Chapter Twenty-Two
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It’s a Tuesday night, and I’m back from a visit to DC. Hart was in Philadelphia this weekend, and I needed a distraction. I thought about going down to San Diego to see India, but she ended up going out to Kona. Not that I wasn’t welcome there as well, but she and Cris need some alone time. That’s why she went out there, after all. To see him. Not to see me.
DC was fun. I made my usual stops, got to see Spider do some exceptional ropework. He’s into minimalist stuff right now, and though it scares the living crap out of me, I suppose it gives his subjects quite the thrill and I know he’s safe about it. Outside of the Black House, I visited Slade and Pressly at their townhouse.
Their five-year-old is a handful—not that I’d expect anything less from the progeny of those two—but their two-year-old is strangely docile and sweet, as though he’s trying to make up for his hellcat of a sister. And Slade and Press—they’re doing well. They have a standing date to go to the club every Tuesday night, which had made me laugh.
Press had shrugged. “For old times’ sake. Besides, my Zumba class switched to Wednesdays.”
I’m setting down my messenger bag inside the door and surveying my domain—perfect, as expected, because Matthew is a professional—when there’s a knock at the door. My mouth curves slowly, reluctantly, but inexorably into a smile. I’d told Hart I’d be back around nine, and here he is. Nine sharp. Do you think he spent time in the military?
Turning to face the door, I try to shove down the palpable…what is that, relief…coursing through me? I’m happy he’s here. I enjoy a lot of people’s company, but I don’t tend to miss them when they’re away. India’s a notable exception to that rule, but even with her, it’s not this release. Not until I know she’s okay, anyway.
With Hart, though, he doesn’t expect me to be on all the time. Would prefer, perhaps, I not be. Right now, I want to put my arms around him, breathe in the scent of his skin and run my fingers over his scalp. Kiss him, rest my forehead against his. Tell him I missed him while I was away. What even is that? I can’t be projecting that expectation onto him.
I try to shake it from my head before I open the door, but I don’t bother to erase the smile I’ve got for him. He should know I’m pleased to see him. When I open the door, though, it’s not to a cocky, hornball Hart. It’s to a completely freaking out Allie. Eyes wide, chest heaving, hands clenching and releasing as if he doesn’t know what else to do with them.
That’s all it takes, the panic and the need on his face, for me to snap back on duty. Because that’s what I do.
“What’s the matter?”
“Kendra, she’s—”
“Do you want to come in and talk or should we be driving somewhere?”
“She’s at Bay Memorial?” It sounds like a question, and I hate that he’s so uncertain.
“Then let’s go and you can tell me on the way.” I grab my keys from the bowl I set them in a moment ago and a coat too, because hospitals tend to have completely whacked HVAC systems. It’s perfectly mild outside, but it could be an icebox inside and who knows how long we’ll be there.
My car isn’t far, and Allie slides inside the passenger seat easily, buckling up and staring straight ahead. I pull out of the tight space and set out. It’ll be about twenty minutes until we get there.
“What happened?”
“Fire at their house. Kids are okay because Kendra got them out, but then she went back in to grab some of their things and—”
I stop breathing. Jesus. If something happens to Kendra, I don’t know what Allie would do. And poor Marcus and Imani—they must be so worried about their mom. They already lost one parent…
“—neighbors stopped her before the house got unstable and part of the roof collapsed, but she still got hurt. I don’t know exactly how bad. They’re checking her out now.”
Serious, obviously, if we’re headed to the hospital, but not like there’s a chance she won’t make it. “Is she conscious?”
“Yeah. She called me just before they were taking her to do some tests. She was in pain because she has some burns, but mostly she was freaking out because she’s not going to be able to work. She’s going to lose her job. If she loses her job…”
He stops talking, his hands curling into claws on his knees. If Kendra loses her job, she’s going to freak out, and stress exacerbates her lupus. She has a cushion to fall back on and decent healthcare, fortunately, but spending even a penny of that money is hard for her. Rent for a new place because it sounds as though their house is going to be a loss and insurance takes a while to come through to buy a new one; replacing what was lost; an entire fridge of groceries; and everything else is far more than a penny.
I’m guessing Allie feels doubly like shit. Not only is his sister injured and will likely lose her job and needs to find housing ASAP, but he’s in no position to help, especially with his new job. He can fill in for a night at the bar, but there’s no way he’d last much longer. He’s a terrible bartender.
