“Hale?”
Her soft voice makes a gap in some of the debris, and I try to follow it out. But it’s too heavy, it’s just too heavy, and her calling me that makes it even less okay. Hale. Sprite. Why do we have to be these people? I want to pull the electric blue extensions from her hair, wipe the gaudy makeup off her face, strip her out of what’s left of her clothes, and carry her home. To where she belongs. With me. Can’t we rewind? I could lock everything in a box, throw away the key, and bury it deep. We could go back to how things were.
I’m so busy freaking out that I only notice she’s turned around when she talks again. “Hey. Slade. Say something, you’re scaring me.”
She’s looking at me with those big blue eyes, and her breasts are pressed against my chest, her hands stroking my biceps through the fabric of my shirt.
“I don’t—I don’t think I can do this.”
“Okay.”
“I—I have to go.”
“Oh.” Her hands still, and the concern on her face has shifted into something like apprehension. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No. I’m the one who hurt you. I’m the one who wants to hurt you. And I can’t—”
I shouldn’t have done this. I wasn’t ready. I thought I was because I’m a pompous arrogant bag of hot air. I should’ve listened to Rey, but instead I’m going to have to call him from the comfort of my own house when I’ve made it back in a cab and I’ve hopefully started breathing again and then he’s going to say “I told you so.”
“Slade.”
I can’t even get my breath long enough to answer her, to apologize. All I can do is stumble over to my coat and tie, take them up, and lurch out the door.
On my way through the club, I realize I’ve broken one of Rey’s cardinal rules: aftercare. But I can’t stomach going back there, and even if I could, I wouldn’t be any good for her anyway. Lucky for me, I practically trip over Scooter, who’s trailing Tangent on his leash.
Scooter smiles, and Tangent offers me a hand to shake that I wave off. “Hey, Hale. Where you headed? You don’t look so good.”
“I have to go, but could you—Press is in the last room on the right and she needs—I didn’t—”
Tangent and Scooter both glance down the hall, and Tangent’s eyes narrow. “Aftercare?”
“Yes.” Thank god his head is screwed onto his shoulders because mine’s clearly gone MIA.
And though I think I see a hint of disapproval in his expression, he agrees. “Don’t worry, man, we’ll take care of her. Won’t we, Scooter?”
Scooter nods in agreement. I don’t want Tangent to think badly of me, but if I had any psychic energy left, I’d use it on Press, not to convince him I’m not a total douchebag. I mutter my thanks before I flee, practically running out of the club. When I get outside, it’s still hot and swampy and I feel like I’m swimming to the nearest corner. Luckily it doesn’t take long for me to flag down a cab and collapse in the back, Pressly’s pleading blue eyes haunting me.
*
I’m sitting in the hallway of Georgia Senator Sue Ellen McClane’s home office. I was in Atlanta for a photo op at a ribbon-cutting for a mixed-income housing development this morning, and now my ass is parked in an uncomfortable chair, waiting.
Waiting is bullshit, but I’ll be on my best behavior because I need her. Annoyingly, she knows it, which is why I’m sitting in her hallway, trying to deal with emails on my phone while I wait. And wait. And wait.
I raise an eyebrow at her receptionist again, and she shakes her head, a flush rising in her cheeks because she’s probably expecting me to be nasty. I’d like to be insulted, but I can’t be. A few weeks ago, it would’ve taken less than twenty minutes of sitting in a hallway to make me lose my cool and raise my voice. As it is, my hard-fought patience is being stretched and I feel the anger creeping up. Just then, my cell chimes, and when I click into my email, I have a message from my assistant:
Van Dyke’s office called. We got him.
This is not quite a miracle—Van Dyke’s been a solid yellow—but it’s still welcome progress. It makes me feel like this entire endeavor isn’t utterly hopeless. And it’s after what I’m hoping is a subtle fist-pump on my part that McClane’s receptionist tells me she’s ready for me. Hopefully I’ll be able to do my part and put another senator in the green column.
