning back in his chair.
“She’s never been very fond of me.”
His gaze is implacable, waiting patiently for me to continue, and though I’m not thrilled, I dig in.
“When we were kids, she used to tell me all kinds of things siblings tell each other: I was adopted, she was our parents’ favorite, I was an accident, they tried to give me away but no one wanted me… You know, the usual.”
His brows knit and his mouth tightens as if he might argue, but how would he know?
“She also used to tell me I was a witch. Because of my eyes. Of course, I always told her I was not, in fact, a witch, but as big sisters do, she wouldn’t let it go. Whenever she wanted to make me upset, she’d tease me about it. When I was six, and she was…old enough to know better, she decided to conduct her own personal witch trial and told me if I didn’t pass, our parents would send me away to live with the other witches.”
I feel ridiculous telling him this, but he asked for it. I didn’t use my get-out-of-jail free card, didn’t tell him to pass go and collect two hundred dollars, so this is how it’s going to be. At least he doesn’t appear to think this is funny.
“She’d done some research.” A ghost of a smile lights his face. Yes, the Burkes are a whole freaking family of people obsessed with information. You’d think we would’ve ended up librarians. Or CIA. Maybe my sister has. I wouldn’t know. “My sister had always been a straight-A student. She found some methods to determine if I was a witch, along with devising some of her own. Most of it was unpleasant but not such a big deal, and since I was the world’s most stubborn kindergartner, I passed.”
Yes, I had. Much to Ivy’s dismay. She hadn’t been expecting that. She’d probably thought telling me what she was going to do would scare me enough to “confess.” I suspect that’s what most children would do when faced with being pricked repeatedly with a needle, being held under water, and being buried under a pile of books.
“You noticed the scar on my back.” It’s not a question. I know he has. A chill passes through me as I remember how he traced it the first time we were together. An accidental brush or a palm laid flat against the mark doesn’t bother me, but purposeful contact with the ruined skin presses my freak-out buttons.
“I did.”
Of course he did. Most Dominants I’ve met have an eye for detail. If they’re any good, at any rate, and Cris is very good. Not to mention a two-inch-long, jagged, cross-shaped scar on my lower left back isn’t exactly subtle. It’s not the brilliant red it used to be, but it stands out on my otherwise unblemished skin.
“She showed me a pair of kitchen scissors and told me if I really wasn’t a witch, when she cut me, Jesus would protect me and it wouldn’t hurt.”
I’m laughing like I always do when I tell this story, but it’s not funny. This is the part where my audience usually goes pale because they know what’s coming, and Cris is no exception. The tanned skin of his face is left bloodless, and his fingers curl into a fist next to his half-full plate—which I can pretty much guarantee is going to stay that way.
“She held me down and cut me. Of course, I screamed because it hurt. And even though I told her to stop, that I’d go live with the witches to make it stop, she didn’t. When she was satisfied, she let me go. She told me as long as I didn’t tell our parents and did everything she said, she wouldn’t tell them I was a witch and I could stay.
“Obviously, she was terrified of getting in trouble, but I didn’t know that. I really, really did not want to go live with the witches, so even when it started to hurt pretty badly, I didn’t tell anyone. It was only when I came home from school with a fever a few days later that anyone noticed something was wrong. By then, I was septic. I was in the hospital for a week. If my sister didn’t care for me before, she downright loathed me afterward.
“My parents were mortified. They’ve always been concerned with appearances. They didn’t want anyone to know. They lied to my school and told them I had appendicitis. My sister got in trouble, but they didn’t take either of us to see a counselor and they refused to talk to us about it. And that, Mr. Ardmore, is why I don’t do sharps.”
I smile and raise my glass to him before taking several swallows. Play it cool, Burke. Act like the mask of horror on his face isn’t the mirror image of how you’re feeling inside. Why, oh, why is there no wine at lunch? Or better, gin? The burn of a strong drink sliding down my throat would be welcome. But Cris has never served me booze of any sort. Come to think of it, I’ve never even seen any alcohol here.
