Escalation Clause (Stewart Realty Series)

by Crowe, Liz

  “No, no, I’ll just take water, thanks. And, uh, an aspirin, if you’ve got any.” He said when she pointed to the empty cup, shooting her his most charming smile which likely looked like a freak show grimace given the state of his face.

  He had no idea what to expect from this trip Sara had planned and was frankly more nervous about than he’d been on their wedding day. That day he’d been sure they could overcome any and all the bullshit life could throw them, having made it through a substantial pile of it just to reach that moment. But fate could be a total raving bitch when she put her mind to it. The hanging curveball they’d fielded when Blake had been killed had proven more than he could take. And he knew it. He leaned forward on his knees and pondered the carpet a minute willing his heart to stop pounding so hard.

  That whole fucked up scene from his office kept replaying, but damned if he could figure out how he could have done it any differently.

  “Hey,” he looked up from the file on his desk to see Shannon, her eyes red-rimmed and unhappy. He allowed himself two seconds to peruse her trim figure encased in a sleek grey suit then smiled, and stood. “What’s up?” They had a comfortable working relationship now, after everything that had gone down between them. She was a consummate professional and had not clung to him once she’d seen the writing on the wall. The fact she’d stuck around and kept working spoke volumes to him about her maturity.

  She slumped against the doorway. He walked around from behind his desk and pulled her in, shutting the door behind her. “Sit. Talk.” He sat, prepared to listen. He’d needed her at one time, and she had been a good friend, a fun playmate. And she was rapidly becoming one of the best damn agents in the company.

  She sucked in a breath. “It’s…um…oh, never mind.”

  He grabbed her hands. They were ice cold. A shiver passed through her. “Damn it. You listened to enough of my bullshit. Your turn. Spill it.”

  “It’s Kyle.”

  Jack blinked. There was no Kyle at Stewart Realty that he knew. Then it hit him. Kyle. As in Summerlin. “Oh. Wow. I didn’t know….”

  “Yeah, no one does.” She ran a shaky hand down her face. “We’ve been, you know, playing. And um. Shit.” She gripped her elbows.

  “Please do not tell me you are pregnant or something equally awful.” He leaned back, trying to square what he thought he knew about his friend who owned and ran the exclusive BDSM club, The Suite, in downtown Detroit and what was likely happening between him and the woman sitting in his office right now. “I mean…you know what I mean.”

  She raised an eyebrow at him. “No boss, I’m not pregnant.”

  He chuckled, and crossed his ankle over one knee. “So, you and Kyle. Funny I never thought he played for my team.”

  “He’s had women before, but only as playmates. He has had more actual relationships with men although he hasn’t really done much since Rob.”

  “Christ, this is more convoluted than a Scottish border war. So. You guys are… together then?”

  “No, not exactly.” When she burst into tears Jack was startled. Shannon had not struck him as a crier. “I mean,” her shoulders shook as she grabbed some tissues from the box on his desk. “It’s really weird. We started playing, you know, the usual,” she blew her nose. “But last week, one night, we did a kind of switch. And um, it was amazing. For both of us, I think.”

  Jack was intrigued. He’d never encountered anyone who could top him, be the dominant in a sexual situation. And Shannon was a fairly classic submissive personality—highly strung, driven, in control at all times—except in the bedroom. He stayed quiet as she calmed down some. “I think I love him, Jack. And he, well, he’s….”

  “Complicated would be the word you’re looking for I think.” He stood, and without thinking about it, and with nothing more in mind than to soothe a good friend who needed him he gathered her in his arms. She gripped his waist, turned on the waterworks for a few more minutes, thoroughly soaking his shirt. He held her, relieved that he was past all this sort of extreme drama, at least for the most part. A split second of need for Sara hit him in the gut. He gulped. They had to talk and soon or he was going to fuck that all up, too. “Want me to talk to him?”

  She shook her head.

  “Asshole,” he frowned at the sound of his wife’s voice, and then looked up when Shannon jerked out of his arms. He stood, gaping, as Sara stared at him, then at Shannon then back to him.

