His Custody

by Tamsen Parker

  Maybe she should’ve said it more often, or even every day because before she realized what was happening, he was holding her again, so tightly she couldn’t breathe. Her feet weren’t even on the ground and she had the foolish thought that this is what it would be like to be made Jasper’s forever, to be loved so much she could barely breathe but to be so high from the euphoria she wouldn’t care.

  “I love you, too, Keyne. You be a good girl, okay? Take care of yourself. I can’t—” His voice was raw, like the words hurt coming out of his throat.

  There was a knock at the door and he set her down. “Must be one of your roommates. Probably want to walk over to dinner with you. I’ll talk to you later. Call me anytime.”

  ***

  When he opened the door, his guess proved correct. Keyne’s suitemates, Brittney and Callie, were waiting at the door, one blonde and one brunette pressed together, whispering. He gave them a quick nod and a muttered “ladies,” on his way by.

  He needed to get out of here. Out of this building, off this campus, out of this godforsaken town. He needed out before he changed his mind, went back to Keyne’s room and flung her over his shoulder like some Cro-Magnon and dragged her back home and tied her to the bed, never to let her out of his sight again.

  It had killed him to listen to her talk about being with someone else. In all his plotting about this, he’d never stopped to consider the very real possibility she would sleep with someone else. Every rational, responsible part of him hoped she would. But the caveman with the lizard brain, he was ripshit.

  After they’d hauled her stuff up to her room, he’d had to move the car. He walked across campus to where he’d left it, but even the walk didn’t calm him enough to feel good about getting behind the wheel.

  If this had been in the days before Keyne, he would’ve revved the engine, screeched off and bombed down the highway, not giving a shit if he got a speeding ticket. Not caring if he got himself killed, to be honest. He liked living, sure, but what was living without risk?

  But not now. Even if he couldn’t have her right now, he was still responsible for her and if something happened to him—if his own reckless stupidity got him into an accident, got him killed, it would be as good as holding a gun to Keyne’s head. He couldn’t do it. He sat in his car, turned the key to blast the AC and the stereo, closed his eyes for a couple of minutes until he was certain he could speak without his voice shaking.

  “Edwin. I’m in New Haven. I need you to pick me up.”

  A few hours later, he was back at the house, holding a bottle of scotch in his hand but not drinking it.

  He hadn’t missed drinking. It was easy with Keyne around. Socially, sure, he’d have a couple at a cocktail party or over a business dinner, but he didn’t remember the last time he’d gotten shitfaced or had a drink at home.

  For the first time, he felt hamstrung by his responsibilities to her. If she called, he couldn’t be blitzed because she’d need him or she’d worry and come home no matter how she had to get here. He couldn’t go to the club because he’d promised not to be with anyone else.

  It had seemed reasonable at the time. Of course she wanted him to be faithful. Given what they shared, it would make sense that it would be hard for her to believe some play was casual; you could do a pale echo of what they did with someone you didn’t have that bond with. The only play she’d experienced was of the most love-soaked, heart-grasping intimacy. Even when they’d been silly, it had all felt so deeply connected, like somewhere beneath the earth, their roots grew together.

  When she had asked, he’d understood. He hadn’t even needed to think about his answer. He would never hurt her that way. He didn’t even want anyone else, but he had to do something about all the thoughts pinging around his skull. He couldn’t drink, he couldn’t drive, he couldn’t fuck, he couldn’t get high. What the hell was he supposed to do?

  Hit something.

  Beating the ever-loving crap out of something suddenly seemed appealing. He dropped the bottle to the floor, belatedly realizing that wasn’t the best idea. Luckily, the heavy glass thunked harmlessly against the hardwood and he didn’t spare it a backward glance before heading to his bedroom. He was going to pound on something until his knuckles were bruised and bloody if that was the only way to get Keyne O’Connell out of his head.

  That’s what the next few weeks looked like. With one small difference.

  He’d get up at the crack of dawn, go into work, throw himself into the minutiae of the business he’d extricated himself from over the past year, amazed at how much effort it took to flex those mental muscles, but grateful because it took his mind off the parts of his mind he wasn’t using. He tried not to think about her all day, every day. Where she might be, what she might be doing. Who she might be doing it with.

  He’d come home from work, throw on some workout clothes and head to the gym to whale on equipment—he didn’t trust himself right now to spar with a partner—until he was so tired he could barely stand or until Ada would have dinner on the table. Whichever came first. He’d be ravenous while he showered, starving walking down the hall but when he sat down at the table, he couldn’t bring himself to eat. No matter what Ada put in front of him, it would sour his appetite.

  He’d force a few bites, reminding himself he couldn’t starve to death. But he couldn’t . . .

  It occurred to him that all of the grief he’d put away so he could care for Keyne was welling up now. The loss of his parents, Gavin, and the O’Connells hit him like a tsunami. He’d noticed their loss, been saddened, missed them. But the anguish hadn’t floated to the surface until the weight of his responsibility for Keyne had been lifted. He still felt it—his allegiance to her hadn’t shifted—but even allowing the barest gap was enough to let out the wrenching pain, the agony of loss.

