The Submissive's Last Word (The Power to Please, Book 4)

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The Submissive's Last Word (The Power to Please, Book 4) Page 4

by Ward, Deena


  “Did she?”

  “She did.”

  “Oh boy.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know if you should read too much into it.”

  “Oh, no, I wouldn’t.”

  Elaine stared off into the distance behind me, obviously lost in contemplation of what Paulina’s invitation might or might not mean, undoubtedly reading too much into it.

  I could only sit and wonder if I had walked into bizarro world that morning. Elaine with a crush on Paulina? And jealous of the muscle-bound Toy? Beyond bizarre.

  I couldn’t help myself. “Maybe on Sunday if you play your cards right, Paulina will harness you up next to Toy and the both of you can pull her cart. Not exactly a matched set, but ...”

  Elaine looked confused for a moment, then she smiled, laughed and smacked at my hand. “You’re a bad girl, Nonnie Crawford. You know I’m not into that sort of thing.”

  “I don’t know anything right now, Elaine.”

  She chuckled, and I shook my head.

  The waitress delivered our food and we tucked in. The cheeseburger was horrifically greasy and the chili fries could have burned their way through cast iron. In all, a pretty fabulous plate of food.

  During the meal, we chatted about lighter topics than Elaine’s current crush. Near the end, though, she asked about Gibson, and I told her he had arrived home the night before.

  “What’s up with Gibson?” Elaine asked. “I’m betting he’s why you asked me out to lunch.”

  “No, I wanted to see you, too.”

  “I know. So tell me what’s going on.”

  I took a final few bites and pushed the plate away. “He says I’m not facing what happened. He wants me to do something that I don’t want to do.”

  “What is it?”

  “Watch my videos with him. He says I need to, in order to understand what happened. But it doesn’t make sense. I know what happened.”

  She sent her own plate off with the waitress who stopped to pick up mine. “Tell me exactly what he said.”

  “He said I only think I know what happened that night, and that I’m wrong about it. He said I don’t have the experience to understand, but that he can help me understand it.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following, honey. What happened that night is in the video, right? So, I’m not clear on how you see it one way and he sees it another.”

  “Me either. I don’t get it. I mean, this is all about Michael’s betrayal and how he ... did what he did.”

  She patted my hand gently. “There must be more to it than that. Maybe Gibson’s talking about the things that Michael did in the video. Could that be it?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “You should talk about it with him. This could be important. He wouldn’t ask you to do something like this if it weren’t.”

  She was right, but I wasn’t ready to admit defeat yet. “I can’t watch that video with him. I’ve never watched it all the way through.”

  “Oh, honey. I wish I could take it all away. I’m so sorry Michael did that terrible thing to you ... I just ...” tears gathered in the corners of her gentle eyes.

  “No, don’t do it, Elaine. If you start, I’ll start, and then, ugh.”

  She sat up straight and blinked a few times. “You’re right. The bottom line is this — Gibson Reeves is a smart man, and if he says you need to understand somethin’ about that night in order to move on, he’s probably right.”

  “I can’t do it.”

  “Find a way to compromise. Maybe you two can just talk about it, talk about what happened together instead of watching the video.”

  “Maybe. It’s a possibility.”

  “Ask him. Explain that you want help, but there are some things you can’t do. He wants you to heal, so he’ll listen and work with you.”

  I gave her a little smile. “I doubt Gibson knows how often you’ve spoken for him.”

  “No reason why he should. Let him help. I can’t say that often enough.”

  “Okay. Thanks. I feel better. It’s a good idea, talking instead of watching.”

  “You’re welcome, honey. Now what time’s that picnic on Sunday?”

  We finished our beers, me thinking of Gibson, and picnics and how someone could suddenly become a lesbian in middle age. What Elaine was thinking, I wouldn’t have dared to guess.

  Later that afternoon, I hid out in my cottage, trying to avoid meeting Paulina, who was currently terrorizing nearly everyone on the estate. From what I could tell, when I dared a quick peek out my windows, only Xavier and Gibson had escaped being drafted into her service.