  Mother fucking son of a bad timing bitch—that was him, in a nutshell. He groaned, as his eye started singing a strident “I need pain killer now please” tune. The flight attendant handed him a bottle of water and a packet of generic aspirin. He took them and stared out the window, his mind utterly blank and his heart heavy.

  Something about Sara, about them, had been off and stayed that way for nearly a year and half, ever since Blake was killed. Her withholding sex stunt had definitely backfired. They’d had plenty of conjugal activity since he put a stop to that bullshit in the spec house. But that was all they had—sex. He hadn’t felt any sort of connection to her beyond that and he needed it, badly, but couldn’t figure out how to get it. She stayed busy either working or dealing with her parents and of course, he was gone a lot. When they were home there was endless kid drama. He leaned his slightly less aching head against the window watching the serene upper clouds pass below him. A snippet of conversation he’d had with Evan passed through his brain, making him wince.

  “Yeah man, we are like ships passing in the night, fitting in a fuck, and then sailing apart. It sucks. But it’s a life stage, I hope.” His friend had said, but without resignation, just matter-of-factly like Evan always did, as they drank a couple of beers on his back patio. There were kids were all over the place, at the moment up in the tree house that had come pre-installed when they bought the place. Damn thing was likely a hazard on all sorts of levels, he recalled thinking as Katie and Maddie and Evan’s twin girls led the little boys on a wild goose chase up and down the tree house steps then in and out of the back tree line. He’d watched his son running on wobbly legs, a new skill he seemed determined to master, and shrieking like a wild thing, tackling his best buddy-slash-worst enemy, Gabe, to the grass. Katie separated them, shooting Jack a shrug and a look that made his heart hurt. He hardly knew the boy, and they were headed in a predictable direction—one he hated and had no idea how to change.

  A life stage Evan had said. Somehow, it felt like something more—something he needed to fix. Soon. He and Sara were like magnets facing the wrong way, repelling each other and bouncing around in an attempt to find the connection again. This getaway was a step in the right direction, and he had been surprised and pleased by it, but not by the look on her face when she’d walked out of his office. He closed his eyes to keep the voice quiet—the one that told him it could very well be the last step they took, one way or another.

  The soccer thing was so fucking close. He had Rafe on board. The guy had a lead on a great potential coach. The NASL had approved the concept and released some money and the Black Jack Gentlemen were going to be a reality. Sometimes he actually wondered how and why he cared so much, but like most things with him, it had taken hold, and he’d been bound and determined to make it a success. Of course, all the time and energy he’d spent on the project was starting to feel wasted, if he had nothing but a lame-ass bachelor apartment and visiting rights by the end of it all.

  He dozed as the giant plane took him towards what he sincerely hoped would be a weekend of recovery with his wife, waking when they bumped down on the tarmac at the Savannah, Georgia Regional Airport.

  The taxi dropped him at a medium-sized, classy-looking building right on the beach. The Southern fall air was still warm, and it caressed his aching face as he paid and checked the text message he’d gotten once the plane had landed giving the details of where he was to meet her. No extraneous chat or “I love you’s” just the facts, in the spare way that haunted him more than angry words would have.

 
; He grabbed his suitcase and wandered into the carefully tended courtyard, squinting at the numbers on the condos, stopping at number seventy. He hesitated before knocking, as the butterflies set up their annoying commotion in his gut again. Get a grip. This is your wife. The woman you love. Go in, make nice. Have a ton of responsibility-free vacation sex and go home. All better. But he knew deep down there would be more to this trip than that. And while something in him didn’t want to face it, a bigger part of him was one hundred percent terrified that this was a last ditch effort on her part and that he would fail the test.

  The door swung open before he could touch his knuckles to it. He stepped inside a dimly lit large room filled with overstuffed expensive-looking furniture. As his eyes adjusted to the semi gloom he caught a whiff of something, a sort of sultry, almost citrusy aroma climbed up in his brain and made his scalp tingle. Low music came from somewhere, U2, if he was not mistaken, “With or Without You.” He smiled, knowing Sara had as much of a sense of irony about a song like that as he did. “Hey, anybody home?” he called out.

