by Adira August
He stood up and got his jacket from the bed. “You’re released,” he said, swinging it on.
She stood and went to him immediately, wrapping her arms around his warm, solid body, laying her face against his chest. His arms went around her in return, and he kissed the top of her head.
“I want you to stay. This is so the wrong time for you to leave.”
“It’s exactly the right time.” He lifted her chin and kissed her. “Hunter Dane is a smart, intuitive guy. Go home, Avia. Go get your own life back. Because in the end it doesn’t matter what I want or what you crave. It only matters if you, in your heart and mind, want us to be Dominant and submissive.”
“Master and slave?” A very serious question.
“No. Slaves have no choices at all. I’m not into it. I am your master, sub, of all the things I said. But your life is yours; that’s the woman who captured me. If this”—he looked around in a sweeping gaze that included all of his domain—“is ever to be our home, your home, Avienne, it will be your refuge, not your prison.”
The sound of the helicopter approaching reached them.
“I’m afraid.”
“That’s because you don’t trust me. That’s—painful. I’ll text you.” He picked up his bag. “You are aware that I love you?”
So Ben, she thought. Passion couched in the objective. “Always.”
He kissed her briefly and left through the terrace doors. The wide upper deck circled the Keep, the top story of the castle. She didn’t follow him to the suspended bridge connecting the house to the helicopter bastion. She didn’t watch him leave. Instead, she texted his head housekeeper.
I WON’T NEED DINNER.
I’LL BE AWAY FOR A WHILE.
Then she texted Hugo to ask if Woodward could help her pack. It took a minute to get right because her eyes kept blurring.
Tuesday, March 7th, 2017
“So what does it mean?” Fourteen hundred miles away from Avia’s Colorado condo, Talia St. Clair put grilled cheese on the table for her five-year-old boys. Occasionally, she managed a glance at her cell—propped against the toaster for her daily video chat with her twin.
“I’m not really sure.” Avia applied a light coat of mascara. Her cell sat on the toothbrush holder. “But I’m kind of sad, a little scared, and—relieved.”
“But you didn’t break up, right?”
“No,” Avia told her. “It’s just like rewinding, I think. Kind of.” She brushed out her hair.
Talia lowered herself onto a kitchen chair with a sigh while her boys ate.
“You are so big already,” Avia said. “It’s June?”
“My doc wants me to try for July.” She put a hand on her big belly and rubbed. “But I think the girls are planning an early escape.”
“Feeling or symptom?” Avia carried her cell into her bedroom to finish dressing. She put her sister on the dresser top against her jewelry box.
“Knowing,” Talia answered. “So what’s today, job hunting?”
“I have to go beard a lion in his den this morning. Then shrink this afternoon.” She pulled on a v-neck sweater that showed a bit of cleavage.
“The lion might have you for breakfast in that. You think you need therapy?”
Avia blushed. “Sex expert. For information. You know her, Erin Harley?”
“Cas! Leave your shoes on,” Talli admonished one of her twins. “Av, let me call you tonight after my thundering herd is in bed.”
“Go. I’ll be in early. Love you, Tal.”
She grabbed her bag and a light jacket and was out the door.
AVIA TURNED ONTO THE DEAD-END street a few blocks from the Civic Center that separated the four-story red brick building from the parking lot across from it.
Built in 1870, the mundane edifice at 440 Dunton Court had housed the duller sections of Denver City government. Accountancy. Roads and Transportation. The Feedlot Distribution Authority. Permits.
Avia had been here before and knew the first floor still housed Permits. The times she’d been inside fact-checking a story, she hadn’t ventured above ground level. The foyer had no building directory, just a hand-printed sign stuck to the wall that said “Permits Enter Here” with an arrow.
If she didn’t already know where to go, she’d have no clue what was on the other three floors.
Discretion never goes out of fashion.
ON THE TOP FLOOR the elevator opened on a long hallway: hardwood floor, rows of doors. A lighted “EXIT” sign to her right. Far down the hall to her left, a facing door with a small sign she could just make out: Restroom.
