Intimate Geography

by Tamsen Parker

  I want to revel in the beet red color that’s burning up Brad’s face. Fucker. But instead I turn, heart pounding, and grab Cynthia’s arm, leading her away so the cameras can’t capture any more images of her shocked face than they already have. I didn’t have time to brief her earlier, and doubtless she’s as surprised as the rest of the crowd. I’d thought it best to keep it quiet, but now I’m going to pay. I’m counting down the seconds until the Blackberry vibrates in my pocket with Slade on the other end. Bring it on, guys. If you’re going to crush me, now’s a great time to do it.

  *

  After the fucking misery that was the press conference this morning, all I wanted to do was go home, sink into my tub, and crank pathetic break-up music until my neighbors complained. Unfortunately, I need to haul ass back to my office to deal with the San Jose project Patterson’s fucked up.

  After several long hours of guiding Patterson out of the quagmire he’s made for himself, I’ve had enough. I pack up a few things at eight and head out to my car. It’s light out on my way home. What am I going to do with myself? I don’t want to cook. It’s too depressing and makes me think of Crispin. Not that I have food in the house anyway. I don’t want to read because all I’ll be able to think of is him. Goddammit. I should’ve stayed at work. At least work keeps this godawful, empty, gnawing sensation at bay. But the second I slow down, the instant my mind isn’t occupied with procedural manuals, budgets, and org charts, it comes back. He comes back. I need a fucking hobby.

  It’s with dread that I pull into my space in the garage and drag myself into the waiting elevator. Maybe I’ll go to sleep. At least when I sleep, there’s a fifty-fifty shot my brain will occupy itself with something other than him. That’s better odds than anything else.

  The elevator reaches my floor, and I stumble out. Jesus, I’m tired. I’ve been tired for months. I’m not used to being tired. It doesn’t sit well with me.

  I don’t need much sleep, but what little I do need is imperative. And currently I’m running on about half of that because I wake up in a cold sweat even when I have nice dreams about Crispin. Well, particularly when I have nice dreams about him. It’s taking its toll. Yes, sleeping is a good idea.

  I round the corner and come to a halt. I know I haven’t been getting enough rest, but surely I’m not so sleep-deprived as to cause hallucinations. But I can’t think of any other reason Crispin would be sitting in front of my door.

  Chapter Thirteen

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  Crispin stands up, and my heart kicks at my ribcage. There he is, tall and broad-shouldered, his hair shorter than usual. He’s got on a dark grey-blue T-shirt under a military-looking jacket, and jeans. And flip-flops. Always with the flip-flops. Does the man not own any other shoes?

  I regard him warily before shutting my eyes. When I open them, he’s still there.

  “India…”

  No, no, no. Agony rips through me when he says my name and my head swims. I look away, staring at a worn spot on the carpet.

  I have a choice. I can turn around and leave, get in my car and drive until I can’t anymore. Then I could pretend he wasn’t here. That this has been a tiny and unfortunate blip on my way to feeling like a person again, instead of skin wrapped around wanting, waiting for something I’m not allowed, not deserving to have.

  My other option is to dive in. To go to him and let myself soak in the touch, the feel, the smell of him, knowing the outcome is assured. Is it better to have loved and lost? I’m not sure I want to test that theory again.

  But it’s hopeless. Just as I’ve always been hopeless where Crispin is concerned. It’s on unsteady feet, with a klaxon of warning sounding in my head, that I drop my bag and run to him, throwing myself upon his mercy and into his arms with a single word: “Crispin.”

  His arms come around me, and I can’t believe I considered turning away. I will suffer any amount of anguish to have him hold me for one more second. He feels the same and smells the same, and when he speaks, it’s in the voice I remember thinking could turn sharp or sweet on a dime—perfect. And it turns sweet when I start to cry.

  “It’s all right, kitten. You’re okay. Come on, let’s go inside.”