  He wandered into the compact, well-equipped kitchen. A huge bowl of strawberries sat on the counter alongside a dish of cream. He dredged one through the stuff and ate it in two bites. “Baby?” he called again. His heart sped up when he saw the dish of fresh jalapeños next to a bowl of a deep yellow liquid. Honey, he proved to himself after dipping a finger in it. Bono and the boys finished their tune, segueing into Coldplay, a concert he and Sara had seen together, what seemed like eons ago—“Fix You” was the song. When you love someone but it goes to waste, could it be worse? His nerves resumed their annoying tap dance along his spine.

  A light flickered at the end of a long hallway. He tucked his hands in his pockets and tried not to rush towards it, to beg her to stop hiding. He’d not spent much of his nearly forty-seven years scared or even very nervous about anything. But the words he’d use to describe himself now were along the lines of “utterly terrified” or even “breathless with panic.” He swallowed around the giant lump of emotion building in his throat. This was not what he expected at all and he felt his lizard brain leaping into fight or flight mode. Not a good thing, considering he was supposed to be here making up with his wife.

  The next room he found was illuminated by about a million candles and held what appeared to be a single chair, right in the middle. The kind of sturdy chair without arms, with an unmistakable glint of cuffs attached to either side. He frowned, mind already moving three steps ahead and wondering why she was setting the stage. That was his job.

  The perimeter of the room came into view but with a sort of snapshot, in-and-out quality thanks to the flicker of light. A table that held various elements of their life stood at one end, complete with the leather flogger, soft cotton ropes, a pile of condom packets, an iPod with earbuds attached, even a bottle of red wine and two glasses. He touched each one of them, grinning when he spotted a large, blingy looking, fake diamond ring next to the condoms. A couple of shirts, one with a block M and another his Michigan State S were in a pile, next to a pacifier, and one of Kate’s favorite shirts—the one she wore when he picked up her from daycare that day, with SpongeBob on the front. He picked up the wedding photo of them staring into each other’s eyes. His skin pebbled. He put it back down.

  The song changed to the duet that they’d danced to, the night at the Grand Opening of his building, the night he’d had her, then tossed her away thanks to his own stupidity. Billy Currington and Shania Twain sang “Party for Two” and he was immediately back there, holding her close, spinning her around in her killer dress and heels, desperate to get her upstairs and prove…something. He couldn’t even remember anymore what he could have possibly needed to prove enough at that point that would’ve been worth losing her. Shutting his eyes a split second he let himself own a simple truth and with it a brain numbing emotion so clear he nearly choked on his own spit—one that reminded him how much he loved his wife and how his fucking entire existence would end if he lost her.

  God damn you, Gordon. This is not how you operate. You know what you want. Go get it. Tell her how you feel. Just admit you don’t understand what she’s become after Blake’s death and that you are flat out freaked over being a shitty father.

  He slowly turned, noting the restraints attached to the ceiling. Something resembling fear shot through him again as his normal calm equilibrium seemed to slip ever so slightly out of his reach. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to see her, hold her, and get all this shit back under his control.

  “Sara,” He whispered when he saw her silhouette in a doorway, backlit so all he could make out was her figure. Coldplay was back. It had been one of their better nights, that concert. They had sung, laughed, kissed in the huge mosh pit crowd; he recalled it like it was yesterday and wanted it the fuck back. He wanted that Sara, that Jack. Not these damaged adults, limping their way through life trying to do nothing more than not screw up the kids. The emotion he’d given in to a moment ago kept rolling through him, like a slow moving thunderstorm.

