by Joey W. Hill
"I already got lucky, darlin'. I went into Jai's at just the right time."
The look in his eyes took her breath, then he gave her a squeeze and a wink. With a wave toward the DJ and a dark look toward the smirking bartender, he headed toward the stage. As Celeste backed up to the bar, reclaiming her beer, Leland stepped straight up on the stage, no need to use the short set of steps on the side. The DJ handed him the microphone, leaning over to say something in Leland's ear that had her date laughing and giving the man a friendly clap on the shoulder before he turned his attention to the audience.
"Now y'all remember you applauded for this," Leland drawled. "I don't want to hear no catcalls. I'm trying to impress the lady, after all."
"She can't drink enough alcohol for that to happen, Sarge," a man called from the back.
Leland snorted. "Too true, John. But we'll give it a try. Let's do a fun one." He spoke to the DJ, and the man gave him a thumbs-up, turning on the karaoke machine.
Leland had no stage fright. He started with "How Do You Like Me Now", a fast tune that had them twirling and circling the floor in an energy-raising rhythm that rolled through the bar. As for Celeste, she stood rooted at the bar and tried not to let her jaw drop.
Holy crap. She'd thought Margie was exaggerating, but Leland's baritone, the resonance and depth of it, pulled off a great Toby Keith. On top of that, the man didn't need formal dance steps to move well. He worked his hips, shoulders and hands with the song in a way that claimed her attention fully. She slid a hip onto one of the stools, one hand closed over the back of it as if she was holding on to him. His voice and the music resonated through her, a continuous vibration like a generator.
He kept glancing toward her, and she realized she had a light smile on her face, one that refused to go away. It became as much a part of her as the clothes she'd worn for him, as the breath that shortened as he shouted "how do you like me now" with the crowd, singing the chorus along with him.
When he finished, cheers, applause and affectionate catcalls showered him from the audience. He answered the catcalls good-naturedly. Then he turned and consulted the DJ once more. At his nod, Leland glanced back at his audience.
"Since you liked that one, I'm going to make you suffer through one more. This one's for my girl there at the bar. And no, I don't mean you, Margie. Troublemaker. No tip for you, woman."
Another wave of comments came, including Margie's exaggerated sniff and rude gesture that sent the small crowd laughing again. When they settled, Leland gave the DJ the go ahead.
Celeste knew the ballad. "You Shouldn't Kiss Me Like This" put every couple on the floor, many of them rotating in a country waltz, holding one another close in the dim light. This time Leland's eyes were entirely on her. As he told her if she meant that kiss the way she shouldn't, then baby, kiss me again, she was rising, moving toward him. She wasn't much for being center stage in any aspect of her life, let alone literally, but as she held his gaze, she was only distantly aware that he was standing on a stage. The important thing was she wanted to be with him. When she got there, he reached a hand down and she put hers in it. As he lifted her up to join him, she closed her eyes. What was it about the man holding her hand? If the only way he'd ever touched her was that, she thought she'd still feel like this about him. Her heart tipped over whenever his fingers closed over hers.
Maybe it was because his grip alone told her what he kept saying in a variety of ways. She was okay with him. She could trust him.
She was up on stage, but she didn't feel that way. It was just the two of them. He kept singing the song, but he folded her against him, holding her close to his side as she slid her arms up under his, laid her cheek on his chest, closing her eyes again as he swayed with her. His heart beat under her cheek, his body vibrating as he sang, as the music came through the speakers. She internalized every word and, when he nudged her face up at the end of the song to put his mouth on hers, she melted into him, holding on, unaware of the crowd applauding and whistling once again.
SS
After the performance, he found them a table in a back corner and ordered another couple of drinks. For a while they listened to the music, made casual conversation, and traded comments about the dancers. He kept his arm around her, their chairs pulled close together. She expected that cozy position was what kept anyone from wandering up to engage him in conversation. In some ways she was glad of that. But having him so close and thinking about her reaction to the way he'd sung to her made her wonder if being joined by some other couples might have been better, to help keep her mind out of bad places. Her hand lay on his thigh, tracing meaningless doodles when he asked her things about herself. Nothing too personal, just about her work, which should be easy for her.
