Chapter Eighteen
“I think Brad Lennox has a crush on you.”
“No.”
“Yeah, I do.”
“He has a funny way of showing it.”
We’re in Crispin’s Jeep, bumping over the rough roads near his house. We’ve been talking shop since he picked me up at the airport, trying to relocate normal after the odd way things ended the last two times and figure out where exactly all this leaves us. Or maybe that’s just me.
I’ve been explaining to him some of the mess in LA—as best I can without giving a four-hour lecture series on public housing administration at any rate—and he asks intelligent and sophisticated questions. Crispin is not just a pretty face or, as he’s said before, a smartass who draws stick figures. His understanding of government bureaucracy is impressive, but his knowledge of—and possible caveman-esque jealousy over—the man whose bylines grace every last article about LAHA in the Times is what’s stirring something in my belly.
“I don’t think so. The way to a man’s heart may be through his stomach, but the way to a woman’s heart is definitely through her brain.” His hand leaves the steering wheel to tousle my hair.
“Which would explain why you feed me decadent and delicious things whenever I visit,” I sniff, enjoying his fingers trailing through my loose curls. “Brad might do better to buy me a cookie.”
“He’s using his print platform to flirt with you. It’s very unprofessional.”
“Are you kidding me? He trashes LAHA.”
“But he never trashes you.” He points at me accusingly, his finger coming so close to my face I’m tempted to take it in my mouth.
“I wouldn’t call that a love note.”
“You’d set the guy on fire if he asked you out.”
True. Brad’s an intelligent guy, hardworking, not bad-looking, either, but he’s missing that certain je ne sais quoi. Oh, fuck that, I know quoi. Man doesn’t have a dominant bone in his body.
“Do you date?” Shit. I asked before thinking through how Crispin might take this. The consternation adorably crinkling his face tells me he’s equally perplexed as to the best way to answer. If he says yes, will jealousy strike hot in my stomach? If he says no, will the ramparts go up? Usually I’m better about not saying stupid stuff like this, but my stomach’s been all fluttery the whole way here.
Aside from steering clear of anyone with a whiff of abusiveness, I try not to think about why the men I’m with are available. It hasn’t been difficult until now. Mostly, I assume they’re fresh out of a break-up or not interested in long-term relationships at all, and the deal Rey offers them seems like an intriguing change of pace. Beyond that, I’ve never cared.
But Crispin… I can’t deny the thought has occurred to me. He’s not without his quirks and I suppose it’s possible he’s just never found the key to his lock, but I find that hard to believe. He doesn’t have any super-unusual kinks, and god knows the man is patience made flesh. Not to mention he’s good-looking, smart, and his cooking alone would be worth putting up with some peculiarities for. But asking is redolent of relationship talk, which is not a Pandora’s Box I care to open. Crispin would dive right in and frolic like some kind of deranged porpoise.
I’m about to rescind my catch-22 because I’m now quite certain I don’t want to know, but I’m interrupted by his answer.
“No.”
Instead of indignation—What are you waiting for, Crispin? For me to be a real girl? Good luck!—the impending envy is buried by those two little letters. With a thrill of satisfaction I haven’t felt for a long time, I say, “’Kay.”
Then I promptly steer our talk back to the vagaries of the Code of Federal Regulations on occupancy standards, hoping to slow the rapid beat of my heart.
* * *
When Crispin and I have finished lunch, I reach into my bag for the contracts. Before I hand them over, I take a deep breath. “I wanted to apologize.”
He blinks at me and hesitates. “For what?”
“For not going with you to the hospital.” For refusing you when you needed me.
He brushes it off with a “no big thing,” but I know it was. And I really am sorry. What makes it worse is that I’d do the same thing all over again and we both know it, so I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.
It’s been on my mind since Crispin dropped me off at the airport with barely a goodbye the time before last. Introspection’s not my strong suit, and if I’ve been stroking this thought for weeks, even after having done some penance during the visit in between, it might be a good idea for me to do something about it. And who am I kidding? Atonement through sex is easy for me. I want to give him more than that, even if I can’t hand over exactly what he wants.