  They were not “that Jack and Sara” anymore. He knew it and figured she did, too. Staying true to himself while being the man his family needed had never felt more like a unbearable burden—no, more like an unreachable goal. He couldn’t do it. He was on the verge of the worst kind of failure—one he’d dreaded and avoided by keeping himself free and clear of emotional connection for so many years. He was going to fail as a husband and father. He shivered as she moved closer. “What the fuck are you wearing?” he croaked out as she walked into full view.

  She was decked out in leather bustier, silk stockings and high patent leather pumps. Her hair was down around her shoulders in a way he loved but hardly ever saw anymore. Kids, work, family drama meant it was usually yanked up in a convenient ponytail. She looked like five million bucks. “You look…what the hell is that?” he pointed to the candle she had in one hand.

  “Ow!” she shrieked and nearly dropped it. “Crap.” He lunged forward and grabbed it before she set the damn place on fire. She shook her hand, flustered, making him smile. This he knew. This he could handle. He reached for her, tried to pull her close, but she jerked away from him. “No.” Her voice was low and firm.

  A natural anger rose in him, familiar, but somehow wrong. He let it talk. “Excuse me?” He stepped back and put the candle alongside the others. She lifted her chin. His love for her at that second made him breathless. He reached for her again. “Listen, Sara, that thing you saw—”

  She held up her hand. His eye caught the glint of her wedding band, a simple platinum thing she’d insisted on, telling him she wanted nothing to do with his need to show off by putting giant diamonds on her finger. Their rings were nearly identical and had a date engraved in them: May 10. It was the day they first met, when she handed him a set of condo keys after loitering in said condo with her then-current boyfriend too long, when he’d needed to show the damn thing.

  He claimed it was the day his life changed forever, and there was a no more true statement. “I know.” She said, taking a step towards him. His nerves went on immediate alert, soothing him with familiar reactions. A hard cock and a need to fuck was something he understood well. This niggling thing in his brain, her set up, the props, the music, all of it had him more rattled than he cared to admit.

  “Good,” he said, relieved beyond measure. But his voice was shaky. She stared at him, the amazing deep emerald of her eyes mesmerizing like they always were. He reached forward, needing to touch her.

  “No,” she stepped back, and made her way to the single chair. “Come sit.”

  He waited a beat. Her voice was the same one he knew but her words were clipped, odd sounding. She loved to go on and on usually adding more words than were necessary, something he’d cured her of through the years, making her a much better sales manager. Sometimes less was just more, period. He tamped down his need to question the scene and decided play along. What could it hurt?

  “Wait,” s
he said and took a step back into his space giving him another heady nose full of her. He nearly dropped to his knees with a sudden intense surge of lust. She unbuttoned his shirt, slid it slowly off his arms as the music swirled around them, the candles casting an eerie sensuality around the room. He sucked in a breath when she dropped the shirt to the floor and trailed her fingers up his abs, across his chest, never taking her eyes from his.

  “I don’t know what you’re doing here, Sara, but…,” a small flare of anger lit his brain. “This is not….”

  She put her fingers to his lips, traced them, and then frowned. “What in the hell happened to your face?”

  He touched his sore eye. “My buddy, Rob and I had a little discussion.”

  “Oh,” her face flushed. He shifted, when all the blood in his body rushed to his cock, making him light headed. As if sensing it, she smiled and threaded her fingers in his hair. He licked his lips, needing her kiss more than he needed to breathe.

  “So, back to my observation about not knowing what the hell you’re doing here.” He kept his voice low. She reached for his zipper but he stopped her, grabbed her arm. “I’m not doing this; it’s…not what we do, not how we handle….”

  “Shh. No talking.” She had him unzipped in the blink of an eye, his jeans and boxers in a puddle at his feet. He frowned, angry and horny, and everything in between. She put her hands on his shoulders and pushed him into the seat. Another thrill of fear hit him hard. He tried to get back up. He was not going to be this guy. No fucking way. But her low voice did something to him then, and when she propped her sharp stiletto heel on his bare thigh his brain fogged over at the sight of it, digging into his flesh, and the feel of it, painful and sexy at the same time. She leaned down and whispered. “I trust you Jack. But now, I’m calling the shots.”