Intimate Geography

by Tamsen Parker

“Oh no, India. I’d like for you to say yes to Crispin, please.”

  “Okay.” I hope the bruises on my face aren’t so bad he can’t see what he’s done to me. Made me so happy. Hunter didn’t want me unless he could keep me under his thumb, and he never acknowledged we were together anywhere outside the kink community. My family disowned me because they thought I was a freak who was going to embarrass them. My mother asked me to change my name.

  But Crispin wants to declare publicly that all of me belongs to him—even the messy, awkward, painful parts. He thinks I’m worth claiming. Even when I haven’t been at my best, he’s believed in me, trusted me to ultimately guard his heart even if I fumble sometimes. I look into his eyes so he knows for sure how much his faith in me means, how thrilled I am. “Then, yes, Crispin, I will marry you.”

  His face lights up into that brilliant smile that wrings my heart out, and he slides the ring on my finger. It fits, and I wonder how he knew my size. But it doesn’t matter. When it’s resting snug in its place, I feel the same release I always do, and I curse myself for not allowing this sooner. Do I get to feel this way all the time? What a soothing thought. I admire the ring on my finger before I look at him, his expression intent. I think he really wants this.

  “Feel okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Better than okay?” His tone is all seriousness, and I berate myself for being such a stone-cold bitch that he can’t tell this makes me ecstatic.

  “Um, yes. It feels…perfect.”

  “That is better than okay.”

  I press my lips together and nod at his smugness. And regret it. Fuck that hurts—so much I feel sick to my stomach. Crispin notices my grimace and frowns.

  “Now will you let them give you something? Please?”

  I glower at him. “Are you going to order me to?”

  “No, I’m not. But you don’t need to prove anything. Rey and I aren’t going to leave. Not until you say it’s okay. We’ll keep you safe, I promise. Just enough to take the edge off and let you rest easier, that’s all.”

  “Fine. The next time I wake up. Not a lot.”

  “No, not a lot.”

  “And I can change my mind if I don’t like it.”

  “Always,” he assures, petting me. I’m exhausted again. I let my eyes close under his touch and fall asleep, no longer holding myself quite so tightly.

  *

  When I wake up again, it’s to Crispin still stroking my hair.

  “How long have you been doing that?”

  “An hour.”

  “Did Rey come back?”

  “He did. He should be back any minute. Do you need something?”

  “No. Where’d he go?”

  “To talk to your dad.”

  “My dad is still here?”

  “Yes. He hasn’t left at all.”

  Unease crawls over me. I don’t like the idea of him being this close, as if he’ll learn about my life by osmosis. And if my dad is here, my mother can’t be far behind. I would’ve thought she’d be here already, maybe trying to smother me with a pillow while I was unconscious.

  “He’s worried about you, India.”

  “Did you talk to him?” It comes out more as a demand than a question, but Crispin doesn’t take the bait. He answers in a smooth and steady tone.

  “I did.”

  “What did you say? What did you tell him?” I push up on my elbows, nausea rocketing through my body at the abrupt movement, but I’m more frightened than sick. I will drag myself out of this bed and into the street if I have to, but I’m stopped by Crispin pressing my shoulders back, his thumbs stroking my collarbones.

  “Settle down, mili. I didn’t tell him anything. I know better than that. All he knows is my name and that I’m here to see you. That’s it. Can I call the nurse now?”

  “Okay.”

  “You should know he’s the reason you’re in a private room and the staff has been at a bare minimum. He told Dr. Howard to give you whatever you want, no questions asked.”

  “I’ll send him a fruit basket.”

  “You’re a tough nut to crack, India Burke.”

  The nurse arrives and bustles about, attending to me. I hate it, but I try so hard to tone down the bitch that’s raring to snap and be pleasant. Honey’s gotten me further with Lucy and Evans than vinegar ever did. I won’t be afraid to turn ice princess if necessary, but the nurse isn’t some blowhard I’m trying to do business with. I don’t have to prove myself to her. And Crispin was right. When she pushes a bare minimum of painkillers through my IV, it helps me relax. As she leaves, Rey returns with news.

