by Gina Conkle
How did he manage to sound logical? I forgot about telling him I worked in a bookstore. And there was bumper sticker on my car. A dead giveaway. The small, family-owned chain put their stamp on two counties in southern California.
“Howell’s has three bookstores in a fifty mile radius,” he went on. “Made it easy to narrow down my choices.”
“Did you go to the other two stores looking for me?”
Mark hesitated. “Yeah. I did.” His cool guy exterior fractured, but his voice was deep and reassuring. “If you really want me to leave, I will. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”
I let the shelf take most of my weight as his words sank in. The power to decide was in my hands. “Why?” was the best I could manage.
“To ask you to lunch.” He grinned and held up the book. “And to get this great cookbook.”
“It’s ten forty-five AM.”
“So, take lunch early.”
I’m glad the shelf supported me. Mark showing up took the wind out of me, as much because I wanted to see him as not see him. A war raged inside me. His grin tugged at me, tore down my capability to reason.
“I can’t. We’re…busy.”
One of our regulars, Mrs. Beardsley, squeaked by with her walker.
Mark’s brow cocked. “Yeah. Rush hour.”
From our vantage point, you could see most of the virtually empty store. My brain tried to process him standing three feet from me, but what came out was a surreal blend of Muzak and naked skin. Last night I wore black stilettos at his request before we’d even met. Today I wore navy twill pants with a white cotton button down shirt, a name tag lanyard larger than a deck of cards around my neck. This was the real me not the bondage babe he’d paid for.
“It’s only lunch,” he said.
“You know some of us have to work.”
“I work. Contract work.”
“Contract work? Is that code for unemployed?” I was getting waspish, because he’d come into my place of business and I couldn’t believe all he wanted was lunch. The fluttery feel inside me hoped Mark wanted more than lunch.
He pointed to the spot over his heart where three white lines chased a five-pointed star. “This was the job I recently finished. Nor Star Lasers in Irvine.”
I pushed off the shelf, scrutinizing the logo. A black T-shirt hugged his chest and shoulders, the bottom hanging loose around his lean waist. How easy it’d be to slip my underneath and touch his flat stomach, something I wasn’t able to do last night with my hands cuffed. I avoided temptation, clasping both hands casually behind my back.
“What do you do?”
Mark’s eyes were hard shell and tenderness. “Come to lunch with me and I’ll tell you.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Mark waited for me at the Coffee Barn further down the row of shops in our strip mall. I’d given him my order and said I’d meet him there in a few minutes. Coffee Barn was a very public place, close to the bookstore, and they served food I liked. I was playing it safe on all fronts.
He sat at a table by the window, checking his phone. My reflection blurred over Mark, the glass merging of us watery. The sight of him, head bent, waiting for me stopped me in my tracks. Chills washed over me. Some other-worldly sense told me we were connecting on different levels of which I had no knowledge or depth to understand. His head tipped up and blue eyes speared me, made my nipples tingle again. Mark jumped up to get the door. A gentleman. Go figure. Last night he couldn’t unbuckle me fast enough to get out of our red-lit, sex-hazed room. I’d lain on the bed, wrapped in the silk sheet, trying to recover while he tossed the clamps and handcuffs in his bag and put on his shoes. Mark had yanked his shirt over his head and snatched his bag with lightning speed.
He’d halted at the door one hand on the knob with his head bent same as when he’d arrived. “Thanks,” he’d said.
That was it. A thanks muttered at the door. And now this…him opening another door, only this time to let me in. Damn if I didn’t want to know what was on the other side of all this. My girly-senses skipped happily convinced Mark showing up had something to do with him wanting me.
“Are you coming?” he asked, holding the door.
