Personal Geography

by Tamsen Parker

  “Hunter said he still wanted me, and when I said, ‘Not in a way I’m willing to give you,’ he lost it. Called me names. I think my favorite was ‘obdurate cunt.’ I kind of want to put that on my business cards. It’s a good one, right?”

  Crispin doesn’t bite down on my bleak humor, but I didn’t think he would. I’ve dragged him too far down into the muck to propel him out with a cheap trick. “After Hunter calmed down some, Rey left us alone.”

  “He left you alone with that—”

  “I asked him to. I needed to know I could walk away myself.”

  And part of me—the part that hadn’t had enough time or distance to disentangle myself from the treacherous web Hunter had woven—had still been loyal to him. Felt I owed him. Exhibit A: our contract. Sending those pictures had to have shredded that precious agreement, but I couldn’t quite bring myself to disregard it. It had been carved into my body and mind for so long that, despite his betrayal, I couldn’t completely let go of the urge to honor the rules we’d established. What was another few minutes in the scheme of six years?

  “Did Hunter apologize?”

  I shake my head and huff a laugh. “No. I didn’t expect him to, nor did I want him to. It wouldn’t have been sincere. The only thing he was sorry about was that things didn’t work out the way he’d planned. The way he was so fucking sure things were going to go. So I kneeled with my head in his lap for a few more minutes and then I left. That’s the last time I saw him. He never tried to contact me again. Rey still gets invites for his parties. He’s gone a couple times when he’s been in town.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  “Don’t be mad at Rey. I told him he should go. It’s too important for his East Coast contacts to not. Hunter may be a world-class asshole, but he also knows a lot of people. He wouldn’t ask Rey about me. He acts like I never existed. Really. Besides, someone needs to keep an eye out for his new girl.”

  Rey had agonized over that decision. His first instinct had been to burn Hunter to the ground, rat him out to everyone, get him banned from the scene, but a few things had changed his mind, the first being that I didn’t want my story told. It was over, and I didn’t want anyone knowing what had happened. The other thing was Rey’s fear that, if Hunter had been so dangerous operating in the relative light of the community, what might he be like in darkness? I shudder to think.

  I’m sure Rey made it clear to Hunter that he was effectively on probation and another incident would lead to dire consequences. If Rey was a power player when we met ten years ago, he’s a force of nature now. I’m not completely familiar with his sphere of influence, nor do I want to be, but Hunter is smart enough to understand the cost should he piss Rey off again.

  Crispin is still fuming about Rey despite my reassurances. He looks like he might boil over but turns it down to a simmer. I wait for him to cool a little further before I ask, “Anything else you want to know?”

  I pray for him to not press me further about Hunter. I’ve been candid, more forthcoming than I have been with anyone else, save Rey. But it’s possible I’ve left something important out. Something he wouldn’t think to ask.

  Hunter had justified his actions by claiming I wasn’t fit to be out in the world by myself, that he was doing me a favor by taking the choice away from me. He’d said I was too stubborn to see the truth of it, but I needed him because, at my core, I was a terrified little girl with absolutely no common sense or survival instinct. Thinking about it sends the contents of my stomach into a riot. Not because of the fallout, though I’m still dealing with the consequences. It’s really the idea that he played this game, lived this life, with someone he didn’t believe could truly give consent. That’s just flat-out wrong.

  And that’s what I’m so afraid of showing. It’s not my submissiveness, necessarily, though I’d be rendered less than useless if anyone I deal with professionally ever caught a whiff of that. It was uncomfortable at first to admit how much I enjoyed being given direction, being taken care of after fighting—so fiercely—my parents’ efforts to sculpt me into something they might be proud of, but I came to terms with it. It’s something I like, something I need, and I have access to people who understand that.

  Though I’ve occasionally wished to find satisfaction at the other end of the whip, I don’t, and giving up my own pleasure because I don’t like the form it takes seems like the very worst kind of masochism. I’m just not that big of a pain slut. It’s that core of iron Hunter couldn’t handle, that tiny little bit of me I had to keep to myself in order to feel safe. That piece is a lot bigger now.

