by Cecilia Tan
“Yeah.”
“Did he tell you who it was?”
“We don’t know his name.”
That sure sounded like James’s style. “How’d Xavi meet him?”
“He said it was some guy he knew from the music industry. Xavi used to do backstage catering and got to know a lot of record reps and stuff.”
I felt a sudden sinking in my stomach at the same time my head felt giddy and light. “Oh, really. How interesting.”
Maybe James had been telling the truth. Maybe it had nothing to do with me.
“Um, when did this investor first get involved?”
“Over the winter. Maybe January? Around the time you quit.”
Three months before James and I met.
I suddenly remembered James knowing my name, my real name, when we’d talked on the phone after meeting that very first time. And I suddenly felt very stupid.
He hadn’t walked into the bar randomly the night we met. He’d gone there because of Xavier. James never went anywhere he didn’t have an in! Of course he didn’t! And after he’d left, the first thing he did, probably, was call Xavier and find out who I was and whether I was crazeballs or not.
I wondered what Xavi said.
“Well, I’m sure it’s going to go great,” I said, sounding a little dazed or distracted I’m sure. “Have a good flight, sis.”
She kissed me and Mom on the cheek. “Thanks for the necklace, Mom. I’ll let you know if Pauline says yes.”
“Oh goodness, I nearly forgot. Here, you have to take some of my eighteen-karat gold for Pauline, too.” She put a few things into a small velvet bag from the jewelry box and handed it to her.
“Thanks, Mom. I really appreciate it.” Jill kissed her one more time. “See you in the Big Apple, KayKay.”
“Fly safe,” I said weakly.
After Jill was gone I turned my attention back to helping Mom sift through her closet. She didn’t look like she’d ever gotten rid of very much, as outfits I had never seen her wear emerged from the depths. Bit by bit she winnowed down what she wanted to keep. “I figure if I haven’t worn something in more than ten years, at this point it probably doesn’t even fit,” she said, “and it certainly isn’t something I need.”
She set me to making piles, then folding the clothes and putting them into trash bags. “You’re not going to throw this all away, are you?”
“Oh, goodness no. There’s a battered women’s shelter in town that takes donations. I happened to pick up their flyer when we were at the hospital,” Mom said breezily.
Happened to. Mom never did anything by accident, though she often made it look as if things were a coincidence. I took it to mean she either remembered more about Phil or she was taking our warnings very seriously. Either way, it was good for her.
I ended up taking a cardigan sweater that was a little too small for her and a skirt that I thought Becky would like. I didn’t have room for a lot else in my suitcase. Plus my mom’s stuff wasn’t really my style. My mother had a sensibility that seemed mostly based on glamour actresses from before her time, from the Hollywood starlets of the 1940s and 1950s. Then again, my style was “poor grad student.”
I hadn’t thought about my thesis in limbo or the furor with Renault in days. I supposed I was going to have to start thinking about it again as soon as I went back to the city, though.
One thing at a time. First, I had an apology to make to James.
Once we got all the bags of clothes down to the living room, Mom took a nap on her once-again clear bed, and I took to texting: I think I owe you an apology.
There was no answer for several minutes, and I agonized, wondering if I had gone too far with my outburst last night. He’d told the truth and I’d flat-out refused to believe him. If I was going to be like that, then it didn’t matter how deep into his soul he dug for the truth. This wasn’t going to work.
I was distracted momentarily by the mechanics dropping by with my mom’s car. They’d not only fixed it up. They’d also vacuumed the carpets and washed the windows. I thanked them and they wished my mother good health.
When I got back to my phone, there was a reply from James: Would you like to deliver your apology in person?
I texted back immediately: Yes, please.
Followed by: But my sister is gone and I’m worried to leave my mother entirely alone.
Not because she can’t take care of herself. She’s doing fine in that regard. But because Betancourt might come back.
A full two minutes went by before the reply came: Then I’ll see you in the car. Stefan can keep watch.
I sucked in a breath. That made sense. When?
Tonight after your mother goes to sleep.
I nearly texted OK but then remembered, and sent Yes, James instead.
Mom and I cooked dinner together. I tried to convince her she shouldn’t be on her ankle so much, and she placated me by sitting at the counter to chop an onion. With her wrist brace on, she couldn’t lift anything heavy with that hand, but she could still hold on to things enough to do a lot. Thank goodness it was her left wrist, and she was right-handed. We sautéed onions and peppers and browned beef to go into pasta sauce, then baked ziti in the oven with cheese. It was everything we loved about lasagna but half the work.
I ate sparingly, though, my stomach nervous about meeting James later.
We had nearly finished dinner when the phone rang. My first thought was it could be Phil. It wasn’t. It was Aunt Tera calling to get an update. “Jill said she’s doing a lot better, but way to give me a heart attack, girls! How is she today?”
“Why don’t you talk to her yourself?” I suggested. “Here, you chat while I clean up.”
I handed the cordless phone to my mother and she moved into the living room. She and her sister were off to the races, each one talking a mile a minute. I washed the pot and loaded the dishwasher.
I finished and they were still talking, so I went up to my room to read a book.