  What would his parents think of the man he’d become since they’d been gone? Would they be proud of him? Respect the man he’d grown into? Except for the part about fucking Keyne, he was pretty sure they’d love everything about it. They’d wanted him to settle down, back away from the dicier prospects in his business, dial back the drinking. So, he’d backslid some on the drinking since she’d left for Yale, but while she’d been with him, he’d had it under control. He had. They hadn’t even known about the coke, but that had stopped, too. He’d been responsible, supportive, and loving if he hadn’t always made the right choices as far as she was concerned.

  And as far as Keyne . . . They had wanted him to find love. He wasn’t sure how finding it in Keyne O’Connell would’ve made them feel, but if they could get past the age difference, the fact that Keyne used to be with Gavin, and the kink . . . Perhaps all of that was insurmountable. Maybe they never would’ve accepted it. Them. But he had to believe they’d want him to feel this way about someone. And he’d found her, this woman who inspired feelings in him like no other.

  Keyne fell into a pattern of calling him every other night: Sunday, Tuesday, Thursday. He got the feeling she’d rather call him every day, but she was trying so hard. She was trying so hard for him and that’s what made it worse.

  On the nights she didn’t call, he’d go into the library and start drinking. It wasn’t a big deal. He’d stopped drinking at home while Keyne had been here and now it was totally acceptable to have a nightcap. Or two. Just a little something to take the edge off the day. He’d play games to keep from going overboard: he’d finish reading a contract before he could pour himself another measure. Send this email before he could take another sip. It was fine. Completely under control.

  The nights she did call, he’d work until the phone rang and then he’d talk to her for as long as she needed him to. He didn’t miss the scotch or the bourbon or whatever bottle he had open at the time while he was talking to her, but as soon as she was gone, their connection severed, down he’d fall, thirsting.

  But the thought of her was strong enou
gh in his memory that he’d be able to resist the siren song of alcohol, hang onto the evening’s edge of sobriety by straining fingertips. Those nights he wouldn’t drink. He’d go to bed and think of her, drown himself in memories and fantasies instead of in agonizingly doled-out booze.

  He had so many images of her in his head, he had a hard time determining anymore which were real and which were Keyne-shaped figments. Had she actually worn that dress? Had she gasped that way when he’d fucked her? Did her hair feel that way when he gripped it in his fist?

  One night he realized he couldn’t remember how she smelled anymore and it drove him crazy until he went to her room, and rifled through her clothes until he found a sweatshirt she must have forgotten to throw in the wash because it smelled like her. He missed her so much it was making him crazy. One more week and then she’d be home for the benefit Bunny had invited them to. Just one more week.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  September

  She was late. She knew Jasper would be worried, but she’d rather he be worried than disappointed and he was going to be so disappointed. Last week in a fit of pique about this goddamn required rumspringa, she’d cut off all her hair. Her beautiful, down-to-her-waist, beloved terra cotta hair. She’d considered shaving it off, but before she could get that far, she’d had a panic attack. What would Jasper say? Would he still love her without her hair? Was she a suicidal Samson? Before Callie could finish the hack job, Keyne had been on the phone, calling her favorite stylist for an emergency appointment, no matter how much it cost.

  She had snuck home, not telling Jasper she’d be in town and Mindy had shaped it into a full-topped pixie cut. When she was through, it wasn’t so bad. And yesterday . . . well, yesterday after they’d had a fight about why she had to go to the stupid benefit anyhow, she’d bleached it before laying on a side stripe of bright pink.

  Turning herself into a platinum-and-fuchsia skunk was supposed to be spiteful, but now she was sorry. So, so sorry. She didn’t want to go to the fundraiser, but if she was trying to get Jasper to believe she wasn’t a child but a woman who could make reasoned decisions, this wasn’t a great way to do it. She’d dallied getting her things together, and she’d made a note to tell Jasper it hadn’t been Edwin’s fault. It was hers, all hers. Maybe there was enough time to change it back?

  But there wasn’t enough time between the car door and the front door.

  She climbed out of the back, her grey skinny jeans clinging to her legs, the black leather of her coat heavy on her shoulders, the snug gauntlets she’d tied on hugging her wrists. Jasper was going to send her away for sure. If he even recognized her.

  Ada greeted her at the door as usual, pressing papery lips to her cheek. “Does he know about your new look?”

  Keyne’s lips curled between her teeth as she shook her head and her eyes watered.

  “Don’t be nervous, he won’t care.”

  Keyne wanted to believe her, but there was fear, always fear that she’d be left alone. And she was always so horrible to Jasper, even after everything he’d done for her. This might be the final straw.

  “Go on, then, go see him. He’s waiting for you.”

  Keyne clasped a hand tight around her own wrist before she let go and headed down the hallway.

  Jasper was in the library like she knew he’d be, and the close-cropped blond back of his head that peeked out over the back of the couch was enough to settle her stomach. Some. But when he stood up and turned around, the smile he had for her disappeared, his eyes went wide as pie plates and her breath stopped.

  But as soon as it had come, his expression was gone, melted into a slightly puzzled, appraising, half smirk. He muttered something about a dress on his way around the couch and then there he was. Standing right in front of her, so close she could touch him. If she wanted to. She wanted to. “Am I allowed to hug you?”