Somehow Crispin’s respect for my boundaries about Hunter, though it bothered him, made me more inclined to share. Like a newly sovereign nation accepting an ambassador from their former rulers. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to have snipers stationed on every rooftop primed to shoot if the foray goes sour, but I’ll let him in.
“I can’t… I can’t be with you that way. But I wanted…” Jesus, India, fucking say it. “I wanted to give you something else.”
His expression is pure interest.
“You can ask me a question. Anything you want to know. I won’t say no.”
Not that I’ve vetoed a lot, only a few times when he’d asked too many questions about my family, but that’s more than he’s been allowed and I’m still being Scrooge McSlut. One question after everything he’s given me isn’t much, but the look on his face tells me he couldn’t be happier. My brain knows I’m doing a good thing—I should give Crispin something in recompense for all the ridiculous crap I put him through—but my blood is shrieking through my veins, pumped by a heart that’s begging, Why did you put me on the chopping block again?
The gears are cranking in Crispin’s head, but I know what he’s going to ask if he’s just got the one shot, possibly ever.
“Will you tell me your story, India? Why this is so damn hard for you?”
* * *
“Did you know I was a trust fund baby?”
“Like you literally have a trust fund?”
I smile. He’s usually so attentive, but he missed my use of the past tense. He’ll get it soon enough. “There was an awful lot of money twiddling its interest-bearing thumbs, waiting for me to turn twenty-five. I was in my second-to-last year of grad school, and I was really looking forward to some independence.”
“I’ll bet.” Crispin doesn’t know a lot about my parents. I’ve been careful to keep him in the dark, but the barest scraps are enough to paint an unflattering picture of Preston and Samantha Burke.
“A few days before I was supposed to get access, my mom called. Said she and my dad wanted to take me out to dinner. I didn’t think much of it. I usually saw them around my birthday. But instead of meeting at a restaurant, the car dropped me off in front of an office building. My mother had this obnoxious habit of dragging me to plastic surgeons—”
“What the hell for?”
I tap the side of my nose.
“You had a nose job?”
“No.” I shake my head and laugh. No, I never did. That tiny little bump on the bridge of my nose must haunt her to this day. I hope it keeps her up at night, knowing I’m walking around the world like this, a flawed expression of her genetic code.
“I don’t—”
I lay a finger over my lips, feeling them curve with amusement. He falls silent, arms crossed over his chest. “If you’re going to interrupt every time someone behaves irrationally, this story is going to take all night.”
His jaw clenches, and I want to pet him, protect him from the shitstorm that’s looming. I forget that some people come from functional families. I bet Crispin’s family was happy. He won’t have the vocabulary, the capacity, to understand what happened to me, but I’ll tell him, because he’s asked and I’ve made a promise.
“Anyway, I thought she’d sprung another involuntary rhinoplasty consultation on me. It took me a while to realize I wasn’t in a plastic surgeon’s office but a psychiatrist’s. Dr. Arnold Glazer, shrink to the rich and famous.”
Crispin opens his mouth again, but I silence him with a glare.
“He told me my parents were concerned about me. They’d received some photographs that morning by messenger.”
The color drains from Crispin’s face and from his fingers where they’re digging into his biceps. All I feel is blankness. There’s no rage anymore, no terror, no autonomic reaction at all. Just the impression that I’m reciting this story as if from a script, though only one other person has heard it. Rey got every single painful detail. Crispin will get the Reader’s Digest version.
“Dr. Glazer handed me this file—this innocuous, standard manila folder—and when I opened it, there they were. An even half-dozen.”
God knows Hunter loved his symmetry. If he was going to ruin someone’s life, he was going to at least do it properly, with style. And the photographs? They weren’t exactly Robert Mapplethorpes, but the lighting and composition were impeccable. They could’ve been in some high-end, glossy, coffee table book.
“It was me, kneeling on the floor of Hunter’s playroom, wearing nothing but some of the obscenely expensive lingerie he liked me in. That’s not entirely true. I also had on a blindfold, my collar, and a bit gag. And some cuffs. You know, elbows bound behind my back, wrists tethered at the base of my spine and hooked to ankle cuffs.”