And with the kids… I can understand why he’s freaking out too.
I could tell him everything’s going to be okay. That I won’t let anything happen to any one of them. I’ll find them a place to stay while they look for a new one. Hell, I’d be happy to buy them a place closer to me so Allie wouldn’t have to drive across the bay all the time. It would have enough room for him too. He won’t take it, though. I know he won’t, and I don’t want to start a fight right now. That’s the last thing he needs, to be getting irritated with his overbearing…whatever I am to him.
“Hey,” I say, laying a hand on his thigh just above his knee and squeezing until he looks at me. “One thing at a time. Let’s make sure she’s getting taken care of properly, and then we’ll deal with the rest.”
He doesn’t argue with my use of the plural, and I’m relieved. At least he’ll let me help that much. I put both hands back on the wheel because city driving requires attention and precision, and I start to run through my mental Rolodex. Do I know anyone at Bay Memorial? San Francisco Mercy, Oakland General, yes, but Bay Memorial—I don’t think so. That’s okay. Allie won’t want me to pull strings anyhow, and I could still talk a fish into buying a bottle of water in the middle of a monsoon.
Nodding, he looks so lost. Let’s see what other problems I can solve.
“Where are the kids?”
“With a friend Kendra called. They can’t stay, though. She works night shift, and she’s gotta be there at eleven.”
“Anyone else you could call?” I venture. I bet he’s wishing his mom were here. This is what grandmas show up for. Hell, I’d call my mother if she weren’t on the other side of the country. She loves kids. But our mothers are in Philadelphia, New York. Why is it transporters haven’t been invented again?
“No. The neighbors…I don’t trust them. My friends…well, I don’t trust them either.” He gives me an embarrassed smile because that sounds fucked up, but I know what he means. He knows them in a certain context, and it doesn’t include handing over those kids, probably the people he loves most in the world.
“Does the sitter have the car seats?”
“Yeah, that’s how she got them to her house.”
I hesitate because I don’t know how he’s going to feel about this. It’s worth a shot, though. This is a problem I can solve. Easily. “If it would be helpful, I could call Matthew. The sitter could bring them to my place, and he can stay as long as you need him to. He’s good with kids. Maybe the sitter could put them to bed before she leaves, but if they’re too wired to sleep, he can stay up with them.” Matthew’s learned a thing or two from me, and he has his own naturally occurring air that seems to put people at ease. Plus, get him in the right mood, and he’s an utter goofball. We’ll probably come home to a sock puppet show. “He could call either one of us if there’s an issue, and it would be easy to keep the kids in the loop if there are things they need to know.”
Hart eyes me skeptically. “He’d do that?”
“In a heartbeat.”
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“He wouldn’t mind?”
“Honestly, he’d be more irritated if you didn’t accept his help than if you did.” Which is precisely where I am right now, but I won’t say that. For the love of god, let me help you.
Allie rolls his lips between his teeth and nods. “Yeah, all right. If you think he really won’t mind.”
Five seconds later, Matthew’s picking up his phone.
“Matthew, I’m in the car with Hart. You’re on speaker. His sister’s been injured in a fire at her place, and we’re going to see her at the hospital. In the meantime, the kids are with a sitter, but she needs to get to her job soon.”
There’s no hesitation on the other end of the line. “Where should I go and what time do I need to be there?”
Allie gives him the information and, when we hang up, gets on the phone with the sitter to give her my address and Matthew’s information. By the time we’re pulling into the hospital garage, I’ve taken care of one slice of Allie’s worry pie. I drop him off at the entrance so he doesn’t have to tap his foot through me finding a parking spot. He practically vaults out of the car, and I brace myself for a slam of the door that never comes. When I glance through the still-open passenger-side door, I see Allie bent over and hovering.
“Thank you.”
The earnestness and gratitude fills my heart, and I have to swallow around the lump in my throat. “It’s entirely my pleasure. Now go see Kendra.”
He drops a quick nod before shutting the door and jogging to the entrance. I watch him go, waiting until he’s through the automatic doors, and then I pull away to find a parking spot.
*
I grab a seat in the ER waiting room and occupy myself with my phone while I wait to hear something from Allie. Always emails that need triaging, half of which I only glance at before sending to Matthew. It’s only scheduling.