"We're different," she said abruptly.
"How so?"
"You came from a poor background, but it wasn't a shit background. You weren't pulling yourself out of shit. Your mom tells you that wearing poor clothes isn't a reflection of your soul, who you are, because she's right. But when you are shit, you have to make up an image different from who you are, and keep at it until the past starts not to matter. You become that image and leave the crap, who you are, were, behind. It's different."
"Hmm." He'd moved his hand to the back of her head, was cradling it in that way that she found distracting, especially when he was caressing her nape, the tension there. "What music do you like, Celeste?"
Automatically, she rattled off some popular groups and song titles. He listened, asked her about some of them and placed a few. The discussion put her more at ease, thinking that he'd overlooked the sudden outburst, the discomfiting vomit of emotion.
"What's been your proudest moment so far, with the articles you've written?"
Safer ground for her, though she was less comfortable bragging on herself. She changed the focus by explaining her answer. "Every story has more than one side. Sometimes more than two. I think when you give a balanced account of a story, it's easier for people to understand one another and work together. Doing it the other way, all you do is polarize people, create destructive factions, which is the point of most media reporting these days. Conflict generates ratings."
She lifted a shoulder. "When I was at a New Orleans City Council meeting, one of the members pulled me aside and told me that the article I wrote on redistricting had helped her understand the motivations of everyone who had a stake in it. She told me it had helped the council figure out the best solution. Before that, they were drawing lines in the sand, seeing one another as the enemy and hedging their decision against their next election run."
She was on a roll and couldn't seem to stop herself. He seemed so interested in what she was saying, his attention on her in that way that made her self-conscious and unable to stop talking at once. "That really felt good to hear, because that's what I want to do as a reporter. It's one of those jobs that can't be about ego, because doing it right means simply doing the job. Nothing less, nothing more. Give people all the pertinent information, not just pieces to create a slant, and let them decide what to do with it. People can be manipulated really easily, that's true enough. But that doesn't make it right to do it. If you don't manipulate them, if you let them make up their own mind, things might just go the way you hope anyway. And even if it doesn't, that's not my judgment to make."
"Just do the job." Leland nodded. "That's what I tell my guys. Don't get caught up in the end game, the politics or bullshit, people's bad attitudes about the police. Or even the good ones, the overinflated kind."
"All police are either saints or sinners."
"Exactly. We're just guys doing a job 100 percent. Protect and serve. From rookies to retirement."
"Speaking of which, that was a good idea, putting Mike and Billy together."
"Yeah. Billy's already got a good head on his shoulders. Mike will help him keep it there. Mike's not only a good cop, but one with a good attitude about being on the job, despite being a veteran of the bullshit politi
cs and red tape. No need to squash a rookie's enthusiasm or burn him out too fast by sticking him with a grumpy complainer."
Leland touched his beer to hers. "That's damn impressive about the city council, Celeste. Most times, I just want to line up all of those election-fixated, image-obsessed, special interest assholes and use them for target practice. Not that I'd say that out loud. Especially not to a nosy reporter."
She sniffed. "I'll be sure to post it on my blog tonight. Let me see. That was 'election-fixated, image-obsessed...' what was that last thing, Sergeant Keller? Keller with two l's?"
He snorted. "So what kind of music do you really like, darlin'? What's on the playlist you pull up when no one's around and you aren't worried about denting your Celly Lewis persona?"
She looked up at him. He was leaning back against the wall, one booted foot propped against the slat of an empty chair pulled up to their table. His pose was relaxed, but his gaze speared right to her heart. When she started to move, his grip on her neck increased, keeping her in place. "I asked you a question, Celeste. Answer me."
Two of his fingers were stroking the juncture between neck and shoulder. Their presence reminded her of that centering pinch, which closed down her mind in a way that made it easier to speak her true feelings. But he wasn't doing that right now.