  I assumed Gibson was at work, which gave him an easy out. Xavier, I knew, would be the only person in residence who would tell Paulina no. Lord knew, I wasn’t up to it. Hence, the hiding out.

  I read for a while, then did a bit of housework. While putting some things away in my closet, I noticed I’d never sorted through a pile of boxes I brought with me when I moved in. No time like the present, I thought, and sat on the floor in the middle of the walk-in and began digging through my stuff.

  Most of it was papers and keepsakes I hadn’t wanted to leave in my old apartment in case someone broke in while I was gone. I still had many things in the apartment, mostly furniture and kitchen stuff. Rent was due soon, and I needed to decide if I would pay another month’s rent, or move my belongings into storage.

  My savings would last longer if I let the apartment go. It wasn’t like I ever planned on moving back there, regardless of what I eventually wound up doing. I made a promise to myself that I would call my landlord Monday morning and give notice. Then I wondered if I would actually do it.

  I pawed through a box of assorted accessories, handbags, scarves, a few winter caps ... and there, on the bottom, folded neatly, a blue striped necktie. The Businessman’s tie.

  I held the slinky silk in my hand and let it drape over my fingers. I didn’t remember putting it in that box, and wondered what possessed me. I stared at the thing as if there were some secret to it, as if it were more than an expensive piece of clothing.

  It was more. It represented the beginning. I wouldn’t be sitting on the floor in that closet if it weren’t for that tie. Without that piece of blue silk, I never would have gone looking for the Businessman and found Michael Weston instead, the man who ruined me.

  As I shoved the tie back into the box and crammed the lid on top, I remembered that no Michael would have also meant no Gibson. If I could do it all over again, I wondered, would I sacrifice knowing Gibson to escape knowing Michael?

  I opened another box. There wasn’t much in it. I pulled out a few items and for a moment didn’t recognize them. A sweater, an old lipstick, a hand mirror, a desk calendar. My stomach tightened. These were my belongings from my old office, from my former job at Linton Cosmetics.

  My boss, Isabel Vinson, had packed all of these things up for me, then had the box delivered to the Hoytes’ home where I was staying at the time. I didn’t do more than glance inside it the night I received it, finding the prospect of sorting through the sorry leavings of my career more depressing than I could bear.

  I folded the sweater and set it aside; fall was coming, and I might need it. I extracted a few other items that might be of use and tossed them next to the sweater.

  I pulled out something that, oddly enough, was wrapped in tissue paper. I carefully pulled back the paper and found a small figurine tucked inside.

  It was small, about three inches tall, delicate and adorable. An exquisitely-carved kitten dangled from a stubby branch of a tree, hanging on by the claws of one lone paw. The kitten’s eyes were circles of surprise, its mouth open and rounded. A single line of text ran across the base of the figurine: “Hang in there, baby!”

  This figurine wasn’t mine, but I knew its owner. It belonged to Isabel, and always sat in a prominent place on her desk.

  I remembered how once, many years ago, she noticed me looking at the figurine. She’d picked it up, studie
d it, gave a little laugh then handed it over to me to inspect more closely.

  She smiled. “Corny little thing, isn’t it? My mother gave it to me. She knows my sense of humor. I can’t count the number of times I’ve looked at that cat and laughed.”

  I thought it was cute, but I couldn’t see what was so funny about it. To me, it was a standard inspirational kind of knickknack. Hang in there, you can do it, rah rah rah. That kind of thing. I handed it back to Isabel, who set it on the desk, facing me.

  She pushed her glasses up, one of her habitual gestures. “Look at how hard that cat’s hanging on, doing everything it can not to let go. Seems like a heroic effort not to fall. But here’s the thing, Nonnie. Its hind feet are almost on the ground, and there’s nothing waiting underneath that might harm it. So why is the cat afraid of letting go?”

