Providence

by Leigh Hays

  Slightly uncomfortable shouldering that responsibility, Rebekiah exhaled and walked to the bed. She sat down on the edge. Lindsey’s eyes were closed. Considering her options, she decided to bypass negotiation and just tell her that she was going. Since Lindsey seemed like the type who won most negotiations, the odds were in Rebekiah’s favor that she could score a quick victory by not even allowing wiggle room. She leaned down, and Lindsey opened her eyes. “It’s time to go. Did you want to go by ambulance or cab?”

  Lindsey’s eyes narrowed. “I just need to sleep it off.”

  Rebekiah found Lindsey’s hand and held it. “That’s not what the nurse thinks, and I don’t think you’re a good judge of what you need right now.” Rebekiah squeezed her hand. “You’ve asked me to trust you, and now I’m asking you to trust me.”

  Lindsey stared, and Rebekiah felt that willpower push and pull against her before she finally nodded. “Cab, please.”

  “Thank you.” Relieved at her agreement, she squeezed her hand and leaned down to brush a kiss against her sweaty forehead. She helped her bundle up, and they headed downstairs to wait.

  A black and yellow cab pulled up in the lobby circle. Lindsey turned. She tried a smile, but it didn’t quite get there. “It’s okay. I’ve got it from here.”

  Rebekiah nodded. She’d already violated Lindsey’s privacy enough for one day. “Okay.” She stepped back but jumped forward as Lindsey wobbled. Wrapping an arm around her waist, she whispered, “Let me help you.”

  Lindsey gave a slight nod, and Rebekiah helped her into the cab.

  They rode in silence. Rebekiah tried to think of something to say, but the awkward intimacy made it hard. She had avoided mentioning the kiss in the few emails and texts they exchanged setting up this trip. She was paralyzed by indecision, something that was new to her.

  Lindsey reached out and squeezed her hand. “Thank you.”

  Startled by her touch, Rebekiah barely heard her over the Indian hip-hop playing into the back seat of the cab. She smiled. “You’re welcome.”

  Lindsey’s head rested against the smudged window while she watched the traffic move through Times Square. “I’m so tired.”

  Rebekiah held her hand until the taxi pulled up in front of the ER. Lindsey opened the door and stepped out. Rebekiah slid over and handed the cabbie the fare before getting out.

  Lindsey stood on the curb. “You don’t have to pay.”

  Rebekiah shut the door and turned around. “I know.” She followed Lindsey into the hospital toward reception.

  The woman at the desk glanced up. “Can I help you?”

  Rebekiah spoke up first, Lindsey supplying medical cards and other identification as needed. She collected the clipboard and helped Lindsey to the chairs at the far end of the room. She filled out the questionnaire with what little information she had while they waited to be seen.

  Lindsey spent most of it semiconscious while Rebekiah tried to suppress the memories of the last time she’d visited an ER. It was a few days before Emma’s death. Emma could barely stand, and Rebekiah had to fight to get her released to hospice. She died three days later. Lindsey’s condition triggered her anxiety, but her rational mind refused to go there. However, the longer she sat there, the worse it got. She closed her eyes and tried taking deep breaths. She could feel her heart racing. She practically jumped to her feet when they called for Lindsey.

  Lindsey lifted her head. Rebekiah reached down. “That’s you.”

  Lindsey groaned and got to her feet. The nurse came forward and slipped an arm around her waist. “Let’s get you checked out.” She looked over her shoulder. “Are you coming?”

  “Uh…” Rebekiah’s anxiety, coupled with her reluctance to intrude, rooted her tongue to the roof of her mouth.

  “I’ll come back and brief you.” The nurse smiled and kept walking.

  Rebekiah sank down in the chairs and wished that she still smoked.

  * * *

  Lindsey woke up disoriented and soaked in sweat. She felt more alert than she had in days. The fever must have broken. She moved, and her arm tugged on the IV. The past few days came back to her a bit hazy. Not even her worst hangovers left her feeling so wrung out.

  She scanned the room—a nylon curtain split her from the other occupant—to the tiny TV on the wall and back around to the window, and that was where she found Rebekiah fast asleep, curled up in a chair by her bed with her feet propped up along the windowsill and her hands tucked under her armpits. She flushed thinking about Rebekiah helping her get dressed, cleaning her up, and just sitting with her. So much for professional boundaries.