"That wasn't fair," she accused. "You caught me off guard. And I don't appreciate being compared to those kind of politicians. I'm not like them."
"No, you're not. You just gave me the opening, and I won't let you bullshit me on anything. So tell me."
"I can't. I don't want to." She set her jaw stubbornly.
"Three songs. First three that come to mind."
"It's dumb." When his fingers began to tighten again, she drew in a breath. "'Simple Love.' Alison Krauss."
"Another."
"'Heaven.' Bryan Adams."
"One more." This time he did shift his grip and compress the muscle in that way that hurt and pleasured at once. She gripped his leg. His other hand covered hers, tangled with her fingers. He kept his eyes locked on hers, his mouth firm.
"'Angel of the Morning.' Juice Newton."
"Good." He eased his touch, both a relief and a disappointment. He guided her legs over his so she was half on his lap, her butt on her chair but the rest of her leaned into him, held by him. He slid his lips over her brow. "You know, Alison Krauss does bluegrass. Not far from country. And Juice Newton has done some country, I'm sure. You may be a closet country fan, struggling to break free."
"The same way you'll embrace rap music tomorrow, Cowboy Troy." She curled her fingers against his shirt, played with one of the pearl snaps and flattened her palm to feel the man beneath the cloth. He'd said she'd have to wait for their next session another couple of days. She didn't want to go home alone, and she wanted to be with him, as a sub. Tonight.
Staring at the wall, she wondered if she had the courage to do what she wanted to do. She gripped his collar, leaned in closer so she didn't have to talk over the noise. "I know you said Friday. But is there anything that would make you reconsider that...sir?"
"Sincerity," he said after a long pause. He'd dipped his head to hear her low words, his eyes trained on her thighs until he shifted his attention to her face. "What will be different if I take you home tonight, Celeste?"
He'd left his hat on the table, and her nervous hand had wandered over to it, was playing with the felt brim. "I'll tell you...if I'm scared. I won't use my safe word unless I want to be done..."
"For two weeks. Second strike."
"For two weeks." She took a breath. "Leland, I..."
"If you're talking to me as your Master right now, address me properly." Tracing a line up her arm to her collarbone, he skimmed his knuckles along her sternum and the rise of her breasts over the vee neckline of the angel wing shirt.
"Okay. Sir." She kept hesitating over calling him Master, though it wasn't because she didn't want to call him that. It was because she really wanted to do so, and that need made it seem like such a huge word, so portentous. "What happened the other night... When things start getting crazy, I go crazy. Something dark takes over in my head. Dark and angry and... I can't explain it. It's me but not me. You say I'm bratting, but when I looked up bratting, there are some bad definitions for that, like I'm deliberately trying to manipulate you. A brat misbehaves to force a Dom to punish her, because that's what gets her off."
"In BDSM, terms can mean a lot of different things," he responded. "It depends on the Dom and sub. You do brat, and yes, you do it to try and control the situation. But you're motivated by fear and uncertainty, not by a calculated desire to manipulate me. There's a big difference."
He said it so calm and easy, like it wasn't really so bad. But she thought of spending two weeks without him, without his touch. Crazy as it sounded, because that really wasn't a long time, she wasn't prepared to risk that. She had to be entirely honest and hope he understood.
"I can't control that reaction. It doesn't seem like I can. I fight it, Leland. I want it, but I fight it. I'm afraid I'll use the safe word because of that, and I won't want to."
"You don't want to do without your Master for a couple weeks?"
She wasn't sure she could do without him for the less than two days between tonight and Friday. The energy around them had heat and weight, his gold eyes so penetrating she couldn't move. "No, sir."
"All right." He stroked her hair, curved one of those longer strands behind her ear. "You fight because you have to fight. Because you need the punishment, a firm hand, to get you past the need to fight. But think about this. You didn't fight it the first night."
"Because it was different." She trailed off uncertainly. Was it? He hadn't used restraints or punishment, but he'd restrained her with his voice, his touch. She'd felt totally under his command.