A little while later my mother stuck her head in. “Tera says hello,” she said, as if I hadn’t talked to her myself, or perhaps apologizing for the fact that she was only now off the phone. “She’s going to come visit for two weeks.”
“Oh? When?”
“She’s getting ready to quit her job, but to stick it to her boss she wants to make sure she’s used up all her vacation time first!” She beamed, energized by talking to her sister and happy about seeing her. “So she’s going to drive up tomorrow.”
“That sounds great! Here. I’ll go put clean sheets on Jill’s bed.”
“Thank you, dear.”
The evening crawled by. I made up the bed, did another load of laundry. Mom watched a movie. When that was done, she finally declared she was going to sleep.
I waited until she had been asleep an hour and I could hear the raspy sounds of her snoring before I texted James to say all was clear.
He replied with where the car was parked, at the cross street a few houses down.
No other instructions. Despite that, I couldn’t help but think about the time he’d had me report for punishment. The mysterious doctor’s office. The delicious torture that followed.
But that time the “correction” had been for a manufactured flaw, hadn’t it? It had been a game we played.
This wasn’t a game. This time our whole relationship was precarious and I didn’t want to make the misstep that would send us over the edge. We’d each made mistakes now. The question was, could we fix it? If only it could be as simple as submitting to a spanking. If only that could make all our problems go away.
I used my new keys to lock the door behind me and then walked up the street. The neighborhood was quiet, as usual on a weeknight by eleven, most of the houses dark. I caught sight of the car just beyond the tall privacy hedge the neighbors on the corner had grown to enclose their property.
Stefan gave me a small wave with the binoculars in his hand. I heard the doors unlock.
I opened
the back door and slipped in before I lost my nerve.
James was sitting inside looking grave and inscrutable. Thank goodness I was sitting down. I felt weak in the knees. He was in full suit and tie, but it was his dark expression that affected me most.
“James…” I said, and it came out a whisper because my throat was so tight.
“Karina,” he said, coolly, but in that way that I knew meant he was very tightly wound. “I’m listening.”
“I’m sorry. I lost my head. I jumped to the conclusion the only reason you bought my sister’s restaurant was to control everything in my life.” I pressed my hands together. “And then I didn’t listen when you tried to explain. I was wrong. I’m sorry.”
He gave a short nod. “I’m sorry, too. If I had not given you reason to doubt me, I am sure you would not have. But, Karina, have I ever lied to you?”
I made sure to take a calming breath before answering. “No. You haven’t. You left out some things, but you’ve never lied.”
“Will it reassure you if I make a promise never to lie to you?”
“It’ll at least reinforce it in my mind,” I said. “Because I know this whole deal we have going, trading sex for information? It isn’t going to work if I don’t believe what you say. I really am trying to give us a chance, James.”
“And I am trying to be both truthful and complete.”
An idea struck me then. “Let’s make it a mutual promise. I… I’ll renew my promise to you, too. How’s that?”
I saw the relief on his face, a sudden easing of the lines around his eyes. “I’d like that.” His tongue darted out as he considered. “How would you like to go about making this vow?”
The electricity in the air between us ramped up. I couldn’t quite explain it. It was as if once the tension of the apology had dissipated, it was replaced with sexual tension. We were doing this together. The relationship might still fall apart, but we were going to at least try to fix it. Together. And for all the trouble and angst we’d had, the one thing we never lost completely was that physical, chemical connection. It might have been tamped down temporarily, but as soon as we got on the same wavelength again, boom.
“We should hold hands,” I said, “to make the promise. And I’ll go first, since mine’s a renewal, and then you can go.”
“All right.”
I got onto my knees on the seat so I faced him directly, and I saw his eyebrow twitch at that. I was still wearing that Gypsy-dancer skirt. I held out my hands, palms down, and he gently brought his under mine until they were clasped. Mine were trembling until his steadied them.
“I promised you once, a long time ago, in this car, that I would not lie. I kept up that promise all the time we were separated in the summer. I’m now renewing that promise to you, James. No lie shall pass my lips… Or if I have to, I’ll tell you, so you can… correct me.”
It was as if electricity crackled on the word correct. Or maybe that was because I bowed my head without even realizing it.
His voice was low and smooth. “And how shall I correct you?”
“Any way you see fit,” I whispered.
“Very good. Shall I now make my promise to you?”
“Yes.” I swallowed.
“Look me in the eye, then,” he said. “Karina Casper, I, James Byron LeStrange, shall let no lie travel from my mouth to your ear. Under penalty of losing you.”
His eyes were moist with tears. So were mine. Are we going to make this work, James? Are we?
“All right. We should… seal the promises now,” I said.
“How should we do that?”
“Traditionally.” I swallowed. “With a kiss.”
“Very well.” He pulled me gently toward him by my hands then and brushed my lips with his.
My breath caught, but he wasn’t finished. His breath was like ozone, charged, as he pressed his mouth more firmly against mine, his tongue swiping the seam of my lips until they parted.