  “There are two detectives outside. Your dad’s been keeping them at bay, but they’re not going to wait anymore. You’re going to have to talk to them.”

  I’m glad I acquiesced to the painkillers. It would be difficult to focus on their questions while trying to manage the hurt. As is, it’ll still be a challenge. I nod and take a deep breath, preparing.

  When Rey opens the door, a middle-aged white guy steps through, followed by a younger black woman. She’s sharply dressed, but his suit is straining to contain a respectable belly. Both of them size me up like they’ve dealt with their fair share of trauma victims—although maybe on cases that weren’t as high profile.

  The man addresses me first. “Ms. Burke, I’m Detective Jason Snyder and this is Detective Angela Butler. We’ll try to keep this as short as possible, but we have some questions for you.”

  “Of course.”

  Crispin and Rey sit in chairs on the far side of the bed while the detectives stand near the door. My boys both have deliberately neutral expressions on their faces, but they’re primed and waiting to defend me should the need arise.

  Detective Snyder flips open a small notebook and readies a pen. “Do you have any idea who assaulted you?”

  “There were two, maybe three men. It wasn’t a random mugging. I don’t know who they were, but I think I know who hired them. And I suspect they’re public transit union employees if that helps.”

  I tell them my theory about Toby Gordon and give them as many details as I can remember, but it’s not so long before my focus deserts me in the face of exhaustion and pain. I close my eyes and rub my face, wincing when I graze stitches along my browbone.

  “We’re done here, detectives.” Crispin’s voice is taut, like any nudge will snap his self-control, and his chair scrapes over the linoleum as he shifts closer to my bedside.

  “If we could—”

  “No.”

  I twist my hand to squeeze Crispin’s. “It’s all right. They’re just trying to do their jobs.”

  “They can do their jobs later.”

  “What else do you need, detectives?” Rey’s piped up, and I’m glad he’s here. He’s always been smooth with authority figures, and he’ll keep his cool while Crispin’s about to boil over.

  Detective Snyder eyes Crispin warily while Detective Butler volunteers, “We’d like to get some photographs of your injuries. We also have a few more questions.”

  Rey leans over and looks me in the eyes. “Are you up to them taking some pictures?”

  The idea of baring my injuries to strangers isn’t appealing, but the thought of weakening the case against the fuckers who attacked me because I’m feeling prissy and precious and fragile is maddening. “Yeah.”

  Rey addresses the detectives again and tells them they can take their photographs but any further questions will have to wait until tomorrow. Snyder looks unhappy, but Butler cuts him off. “We appreciate your cooperation, Ms. Burke. We’re going to do everything we can to get these guys. The information you’ve given us should help a lot.”

  When the tech they called in is done with the pictures, Rey shows him out. Crispin perches on the side of my bed and strokes my hair.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Tired. I’m so tired, Crispin.”

  “I know. You were such a brave, strong girl. You can rest now. I’m going to look after y
ou.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  ‡

  Rey was right. I walk out of the hospital in two days. Against medical advice. And walk might be a strong word, but I make it out the doors, through a gauntlet of press, and into the waiting town car under (mostly) my own power. I’m too focused on putting one foot in front of the other to be bothered by the torrent of flashes going off in my face or the flood of shouted questions battering my ears. One step, one breath, don’t get sick.

  The police escort flanking us provides a bit of a barrier, but I breathe a sigh of relief when I’m tucked between Crispin and Rey in the backseat, their bodies shielding me from the worst of the media onslaught. We don’t go far, only to the other side of town where Rey’s called in a favor and has a brownstone waiting for us. I struggle up the front steps, leaning on Crispin the whole way. When we get into the house and there are more stairs, I’m thankful when he says, “Don’t even think about it.”

  He lifts me into his arms and carries me to the second floor where there’s a sunny bedroom waiting for me. He lays me on the double bed and pulls a blanket over me, petting my hair and telling me to rest. I fall asleep and don’t wake until it’s dark outside. When I do, it’s to a note and my phone on the pillow next to me.