  I studied the silly piece. She was right. Why didn’t the cat just let go?

  “It’s a lesson for us,” she said. “Sometimes we hang on to things in defiance of all reason and sense, simply because it’s familiar. We wear ourselves out allowing our fears to keep us clinging to illusion.”

  Isabel tapped the head of the kitten. “Our challenge is to know when the time for hanging in there is over, when simply holding on is no longer good enough. The trick is knowing when to let go.”

  That had been years ago when she told me that. I sat on the closet floor in Gibson’s cottage, holding the goofy little figurine and thinking about how Isabel had wrapped up her favorite kitten sculpture and given it to me. All this time, it had been waiting in the box for me.

  I felt a burning behind my eyes, and a lump rose in my throat. I studied the kitten that clung valiantly and pointlessly to the branch. Hang in there, baby.

  I heard Isabel say again, “The trick is knowing when to let go.”

  A gift, for me.

  And that’s when it happened. Everything, all of it, swelled fresh inside of me, filled me, overflowed, the fear, the hate, the frustration, the anger, and most of all, the unbearable sorrow of everything that had happened to me.

  I felt as if it were a fresh wound. My humiliation. My loss. My fear. My grief. It was a burgeoning force that wouldn’t be restrained. It demanded acknowledgement, release, wouldn’t accept even a moment’s hesitation.

  It would have its day, its overdue moment. No more delays.

  And so, at long last, I cried.

  For the first and only time since I learned my life was indelibly damaged, I cried. Sobbed. Loud wracking cries. Great gulps of air. I sobbed and held nothing back.

  Wretched, wretched sadness. My head pounded and my stomach ached and I gasped for air, gasped for what I had lost and would never recover.

  I hung my head, letting the tears run unchecked, dripping onto my chest, splashing in fat drops onto my hands and legs. I clutched the tiny cat figurine as if it could hold me in return. I shook all over and hugged myself.

  Then, miraculously, other arms reached for me. Strong arms came from nowhere and folded around me, pulled me against a sturdy chest and squeezed me tight. I knew him from his spicy scent ... Gibson.

  I didn’t ask how he got there, how he knew I needed him. I simply accepted that he was there, wrapped around me, allowing me to fall apart while he held the pieces together.

  He tucked my head under his chin and rocked me gently, side to side, side to side. He didn’t shush me, or tell me it was okay. He simply let me cry.

  And so I did. On and on. I mourned my loss. Finally.

  I let go.

  Chapter 4

  Much later, Gibson and I sat in a pair of comfortable chairs on the back deck of the cottage. I sipped the tea Gibson made me, and we looked out over the expanse of manicured grass and small gardens that stretched to the edge of the lake and beyond. The air smelled fresh and clean, the scent of country air.

  It was late afternoon, and the insects were in full-on buzz mode, probably hailing the unseasonably warm weather. I could barely hear the sounds of Paulina’s crew slaving away distant and unseen on the south lawn.

  I noted Gibson’s frequent glances in my direction. “I’m okay,” I said.

  “I’m glad.”

  I wasn’t sure he believed me. “I mean it. I feel better, lighter.”

  He gave me a long look. I must have passed inspection, because he said, “Good.”

  “I think I’m ready to talk about this thing,” I said. “No, I know I’m ready.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea. Not today.”

  “No. Really. I’m ready.” And I meant it, was sure of it. The tears had drained away much of the heaviness that had been holding me down. I was ready to create forward momentum. I wanted to know what Gibson thought I needed to know.

  I knew Gibson was ready to talk. It was why he had come to the cottage. When I didn’t answer the door, he got worried and went inside, sought me out, found me in the closet.

  “You’re certain?” he asked.

  “I am.”

  “Then we can at least give it a try. Remember that we can stop at any time.”

  “I will. I’m not watching the video though.”

  “Then I don’t know what it is you’re wanting —”

  “I’m hoping we can come to an agreement about this. Meet in the middle.” I sent him a hopeful look.