And then I was crushed against him, lips and body and all, as he pulled me into his arms, lying back against the door and pulling me on top of him. Every fiber of my being thrilled at being so close, his firm muscle under me, his arms around me. I was filled with a sense of belonging and rightness I had never felt with another person before.
When he let my mouth free at last, I asked, “So do you forgive me?”
“I thought the kiss was to seal the promise of honesty.”
“It was. But, you know, I’d like to be sure you really forgive me.”
“Aha.” He looked into my eyes. “Does that mean I should be sure you were really sorry?”
I suppressed the urge to grin like a fool, because that would wreck the mood. “Yes, James. Please.”
“Hmm. And how do you propose I do that?”
“Isn’t spanking the traditional way?”
“Well, it is, but we’re not always so traditional.”
“Please, James? Please spank me?” Lying on top of him the way I was, I felt the thrum of desire shoot through his cock when I begged. He was already hard, but my words set him aquiver.
“Straddle me.” His voice was rough with desire. “Then I’ll spank you.”
“Yes, James.” I slipped my shoes and panties off while he repositioned himself with his feet on the floor, his cock protruding eagerly from his fly. He unbuttoned his shirt partway from the bottom, revealing the firm abs I loved and the tuft of his pubic hair that proved he was a natural blond.
“Leave the skirt on,” he ordered.
“Yes, James.” I straddled him, then bent my knees on the seat on either side of him.
He reached under the skirt and rubbed his cock up and down my wet pussy a few times. “Down,” he said.
I sank onto his cock slowly. Even though I’d done almost the same exact thing yesterday, at this angle he felt even bigger.
Before I could get all the way down, he had pulled the skirt up and given me the first hard swat. I yelped and pulled up without realizing it.
“Down,” he repeated, and this time I didn’t go slowly. I shoved myself down onto him, gasping at the sudden fullness, then again at the smack that followed.
“H-how… how many?” I asked.
“Oh, now you ask? Karina, I think it’s a bit late for that, don’t you?” he chided gently. “I am going to spank you until I am satisfied. However many that takes.”
I bit my lip. “Well, it’s no less than I deserve.” Then I sucked in another breath. Under my skirt his fingers had found my clit. Two of them pressed gently from either side, making it protrude, and his thumb slipped quickly up and down the little bulge.
I shook. He could make me come in under two minutes that way. I clung to his neck, unable to do anything but accept the sensation, trembling.
Of course he stopped just before I was ready to come, though. Of course he did.
And then he pulled the skirt all the way up over my back, and spanked me hard, five, six, seven times, each hit driving my clit against him.
“Squeeze me,” he said. “Inside you. Faster.”
I couldn’t stay still as I did what he asked, my hips rocking slightly as I contracted my muscles, and his fingers returned to their grasp on my clit, this time rubbing in the same rhythm as my squeezes.
I broke out in a sudden sweat and he switched from pleasuring me to beating me again, the heavy flat of his palms raining down on my ass, driving me to scream, driving me to come. I clung to him helplessly as the spasms shook me all the way down to my toes, and then I hung on as he drove his cock upward into me, four, five, six times, deep sudden thrusts that signaled to me that he was coming, too.
As we lay there, still entwined but now limp, he tugged my skirt down and said breathlessly, “I… hope… you’re… sorry now.”
“Oh, very. Very sorry.” This time I couldn’t hold back a giggle.
“Good. I would say I am done forgiving you for the moment.”
He guided my face to his with his fingers, still damp from tou
ching me, and kissed me, tenderly exploring my lips this time.
“James,” I said. “We’re going to figure this out, aren’t we?”
“I certainly think it’s within our abilities to do so.”
“I hope so. Because it seems like no matter what I try to tell myself, my body won’t accept anything but being right here.” I squeezed him once more, but now he was softening, and he slipped free.
“So long as we are continuing to rebuild our trust, I think we are headed in the right direction.”
“All right.”
“Now tell me, what do you wish to know?”
“Oh!” I blushed. “I didn’t come prepared with a question. I didn’t think we were going to have sex.”
“Neither did I until you got on your knees to make the promise.”
I grinned and nuzzled his neck. “That was a good idea, wasn’t it?”
“A very good idea. But don’t think I’ve forgotten that I have a lot to make up for. How upset you were yesterday is proof of that. Even if your reason for being angry at me turned out to be insubstantial, your overall reason for being sensitive is still very much on my mind.”
“I’ll try not to fly off the handle. Why don’t you tell me more about being an international rock star?”
“Why don’t you get a little cleaned up and into a more comfortable position, and then I’ll try to figure out where to start with that,” he suggested. He handed me a kerchief to wipe up with.
Once we were settled again, with my head on his chest and his arm around me, he started again.
“It’s much as you read about in the popular press,” he said. “You record an album; the record company mucks about with it; sometimes they make you change things. They solicit orders from the retail stores. They collect the money. If you are lucky, you even receive some of it.”
“What? Surely you get a percentage, right?”
“Well, they pay you an exorbitant sum at the beginning of the contract, as a kind of down payment on what they are going to owe you later. It’s not uncommon to receive ten million dollars but then be required to deliver ten albums over the next ten years.”
“Was that what you got?”