A woman’s voice sang snatches of song. Avia stepped away from the elevator door and turned to her left. An office door open halfway. An oblong of sunlight across the hardwood slats—a shallow room with windows facing the street.
Avia saw a tiny black woman with earbuds dance across the opening carrying a cardboard file box.
Stepping back, Avia looked around. Across and to the right of the elevator, a closed door, heavy, old oak. A large brass knob set at waist level. She stepped to it quietly and tried the knob. It turned smoothly and she eased the door open a couple inches, ready to swing it open and step inside with a bright smile if anyone was watching.
This was a longer, deeper room. The light artificial. An enormous computer monitor mounted on the far wall caught her attention first. Images of what looked like documents flashed on and off of it. It happened too quickly for her to identify the nature of what she was seeing.
A long, high table was positioned beneath the monitor. A man perched on a tall swivel chair in front of a laptop and a standard monitor. From what she could see, the images on the big monitor were the same as the ones on the two in front of him. There were neat stacks of paper and open file folders.
The man was in profile, in a white shirt and a loosened tie, sleeves rolled halfway up well-muscled forearms. The shirt stretched over a broad back. A blond head of spikey, longish hair … a thrill went through her.
Her eyes darted around. Past him, in the corner, what looked like a suit coat over another tall chair. Against the chair leaned a single forearm crutch.
She was looking at Camden Snow.
Avia had met several celebrities in her career as a feature writer before she leapt into investigative journalism. It always took a few moments for the images in her mind planted by those on screens to morph into a real person in front of her.
But those people weren’t this man—this man she’d idolized since she was a teenager and he was, too. She’d watched him set the still-unbroken giant slalom world record. Seen him win six of his seven Olympic medals.
It wasn’t that she didn’t know he was working with Hunter as well as involved with him. But that was a fact to be filed. This was an idol made flesh. And she had to get her shit together. Camden Snow was said to be rather shy in real life. She thought it was better not to rush in on him. Or giggle uncontrollably when face-to-face.
She pushed the door open a few more inches and knocked on it.
“Hello?”
Before she got the word completely articulated, the screens went blank and he’d swivelled to face her. This man was fast.
She stepped in, smiling, and closed the door behind her. A quick scan of the long, open room showed they were the only two there. Two office doors were set into the opposite wall.
“Hi, I’m just looking for Hunter. I’m Avia Rivers.” She took a few steps toward him, with her hand out.
He didn’t smile in return or offer his hand. He did slide off the chair and set himself between her and the table. He was chiseled; his face formed from clean planes, his eyes an icy pale blue.
He didn’t seem to feel any need to speak to her, but the message in his eyes and stance was clear: Get the fuck away from what’s on this table, reporter.
“I’m sorry, I know I’m staring. I’m a fan. Obviously.”
He nodded the slightest bit.
“And I’ve interrupted you.” She stepp
ed back. “Can you just tell me if Hunt’s here or-”
He was texting. “Wait,” he said quietly. He might as well have barked an order at her.
Avia had felt this aura of power before: the first time she’d met Benedict Hart. She knew Camden Snow was gay; everyone knew that. But it was just another fact. In his presence, she wondered how Hunter managed to stay on his feet around him instead of falling to his knees with his face buried in …
Avia’s face warmed. Gay, she told herself. Very gay. Gorgeous thighs and strong hands attached to a gay man. Objective reporter time. She giggled at herself.
Camden Snow blinked at the sound as he put his phone away. He took a step to the low conference table beside her and pulled out a chair. “If you’ll have a seat, Ms. Rivers? Hunter’s parking; he’ll be up in a minute.”
Then he smiled. There was a dimple, and his clear eyes sparkled. His head dropped a little. Shy boy.
Thank God he’s gay or I’d be in love. Ben who? Aloud, she said “Thanks.” She took the chair he still held for her. It faced the door, away from the monitor and his table. “Please call me Avia.”