Senator McClane’s office is much like her: pretty, classy, and put together within an inch of its life. I’ve always liked her and it occurs to me why—she reminds me of Pressly. Or, actually, the kind of woman Pressly will be in thirty years. She looks so picture-perfect behind her big wooden desk with her salt-and-pepper hair in a flawless chignon and a…yes, I’m ninety-eight percent certain her powder-blue suit is Chanel. Very nice.
I reach out a hand and do my best to turn on the charm that has people thinking I bang anything within a five-mile radius.
“Senator McClane, thank you so much for meeting with me. I appreciate you taking the time.”
Her eyes widen as she takes my hand in a strong grip. I like her even better for it.
“Secretary Lewis. Sorry to keep you waiting.”
“It’s no trouble, I’ve got plenty to keep me busy, and I know your schedule when you’re with your constituents is packed. This is an urgent matter, otherwise I would’ve waited until you were back in DC.”
A wrinkle deepens between her brows, and I have to keep from clenching my teeth. I can be pleasant, dammit. I can be charming as fuck.
“I’m glad this worked out, then. Please have a seat.”
I ease into the upholstered chair across from her and admire the floral print. Another thing she and Press have in common: being brazenly feminine at the same time they’re unapologetically badass. Like they’re sending a message. Yes, I like pink and flowers and I can still wipe the floor with you. Deal with it.
Even if this doesn’t go my way, I hope I walk out of this meeting with Senator McClane having a better opinion of me and without her rolling her eyes the next time I need something from her.
The seat’s a bit lower than is totally comfortable, so I spread my thighs and lean forward, clasping my hands and resting my elbows on my knees. “I’m here, Senator, because I need your help. And over the next fifteen minutes, I’m going to convince you to give it to me.”
“I like the sound of that, Secretary.” She leans back in her own chair and takes up a gold-tipped fountain pen. “Do your best.”
Thirty minutes later, I’m walking out of McClane’s office—or rather, Sue Ellen as she’s asked I call her since we’re apparently old friends now—with a smile on my face and another yes in my pocket. She’s a reasonable woman and smart as hell. I know, though, if I can’t get some of her other compatriots to join her, she won’t hesitate to withdraw her vote, so it’s back on a plane and back to work.
I throw the receptionist a wink and a wave on my way out because I’m too damn excited not to, and the first thought that enters my head as I step out the door is that I can’t wait to tell Press.
Chapter Ten
‡
Where the fuck does she even get these outfits?
After getting waved in at the door—how weird is my life that I’m recognized by the bouncer at a fetish club?—I say hi to some people I’ve met before, but I only have eyes for Pressly.
It’s been a long-ass day and nothing makes me happier than the idea of seeing her face. And who am I kidding? I’ve been aching to see her since I left her at the club last time. It’s been a throb that had dulled since the divorce, but seeing her again reminded me of what I was missing.
And what I’ve been missing is Pressly like I’ve never seen her before.
Rey had mentioned the club puts on a talent show of sorts every month and I knew it’d be tonight, but I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant in this context. It’s not like people are going to be doing their best lip sync to Paula Abdul or something. Or are they? I haven’t quite figured this place out yet, but what
I do know is that people let their freak flags fly in all the ways, not just one.
There are more people gathered in the main room than usual and I see why. There’s a man on the stage with a rainbow of coiled rope lined up on a table to the side, and in the center there’s a metal frame set up with a woman hanging from it. A woman in a butterfly outfit.
The corner of my mouth lifts reluctantly because I know who it is. The blonde hair gives it away, but the clothes confirm it. No one dresses like Press.
She’s suspended in the frame with ropes hugging and supporting her body but also sculpting her into a pose that can’t be entirely comfortable. The man I recognize as Spider is talking as he moves around her, tying knots and manipulating her body with the ropes she dangles from.
I find Tangent in the crowd with Scooter sitting at his feet, his red head in Tangent’s lap while they both enjoy the show.