I breezed past him, or started to, but Mark put his hand on the small of my back and my steps faltered. I held my breath a split-second while he gestured to our table. His protective hand splayed low on my spine for the short distance to the table where he actually helped me with the chair. Once I was seated, his fingers grazed my shirt at the top of my back, the cotton brushing neglected skin. You could say my senses woke up from a dull sleep by his smell, the barely there touch, Mark’s deep, even-keel voice, and now my taste buds would be rewarded. Steam floated from a mug full of my favorite orange ginger tea. Cheddar cheese melted down the side of an egg and bacon bagel on a plain white café plate. Mark was right. I was grumpy from skipping breakfast.
He sat opposite me, biting into a turkey and sprout sandwich. We ate in silence because I was starved, and I needed Coffee Barn’s warped wood ambience to calm me. A college aged couple hunched over a chocolate muffin and cell phone in one corner. Otherwise the shop was empty save two bored baristas debating the merits of a movie.
The bagel sandwich was half gone before I nudged my chin at the Nor Star logo. “You said you’d tell me everything if I came to lunch.”
Mark scrubbed a paper napkin across his mouth. “I said I’d tell you about my job. Not everything.”
A job was a good place to start. I took another bite of my bagel, crunching on heavenly bacon. Mark set both forearms on the table a man at ease in his own skin. With his morning scruff and longish hair, if I passed him on the street, I’d judge him as another surfer chasing the best waves. No sense of responsibility or life direction. Quick assessments are a flaw of mine. Guilty. But, here I was, ready to listen.
Last night he was dark-souled and intense under red light. Today, under track lighting, Mark was a mystery unfolding. Blue-grey eyes hypnotized me as he started talking nerd of all things to my excessively right-brained mind.
I confess I didn’t tune into what he was saying until, “…I finished my degree in physics at Cal-Tech and then I took some graduate classes in Adelaide.”
Wait. Cal-Tech? Home of the Pasadena math, physics, and astronomy brainiacs?
Yet, I asked, “Adelaide…as in Adelaide, Australia?”
“Yeah. I was there for a yearlong program.” He paused to guzzle Fiji water before going on. “That’s where I really dug into Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle—”
“Who’s Heisenberg?” I sipped my tea, studying this strange specimen across the table. I’d never met a surfer who spouted physics-speak.
“A German physicist.” His hand sliced the air as he explained, “Basically, his theory is the more precise we determine a particle’s position, the less precise its momentum can be known.”
“Like trying to figure out someone’s motive? You think you know someone, but…”
Brown eyebrows slammed together. “No.” His mouth opened with what was likely an explanation, but Mark leaned back in his seat, his lips curling inward. “I’m talking about sub-atomic particles, not people.”
I grinned. “Did I insult you by anthropomorphizing physics?”
The door opened behind me, letting in a noisy trio of women. Mark and I locked gazes. Humored light danced in his eyes.
“Smart ass.”
His deep voice, loud of enough for me alone, sent goosebumps down my chest and navel. Two male nipples poked his T-shirt. I braced an elbow on the table and cupped my chin in my hand. When my hair fell forward, Mark’s attention drifted over blonde waves draping my shoulder. I wasn’t above playing up a feature he liked. Nor was I bothered about brushing my foot along his calf under the table. We were in our own little world. I was flattered that Mark had carried on as if I compreh
ended his work.
“Go on. Keep talking physics to me.”
His mouth slid to a self-deprecating smirk. “I work on lasers.”
Overcast light glittered in his blue eyes. He’d shed a hard shell layer, and his utterly kissable grin conveyed awareness that he needed to take the nerd-speak down a notch. Mark sat nonchalantly, but the chair creaked when his butt shifted. Air thickened around us the more my foot petted his leg.
“What kind of lasers?” I paused, my smile flirty. “In language the rest of us mortals can understand.”
“Bar code scanners, survey equipment,” he said the timbre of his voice mesmerizing. “Nor Star was a medical imaging project I recently finished. I worked on it for a year and a half.”
We were locked on each other. You’d think we were discussing the contents of his black bag and how to play with them. I nibbled my bottom lip, slowly letting the plump flesh go free.
“You don’t have a regular nine to five.”