Lacking a throatful of liquid courage, I dredge up a memory I haven’t needed, didn’t want to think about, for a long time. But, suddenly, that voice saying those words is what I most need in the world.
Being as ignorant as Cris about my psychopath of a sister, Hunter had asked me early on if I was a witch and I’d flipped my ever-loving shit. I safe-worded on him and made a scene—not the good kind. The next time I saw him I’d given him the same explanation I just gave Cris.
Hunter had pinned me against the wall with a hand at my throat, nudged my chin up with his thumb, and pushed a thigh between my legs. He’d leaned down, his cheek a hair’s breadth from mine, and when I felt his breath hot in my ear, I nearly died.
“You know when I asked you if you were a witch I was flirting with you.”
“Yes, sir,” I squeaked, although I hadn’t until that moment.
“And anyone who asks you now that you’re a lovely grown woman is doing the same.”
I hesitated for a split-second, and he nudged my chin higher.
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve beguiled me, Kit. That’s not a simple thing to do. I would imagine you’ve charmed more than your fair share of people before you got to me as well. So the next time someone asks you if you’re a witch, you’re not to be afraid, understand?
“Your sister was a brutal, nasty little wretch, and your parents were spineless dilettantes who had no business raising children. What they did to you was atrocious, but it doesn’t matter anymore. The next time someone asks you if you’re a witch, you’ll remember it’s because you’ve enchanted them, and they can’t imagine someone with your beauty and allure isn’t supernatural. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
I’d spent the past twelve years building a brick wall in defense of that soft spot, but it had just been bricks until that moment. If anyone had pushed hard enough, they would’ve toppled, but Hunter, with his certainty and his insistence, had provided the mortar, solidifying the ramparts.
At the time I’d thought, From now until the day I die, I won’t be afraid anymore. Instead of feeling six years old, hurt, sick, and terrified, I’ll hear Hunter saying in his rich, silky voice that I’ve beguiled him. No, I won’t be afraid anymore.
And for the most part, that’s been true. It takes more than a big bad wolf to rattle my brick house. But I need him now, laid bare as I’ve been by Cris’s inquisition.
“Kit, I—” He shaken by the impact of the blast. He was probably expecting a toy cap, and what he got was a landmine. But he’s recovering from the emotional concussion, and he’s gathered himself enough to offer apologies I don’t want to hear.
“Told you it wasn’t pretty.”
“I know, but I—”
“Leave it. It was a long time ago. I’m over it.” The furrow of his brow and his clenched fist tell me he doesn’t buy it, not entirely, but I don’t want to talk about it anymore. “I don’t do sharps. End of story.” I cut off his burgeoning protest with a question of my own. “What does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?”
Turns out a girl has to drive over an hour round trip to the nearest liquor store. Cris doesn’t drink or keep alcohol in the house. The extent of his stash is a half-empty bottle of marsala. I might be craving a cocktail, but I’m not desperate. But it begs another question.
“Are you an alcoholic?”
It’s out of my mouth before I can shut myself up. I’m not subtle, but that was a bit much, even for me.
He shakes his head, shifting the curls that fall over his forehead. “No. And I don’t want to be.”
Intriguing, and it makes me like him all the more. I don’t think I’d have the same fortitude if I were in his position. Liquor was my father’s numbing agent of choice for when he had to deal with the psychic howitzers that were my mother and sister. I chose something a little different to silence the voices, and Cris’s last sentence has me wondering if he hasn’t done the same thing.
“But I’ve got something better than a glass of pinot for taking the edge off, if that’s what you’re after.”
“What’s that?”
An easy smile spreads over his face. “Indulging in a different kind of vice?”
Yes, kink as the cure for what ails you. I’m eager to put that particular remedy into full effect, instead of rehashing more of my less-than-enchanted childhood. He’s tucked my suffering in his back pocket, no doubt to be examined and worried over later. Let him, as long as I don’t have to be there for it.
I raise an eyebrow. “Think that’ll do the trick?”
“Only one way to find out.”
As he clears our places, I dig the contracts out of my bag and start signing.