Around ten-thirty, my phone rings and it’s Matthew. The kids are asleep in a guestroom upstairs, and the sitter left after introducing the kids to him. Everything’s fine. “You have Hart’s cell in case they wake up and they’re freaking out, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Thank you, Matthew.”
“You’re welcome, sir.”
I toy with my phone a little longer before there’s a hulking shadow in front of me. When I look up, it’s to a much calmer Allie than I left about an hour ago.
“How is Kendra?”
“Okay. Some smoke inhalation, first- and second-degree burns on her hands and her arms, but nothing life-threatening. Their house is toast, though.”
My jaw clenches involuntarily. My instinct to solve this problem too rises up in my throat. Let me take care of all of you. I’ll have Matthew find you all an apartment to stay in tonight, and we’ll get a nanny who can help Kendra with the kids because she’ll need it while she recovers. Admit you need me and give me your consent to help. I’ll wave my hand and everything will be fixed.
But I know Allie well enough to know none of that would be appreciated, so I will leave it the fuck alone as I’ve been told so many times to do. What I can do, though, is help him organize the logistics of handling this himself, so I have him sit next to me while we make some plans.
Allie excuses himself when the doctor comes to update him on Kendra once more and then goes to see her. After he’s satisfied she’s okay and has made arrangements to pick her up in the morning, she shoos him back to me with orders to go back to my place and check on the kids.
*
Walking through the door to my house, Allie still seems wired.
“Are you okay?”
“Fine.” His tone is short and clipped and I want to call him on his bullshit, but I can understand he’s buzzing like an over-adrenalized bee.
“What do you need right now?”
“Need?” he echoes, as if that’s the most absurd question in the world.
“Yes, need. What can I do for you?”
He blinks at me slowly as if he’s only half-heard me. I won’t repeat myself. I’ll wait. My patience is rewarded by an intent, thoughtful look, as if he’s inventorying his emotions and finding where he’s lacking. Still in crisis management mode. Let me do that for you.
Eventually, his eyes meet mine, his gaze hard, yet cautious. He doesn’t entirely trust me to give him what he wants, what he needs, and the thought makes me want to sever some part of my body and give it to him. I would do anything for you. Tell me how to stop your hurt and I’ll do it. It’s the best, most important thing I can do, my purpose on my earth. Let me fulfill it and, in so doing, provide you with whatever brand of succor you need.
“I need a distraction. I need to not think about all this right now.”
“I can do that. Pain is usually pretty good for focusing you.”
Matthew is still here, so we don’t need to worry about the kids waking. He’ll come find us if they do, but for now, I can give Hart something to take the edge off.
“Yeah,” he says, his eyes getting wider and sparkling with anticipatory glimmer. “Hurt me.”
It’ll be my pleasure.
*
I’ve been whaling on Allie for a good hour down in the dungeon, and he’s going to be sore. I didn’t bother asking if he’ll have the kids because I know he will. I’m also not bothering to go easy on him because he’d tell me not to. If he needs help over the next several days, Matthew will be at his disposal, and I know the harder I go on him, the better he’ll feel. I’m going to beat him to sleep. A strange lullaby I suppose, but it will work on him.
He’s resisting me, though, harder than usual. I don’t mind it most times—honestly, it makes my job more fun—but it’s piquing me now. This isn’t his run-of-the-mill pride and stubbornness. Those are entertaining to overcome, and I get a rush of heady self-satisfaction when I do. This is different. He’s trying to prove something he doesn’t have to prove. I get the feeling I could beat the living shit out of him all night long, and at the end, all I’d have would be a bruised and angry Allie. Not what I’m going for.
I need to break him. Really, really carefully. This enormous man who could snap me in two without a second thought, but wouldn’t. This is going to call for some finesse and not a small amount of skill. I’m going to be like those demolition experts who work in cities, dropping buildings with carefully placed explosives in a way that won’t do any damage to surrounding areas. Allie needs to be whole and functional for his family, so there are only so many walls I can bust open.
Good thing delicacy is my middle name. Also good is that Matthew may look insubstantial, but the man is like balsa wood—so much stronger than he appears. He can nearly keep up with me at my most manic, and that’s saying something. I’d talked to him while I was waiting for Allie at the hospital, and he knows he’s on deck for the next several days at least. He can deal with some of the mundane things, and I’m hoping Allie will be so concerned with other matters he won’t realize exactly how much Matthew’s helping.
In the meantime, I’ve got a job to do.