  I’m not sure if he felt threatened by my duality or if he was just so driven to possess every part of me that, if he couldn’t conquer me, no one could have any of me at all. Like a child throwing a birthday cake on the floor because they weren’t allowed to have the whole thing. Yet. I can’t say for sure that, if Hunter had given me more time, I wouldn’t have agreed at some point. It’s moot now.

  “Did your parents give you the money?”

  “Yeah. My dad had clearly handled the transfer. He was more than generous.” An understatement. When I checked my bank accounts a week later, I had a million dollars. I don’t know how he got it by my mother. Not my problem. “And I got a package by messenger at my internship. The title to my car, a copy of my lease, documentation for all my utilities, insurance with everything paid through graduation, a new credit card, and everything else I’d need to keep my life humming along as if nothing had changed. He sent a note, too: You’ve always deserved better. I hope this will be the chance you need to find it. I love you, Rani.”

  Reason number two to never have children: so I don’t disappoint them as much as my father’s disappointed me.

  “Why’d he call you that?”

  “It means princess in Hindu.”

  “That’s not in your contract.”

  Not like baby and sweetheart, no. Hunter’s pet names for me weren’t particularly original. “It’s never been a problem. Don’t call me that.” I leave the “or I will cut you” implied.

  “I wouldn’t. I’ve got my own name for you.”

  “Plaything.”

  “You looked it up.”

  I blink at him. He knew I would. Milimili means toy, favorite, beloved, in Hawaiian. I choose to focus on the “toy,” so I don’t have to yell at him and tell him to stop.

  “I didn’t touch the money my dad gave me.” Or the money Hunter had transferred into my account before I’d had the chance to close it out and open another one he couldn’t access. Another cool million in blood money. I’d thought about refusing it, a final foot-stomping, and sometimes I wish I had. But I can be calculating, too. So it sits there, making more money that I hoard, except to pay for my lost weekends. Every time I board a plane or slip into a rental car, it’s a metaphorical middle finger to the people who drove me to this. How do you like me now, assholes?

  I live in a relatively cheap apartment and don’t buy much—I don’t have to. What I left with is more than enough to last most people a lifetime. Three lifetimes. I kept my car, a pretty shiny graduation present from my parents when I finished law school, even though it would’ve made more sense to sell, but I like the illusion of my old life. Or, really, the life I’d been promised, one flush with enough resources I’d never have to do anything I didn’t want to do. I make pretty good bank, too, so it’s less of an illusion than I’d once feared it would be, but I don’t allow myself many luxuries. I don’t want an illusion. I want the real thing, and I don’t want anyone to be able to take that from me.

  *

  When I’ve finished the saga of India Kittredge Burke, Crispin takes me in his lap and holds me. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask any more questions. He must understand now—why I am the way I am. Why I can’t have a normal relationship; why I’ve flown all over the west looking for people to fuck, to give me what I need in small, safe doses; why the idea of intimacy scares the living crap out of me.
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  Because intimacy and trust equal pain. They equal hurt and having your life ripped apart. Sharing means trailing little bits of yourself into the woods, only to get to your destination and realize there’s nothing left to tear off, no piece of yourself that’s your own, and no trail to follow back because someone’s swallowed you up. Being loved means being destroyed because you wouldn’t let them have that final morsel. Ownership was carved into my body with cuts as deep, real, and painful as the scar on my back. It means broken contracts and promises, the loss of a life. My life, in particular, one I’ve struggled to put back together. Now he knows.

  Is knowing why going to make up for the fact that it’s true? It doesn’t change the way I am. It doesn’t resolve any of my issues. If anything, it makes them worse. I’ve drawn a diagram of how to fuck me over, how to twist the knife should he ever feel like shoving one in my back.

  This is why I prefer to present as a submissive and nothing but a submissive. If they think I’ve given them my all, there’s nothing left to go after, so they can’t really hurt me. The bruises and the welts heal. I like to admire them in the mirror until they do. Proof that I’m resilient. But even so, there’s only so much battering I can take.