  Nothing about Rebekiah followed her normal script either professionally or personally. Watching her sleep, she realized she didn’t care. She was still here, and that counted for something.

  She dozed off until the nurse walked in to check her vitals and hand her a glass of ice. When he left, Lindsey looked over and saw Rebekiah covering a yawn.

  Taking a small sip of the ice chips, she said, “You didn’t have to sleep here.”

  Rebekiah shrugged. “I didn’t want you to be alone.”

  Her stomach fluttered, and she smiled to take the sting out of her words. “I would have been okay.”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t have to do this,” she said, even though she wanted her to stay.

  Rebekiah smiled. “No, I don’t. But I’m here.”

  “Did they tell you what’s wrong with me?”

  Rebekiah nodded. “Dengue fever.” She nodded toward the IV. “There’s no treatment other than pain relief and fluids. All they did was hook you up to an IV and pump you full of fluids.” She gave a half grin. “And some Tylenol.”

  “Isn’t that some tropical disease?”

  A grim smile graced Rebekiah’s face. “Sort of. It’s mosquito borne, like malaria.”

  She took a deep breath. “Probably picked it up in Beijing.” She took another deep breath. “I got sick last week and thought the worst was over until yesterday.” She sagged against her pillow.

  Rebekiah cocked her head to the side. “How often do you travel?”

  She shrugged. “About two weeks out of the month.”

  “So, you spend about six months out of the year somewhere else?”

  Lindsey paused. “Yeah. I guess so. Why?”

  Rebekiah’s voice gentled. “Who takes care of you when you’re sick?”

  Somewhat confused, Lindsey considered her question. Other than a few memorable childhood illnesses, the answer was no one. “I do.”

  Rebekiah took a deep breath. “Okay.” She glanced at her hands and then at Lindsey. “I called your work.” She clarified. “When you didn’t answer your phone. I spoke with Sabrina.”

  “Sabine.”

  “Right. Anyway, she called back while you were getting checked out. She cleared your schedule and spoke with Gordon at the Four Point Foundation.” She waved her hand. “She said to tell you to check your email for details but that she’s put everything on hold for two days and took care of anything that couldn’t wait.”

  Lindsey smiled. “Good.” She closed her eyes. Her thoughts drifted and she spoke before her filter came back on. “You’re very good at this.” She opened her eyes and stared.

  Rebekiah tilted her head and raised an eyebrow. “Relaying messages?”

  Lindsey smiled. “No. Taking care of me.” Even though she didn’t need to be taken care of, she had to admit it felt good to have someone look out for her.

  Rebekiah returned her smile. “I’ve had practice.”

  “Emma. I’m sorry.” Of course. She should have known.

  Rebekiah waved her off. “It’s fine. But I know my way around a hospital.” She leaned in and said, “I may have stretched the truth about our relationship a bit to get things done quicker.”

  “How much?”

  Rebekiah grimaced. “They think we’re married.”

  Lindsey rolled her eyes and chuckled, thinking she’d heard w
orse ideas. “Well, sweetie, how about you work on getting me out of this place?”

  Chapter Eleven

  Lindsey spent the morning working through the general office workload and then moved on to her specific workload. With a week before Christmas, the year-end business was in full swing. But thoughts of Rebekiah crept in between breaks in the work. The NYC trip loomed large. What was she doing? Was she pursuing Rebekiah? Was Rebekiah pursuing her? Was it business or personal?

  The kiss felt pretty personal, but Rebekiah hadn’t made a single mention of it. And the way she took care of her when she was sick, no one did that for her. Lindsey understood the ebb and flow of macro relationships, but the nuances of romantic relationships left her confused. Either way, she didn’t have time for romance or sex; she never did. Work always came first. Right? Right. Then why was she having such a hard time concentrating?

  She looked at her watch. Taking a deep breath, she exhaled and turned back to her laptop with a muttered, “Suck it up and get back to work.”

  “Can I see some identification?” An hour later, Sabine’s voice cut through her thoughts. She stood up to see a woman standing with another man next to Sabine’s cubicle.