  “I’d have to look it up in Stupid Jasper’s Stupid Experiment of Epic Stupidity Handbook but—oof.”

  She’d punched him. Hard, right in his washboard stomach. She’d bet money it hurt her hand more than his unimpeachable abs, but he wasn’t expecting it and his noise of complaint wasn’t entirely feigned. She didn’t think. Alice would be proud.

  Her hands scrambled over his crisp shirt and she pressed herself against him, inhaling quickly because she wasn’t sure how long he’d let her do this for. He felt the same and smelled the same, like nothing had changed. If only nothing had changed. It wasn’t until her voice cracked as she choked out “I miss you so much,” that she realized she was crying.

  “You’ve only been away for three weeks, sweetheart. And you’ve been yelling at me for two and a half of them.”

  She tried to punch him again, but he was holding her close now, his big arms wrapped tight around her back, his bristly face laid against the top of her head.

  “No more punching, Tinker Bell. Relax, be good for me.”

  His unexpected words melted her and she slumped against him as he took her by the wrists and steered her arms into a familiar position, hands grabbing opposite elbows behind her back. Strong fingers slid through her short hair and pushed her face into his hard chest. She made a small noise of desperation and satisfaction and she pressed the rest of her body the length of his, feeling the familiar hardness of his erection against her belly. “I didn’t think . . .”

  “You didn’t think what?”

  “I didn’t think we’d get to do this while I was here. I didn’t think you’d want to.”

  His fingers fisted in what remained of her locks and he shoved her harder against him, making her mewl, making her wet between her legs. Any part of her body not touching his felt raw, but where they connected was blissful and warm.

  “I wasn’t planning on it. But not because I didn’t want to. I want to every second of every day. I think about you all the time. I must be the world’s stupidest man to let you go running around, encouraging, ordering you to do it, because right now, that seems like the stupidest fucking thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

  His hand was so tight in her hair it made her eyes water and in some Pavlovian response, she rocked her hips forward. “Please, Jasper. Please, master me.”

  He went still against her and she held her breath. The thirst for him was making her soul parched and she needed him. She’d take a sip if that was all he was willing to offer, gulp him down if he offered her a glass. Or he might say no altogether. Please don’t say no.

  To her ever-loving relief, he didn’t. “On your knees.”

  She sunk to her knees with his hand still in her hair, taking up that comfortable position she sometimes took in her dorm room when she was lonely for him. Legs spread, hands turned palm up on her knees, gaze downward in submission, offering herself. Take me, please. Take all I have to give. I will give you everything, anything.

  There was a hard yank at her scalp that sent tingling all the way through her. “You cut your hair.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Are you happy with it?” His tone didn’t give anything away as to how he felt about it, so she had to give an honest answer.

  “No, Master. I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I was angry at you and that’s why I did it. I’m a spiteful, terrible, ungrateful girl and I’m sorry. Please punish me, please. I deserve to be punished.” Her genuine remorse colored her begging. She couldn’t forgive herself for this, someone else would have to do it. He would have to do it.

  “You know I’m not mad about this, yes?”

  He shook her head gently and she wanted to cry. “But—”

  “You’re not mine when you’re gone. Not the way you are when you’re here. You can do whatever you like and you’ll never be in trouble. That doesn’t mean I won’t be here if you need me—all you have to do is call, I’m not reneging on my promise. I’m holding you loosely, not not holding you at all. I wasn’t going to punish you.�
�� “Wasn’t going to” was not the same as “am not going to,” and her heart swelled. “But it sounds like you feel awfully guilty about this. Like you’ve been a naughty girl.”

  His words slowed down and softened to that hypnotic rhythm that deepened her pliancy, communicated to her body, You’re going to get a beating, so soften up to take it.

  “Yes, Master.”

  “You’re getting fed first.”

  ***

  When she stepped out of the shower, she wrapped herself up in the clean fluffy towel that smelled like home. That was one of the myriad things about school she hated. It smelled wrong. But here, she could dip her head and inhale and everything seemed right with the world. She wished it was Jasper toweling her off, but the smell would have to be enough.

  Heading into the walk-through closet, she knew there’d be a dress hanging there to wear. He’d said something about it when she first arrived but—holy shit.

  He must have gotten this after she’d come home. The gown was a piece of art. She reached out a hand to take the fabric between her fingers and . . . Oh, yes. It was leather. The thinnest, finest, most supple leather she’d ever touched. Black and softly shining. God, if she’d only had this for prom. A lighter’s dream come true. That’s what Jasper had called her, and sometimes still did when he was teasing her: a lighter.

  The bodice was a halter, the leather gathered into a pretty pleat at the . . . Jesus, what was he trying to do to her? It could only be called a collar. She’d be wearing a fucking collar to this thing. And the skirt was short in the center and surrounded by layer over cascading layer of eyelet leather falling to the floor. Looking at it, smelling it, made her high. She was still fingering the leather when there was a knock at the door and she foolishly hoped it would be Jasper so she could fling herself against him and beg him to take her, take her please, before they had to brave the cameras and the crowds.