He knows. He’s had me in similar positions. And lots of others that wouldn’t look out of place in the photo collection, with a few caveats. Crispin’s not big on lingerie, he prefers brown leather to black, and his wood-and-light studio is more rustic than Hunter’s luxe playroom with its Persian rugs and mahogany furniture.
“They weren’t all that scandalous. To me. Or to you. It could’ve been much worse.” That’s what I kept trying to tell myself amidst all the rage and the panic while I tried to keep my head on straight. “But they were bad enough. My parents wanted to check me into an institution. A really swank one with an excellent reputation. I had classmates who’d ended up there for rehab, eating disorders, a half-assed suicide attempt… Rich kid problems. I tried to explain, but my mother wouldn’t listen.
“She was worried whoever sent the pictures was going to go to the press. I think the humiliation would’ve killed her. But what she failed to see, what she always failed to see, was that it wasn’t about her. They weren’t meant for public consumption. You couldn’t see my eyes or my scar in any of the photos—nothing that could definitively identify it as me.”
No. Hunter, as ruthless as he’d been, had designed them for a very specific purpose: to force my hand. The guy may have been Machiavelli incarnate, but even the devil has a code of ethics. He wanted me destitute and dependent on him, not the laughingstock of New York.
“I told my parents there wasn’t anything wrong with me, that they weren’t going to check me into an institution because of their own fucked-up worldview. That’s when they threatened my trust fund. They had been holding that money over my head my whole life, and when they threatened me with it, it was usually a good indication I’d won the argument.
“They’re so concerned with appearances they’d never want me out on the street—or worse, middle-class—but somehow, I didn’t think they were bluffing this time.
“My mother said if I refused to enter treatment, the money would be gone. Every cent. So I said fine, I wasn’t going to sell myself. My dad tried to talk me out of it, telling me I’d have nothing. When I wouldn’t back down, he asked if there was anything I wanted. I asked for them to pay the rest of my tuition and give me a year’s worth of my expenses. My mom said no, but my dad said yes. For the first time in my life, he stood up to her.”
Too little, way too fucking late.
“I asked if they wanted anything from me, and my mother demanded I change my name. I told her I wouldn’t, but I’d leave New York, go where ‘the Park Avenue Burkes’ didn’t mean anything. I’d go to the West Coast and never come east of the Mississippi ever again.”
Crispin raises his eyebrows. No doubt it sounds like a crackpot promise. I guess it was, but at the time, it had seemed like a good idea. He also knows how seriously I take my word. I haven’t breached that arbitrary border since I finished grad school. The idea of going back makes my stomach churn.
“And then I left. I slung my bag over my shoulder, walked out of there, and kept walking. And walking. And walking. I walked until my feet bled. I wasn’t anywhere near home, of course, so I sat on a bench, pulled out my phone, and called Rey.”
“And he came. Like he always does. He pulled up and opened the passenger-side door. When I didn’t get up, he got out of the car, picked me up, put me inside, and drove me back to his apartment. Then he gave me a bath and put me to bed. When I woke up in the morning, he was holding me, and that’s when I started to cry.
“I cried for hours, but he never let me go. He canceled appointments for me, but he never said anything about it. He just let me sob until I cried myself out and fell asleep again. When I woke, I told him what’d happened.
“He apologized for ever introducing me to Hunter, even though it wasn’t his fault. How was he supposed to know what would happen? I heard Hunter has a twenty-four-seven, TPE slave now. I’m sure they’re very happy together.”
Who knows? Maybe if I’d given in and agreed on one of the many occasions he’d brought it up, we’d still be very happy together. We’d essentially had a Master/slave dynamic when I was on his time, if not quite a Total Power Exchange arrangement. For the most part, I enjoyed it. After all, it wasn’t Hunter wanting a full-time slave that had been the problem. It was the thermonuclear tantrum he threw when he didn’t get it.