  Right. We’re standing in the hallway. Of my apartment building. And I’m in tears. I don’t want to let him go, but I really don’t want anyone else to see me in this state, so I pull away and try to open my door. It resists and I frown. Ah, yes, keys would be helpful. I dig them out of my coat pocket and let us in.

  It’s strange to see anyone other than Rey in my apartment, and I’m embarrassed because Crispin’s home is so lovely and mine is…not. But he seems untroubled as he leads me over to the couch where we sit.

  “My bag.”

  “I’ll get it.”

  “No!”

  If he lets go, he’ll be gone. I know it.

  “We can’t leave it sitting in the hallway.” No, I suppose we can’t.

  “Fine. I’ll come with you.”

  “Why don’t you sit and rest? I’ll be right back.”

  “No.”

  “Goddammit, you’re a stubborn little thing. Sit. I’m not going to leave.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  He looks pained but doesn’t argue.

  “Fine, come on.” He takes me by the hand and tugs me out the door. I almost giggle when he throws my Prada bag over his shoulder—he looks ridiculous and orange is not a good color on him—but I’m too stunned. When we come back down the hall, he picks up a worn army surplus duffel bag and sets it down inside my apartment. It makes me feel like there’s actually a possibility he’s not going to leave.

  “Now you’ll sit and rest.”

  “No.” I cross my arms over my chest in my best pout.

  “I’m not going to argue with you about everything. Do as you’re told.”

  “No.”

  “I see we’re going to do this the hard way.” He glares at me for a split second before he picks me up and dumps me onto my couch.

  “Stay there while I make you some dinner.”

  “You can’t tell me what to do. You don’t have a contract.”

  His glower intensifies. I wonder if he’s sorry he’s come. I hope not. But just as the panic starts to rise, he snaps, “Hell, India, you want a contract? I’ll give you one.”

  He reaches for a pen and one of the takeout menus that sit by my phone. He scribbles something on the back and passes it to me. Right next to the pad Thai, he’s written in his precise hand:

  Crispin Michael Ardmore accepts responsibility for the care and well-being of India Kittredge Burke for the foreseeable future.

  He’s signed and dated it as well. I blink up at him.

  “I can’t sign this.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I can’t do this again.”

  “Do what?”

  Here we are, so soon. Couldn’t this have waited until I’d had my fill of him? Enough to get me through a few more weeks at least? To delay the inevitable misery? I can’t stand the idea that, once we’ve talked this out, he’ll leave and I’ll be alone again. But it’s better to rip off the bandage, right? Right?

  “I gave myself to you as fully as I’m capable of, and you told me it wasn’t good enough. And I’m not going to give up Rey. Ever. Don’t make me choose between the two of you. If that’s going to happen again, I can’t do it. You broke my heart, Crispin. How am I supposed to believe you’re not going to turn around and do it again?”

  A grimace pushes his brows together, etching a deep line between them, and he shakes his head.

  “I’m so sorry, India. You have no idea how much I regret saying those things to you. I know this isn’t easy for you. I spent too much time focusing on what you were holding back and waiting for you to change instead of recognizing everything you’d given to me. You deserve better. It’s not going to happen again.”

  I’d like to believe him, but the ripping, tearing sensation of when he said it was over is stil
l too raw. I don’t want to push him away by arguing—I’m desperate to have him back—but I need to make sure. I don’t think I’d survive him leaving again.

  It’d be so easy to promise myself to him, to swear I’ll lay every part of myself bare. Then he’d stay for sure. But my staunch attachment to fairness won’t allow it. I won’t lie about how selfish I am, about how I want everything without being on the hook to reciprocate.

  “You can’t live with half a person. And I can’t argue with that. If you want more, you should have it. I can try, but I can’t make any promises. If this is all I ever have to offer, you need to be okay with that. And if you’re not…” The thought is too painful to contemplate, but I can’t get stuck in this delusional, blissfully ignorant state where I’m being offered everything I never knew I wanted. “And if you’re not, then you should leave and never talk to me again. You coming back like this hurts me. If you don’t mean to stay, then you need to get out and let me get on with my life.”

