I left the elevator and crossed the lobby to the street, so lost in debating with myself that I almost walked smack into the slender, pale man who stepped deliberately in my path.
“Robin—” Kyle reached out a hand as I stumbled to a halt. He looked gaunter than when I’d seen him last, shivering in a microfiber windbreaker with frayed cuffs. If the waxy skin, bloodshot eyes, and twitchy energy were any indication, he was using again. If he’d ever really stopped. “I hoped I’d catch you here.”
The muscles in my jaw tightened so fast it hurt. “What, have you been staking out Char’s building, waiting for me to show up?”
He hung his head. “Once I found out the charges were going to be dismissed, I knew you’d have to come back. I needed to see you. Robin, I’m sorry—”
“Oh, fuck you,” I sneered, turning on my heel and dodging foot traffic to put him behind me as literally as I was trying to do figuratively. I could feel him there, though, trotting to catch up.
“Robin, please!” he called out, and the anger that had begun seething inside me at the sight of him erupted.
I whirled on him. “What the fuck do you want from me?”
“I don’t know!” Tears glittered in his eyes. “Everything is all fucked up, and I thought if I could see you, make you understand—”
“I understand just fine. You got caught, and you tried to save your own ass by throwing me under the bus.”
He opened his mouth to try to deny that, then snapped it shut again. We both knew I was dead on. His complaint against me had been an effort to make my testimony against him look retaliatory.
“But you got caught in a lie, so you backed down. So what are you after now? Need money for a better attorney? Need a character witness at your sentencing?”
“No. No!” Kyle’s face crumpled. He scrubbed his cheeks, erasing the tear tracks. “I just need you. I need you to forgive me, to be here when this is all over, so we can work through this.”
My eyes popped open, and my jaw dropped. “Are you fucking kidding me?” I dragged a hand through my hair, my fingers catching on tangles. I’d let it grow these past months in Michigan. “You tried to ruin my life! I never did a damned thing to you that you didn’t beg me for. You kept pushing the limits, not me. You falsely accuse me of assault, and now you want to work through it? Fuck you.”
I turned away in disgust, but before I got a couple steps, he grabbed my arm. Passersby bumped against us, because of course he couldn’t be bothered to notice we were blocking the sidewalk. I spun back around, barely stopping myself from clocking him.
I jabbed my index finger into his chest instead. “Hopefully, you’re going to jail for embezzlement. If they tack on some time for filing a false complaint, I’m okay with that. Maybe you’ll use the downtime to get your shit together. But when you get out, there is only one thing I need from you: don’t come looking for me. There’s nothing for us to work through. Get clean, don’t get clean, I don’t care. Just stay the fuck away from me.”
I stormed off before that broken look on his face could take the edge off my anger. Kyle deserved every bit of my rage, no matter how badly I wanted to empathize with him. The instinct within me to help people—to fix them and make them better and solve their problems—was making grabby hands in his direction. I couldn’t let myself be sucked in by him again.
My mind skipped back to Geoff. The encounter with Kyle reaffirmed that getting involved with anyone this soon was a bad idea. And yet I couldn’t stop thinking about how close he was, geographically speaking, from where I was settling down. It would be easy to work something out with Geoff, without becoming embroiled in the kind of needy, codependent relationship things had devolved into with Kyle. With Geoff, I could indulge my taste for the subtle, intense psychological play I enjoyed, because while Geoff might think he wanted the physical brutality Kyle had pushed for, he knew he could never demand it. This could be the opposite of what I’d had with Kyle.
But Char was right. We needed to negotiate things better, have a contract in place, work on establishing limits and building trust.
I knew just where to begin.
Geoff
“So, did you meet any interesting men?” Ling asked as I sat with my sketch pad, trying to translate a design that had been hovering elusively in my mind ever since we returned to Chicago.
“Did you?” I shot back at the phone lying on the table. I had her on speakerphone so I wouldn’t have to locate my headset. I didn’t want to be drawing while holding the phone between my shoulder and ear.
“Yes, and a couple women too. Would you like details?” There was a slight smirk in her voice. While I’d been in Saugatuck, she’d gone with a few friends to Cabo.
“Don’t you dare.”
“Seriously. Did you have a good time?”
“Yeah, I really did.” Despite the fact that a frankly annoying melancholy had beset me since the end of my vacation. It came too close to mooning about, and I didn’t moon. Instead, I tried not to think of the fact that I was envisioning what this design would look like inked into Robin’s freckled skin. I also tried not to think of how he would sound and feel and move under my hands as I etched it into his flesh, if for no other reason than I didn’t want to deal with a hard-on while talking to my sister.
“So what are your plans now that you’re back in Chicago?”
I sighed, refining an elegantly curved tendril twining up the ribs to be a little bolder. “I suppose I’ll start looking for a space to open my own studio. And, of course, an apartment. I can’t crash with Jace indefinitely.”
That was going to be a challenge. I needed to find a studio space in a high-end part of town, stylish but not too conservative, where my nonthreatening, clean-cut appearance would be more of an asset than a detraction. I’d have to cash in on my Hollywood credentials and package myself as a tattoo artist of class, refinement, sophistication. A cut above.