But honestly, I don’t think happily ever after was in the cards for us. I’ve known people who were involved in these all-encompassing, all-consuming, Master/slave relationships, and though I didn’t—still don’t—doubt their happiness, I did have reservations about my own capacity to be satisfied with that kind of arrangement. At least all the time. I certainly wouldn’t be able to do it now.
“Anyway, I stayed with Rey for two weeks before I went back to my apartment. It was the oddest thing. I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to do, aside from my schoolwork. For a while, I would find myself sitting on my couch for hours, doing nothing. I asked for more hours at my internship, started working out at the campus gym. And I read books. Lots of books. Things I’d wanted to read but never had time for.”
“But you were still in school.”
Oh, Crispin, you’re sweet.
“It wasn’t because of school. I read lots of things that weren’t for my classes. They were…” I shift in my chair. “Hunter always made sure I did my homework and read whatever was popular so I could talk about it with guests.”
Crispin’s face has gone grey. I knew he wouldn’t like that, Hunter treating me like a pet trained for the entertainment of his friends, but at the time, I didn’t mind. It was another way to please him, and I desperately wanted to meet his exacting standards, make him happy, gain his elusive approval.
I don’t think Crispin would blink an eye if this involved someone else. He must’ve seen this a thousand times, knowing the people he does. It’s possible he’s even done this with one or all of his other subs. But the idea of me—she of the excessive number of degrees who constantly devours and recommends books—being told what I could or could not fill my head with… I get why that would make him a little queasy. I don’t think I’d be able to relinquish control of that anymore either, so it’s a good thing it doesn’t appeal.
But if one of the sweeter aspects of my relationship with Hunter makes him nauseated, I’m definitely not going to mention the caning I got for my first and only B+. Hunter had been furious and lectured me for what seemed like hours—though I knew the sick feeling in my stomach from having disappointed him was stretching out the time like some vile flavor of saltwater taffy. It was probably more like fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. After that little incident, I got straight As.
I’d stop talking or give Crispin a break, but I need the momentum to keep spilling this godforsaken tale of woe. “He wanted me to keep up with current events, too. Out of spite, I stopped reading the paper, even though he didn’t cancel my subscription. After about a month, I was craving some news, but I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the Times or The Economist. So I bought a TV and started watching The Daily Show. Ever watch The Daily Show? Yeah. I keep meaning to sit down and write Jon Stewart a thank you note—and I will someday. The man made me laugh when I thought I’d forgotten how.
“I sleepwalked through my last year of school. I mean, I worked hard, I was top of my class, but I felt like the walking dead. I didn’t talk to anyone I didn’t absolutely have to. Except Rey, of course. Rey was my lifeline. I somehow managed to land my job, and I planned to move the day after commencement.
“Rey was the only one who came to my graduation. I don’t think he could’ve been prouder. I thought I might’ve seen my dad at the back, but when I blinked, the guy was gone and I couldn’t be sure. Rey blocked out my calendar for the week after graduation, and I was still so out of it I didn’t bother to ask why. He’d been acting like my Dom for the year and a half since the fallout—without any of the fun stuff. Would you do that for someone?”
“I’d do it for you.”
My lips part, and I blink at him a few times, bewildered, before I can breathe again. I frown and press my lips together, wrinkling my eyebrows before I open my mouth to say… I don’t know what. What comes out is a puff of air, a tiny, forced sigh.
“You can’t say shit like that to me, Crispin. Just please don’t.” I settle myself to look him in the eye. “You’re interrupting. You’re not supposed to interrupt. Don’t you want to hear my story? You said you wanted to hear my story.”
“I do.”
“Let’s get on with this train wreck, shall we?”
He nods, a short, sharp go-ahead.
“It was going to take a week for my stuff to make it to San Diego, anyway, so I did what I was told. I know it’s hard to believe, but I didn’t know where he was taking me until we were on the plane and the pilot mentioned St. Louis. I turned to Rey and asked why the fuck he was taking me to St. Louis.
“Rey asked me if I trusted him, and I told him I did. Farther than I could throw him. He laughed and told me not to worry my pretty little head. I could’ve pressed and he would’ve told me, but he’d steered me through the fog for a year and a half without a scratch. What was one more week?