“I put in long hours for every job. When the contract’s done, I travel, surf, catch up on whatever.”
We were talking about his work, yet heat ramped up my skin. Was last night a whatever? Mark licked his lips as if he prepped his mouth for a kiss. At the pastry display case, one of the women giggled loudly, a definite notice me laugh while glancing at Mark. She was a petite, dark-haired beach bunny with tanned skin and expensive boho beach clothes. I waited to see what Mark would do.
A smile lifted the corners of his mouth. Fathomless. Discerning. Still as deep waters. I’d never had a man look at me quite that way…like I was the only woman in the room. If I didn’t know any better, I’d guess he understood and respected my female need to be the center of his attention, no matter how many pretty women vied for his notice. His blue-eyed concentration was heady. A girl could get drunk on it. All my college and post-college dates with grasping gym-pumped guys were child’s play. Mark might be a puzzle, but he was full-fledged man.
He pushed in closer. “You’re one of the nicest girls I’ve run across in a long time. I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Then don’t hurt me.”
We were in a quiet bubble surrounded by coffee shop noise, and I happily lost myself in Mark. No ring surrounded his blue-grey iris, but amber flared like sun rays around his pupil. We were breathing in sync again. I could see why a woman would say yes to whatever he wanted, nipple clamps and all.
“Abbie,” his gruff voice broke in. “Don’t go back there.”
We both knew what there meant. I wilted inside.
“Is that why you showed up today? To tell me not to go back to Mrs. Smith’s?”
“You don’t belong in a place like that.”
The dreaminess burst. Mark wasn’t into me. He got hit with guilt.
A woman and her toddler entered Coffee Barn, holding the door open extra-long. Cold air blasted my back. The espresso machine steamed milk. Cars filled up spaces in the parking lot. Lunchtime for the masses was beginning which meant my hour was winding down and the store would get busy. I pulled my phone out of my purse and checked the time. Twenty minutes left. Time to shut this down. I dumped the phone back in my purse and absently rubbed my sore bicep.
“Thank you for the concerned lunch and all, but I’m not a girl. I’m a twenty-six year old woman. I will go back.”
“Give me one good reason why.”
“One?” I huffed. “How about twelve thousand four hundred thirty one reasons. While we’re at it let’s include the fourteen hundred reasons Mrs. Smith promised me if I show up twice a month.” I got worked up, sitting taller in my chair. “I’m not a physics whiz, but I have a firm understanding of personal finance.”
“You need the money.”
“Of course I need money. Lots of it. What woman in her right mind wants to be tied up and spanked?” My voice spiked high and loud. The hissing espresso machine saved me from embarrassment.
“Then get another job.”
“I did have two jobs,” I shot back. “I lost the good paying one two months ago…not that it’s any of your business.”
For all my bravado, I wilted a little more inside. Mark didn’t ask why I needed the money, proof he wasn’t really into me.
The seam of his mouth flattened. “You’re right. It isn’t, but I’m asking anyway.”
People like him pissed me off. They lived thinking the world was full of opportunity and choices when all I’d seen were dead ends and closed doors. I’d worked my ass off for every decent scrap that ever came my way. Three days ago I was worn to the bone and weak. That’s why I said yes to Mrs. Smith’s easy money. She asked for two nights a month and would pay me close to what I earned in a month at my old day job. It wasn’t my proudest moment, but I was a survivor.
Mark sat across the table, stern and beautiful, one eyebrow arching the longer I stayed silent. Ice chips could’ve formed around me.
“Why is it so important to you?” I asked.
“Because you’re smart. You can do more than sell your body.”
Sharp laughter erupted from me. “So says the smart man who bought my body for a night.”
Mark had the grace to avert his eyes to the window. He scrubbed his nape, air gusting from his lips as if my circumstances weighed him down.
“Yeah, sometimes I’m an ass.” Clear blue eyes speared me. “Humor me. What’s going on with you?”