  Sabine stood with her arms folded while the woman flashed her badge. Sabine glanced at it before eyeing the man. He showed her his ID, too. Sabine said, “Follow me.”

  Lindsey stood up just as the pair walked into her office.

  The woman flashed her badge. “Agent Gail Travers. DOJ.”

  Department of Justice. Lindsey reached out and shook hands. “Agent Travers. And?”

  Sabine lingered by the door, waiting until Lindsey let her know it was okay to go.

  “Agent Feldon.”

  She shook his hand; it was damp. She resisted the urge to wipe her hand down her pants and decided to sit behind her desk rather than in her sitting area. “What can I do for you?”

  Travers sat down, and Feldon followed suit, reaching out and shutting the door first. “We’re following up with Roger Stross’s associates.” Felton pulled out a pen and pad and leaned forward. Travers asked, “When was the last time you spoke with Roger Stross?”

  Lindsey leaned back, irked. Roger. Of course. Her schedule had been so hectic that she’d never reached out to him, and it weighed on her. Considering that the feds were here now, she was glad she didn’t. Cathryn was right to fire him. “Sometime in July.”

  “And nothing since?”

  Lindsey shook her head. “No, nothing.”

  Travers asked, “How well do you know Yevgen Kharitonov?”

  She recognized the name, one of Cathryn’s people. She shrugged. “Not well. I’ve met him twice.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?”

  Lindsey shook her head. “I don’t know. A few months ago.” She tapped her desk. “Here. At the office.” She frowned. “He’s just a third-party contact for Cathryn. She works with him more often.” She reached for her phone. “I can get Cathryn in here.”

  Travers put her hand on the phone. “That’s okay. We’ve already spoken with Ms. Wexler.” She moved her hand. “Were you aware that your firm made three separate payments to the Kharitonov Group totaling 1.4 million during the last year?”

  “No.” Her stomach dropped. Was this the irregularity Cathryn found? She kicked herself for not pressing for details.

  Travers folded her arms. “Does that seem high to you?”

  Lindsey held back her yes. 1.4 million in one year? Not significant by itself but significant because it was a third-party vendor and not a direct client. What was Roger doing with Cathryn’s clients? “It depends.”

  “On?”

  “The type of business we’re doing with them.” She remembered a conversation she had with Cathryn a few years ago around federal regulations. “How many times have you paid for dinner, bought hotel rooms, purchased tickets?” Cathryn had said. “That’s not a bribe. That’s the cost of doing business.”

  Lindsey chose her next words carefully. “We pay a variety of local third-party vendors to help us seek business opportunities in their home countries. Some of those deals can be quite expensive.” What was Cathryn doing with Yevgen?

  “Let’s cut the business jargon. They’re bribes.”

  Lindsey shook her head. “No. They’re not. We’re fully compliant with the FCPA.” She reached for her phone again. “I can bring up documentation to support that.”

  Travers smiled. “Thank you. We appreciate your willingness to open your books to us.”

  Lindsey felt the trap snap. There was no way to say no without looking guilty, but with Roger’s recent and unreported embezzlement, there was no way in hell she was going to give the feds her books. Not before she looked at them. She plastered a smile on her face and said, “Of course. It’ll take a few weeks with the holidays and all.”

  Travers grinned. “Of course. We can always get a court order.” She knew Lindsey was on to her.

  Lindsey hedged her bets and gave her best regretful look. “You might have to. I can provide you with our FCPA documentation. But I’m not authorized to release our corporate accounts to you. I’ll need to consult with my partners first.” She picked up her phone and dialed Sabine’s number. Sabine’s curt yes was met with an equally brief, “Can you make a copy of our FCPA procedures and bring them in?” She hung up and made a point of pulling her keyboard toward her. “Sabine will have the paperwork for you in just a few minutes.” She nodded toward the door.

  Travers tipped her head. “Thanks for your help.”

  Lindsey smiled. “Anytime.” She kept her eyes on the door and watched Sabine hand them a manila folder.