It was all bullshit, naturally. There are graffiti and street artists with more talent and expression than many “fine” artists whose work ends up displayed in museums, and body art is no different. My designs were different from those of artists who never went to art school, but I wouldn’t dare call them better. But perception was everything, right? I’d make my studio a haven for pampered upper-middle-class rich kids who found the seedier parts of town too intimidating.
Problem was, real estate in the higher-end parts of town came at a premium.
On paper, of course, I could have paid for it out of pocket, but the insurance money was sacrosanct. Not only because of my uncertain future, but because of everything my entire family, including Ling, had sacrificed to be sure my needs were met. I had tied up most of it in judicious investments, overseen by the financial adviser my parents had started working with back when they’d begun putting every spare penny into the life insurance policies. Which was good, considering what the last couple of years had done to the stock market. Otherwise I didn’t touch it, and certainly not to start a business venture that might very well fail.
So right now, except for the money I’d managed to sock away while working for Rogier, I was effectively penniless, despite having an eight-figure portfolio.
With that bank balance, I could easily have gotten a small business loan to lease the space and purchase the equipment I needed, but my medical condition made me a questionable proposition as far as loans went. The chance that bleeds could leave me unable to work for weeks or months, or make me so arthritis-ridden that I wouldn’t be able to walk, were significant.
“Well?” Ling prompted, dragging me back to the conversation. “Do you have any leads? On either?”
“Not yet.” I blew out a breath and laid down my pencil. “It’s going to be tricky finding a space. I’d be better off working in someone else’s studio, but I’m not sure I want to risk being in another artist’s shadow again.”
“It’ll happen,” Ling said with absolute certainty.
I chuckled at her confidence. �
�Yeah, but ‘Will it happen before my savings run out?’ is the question.”
“So work as a contractor in someone else’s studio for a while, to keep from dipping into your savings while you get everything in order.” Her voice was so nonchalant, I could easily picture her shrug. “Or better yet, set up shop in someone else’s studio, build up a huge client list, and then threaten to walk with it if they don’t make you an equal partner and give you top billing.”
I blinked at the phone. “That is devious.”
“It could work.”
“You’re far more bloodthirsty than I am.”
“If your name isn’t the first one on the awning by the time I’m done with my doctorate, I’m going to head to Chicago and make my bloodthirsty ass your manager.”
I laughed and traced my finger down the side of my sketch pad. “Hey, say the word and ten percent of my take is yours. Now go study or something. I want to finish this design. I’ll text you tomorrow.”
“Okay.” She hung up, and I reached for my phone to set it to silent so I could work uninterrupted, then hesitated, staring at it for a moment. It had been three days since we’d left the Dunes, and Robin hadn’t made any attempt to contact me. I didn’t know why I’d thought he might. It was a truly idiotic notion, and yet something in me had held out hope that it might happen.
I set the phone down with the ringtone still on its normal volume.
That Robin had gotten inside my head, delivering things I’d never known I wanted, hadn’t helped. But I had some perspective, at least. I wasn’t in love. Yet. Though something intense had happened there, hadn’t it? Something more than just sex. A connection had been formed. He’d done things to my body, yeah, but he’d also gotten under my skin. And it had seemed like he felt the same. Or had I misread things?
My cell rang as I gazed down at my design, trying to decide how the pattern would shift as it moved from the back and shoulders down onto the ass, thighs, and arms. There was something distinctly oceanic about its lines, I thought, fumbling for my phone. Which really, considering the inspiration, was to be expected. Maybe I should go full-out oceanscape with it, in shades of blue that would make Robin’s eyes snap.
Jace’s face flashed on the screen. I tried not to be disappointed. “Yeah, dude. What’s up?”
“I’m going to the bathhouse to lift weights. Wanna join me?”
A corner of my mouth tipped up. “You realize you’re the only guy in Chicago who lifts weights in that place for any purpose other than to pick someone up?”
“Hey, until I can build up a bigger client base and sell more paintings, this is the closest to a gym membership I can afford.”
I laughed at that. Jace had arrived in Chicago with barely a dime to his name. Eight or twelve-hour rentals for the cubicles that passed for rooms at bathhouses were cheaper than any motel and safer than any shelter. He used the bathhouse’s patrons to spread the word about his graphic design start-up. One of his first contracts had been with the new owners of the bathhouse.
“Thanks, but I think I’ll pass tonight.”
“You sure? We haven’t worked out together since before we went to Michigan.”
I understood his unspoken question. Are you sure you’re getting enough exercise to keep your joints healthy? Jace understood that moderate weight training helped strengthen my joints, decreasing the chance of spontaneous bleeds. I’d never be a bodybuilder, but I was usually reasonably diligent about putting in enough workout time to keep myself healthy.
“Yeah. I’ll go lifting with you in a day or two. You enjoy yourself.” I couldn’t explain why I was reluctant to go out tonight, but the idea didn’t appeal to me at all.
“All right. Don’t wait for me to eat dinner or anything. I’ve got a new painting I’ve been sketching ideas for, and I have the studio space to myself tonight for as late as I want it.”
“Okay. I’ll see you in the morning if I’m asleep before you get home. Have fun.”