His gruff concern was two parts forceful and one part hidden. It was enough to melt my icy wall. I gave him the quick version of my mom’s situation. Only the barest emotion flickered across his hawkish face as I went from telling him about Mom and Grandma to my return to California. I was going to get my degree, but first I needed a good job to keep sending a monthly check home.
That opportunity came when Dr. Howard hired me four years ago to manage his one man dental office in Laguna Niguel. Everything was on track until three months ago he barely survived a heart attack. His wife closed the office. Life was too short she’d told me. She wanted as much time with him as possible. I understood but the setback crushed me. When the manager at Howell’s found out I’d lost my day job, he offered me full time hours while I looked for another job. The pay was basically minimum wage, but I took it. After a series of dead-end interviews, I’d poured out my tale to my friend Tara, a nail tech at a high end salon, telling her I had to cut back on my once-a-month luxury, a pedicure.
“My friend Tara likes the finer things,” I explained. “She’s a Neiman-Marcus shopper on a nail tech’s salary. For a while she hooked up with a sugar daddy in Marina Del Rey to finance her habit.” I exhaled slowly. “But her knowing about Mrs. Smith’s business…now that surprised me.”
Mark was cool and sphinxlike. “It’s all over the place.”
How deep was he into this subculture?
I scratched the logo on my mug with my thumbnail, worn out by my own story. I didn’t get his blasé acceptance of sex for hire any more than I did Tara’s. For all my survivor’s independence, my roots were Midwest working class. People fell in love and got married. It didn’t happen for Grandma and Mom, but the neighborhood I grew up in was filled with people who stayed together.
“Tuesday night was when I talked to Tara,” I said, winding down my story. “She called Mrs. Smith right away and arranged my, ah, interview on Wednesday, and you were my Thursday night.”
We were at an impasse. Part of me wanted to leave, yet I couldn’t help but sense explaining myself was as much about me as him. Everyone’s got a story. Sharing it was one way to weave your life with someone else’s, as long as they opened up in return. Eyes hooded, Mark’s face betrayed no emotion.
He tapped the side of his plate. “What you said about being tied up. Are you saying you didn’t get anything from last night?”
“I, I had a good time.”
A good time? I cringed at my way with words.
Lunch shifted from stale to disaster. Mark and I weren’t clicking. Not like last night. Better to leave while I was ahead. I twisted around to get my purse, wincing at a twinge in my back.
“You have pain, don’t you?” he asked.
I slipped my purse over my shoulder. “Some. Mostly my shoulders and arms, a little soreness across my upper back.”
“I didn’t do a good job of finishing what I started. After care is important.”
I’d heard of after care. It was in those billionaire books. Did couples who intentionally played painful games end their nights with lavish care, talking about what they did? Why not skip the pain and go straight to sex and intimate conversation? Was that so difficult?
“You’re not obligated to take care of me.”
Mark scowled, dragging an unused napkin across the table. “You have a pen I could use?”
“Sure.” I handed over the one tucked in my plastic name tag.
Part of me hoped he’d shoot down what I’d just said. Instead, he asked for a pen. He started writing, and I sat at the edge of my seat, making sure we didn’t end on a totally bad note. I’d never make good bitch material.
“Last night actually was…well, out of this world.” I played with a leather tassel on my purse. “Different than anything I’ve ever experienced.”
Thank you for the best orgasm ever!
He grunted while making slash marks on the napkin, not bothering to look at me.
“Keep the pen,” I mumbled, getting up.
Mark got up, scowling and scribbling fast enough to rip the napkin. “Is your seat on fire?”
“I have to get back to work. Lunch is almost over.”
He handed back my pen. “I’ll walk with you.”
There was a good ten to fifteen minutes left of lunch, but I wanted to put this behind me. Mark dipped down to pick up the grey Howell’s Bookstore bag. I’d forgotten about the cookbook. The plastic shopping bag made him a regular guy, not a kinkster I happened to meet under dubious circumstances.