I stop caning Hart and give him a minute to breathe. Which also means I break the flow and remind him exactly how much he’s hurting.
“You’re being a stubborn bastard tonight, you know that?”
“Yes, sir,” he grits through his teeth.
“Why is that?”
Of course my Allie doesn’t answer. Because stubborn is his middle name. I could talk to him, plead with him, tell him he can be strong everywhere else but here he’s allowed to fall apart because, no matter how heavy the weight, I can carry anything. I can bear whatever he throws at me. Not only can I, I want to.
Not unlike a certain other submissive I’m intimately familiar with, he’s not going to give in to my words. Allie’s not much on declarations and oaths. He’s a man of actions, and he expects other people to be as well. Don’t tell him you’ll be there; show up. Don’t claim to be able to hold him together; shatter him into a million pieces and then put him back together. Prove it.
So that’s what I’ll do.
I unclip his cuffs from the chains anchoring him to the cross, and I look him over. Not a stitch on him, he’s gorgeous in my restraints with my marks on him, and I take a few minutes to pinch and tweak them, enjoying every hitch of breath and every grimace I elicit. I grab the skin of his upper arms and twist, making all the muscles in his body bunch and flex.
Pinching is intimate—the feel of skin against skin, the way the pain transmits through his muscles, telling me the hurt is oh-so-good. Part of me’d like to go at him with my hands. Curl them into fists and beat on his back. His upper arms. Maybe force him to lie on the ground and literally walk all over him until he feels like he can’t breathe.
That’s not intense enough, though. Also, he’s been beaten with fists. Kicked with boots. Too often. I’m not sure he could read that as enjoyable anymore. Instead, I’ll drag out something new.
“Stay,” I tell him, loving the way his shoulders grow broader as he stands there, perhaps making himself look more menacing to the cross, the wall, as if they have anything to do with it. They’re just my instruments; they can’t have any impact by themselves.
I move a few things around, retrieve a couple of items from a trunk and the wall. I flick my gaze in his direction periodically, though he’s standing there as rigid as can be. He hasn’t turned around. What a lovely, obedient boy.
Everything arranged to my satisfaction, I call him over, and he turns, unsure of how to get here. “On your feet.” He should enjoy it while he can.
When he’s made his way over to the bed with slow, deliberate steps, and sees the usually spare surface heaped with plush pillows, he glares at me.
“What the fuck is this?”
“How about you let me worry about that? Also, watch your language. I don’t appreciate you talking to me that way.”
Pfft. If I minded people swearing at me, I wouldn’t be in my line of work. Neither would I be friends with India “Potty-Mouth” Burke. That woman has a vocabulary like a merchant marine who hasn’t seen polite company in a decade.
“This doesn’t look—”
“Get on the bed, Hart.” I don’t often break out my Domly-Dom voice, and even less often with him, but I use it now and to good effect. He blinks at me, but that’s the only sign of hesitation before he’s climbing onto the surface and lying back against the mound of pillows.
“Now what? Are you going to tickle me with a feather until I die?”
I let my eyes drift skyward and put a few fingers to my chin as if I’m actually considering it because it’s not a bad idea. Knowing how much Hart loathes being tickled, though—that would be over-the-line sadistic, even for me. So I shake my head. “Not today.”
I reach over to the small bedside table and take up a hank of bright yellow rope.
“I had no idea Big Bird was a sadist.”
“If you don’t shut up, I’m going to bind you and gag you and leave you down here alone until morning.” I’ve forced my tone dry, but in a way I hope conveys I’d actually do it. I never would, because not leaving someone who’s tied up alone is Bondage 101, but in a fairy world where accidents never happened, I totally would.
His brow creases as I move toward his feet, and rightfully so. Especially when I set about weaving the ropes through his toes, being careful not to touch him in a way that will make him squirm and giggle. Entertaining in its own right, but that’s not the mood I want to set. I work the rope, making carefully placed knots, evening out tension, and then I tie off so his foot is flexed at the end of the bed. The rope is a lovely color on his skin, bringing out the blue tones.
I move to the other foot and bind it the same way. While he looks curious, he doesn’t seem concerned. Perhaps he’s expecting me to bind him from head to toe, but that’s not on the agenda.
When his feet are held fast, my ropes keeping his soles utterly vulnerable, I smile at him and pick up my cane. “Ever heard of bastinado, Hart?”