"Like this?" He gestured to the dance floor. "The vanilla sex, dating stuff. Maybe you fight because you don't want the overt Dom stuff."
She thought of how often she'd dreamed of the night at Club Surreal, how she'd responded to the Dom side of Leland the first time they'd met, the way he'd touched her in Jai's parking lot.
"Is it okay to want both?"
"Hell yeah." He smiled, showing his pleasure with her answer. "It's not 24/7 for most of us, Celeste. Being your Master isn't at odds with me taking you to a country bar to romance you some."
His expression changed, transforming from affable warmth to a hard stare that startled her. "Just like romancing you at a country bar doesn't change the fact I'm going to punish you good for calling yourself shit. When I look at you, I see a woman who wants to improve something already good at the core, not someone creating an image to cover or replace shit. You want me to stripe your ass for something, tearing yourself down like that would top the list."
His tone brimmed with a sensual menace that sent her scrambling for her defenses even as a part of her hoped he would jerk them out of reach before she got there. "I'm not tearing myself down," she managed. "It's just the truth."
She didn't want him messing with that reality. It had taken too long for her to accept it, build everything on it. Including the walls that surrounded her as a result. She set her jaw, plowed forward, hoping they could just skip over all that. "So I guess that's a no, right? About tonight."
"Not up to you to draw the lines in the sand, darlin'. You've asked. Now it's up to me to decide."
She fidgeted at that, resenting but understanding at the same time. He nudged her shoulder, making her look at him. His expression was easy again. He could be so matter-of-fact and straightforward about things. Dancing, singing to her, threatening to beat her ass.
"You have a decision of your own to make," he said. "I want to take you to a wedding."
"What?"
"I have some friends in New Orleans getting married this month. I RSVPed single, but I'm sure they won't mind if I bring a plus one. They aren't likely to run out of food if a few extra folks show up. I figured I'd go to NOLA
for the wedding on Saturday, stay overnight, make a trip of it. It'd be nice to have female company."
"I've lived in NOLA. Finding female company isn't difficult, even on a cop's bank account. Long as you use protection and have all your shots up to date."
She yelped as he pinched her thigh, then locked his arm down over her shins when she tried to scramble back in self-defense. The restraint meant she had to keep her legs over his lap and do nothing but squeal as he kept pinching her, tickling her. She struggled, but he had his arm securely around her back, holding her to him.
"Stop, stop. Mercy."
He paused, eyed her. She dropped her head back on his shoulder and gave him an exasperated look. "Didn't we talk about the using-your-size thing?"
"This wedding is a classy affair," he said, ignoring that. "Something a little above the twenty-five dollar hooker range, which hits the ceiling of my illegal sex budget. So have pity on me and go as my classy date. You can wear a slinky dress to make the bride mad, and I'll be all puffed up and territorial around the other guys."
She looked away, toward the dance floor. "Seems a little soon."
"We're going to watch them get married. Not get married ourselves."
"You know what I mean. To go off together like that."
He touched her face, guided it back toward his. "You know it's not too soon, Celeste."
"Yes, it is. It's too fast. It's all too fast." She started to get up, not playing this time, and he wouldn't let her go.
"Easy," he said. "Talk to me, Celeste."
"Can we just... I want to take it a step at a time. All I wanted was to have you take me home tonight. See how that goes. All I've been doing is thinking about that, and wondering if it's real or...hell, I haven't been thinking about it, as in thinking about it, because if I was really doing that, I probably would have cancelled our date altogether. I've just been wanting it."
Realizing how that sounded, she shook her head, her cheeks warming. "I don't mean that. I'm not looking for a desperation hookup." But she was desperate, she realized with a hopeless surge of disgust with herself. "I'm done. I need to go."
She thrust herself out of his grip with a sudden burst of temper and energy, and underestimated the propulsion of both. The table wobbled, her empty beer bottle toppling as she snagged the adjacent chair and tangled up her feet so she had to catch herself on the chair back or fall over it. She felt his hands at her waist, steadying her, but she pushed away.