I hung up and stared at my sketch awhile longer, but my concentration had been broken and I couldn’t get back into it. Tucking the pad away, I grabbed my laptop and opened it to check my email and perhaps browse for a station at a decent body-art studio.
My pulse tripped and stumbled when I saw the most recent email—sent less than an hour ago, in fact—was from Robin. The subject line read, In case you were concerned, and I clicked to open it, my breath coming faster.
I thought I would send this along on the chance you might have any concerns about that last morning before I left. Take care.
—Robin
There was an attachment. When I clicked it open, I saw it was a scan of lab results for a full panel of STI tests, dated the day before. All the results were negative.
I sat there blinking at it for a long moment, wondering why he’d felt compelled to send it. What did it mean?
I’d made it clear that morning in the shower that I wasn’t willing to wait long enough for him to retrieve a condom. It might have been a stupid risk, but I’d decided to take it nonetheless. And while I wasn’t proud of the decision—somewhere in my mind, my mother wailed, and that omnipresent voice of caution had demanded to know how I could risk such a thing—I had refused to allow myself to fret over it. The fact that using condoms had been the undisputed default for the five days we were together suggested Robin had good, consistent habits in that regard.
Some part of me never fully let go of worry. But I hadn’t been worried about that last morning with Robin. Foolish, but true. I’d accepted that it had happened and that I’d get tested in a couple of months, just in case. I usually did it a couple of times a year anyway, even if I hadn’t gotten laid. It was a holdover from the eighties and early nineties when no one had really trusted the blood supply yet.
Had Robin taken the time to be tested and send his results to me out of concern for my peace of mind? Or was he worrying about it for his own sake?
Closing the laptop with a snap, I grabbed my phone and dialed Jace back.
“Hey. You know what? I think I’ll join you after all.”
“Sounds good. I’ll swing by and pick you up on the way.”
So I got my workout whether I’d been in the mood for it or not. Afterward, while Jace decided to indulge in a soak in the hot tub, I went downstairs to the booth set up by one of the city’s AIDS-awareness organizations. They offered rapid-results testing all day, every day. Less than thirty minutes later, I tucked the paper they’d given me into my gym bag and hitched a ride home with Jace.
I waffled for hours before finally scanning the paper and replying to Robin’s email.
Robin,
Thank you for the email. In case you were concerned, I’m sending my own along. Keep in touch.
—Geoff
There, I thought as I closed the laptop. I plodded dutifully through my flossing routine, then stared up at the ceiling of Jace’s spare bedroom in the darkness. That put the ball firmly back in Robin’s court. Whether he’d return it was anyone’s guess.
I wanted to see him again. It was less than a three-hour drive from Chicago to Saugatuck. Or hell, the trip might be even shorter if he came on his boat. How fast did those things go, anyway?
I managed to lie there sleeplessly for nearly an hour before giving in and grabbing my phone off the bedside table, checking my email. And there at the top of my inbox was a new message from him.
Thank you. That’s handy to know. We should discuss this further. Send me a text tonight or tomorrow and tell me when it would be a good time to talk uninterrupted.
My heart hammering, I immediately thumb-typed another reply.
Jace is out of the apartment until late tonight. No idea what his schedule is tomorrow.
My chest felt hollow and my entire body thrummed with that sweet, breathless surge of adrenaline and arousal. It was all I could do to keep from fist-pumping in triumph. The rush of my blood in my ears marked the heartbeats as a few anxious minutes passed.
And then my ph
one rang.
Robin
“I don’t usually do that” were the first words out of my mouth when Geoff answered. “Forgo rubbers, I mean.”
“I didn’t think you did,” he said. The background noise of the airport was so chaotic that I could barely hear him when he spoke, but he sounded pretty laid-back about it. “I hope it goes without saying that I don’t, either.”
I could believe that. Given how closely he’d dodged the bullet in his childhood and his own brother’s death, I imagined it was something he took seriously most of the time. “I want to see you again. I feel bad that we didn’t get to enjoy that last day you were in town.”
“I’m sure that could be arranged.”
“Good.”
I floundered a moment, trying to find the calm, centered, rational place from which I could be an experienced dom walking a neophyte sub into the sort of arrangement I was hoping for. I needed to talk to him about all the things Char had mentioned. No more winging it the way we had while he was on vacation. We needed to negotiate, and he needed to understand what my boundaries were, because that was where I’d gotten into trouble before.
“So, how was New York?” Geoff asked before I could find a way to segue to the subject I wanted to pursue.
“Aggravating,” I groused. Thankfully Geoff let that go. “How was your trip back to Chicago?”
“Oh, you know, it was a drive.”
“And what are your plans now that you’re back there?”
He laughed, and then a flight at a nearby gate was announced and I had to ask him to repeat himself.
“You and my sister have both asked me that today,” he said again.
“Important question, I take it?” At which point he launched into an explanation of his plan to search for a space for his studio.
I tried to envision Geoff at work—all that earnest, nerdy concentration focused on making art of the sort I’d seen in his sketches. It was a very pleasant mental image. “Once you’re open for business, I’ll have to come and have you ink me.”
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