  This was stupid. So fucking stupid. I don’t want to consider the danger I’ve put myself in yet again. I distract him with more sex before I’m smothered under the knowledge that I’ve shared my secrets and I’m going to be sorry. We never sign the contracts, and it’s the first time I’ve fucked someone without a piece of paper since I was in high school. It feels weird but good. I’ll never do it again.

  When Rey calls on Monday, I ought to tell him no. No more Kona, no more Crispin. Too dangerous, I’m out. I can’t do it anymore. But because I’m not very bright, the rest of my world is still turned upside down and I need Crispin’s help to unwind, when Rey calls, I tell him “a month” and desperately wish it could be sooner.

  Chapter Twenty

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  After a long, super-shitty day of unraveling more tangled webs of where the LAHA money’s gone, I head to the apartment Lucy found for me in LA and take a bath. A decent bathtub was the one request I made when she was scouring Craigslist for my crash pad, and she managed not to fuck up. I’ve been here for two months and will probably be here for one more. I thought I couldn’t loathe California more, but having to live in LA has changed my mind. I’ve never been so homesick for Manhattan.

  I towel off, slip on a camisole and sleep shorts, and click on my Blackberry. A voicemail from Jack.

  “Call me.”

  This does not bode well. Raging Jack I can handle. Almost-silent seething Jack is another matter. He’s unpredictable when he’s like this, and I hate surprises. I much prefer the devil I know. I pour myself a glass of wine, grab my omnipresent tablet, and settle myself on the dorm room couch that came as part of my “furnished” apartment.

  There’s half a ring before Jack is demanding, “You need to work your Cooper magic.”

  “Whoa, slow down. What’s going on?”

  “You know who Slade Lewis is?”

  “Of course.” Slade Lewis is the Assistant Secretary for Public Housing at HUD—i.e., Cooper’s boss and the only person I’ve ever heard her speak of with a quaver in her voice. Slade Lewis has a reputation for being brilliant, driven, capricious, and nasty. He’s also devastatingly handsome.

  I’ve never laid eyes on him in person, but I’ve seen pictures. His strong jaw, hazel eyes, and dark hair greying at the temples are enough to make my little subbie heart flush. Yes, I am fully aware of who Slade Lewis is.

  “He’s coming, and he’s on the warpath.”

  “Why?”

  “Because shit’s been hitting the fan all over the place. Philadelphia, New York, Chicago, Houston, even fucking Missoula. Can’t lumberjacks build their own goddamn housing? Public housing’s getting reamed in the press, and even though I don’t think we could’ve handled this mess better, he’s got to make an example out of someone and he’s got his sights set on LAHA. I need you to call Cooper. Do whatever it is you do to her and direct his attention elsewhere.”

  “I’ll call her, but I don’t know—”

  I’m interrupted by the click of Jack hanging up on me.

  *

  “Cooper.”

  It’s seven o’clock EST, and I’d guess by her tone that Constance hasn’t had her coffee yet.

  “Constance, lovely lady,” I coo. “Something you wanted to tell me?”

  “I was going to call you today. I didn’t think you’d be awake yet.”

  “I wish I weren’t, but I heard Slade’s on the warpath. Any way you can keep us out of the line of fire?”

  “I wish I could. Honestly, I already tried, and it backfired. Don’t get all freaked out, but I think he’s got an interest in you personally.”

  “Me? Why?”

  “He’s been following you in the press.”

  Goddammit. I’m going to skin Brad Lennox alive with a pair of safety scissors and make a parasol out of his hide.

  “Get him to unfollow me. You know we’re doing good work here. What else does he want from us?”

  “I don’t know. He’s playing cagey on this for reasons beyond my understanding or pay grade. I’ve even tried throwing Bakersfield at him in hopes it would get him off your back, but no such luck. He’s gunning for you. We’re coming for a site visit, with auditors. Them, you shouldn’t be worried about. I’ve seen your books. They’re spotless. I’ll be there Wednesday, and Hurricane Slade makes landfall Friday morning.”