He finally held out his hand. “Cam.” Avia wasn’t a small woman but his hand swallowed hers in a brief gentle contact.
“Avia?” Diane Natani shut the far office door behind her.
“Hey, Diane,” Avia greeted the Navajo prosecutor. “I didn’t know you were part of Hunter’s team.”
“Uh-huh. Did you know anyone who’s part of it?”
“Peace, okay? I’m not a reporter now.”
Diane took a chair at the opposite end of the table. “No, but you could be tomorrow. Or have you retired?”
“Tell you the truth, Diane, I’m not sure what I’ve done. Can you have a mid-twenties midlife crisis?”
The door opened.
The tiny black woman Avia had seen in the other office came in, earbuds dangling over her shoulders. “How can they not have apricot danith? It’th like a culinary breakfatht thtaple!” She peered into a white bakery bag.
“Yeah, in nineteen sixty-four.” Hunter followed her with a tray of coffees.
“Tho what did you get?” The woman saw Avia. “OH! Company!”
She sat down across from Avia and put the bag on the table. “I know you! You’re Avia Rivers. You did that thing on Councilman Madigan.” The lisp had suddenly disappeared. “Ooooo, Diane! That was your case, too!” She shoved a hand at Avia. “I’m Twee. Carol.”
Her hand was small but strong, dry and a little rough. The hand of someone who worked with tools and chemicals.
“You’re the crime scene analyst?” Avia asked. Twee nodded.
Hunter held out the tray to Cam, who took one of the coffees. He sat at one end of the conference table, Hunter at the other. Hunt pushed the last coffee toward Diane.
“Avia. I’d apologize for not bringing you coffee, but I didn’t know you were coming. And now you’re leaving.”
“I need to see the recordings.”
Hunter’s team passed around the bag of breakfast items, watching the byplay.
“We covered this yesterday. Besides, I told you what happened at the time.”
“You told me who shot whom,” she said. “I need to see exactly why it went down the way it did.”
“Did it even occur to you that we’re working here?”
“Did you think I lost all my contacts? You don’t have a case right now.”
“And you assume when we don’t have an active case, we play board games sitting around waiting for someone to die?”
Twee smirked. Cam watched Hunter for a signal.
Diane turned to Avia. “This is the home invasion?”
“I already told her no,” Hunter told her.
“That case went to the District Attorney’s office months ago,” she told him. “It’s under our case number now. Should I walk Avia over to my Webb building office?”
“No!” Twee leaned forward. “I want to see it, too.”
“It’s not entertainment, Twee,” Hunter said drily.
“I wasn’t going to make popcorn! It’s one of the most complex crime scenes we ever investigated, and I didn’t get to be in on it. ”
“Can you find the case and pull it up?” Diane asked Cam.
He looked at Hunter who shrugged. Cam leaned over and snagged his laptop off the taller table. “Date?”
“September twenty-first, last year,” Avia told him.
“Under St. Clair,” Diane said. “Ess-tee period space.”
He nodded. A list of file codes as links appeared.
Avia’s heart started pounding. Her hands became fists on the table.
Hunter threw a look to Cam, who sat back, removing his hands from the keyboard.
“Av,” Hunter said. “Don’t do this to yourself. I swear there’s nothing to learn.”
“I have to know if I killed Hank.”
“Who?” Twee looked around at everyone.
“Henry Eustace,” Diane said. “Ben Hart’s bodyguard.” Diane held up a hand to keep Twee, always irrepressible by anyone but Hunter, from asking. “Only perpetrators were killed at the scene,” she explained. “Mr. Eustace passed a few days later from a stroke, possibly related to the emergency surgery.”
Avia looked down at her lap during this recitation.
Hunter came around the table and squatted at her side. “At least let’s go into my office. We’ll watch on a smaller screen-”
“No!” She looked at Twee. “You’re a crime scene specialist. And I’m betting if you work for Hunter Dane, one of the best.”