  “Okay. Explain.”

  “I’d like to try just talking about it, about what happened that night. I was there, so I already know, sort of. And what I don’t know, you can tell me if it’s important. It’s the only way I can do it. Can we at least try?”

  He mulled it over for a few moments. “If you’re more comfortable that way, then yes. Certainly.”

  I smiled at him and he gave me a small, business-like nod in return.

  “Are you ready right now?” he asked.

  “I think so. Yes, I mean. I’m ready.”

  “Okay then. Let me think about where to begin.”

  I took a sip of my tea and gave him the quiet he needed. I tried to sound confident about discussing this with him, and as much as I wanted to make progress, I was still scared. It wasn’t only because I didn’t want to relive that night; a big chunk of my discomfort came from not wanting to discuss with Gibson what I had done with Michael. I couldn’t imagine that Gibson was thrilled at the prospect of hearing it, either.

  I closed my eyes for a moment and promised myself everything would be fine. Elaine had assured me that Gibson wouldn’t ask this of me if it weren’t important. Trust Elaine. Trust Gibson.

  I opened my eyes and turned to him. He watched me with a shuttered expression.

  “I’m hoping,” he said, “that you won’t mind answering some questions. Because the video is dubbed over so much, I’m not clear on certain details. For instance, were you actually being punished that night, or was that just part of the fictional story line?”

  “I was being punished, for three things I’d done wrong.” I kept my voice steady and firm, unemotional.

  “What were those things?”

  “They happened at the restaurant, the Millhouse. It was the night I saw you, and when Michael caught us together in the coat check room.”

  “I remember. He punished you for that?”

  “Kind of. The first punishment was for removing a toy from ... I did something without permission, removed something he put inside me.”

  “What was it you removed?”

  You can do this, I told myself. “Ben Wa balls. I took them out at the restaurant without permission because I thought it would be okay. He was mad at me for talking to you, and I didn’t see any reason to keep them in there when we were leaving anyway. But that was wrong, and I wasn’t supposed to do it, so that was the first punishment.”

  “I see. Thank you for telling me,” Gibson said, the non-judgmental warmth of his voice soothing my nerves. “What was the second punishment for?”

  “For going into the coat check room with you.”

  He visibly flinched, looked taken aback.
“He punished you for that?”

  “Yeah. He said I endangered his property by being in a room with another man without his permission.”

  The muscles twitched in his jaw. He sat up straighter and looked away for few seconds. “And the third punishment? What was that for?”

  “I disrespected him in front of another dominant.”

  “In front of me?”

  “No, not you. It happened before I ran into you. It was Ron Hoyte.”

  “What did you do?”

  “He wanted to show Ron my breasts, there in the restaurant. We were in this secluded booth in the back. Michael wanted to lower my dress and show me off. I stopped him, grabbed his hand and told him no.”

  “And?”

  “That’s it.”

  “I thought you said you disrespected him.”

  “Right. I told him no in front of Ron. I embarrassed him.”

  A distinct shade of red was starting to climb up the sides of Gibson’s neck and face. He was tense, smoothing the fabric of his pants over his knee. “You told him no because you were uncomfortable being undressed in a public restaurant.”

  “Yes, and because Ron is Elaine’s husband, and I didn’t understand then about their open relationship.”

  “You told him those things.”

  “Sure. But he said I was being ridiculous and had behaved badly in front of Ron.”

  “Was Hoyte there during all that? While Michael told you these things?”

  “No, when he saw how mad Michael was, he stepped out to call Elaine.”

  “At least that’s something.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I’m glad Ron didn’t hear that, because otherwise I’d have to reconsider my opinion of him.”

  “Are you angry with me?”

  “God, no, Nonnie. No. Not you. I’m sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I shouldn’t be reacting this way. I’ll do better. I promise. Just give me a minute.”

  I nodded and watched him stare off toward the lake, his face and neck muscles working as he tried to calm himself.

 

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