  Friday? No, no, no! I’m supposed to be in Kona for a much-needed break. I haven’t seen Crispin for a month, and our last phone conversation was so hot I wouldn’t have been surprised if the windows in my apartment had fogged up. I already don’t like you, Mr. Lewis, and fucking with my lost weekend is not the way to win a place in my heart.

  “Staying long?” I venture.

  “No, we’re driving out to Bakersfield for an afternoon meeting. We’ll be out of your hair by eleven. Are we ruining a long weekend for you?”

  “Not ruining. Delaying. Sounds like I’m going to need it even more after your visit.”

  “I hate to say this because you’re tough as they come, but I know Slade. If he feels like raking you over the coals, you’re going to burn.”

  This is not good, but for now, I’ll keep my chin up.

  “I’ll see if Rey can join us for dinner Thursday. It’s usually a good night for him. Is Glory coming?”

  “Not this time. She’s jealous I’ll get to see you, but I set her up on a surprise playdate.”

  “Ooo, with who?”

  “Ananke.”

  My eyes widen. “Lucky Glory.” Ananke’s a Domme who has a fondness for hot wax and edge play. The trifecta doesn’t appeal to me and Constance isn’t into the heaviest stuff. This is a nice gift to her beloved little sub, who occasionally likes her sex very, very dark.

  “I think so.” Constance is smug, and not-quite-jealousy tweaks my stomach. I’m not jealous of Glory playing with Ananke. I am envious Constance has done this for her. Has sat down and thought, What would make my Glory happy? That kind of relationship-y stuff usually sounds like a whole lot of work and not at all worth the trade-off—reason number thirty-two not to get married—but I can’t help but wonder what Crispin would dream up for me if he had the chance.

  No, stop it, India. If Crispin ever did something so sweet, you’d bite his head off.

  *

  “Why is it you only went to do a site visit after managing the authority for four months?”

  I’m sweating. I don’t sweat. “It’s not standard procedure to—”

  “You think I give a fuck about standard procedure?”

  “I think you should. It’s your office that wrote it, and following it is where our liability rests. If it’s broken, fucking fix it. Don’t blame it on me.”

  I’ve always thought hazel was a muddled color for eyes. My green one’s been m
y favorite since I was a kid, seeming more confident of its place in the world versus the wishy-washy, can’t-pick-green-or-brown of hazel. But I might have to rethink that because Slade Lewis is staring me down with indecisive eyes—but the choices are to throttle me or throw me to the ground by my hair and have his way with me. The feeling is mutual.

  “India!”

  Right. I might be allowed to pepper my heart-to-hearts with Jack with expletives, but it’s probably a bad idea with Mr. Lewis.

  “She’s not wrong,” Constance says in the meekest voice I’ve ever heard out of her mouth. “If we’d like site inspections to be part of standard receivership procedure—”

  Slade holds up a hand, and Constance goes silent.

  “I’m holding you responsible, Ms. Burke. You should’ve been more on top of this, and if your firm can’t handle it, we’ll find someone who can. God knows we pay you enough to do more than a half-assed job. Don’t think I haven’t noticed what you people wear. What is that—Prada? You’re going to get us crucified.”

  I’m impressed he seems to know his way around haute couture, but not so well he doesn’t recognize the cut of my black skirt suit as being from five years ago. And there’s no way to defend myself. Poor little rich girl. My head is spinning from his dressing-down, which is twenty minutes in.

  Jack clears his throat. “If Ms. Burke is your problem, I’ll take her off the project.”

  What? Rage and embarrassment flood through me in equal measure. He can’t do that.

  “I thought you said she’s the best you’ve got.”

  “She is.”

  “Then you’ve got bigger problems than this project, Mr. Valentine,” Slade grinds out before turning back to me. “As have you. Your work has been sloppy, late, and some of it is downright wrong. You have a reputation, and I’ve been extremely disappointed to see you haven’t earned it at all. Do you skate by on your looks? Because I’ve got to tell you, those don’t impress me much either.”