Tangent acknowledges me with a brief nod and a “Hale,” before turning back to the stage. He seems to have forgiven me for my breach of aftercare etiquette, which may have been a figment of my imagination in the first place. I’m glad that he seems more concerned with the demo than lecturing me about my shortcomings. He’s a rigger himself, and I wonder if he’s taking mental notes to be able to copy something like this later.
It’s then that there’s a noise from the stage that makes my insides feel like fingernails on a blackboard sounds—the most uncomfortable, gut-wrenching alarm. Pressly’s shriek is cut off quickly, but the echo of it bounces around in my head and I hear it as if it were reverberating in a canyon.
It’s only when I feel someone grab my wrist that I realize I’m standing.
“Hale. Sit down. You can’t interrupt someone else’s scene. Bad manners.”
Scooter looks up at me from the floor, brown eyes imploring as he tightens his hold on my wrist, not letting go.
“She’s okay. If she needs help, the monitors will give it to her. But look.”
He gestures with his chin to where Spider’s already cut some of the rope with a pair of EMT scissors and is leaning in close to talk to her. She says something I can’t hear back, and then he reaches for the leg he cut loose, massaging her thigh as he addresses his rapt audience.
“One of the dangers of strenuous poses. Cramps. Our Sprite here is usually as flexible as a contortionist, but maybe we didn’t warm her up properly or maybe she’s dehydrated. Maybe nothing, but if your bottom gets a cramp, and you’re familiar with them and they’re willing, you can try to work it out without getting them entirely down.”
He spends a few minutes working on her leg and my fingers itch to do the same. Or cut her out of the rest of her bondage and take her in my lap and hold her until the pain goes away. Someone else offers her a water bottle, and she sips through a straw, laughing and talking.
“See? She’s okay. You can take a seat.” Scooter’s hold has loosened on my wrist, and he tugs gently to get me to sit in my abandoned chair. I do as he’s said and he releases me. Hands on my knees so I don’t grab something, I watch carefully, closely, blood throbbing in my temples and my body poised like a runner on blocks, because if she needs me, I’m going to be there.
“What’s your deal with her anyway?”
She’s my wife.
But there are half a dozen reasons I can’t say that to Scooter.
He cocks his head at my hesitation, and in that moment, he really does seem like a curious, demonstrative puppy. Tangent is so, so lucky to have Scooter. Someone to come home to, to adore you, to always be happy to see you because they think you’re the best person on earth. Not that Scooter is the way I swing, but I get it. So I reach out and ruffle his floppy red hair and a smile lights his face.
“S-sorry,” I stammer as I snatch my hand back. I should’ve asked first. Not just Scooter but Tangent too, though neither of them looks upset.
“S’okay with me if it’s okay with Scooter and he doesn’t look like he minds.”
“I don’t,” Scooter volunteers with an avid smile, and I let myself reach out to him again, sifting his hair through my fingers. There’s something about it that’s…comforting. Yeah, Tangent’s a lucky dude. The rhythmic motion of my hand through Scooter’s hair and his contented sighs bring my blood pressure down. Not that I’m not still eagle-eyeing Press, but some of the tension has left.
I feel weirdly safe here, and I bet Press does too.
Spider’s stopped massaging her leg and selects another length of rope. He binds her leg again, this time in a less-punishing fashion, and checks in with her with every movement. Yes, she’s good. And he’s careful. I find it inside to relax some and enjoy the show: how pretty she looks in the ropes, how skillful Spider is to be able to manipulate her body like that and keep all the details in his head—like how not to put too much pressure on any point in her body, not cut off circulation, make sure she’s not going to fall. Rey said topping was a lot of work. It’s not that I didn’t believe him, but damn.
Scooter nudges his head under my hand like a pet desperate for more contact. “You never said. What’s your deal with her? You like her?”
If you had any idea… “I knew her before.”