“When we got off the plane, there was a car that took us out to these beautiful, leafy green suburbs. Right on the border of where the farms started, we pulled up to this house. No, not a house—an estate. Rey showed me in and I didn’t think I was ever going to find out why we were there, but then this man came down the stairs. He was older, maybe in his early fifties. Good-looking, but not extraordinarily so. And I could tell, I could just tell…
“Rey told me his name was Elliott and that he wanted to play. I almost died. Rey had asked me a million times if I wanted to play with someone, and I’d refused. I wouldn’t even consider it. It wasn’t until a few weeks before graduation that I could bring myself to say ‘not here’ instead of ‘not ever,’ but I hadn’t expected Rey to take that so literally. I probably should’ve been livid when he brought me to Elliott, and I was. A little. But not more than I wanted it.”
I’d wanted it like a woman who’d been wandering the desert craves water. Rey had steered me toward an oasis and told me to drink. He promised to stay with me, too, hold my hand so I wouldn’t drown. If he’d have kept asking me, I would’ve kept hedging, finding other excuses, and who knows what I would’ve done when it all got to be too much? Maybe become an alcoholic like my dad. Or worse.
“So I did the only thing I knew with certainty. I got down on my knees. And bless his heart, Elliott walked around me, laid his hand on the top of my head, and stroked my hair. I knew I shouldn’t, but when he stood beside me, I leaned into him, closed my eyes, and sighed. He called me ‘precious.’
“I knew I could’ve walked out and Rey wouldn’t have done anything but follow me, but I didn’t want to.” I’d wanted to drink from that spring and never stop. “Elliott kept me for a week. It was…heavenly. Now I’d find him too sweet, too gentle, almost cloying, but then, he was exactly what I needed. You know Elliott?”
“Schreiner?”
“The same.”
“I do, not well. Is he still in St. Louis?”
“He is. I send him a Christmas card every year.”
“I’m going to send him a case of champagne.”
That makes me giggle, although I don’t think he’s kidding.
“That’s how I started doing this. I saw Elliott a couple of times after that, to help me get on my feet, but then Rey found me someone else. And someone else after that. Whenever I’d have time, there was someone waiting for me at the end of a plane ride. They never knew my real name, and I never stayed as long as I did that first time. That’s what I’ve done for the past two and a half years. Never east of the Mississippi.”
“You didn’t find anyone you wanted to be with for more than a long weekend?”
I shrug. “I saw a few of them more than once, but…no.”
“And they let you go? No one ever tried to get you to stay?”
“Maybe they did. They didn’t have any way to reach me. Only Rey. He keeps them away with a whip and a chair.”
“More whip than chair, I suspect,” Crispin observes drily.
“Say what you will about Rey, but the man knows how to wield a cat. He’s none too shabby with a bullwhip, either.”
“You’ll never hear me say a word against Rey Walter.”
I know what he’s doing, softening me up with oblique compliments, but it’s not going to work. “It’s easier that way.”
“So this is…?”
“Highly irregular. And not easy.”
“You sure know how to make a guy feel special, pet.”
I’m taken aback before I realize he’s teasing, not mocking. I purse my lips and arch a sly brow.
“I sure do.” I slink off the couch and onto my hands and knees and start over to him in a languid crawl. “I make you, in particular, feel very special. I’d like to make you feel that way now. If it would please you, sir.”
He’s about to protest. He has more questions for me, questions I’ve said I’ll answer, but Crispin’s a marathoner, not a sprinter. He’ll take his time if he thinks it’s worth it. It’s one of the things I like about him.
I nuzzle his knee and blink up at him, waiting for his response.
“You’d like to please me?”
“Always, sir.”
“What would please me is to have you ready and waiting in the studio in ten minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Off with you, then.”
I don’t bother to respond, but rise to my feet and walk with grace toward my bedroom to prepare. On my way down the hall, I let out a sigh and realize how tense I’ve been. I hate talking about myself. At least I won’t be saying much of anything for the next few hours.