  My breath catches at the possibility he’ll turn and leave because he’s reconsidered and he can’t be bothered to put up with my 757’s worth of baggage after all. Especially without the promise of what I know he wants: all of me. I wouldn’t blame him if he said no because it’s a shitty offer, so much less than he deserves, but god I hope he doesn’t.

  He looks down at his feet, a hand on his hip. He shifts his weight before his eyes meet mine again, that perfect shade of slate blue with the dark lashes I’ve imagined a hundred thousand times since he set fire to my bruised and battered heart.

  Don’t hurt me again. Please, Crispin. Please.

  “I know what it’s like to live without you in any capacity. I don’t want to do that again. I’m all in, India. You can do with that what you like. I want more from you. Always have, still do—that’s no secret. But I’m not going to demand it from you. I can’t. That’s not how this works. And I’d rather have whatever you’re willing to…no, whatever you can give than not have you at all. That’s my bottom line. I would rather have a fraction of you than three of any other woman on the planet.”

  That makes me crack a smile. “What about four?”

  “Even four.”

  “Five?”

  “Even five.” A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

  “Six?”

  He pretends to think about it. Yes, perhaps half a dozen is the magic number. But when I narrow my eyes, he laughs. “Not a million. Not ten million. You’re the one I want. It’s not going to be easy, but we’ll work it out. Because we can’t…not. I’m not going anywhere.”

  His slow, steady words give me vertigo. Unconditional love. Rey’s been the only one to deliver on that pledge, but he can only be so much to me. From all other possible sources, there’ve been strings. Maybe better described as nooses. But Crispin’s cut them all. He could be my everything, and the possibility makes me ache down to the marrow in my bones. Being away from him taught me how much I value that, how much—despite my best efforts to insist otherwise—I crave it. I’ve never wanted anything so badly. “Promise?”

  “I gave you a contract. You want me to promise, too?”

  “You have a bad habit of not always honoring contracts.”

  He frowns, but he can’t argue. He says quietly, earnestly, “I promise,” and my heart skips a beat.

  “Scout’s honor?”

  “Scout’s honor.”

  “Swear?”

  “I swear on my life.”

  I look at him suspiciously, but all I can see is wide-open honesty and hope. It scares the living crap out of me, so I do what I always do and make a joke.

  “This is the worst contract I’ve ever seen.”

  “Personal or professional?”

  “Either.”

  “We’ll have Matty redraft it. But that’s all you need to know for now.”

  “Okay.” My cheeks have pinked in a way that would flatter a virgin. For once in my adult life, I’ve been startled into shyness.

  “I give you an open-ended contract, and all you can say is ‘okay?’”

  “Yeah.” The muscles in my face move in a way they haven’t in months. I think I’m smiling.

  “Okay.” He answers my grin with his lopsided smile.

  This probably doesn’t sound romantic to anyone else. It doesn’t have quite the same ring to it as ’til death do us part, but for me, this is better than any marriage proposal. He’s offering me a tailor-made commitment I can actually accept and miraculously not asked for anything in return. So I do the inevitable and sign, using my real name for the first time since I signed my contract with Hunter. Crispin kneels beside me, and we seal it with a kiss. A sweet, short, chaste, and loving kiss that takes my breath away. I am his, and he is mine. For the foreseeable future.

  When he pulls away, we stare at each other. Surely this is when someone should call a wrap and the credits should roll. Instead, we grin at each other stupidly until Crispin checks his watch and frowns. “Why are you getting home so late?”

  “This is early for me to get home.”

  “And you haven’t eaten yet?”

  “No.”

  His expression clouds over. I’m getting myself in trouble.

  “You’ll sit while I get you something to eat.”