  The payments worried her. They were much larger than they normally doled out, but Cathryn was right. The federal corruption law interfered with legitimate and quasi-legitimate business. And with so many other multinational corporations engaging in far more obvious and illegal activities, it didn’t seem fair that the DOJ were singling them out. It wasn’t her first time dealing with federal interference. However, it was possible that Roger’s misdeeds had led the feds to investigate other avenues in their firm. They’d need something substantial to subpoena the firm’s accounts, and she doubted they had it. Agent Travers wouldn’t have bothered with the cat and mouse if she had something on their business. But they were easy prey if they rolled over. Lindsey had no intention of doing that.

  * * *

  Rebekiah watched through the lens as Elena circled the young submissive bent over the Queen Anne writing desk. Her posture made a perfect L across the wood; naked but unbound, she wore only fishnet stockings—a single side garter to hold them up—and glossy four-inch pumps. Her feet sat perfectly centered on the white squares amid the black diamond tiles. Her labia stood out, cupped between her lemon-shaped ass and bare upper thighs.

  “Do you know why you’re here?” A close-up of Elena in her black leather dress. Another of her face, both stern and compassionate.

  “Yes, Elena.”

  Rebekiah remembered the last time she asked Elena why she didn’t use mistress as a title. Elena had laughed. “It’s too fucking silly. It knocks me right out of dom space.”

  “What about Ms. or ma’am?”

  “Oh, Jesus, Rebekiah. Ma’am? I am not an old lady; I get enough of that word from the young kid at the coffee shop. And Ms. I sound like a school teacher. Well, hmm. Maybe Ms. isn’t so bad after all. I’ll have to keep that in mind for my subs with a teacher fetish.”

  Elena dragged the leather straps of the flail along the woman’s back and down her thighs. “I want you to count off each stroke for me. We’ll go to twenty-five.” Her hand rose, the strips brushing back against her wrist.

  “Yes, Elena.”

  Swoosh, snap. “One, Elena.” Swoosh, snap. “Two, Elena.” Swoosh, snap, snap. “Three, four, Elena.” The sub’s voice shook, and she took a deep breath just as another swoosh, snap resonated in the room. “Five, Elena.” Swoosh, snap. “Six, Elena…”

  Re
bekiah slipped into her own world of watching and wanting. She slid to the floor and lay on her back with her camera pointed toward the woman’s face. She listened to the rhythm and watched the sub’s face change as the leather slapped her bare ass. Her eyes opened and closed with each slap. A silent O formed on her lips before she took a deep breath and uttered “Eleven, Elena.” Her eyes stayed open. And for one second, she turned her head, looked Rebekiah in the eyes and said, “Twelve, Elena.” Her face twisted in a grimace of pleasure and pain on the edge of both and neither. Rebekiah smiled; anticipation thrummed through her body.

  She kept going, moving around on the floor until Elena reached the last stroke and stopped. Stepping away from her sub, Elena ran a hand along the woman’s heated ass. Rebekiah watched the sub try to suppress a flinch, her own excitement rising. She looked up through the lens and snapped off a couple more shots of Elena with her hands on her hips and an expression of command and attitude on her face. A hand descended into view, and Elena pulled the camera away from her.

  “Wait…I’m not done.”

  Elena lifted Rebekiah’s chin. “Tonight you are.” She kissed her on the forehead and handed her back the camera before ushering her out the door.

  Somewhat disappointed and definitely aroused, Rebekiah left the room and wandered the event. Various scenes played out in the expansive warehouse setting. She’d been informally documenting the Rhode Island BDSM community for a little over ten years. As Elena’s involvement grew, so did hers. Over the years, she’d joined in, taking on secondary roles, an active observer and passive participant. But she preferred words over props.

  Her comfort level with diverse sexuality tapped into a niche market, and she’d become one of a handful of photographers taking queer portraits both in and out of scene. She charged reasonable rates, and as a result, she often had a plethora of willing models for her fine art projects and a venue to expand her boudoir techniques.

  In the far corner, someone caught her eye, just a glimpse, but she could have sworn it was Lindsey. Intrigued and still aroused, she shifted closer and saw the woman sink to her knees in front of a leather-clad woman sprawled on a settee. She was too far away to hear the words but watched her crawl toward her dom and bury her face between her legs. A potent mix of jealousy and desire surged up, and Rebekiah moved closer.