  Call me when you wake up ~ C

  Oh, he’s bossy, but it makes me smile and I do as I’m told.

  There’s a single ring before he picks up. “I’ll be right there.”

  I don’t bother arguing or getting up. I’ll be scolded if I do. I turn on the bedside lamp and lie on my side, looking around the room. It must be a girl’s room, all soft purples and greens. Pretty and not my style at all, but it feels comfortable, restful, and for once in my life I’m willing to accept that.

  The door opens, and Crispin walks in. He smiles when he sees me, and I smile back. He comes to sit on the side of the bed and rests a hand on my neck. “How are you feeling?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “Yeah, India, I know.” A few beats of silence pass, during which a fierce protectiveness darkens his eyes. Despite what I’ve said, the reassurances I’ve offered to the contrary, I know he blames himself for me getting attacked, that he’s certain it wouldn’t have happened if he’d been here. “Do you feel up to going downstairs for dinner?”

  He sounds reluctant, like he’d rather not be asking, but because he has, I let myself tell the truth. “Not really. Can I eat here?”

  Surprise crosses his face before he can help it and I nearly change my mind, but he looks so pleased. “Of course. I’ll get you something.”

  He slides his fingers into my hair and bends down to kiss my cheek.

  “You look better, pet. You’re going to be fine.”

  I’m glad of his reassurances. I know I will be because I can’t not be, but it’s still nice to hear. He stands up, takes his leave, and I close my eyes. When I open them to a sound at the door, it’s Rey who looks back at me.

  “Cris sent me to help.”

  I do need to use the bathroom, and while Crispin wouldn’t hesitate, I’d rather Rey help me. With that at any rate. I’m dizzy and nauseated when I sit up, but Rey is patient, waiting for my head to clear before he helps me into the en suite. I’m exhausted and feeling sick by the time I’m through, and I’m grateful for Rey’s solid arm at my waist as he brings me back to bed. There’s no way I would’ve made it downstairs.

  Crispin’s waiting for me and looks faintly alarmed when he sees me struggling so much, but he doesn’t move, just lets Rey prop me up against some pillows, pile a few more under my knees, and pull the blanket over me.

  “Take your meds, little one,” Rey urges. “You’ll feel better.”

  He gives me some pills and a glass of water, and I down them. I feel like shit, and there’s no reason to feel this bad if I don’t have to. And I’m finally coming to the conclusion that I don’t have to. Why have I been so dense about letting people in my whole life? But I wasn’t being stupid. I was being careful, protecting myself. But I don’t have to anymore. Not with them.

  “You should eat something, too, if you can,” Rey says, and I nod. Crispin offers me a fork and a bowl. The dish is warm, and I rest it on my knees. Risotto. I love Crispin’s risotto; it’s the perfect comfort food. The first bite is warm and creamy, heavy and rich in my mouth. Probably not what the doctor ordered, but I want to eat this, not like the hospital food Rey and Crispin have been trying to coax into me for the past couple of days. I eat a few bites, listening to Rey and Crispin’s idle chatter, ultimately falling asleep to the comfortable ebb and flow of their conversation.

  *

  The next week is a blur of sleep, aches, and pains as my body recovers from the beating I took. Dr. Howard comes to the house to check me over and pronounces me better, but still in need of rest. I get several visits from New York’s finest, as well as one from David Garcia, who apologizes profusely—though he couldn’t have known that identifying Toby would put me in physical danger. Toby’s been arrested on embezzlement charges, not to mention for blackmailing the union members over some minor fraud to assault me. If the case holds—and it should—he’ll be going away for a good long while, as will the accomplices he’d turned on once he was caught.

  Rey has to go back to San Francisco; he’s already been gone too long, and poor Matty’s been calling frequently in a panic. I’m not worried. Crispin will take good care of me. He and Mary talk every day, competing over who’s dealing with the more difficult patient. Mal’s held the title for a long time, but I suspect I’m giving him a run for his money. Mal is home and nearly back to his old self, with only some mild memory issues to show for his last episode. Luckily for us, Mary and Crispin seem to understand our cantankerousness is a sign we’re on the mend and don’t take it too personally.