  I could argue with him—there was no stipulation made in our contract about obeying—but I’ll leave it for now. Besides, he’s already stripping his jacket off, walking into the kitchen, and starting to rummage. I close my eyes and lean back into the couch. It’s the first moment I haven’t been so overwhelmed by his being here that I have the presence of mind to ask after Mal and Mary.

  “How are your parents?”

  “They’re good,” he says, amidst sounds of opening and closing cabinets and drawers. “They say hello. They told me not to come back.”

  I smile as I listen to him tug open the sticky refrigerator door and even crack the creaky oven. When I hear him come back into the living room, I open my eyes. He’s standing in front of me, arms folded across his chest.

  “You have no food in the house, India. What do you eat?”

  “Coffee and takeout?”

  His expression darkens further. “Not while I’m here you don’t. Where’s the grocery store?”

  “Have to drive.”

  “Okay. This is what we’re going to do. You’re going to take a bath while I go the store. Give me your keys.”

  I surrender them meekly, and when he orders, “Bath, now,” I don’t make a peep, but show him down the hall. The bathroom is the reason I rented this apartment. It was the cheapest thing I could find that had a whirlpool tub, and I make use of it whenever I get the chance.

  “Shoes off.” As he issues his instructions, he starts the water running and throws in some salts.

  After I’ve toed them off, he reaches out and pushes my coat over my shoulders and tosses it aside. “Turn around.”

  He unzips my emerald-green sheath dress and starts to slip it off, but his hands fall away and the silk puddles around my feet. “Jesus Christ, India. What the hell happened to you?”

  Oops. I forgot about that.

  “Nothing?” I try. But he’s not biting.

  “The hell it’s nothing. Tell me.” His tone doesn’t leave any room for argument, though his touch is gentle as he skims his fingers over the fading bruises that cover my back, ribs, hips, behind, and thighs. He can’t even see the ones on the front of my ribcage and my hipbones.

  “I picked up a guy at a bar.”

  “And he did this to you? I’ll kill him.”

  “You’re going to kill someone for hitting me?” Sarcasm’s not my best-laid plan, but I can’t help myself.

  “He obviously didn’t know what he was doing. Look at you. Why were you picking guys up in a bar anyway? Why didn’t you ask Rey to find you someone?”

  “I didn’t have time. And besides, I don’t do that where I work.”

  “You can’t pick up strangers, you know that. You could�
��ve been… Did you go see a doctor? He could’ve done some serious damage.”

  He turns me around, and I wince when he touches the side of my ribs. The expression on his face, pained as it is, warms me. He’s so worried, doesn’t want me hurting.

  “No, I didn’t. It’s just some bruises.”

  “No, it’s not. This is assault.”

  “Consenting adults?”

  “I know you, India. You didn’t consent to this.”

  I did. Begged for it, actually, but I don’t want to admit that and get yelled at more. Besides, it’s not a distinction many people would make, unless it were truly a jury of my peers. Good luck asking about that during jury selection.

  “He didn’t know any better.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “A week ago.”

  “Does Rey know?”

  “Sort of.”

  An expression I can’t read flits across his face, but it’s gone before I can make it out. Crispin sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. I’m already trying his patience, that much is clear. He pauses, gathering his thoughts. He and Rey are alike this way. They both mentally compose their lectures before they scold me.

  “That was really stupid, and you’re not to do it again. If you need this, you’ll call me and I’ll get on a plane. I don’t care if we have a contract or not. Or have Rey find you someone if you want. But you will not put yourself at risk by picking up the meanest-looking drunk you can find ever again. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.” I know it was stupid, but… No, there’s no way to make an argument about this. It was really fucking stupid. I’m lucky I came out of it how I did.

  “All right.” His anger is gone, and he’s gentle, cupping my cheek. I place my own hand over his.

  “Do you want Rey to find me someone else?” Crispin’s monogamous with his subs. I always assumed they were with him as well, but maybe that’s not true? Or maybe he can’t be bothered to come to San Diego whenever I’m having a meltdown? He hasn’t left for anyone before; why would he start now?