“I am, but-”
“So you’ll have expert insight into what we see. And you”—she turned to Cam—“can coordinate the time tracks and get the different views to play simultaneously, right? In slow motion, even?”
Cam looked from her to Hunter and back. “You’re going to trigger yourself.”
“I have to know.”
“This isn’t ballsy. It’s you insisting everybody in this room carry your emotional baggage. Including me.” Cam stood up and leaned toward her, his hands on the table. Surprised, she leaned back. “You think whatever you want takes precedence over anything or anyone here. I don’t have the authority to throw you out. But I also do not work for you.”
He sat back down and waited for an order from his boss.
Hunter rose and keyed something into his cell phone. “I just sent you Avia’s information,” he told Cam. “Since the ADA in charge of the case cleared it”—a glance to Diane—“send Avia copies of the digital surveillance.”
Cam fingers moved over the keyboard.
Hunter went to the door and opened it. “Avia?”
SHE WAS BARELY aware of Hunter walking her to her car or of fishing her key fob from her skirt pocket or of Hunter taking it and opening the driver’s door. He leaned back against her car with his arms crossed, holding her key.
“Did you throw me out because he’s your Dom?” she asked.
“No. You okay to drive? You seem a little shell-shocked.”
Her head bobbed up and down slightly. “Yeah.”
“Which ‘yeah’?”
She shook her head and got behind the wheel. He held onto her key, keeping the door open. She refused to look at him.
“O.D.D.” He tossed the key onto her lap and walked back into his building without a backward glance.
She sat for a while until the interior of the car became uncomfortably hot under the bright Denver sun. Lowering the windows allowed the cool March breeze to flow over her.
She sat some more. Alone, confused, abandoned … disliked. These were feelings she’d never had before, not simultaneously.
Avia reviewed the people she could call to help alleviate the dark sadness that came with the feelings. Friends who would buoy her up. J.J. Johnson, her former boss and best friend, was unlikely to welcome contact at this point.
Her work husband and racquetball partner Carson Sanchez was the Chief Programmer at The Week
. She hadn’t called him for months. He might drop everything for her if she called. But like the people on Hunter’s team, he was working.
Her sister was busy with her life and her twins.
Her “significant other”—she had no idea what else to call Ben at this point—was somewhere on the planet making the decisions and taking the actions that had made him a billionaire. He hardly needed a call from her asking him to tell her she wasn’t exactly what he’d said she was: self-centered. Arrogant.
She checked the time. Nine twenty-five. Her appointment with Erin Harley, M.D.—psychiatrist and sex researcher—wasn’t until one. In Boulder.
Avia’s fingers traced the outline of the cell in her skirt pocket. The recording of the shooting, Hank’s death, was right here.
She started her car.
“I CAN’T THANK YOU enough for making time for me, Hugo,” Avia said as she settled gingerly into a visitors chair in his Tech Center office. Even though Ben was the owner, CEO and public face of Hart Enterprises, it was Hugo who ran the day-to-day operation. His office showed it. It was almost twice the size of Ben’s and had its own conference table, a wet bar, and two bathrooms.
“I have some time,” he said. “What can I do for you?”
“I …” She stopped, a little abashed. “I just realized I have no idea how to approach you about this.”
He sat back in his chair, legs crossed, hands folded in his lap, and waited for her to gather her thoughts.
“Okay. I have the digital records from the companion’s room the day of the shooting. I haven’t watched them, yet. I … it’s hard. The only person who can tell me what I need to know, who I trust to be straight with me is you. I need to know if …”
She hesitated. The man across the desk was Henry Eustace’ husband. Or had been. To alleviate her doubt, she had to dredge up his pain.
She rose. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have come. Excuse me.”
“Avia,” his voice was firm, like a father, not a boss. Or a master. “Sit down and tell me what you need.”
“That day, I was told to meet you at the front door and we’d go up together. Ben and Hank were indulging me, you see. They didn't believe those men would hold Talli right there in the house.” She sank down onto the chair, her voice a soft rasp. “But I knew. And I didn’t wait for you.”