“From work?” It’s true that it’s not unusual for people to run into coworkers here, and I definitely recognize a few faces from other contexts, but not her. I recognize her from when I fell into an instant cloud of infatuation at a cocktail party, from stealing every second I could to be with her for a solid year, from when she walked down the aisle of the fanciest church I’d ever been in in her big, white poufy dress and said that she’d give herself to me. I recognize her from waking up beside her every morning for seven fucking years and from the dreams I’ve had, wishing for her back for the past six.
“No. It was…personal.”
Scooter nods slowly and then closes his eyes, his features draped in calm. Knowing that this one small gesture, a tiny token of affection, makes him happy too, well, that’s pretty great.
I pet him until the end of Spider’s demo, until Press has got her feet on the ground again. She makes a little curtsey at the edge of the stage, and she looks unsteady but happy. Spider gives her hand to one of the monitors who helps her off the stage and hands her a bottle of water as another scantily clad woman goes up and Spider begins the whole process all over again.
This time when I stand, Scooter’s not quick enough to catch me, and I leave him with a last scrub of my hand through his hair, heading to the side of the stage where Press is leaning against the wall, sipping her water.
“Hey.” The word is quiet coming out of my mouth, but it catches her attention and she looks at me with this entirely neutral gaze. I hate that look.
“Hey, Hale. Do you know Boomslang?”
“Like the snake?”
Boomslang smiles at me, looking more calculating than I care for him to. “Exactly.”
“We haven’t met.” When we’ve performed the requisite introductions, I lean in close to Press. “Could I talk to you for a minute?”
Her lips, nearly wiped clean of the shimmery pink gloss that’s now rimming the bottle, purse oh-so-slightly.
“Please. I owe you an apology.”
The decision is clear on her face once she makes it, but I wait for the words because sometimes people’s bodies betray them. “Yeah, all right.”
“Do you want to sit down somewhere? You look tired.”
“Sure. I’ve got a room reserved for tonight. We can go there.”
Boomslang gives her a steady look, like he’s waiting for her to give some password or secret code, but she smiles at him and pushes off the wall, blazing a path between the two of us. “Are you coming or what?”
“Coming.”
I follow her down the hall and notice she’s swaying on her feet slightly. I don’t want to grab her, but my hands itch to steady her or, better still, pick her up and cradle her against my body so I can make sure she won’t fall. Can’t. Can’t.
She shows me into a room I
haven’t been in yet and closes the door behind her. There’s no bed in here, but a chaise that she collapses on, leaning against the curved end and draping her arm over the back.
“Would you mind grabbing a blanket out of there?” she asks, gesturing to a trunk that’s set beneath a wall of crops, whips, paddles, and floggers.
“Sure.” Crouching, I open the trunk and dig out a blue-grey one, rolling my eyes at myself in the process because it’ll match her outfit.
Handing it over, our fingers brush against each other. Her hands are shaking.
“Are you okay?”
She smiles, the expression reaching across her face in an exhausted crawl. “Just a little rope-drunk, that’s all.”
I take the blanket back and shake it out before draping it over her, making sure to cover her legs and her feet. “Better? Want some more water?”
“Please.”
When I’ve fussed over her sufficiently, I perch at the far edge of the chaise and watch as she sips her water leisurely and lets her head drop back, closing her eyes.
“You like rope that much?”
She cracks an eye open and the corner of her mouth lifts. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you sounded a little jealous, Hale.”
I sputter some because jealousy doesn’t cover half of what I feel, but she cuts me off, that cool-as-a-cucumber lilt in her voice. “I do like it. Not in a sex way, though. It’s more like getting tipsy. I love to fly. It’s a rush.”
Rey’s tried to convince me kink and sex don’t entirely overlap for everyone. I understand in theory, but for me, kink is highly sexual. Although, does playing chess on Matthew’s back and petting Scooter count as kink? I found those things pleasurable, but I didn’t want to bang either one of them.
“That doesn’t sound like an apology, though. Or did you lure me here under false pretenses?”
I shake my head, heavy with guilt. “No. I really am sorry. I shouldn’t have run out on you like that last time. You were kind enough to spend time with me and offer up your body and I—”
True North (Compass series Book 4) Page 9