  Crispin makes me adhere to doctor’s orders, which include getting plenty of sleep and not working too hard. We read, watch movies, play Scrabble—at which I profoundly waste him—and Trivial Pursuit—at which he trounces me. Crispin works some and cooks a lot. If he’s not careful, I’m going to gain a hundred pounds.

  It’s over French onion soup one day that he brings up my father.

  “Did you notice he wasn’t wearing a wedding ring?”

  “Hmm?” I’ve been too busy spooning the delicious dinner into my mouth to pay attention to anything but the salty broth, the crunchy croutons, and the melty cheese I have to wind around my spoon.

  “Your dad. He wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.”

  “I wasn’t in any shape to notice. Was he not?”

  Crispin shakes his head. “I thought it was odd. Did he never wear one?”

  “No, he always did.” I remember it: a thick gold band that left a divot whenever he took it off. “Did he say anything to you about my mother?”

  “No, but we didn’t talk much.”

  Odd, so very odd.

  “Do you think your parents…”

  “Got divorced? No. You don’t understand. My parents may have loathed each other, but they’d never get divorced.”

  “Would it make a difference to you if they did?”

  Would it? Maybe. I guess it would depend on why. If my dad had the balls to leave that horrid woman, that would make a difference indeed. But I shrug. It doesn’t matter. I have everything I need.

  *

  The next day, I’m curled up on the couch in the den under a blanket, reading Middlesex, when there’s a knock at the door.

  “Yeah?” I don’t take my eyes from my Kindle. It must be Crispin with lunch; I am getting hungry. When the door opens, it is Crispin, but not with food. No. Behind him—not daring to cross the threshold—is my father. My heart starts to race. What the hell is he doing here? Crispin strides across the room before I can say anything and sinks to his knees beside me.

  “This wasn’t his idea, mili. It was mine. Don’t be angry at him. I called him yesterday after we talked. He and your mom got divorced a year ago. They have no contact. I kno
w you’re as stubborn as they come, but give him five minutes? He misses you so much.”

  Part of me wants to scream at him. What the hell is he thinking, letting my father come here, letting him see me like this? At least give me some warning, let me suit up in my emotional armor. But if there’d been warning, there would’ve been no meeting. I would’ve refused. Crispin’s learned from experience.

  Another part of me wants to give my father a hug. I’ve missed him, too. He was never actively horrible. Just heart-achingly passive, absent, unwilling to stand up for me—and that’s bad enough. I press my lips between my teeth, and my brows knit.

  “Hey.” Crispin cups my face, willing me to look at him. “You don’t have to. I’m sorry if I went too far. I thought…”

  “No, you’re right. I do miss him.”

  “I know you do.”

  “But what if—”

  “If he hurts you, I’ll throw him out myself.” I stifle a laugh as Crispin runs his thumb over my cheekbone and a gentle smile crosses his face. “Do you want me to stay?”

  “No, we’ll be okay. And if he gets out of hand, I keep Ardmore’s Ass-Kicking Services on speed dial.”

  “All right, I’ll go make some lunch. Requests?”

  “Grilled cheese and tomato soup?”

  “Your wish is my command.” He leans in for a kiss before he walks over to the door, pausing to have a few words with my dad. I fold the cover of my Kindle closed, put it on the coffee table, and attempt to look decent. My hair’s a not-yet-washed-today nest on top of my head. I’m wearing Crispin’s hoodie—which is far from flattering—but at the moment, it’s not easy to get out of bed, never mind get dressed. Fuck it.

  Crispin ducks out, and my dad’s eyes settle on me. We blink at each other a few times before he walks over. He sits down and stiffly offers me a box I hadn’t noticed before. It’s pink with a shiny gold sticker from a bakery on it. A snack? I look at him, puzzled but amused, and he shrugs back. I open the box, and there’s a rainbow of macarons.

  “The first time I brought you macarons, you burst into tears because you wanted Oreos.”