by Ward, Deena
“No you don’t. You’re the disobedient sub.” He leered when he said it, enjoyed flinging it out there.
It took everything I had to keep hold of myself. My hands began to shake so I clamped down hard on my textbook. I tried to look passive. “Who?” I asked.
“You know who.”
“You must be high. Go home and sleep it off.”
He pulled out a piece of paper from his pack and leaned in closer to me. I jerked backward, not knowing his intentions.
“Can I have your autograph?” he asked.
I stared at him. In my million variations of potential confrontations, being asked for an autograph didn’t number among them.
I told him he was being ridiculous. He should get lost, I said, then I gathered up my things to leave.
He talked while I shoved books into my bag. “I only got to see your video once, and not all the way through. I tried to find it again, but it disappeared off the net. What happened? Did you piss somebody off? You should get a different agent, somebody who won’t let that sort of thing go on. I mean, it was kind of a hokey film, and the production quality was pathetic. But you were awesome.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, then turned to leave.
“You sure you’re not the disobedient sub?”
I didn’t answer.
Within a few days, I couldn’t ignore that small groups of people started whispering whenever I walked by. I heard, “That’s her,” and “Oh-my-God. She’s the one I told you about.” I had moments of panic when I imagined being brought up before the dean and her grilling me before she expelled me.
Then the talk died away, and nothing ever came of it. People found new things to gossip about and they lost interest in an older woman who might or might not have once been in a bad web porno.
And that, I learned, was the difference between my new life and my old one. In my old life, values were indelible, backlash vicious and eternal. In the new one, values were more open to interpretation, and backlash was fleeting.
I asked myself if these differences were actually true, or if they were birthed and nurtured by me, by my insecurities and preconceptions. Perhaps.
Regardless, I never let my accuser off the hook, and that day on the street, in the wind and cold, was no exception. He would always get snubbed, if for no other reason than he was a blabbermouth and deserved no better.
My studio was a welcome haven when I finally arrived and warmed up. I had a rare afternoon and evening off work, and I was at loose ends as to how to fill the rest of the day. I made some hot chocolate and went over to the window seat, settled there with my sketchpad nearby and looked down on the few pedestrians brave enough to venture onto the city sidewalks.
Even if it weren’t ideal, this was a good life, my cozy apartment, undemanding job and challenging courses in the field I loved. I had my friends, and answered only to myself, was responsible only for myself.
Yes, a good life. But not ideal, since that would be impossible thanks to the one nasty hiccup in my routine: missing Gibson Reeves.
There had yet to be a day when I didn’t, at some point, wish him there with me. I’d think of what he might say about a silly customer, or how he’d worry over the safety of the stairs leading to my apartment, or how he’d smile at me when I woke in the morning, his sexy-rumpled hair and his new-day masculine scent. Then my heart would miss a beat, a bodily exclamation point that emphasized my longing.
In those first weeks after I left him, I sat in the window seat every day, for hours sometimes, looking down the street and wishing every man walking by was Gibson. Regularly, I’d spot a man in the distance, a man in a suit, walking with a crisp stride. I’d get excited. It was him, I’d think. It was Gibson. Coming for me at last.
It never was him. And the crushing disappointment of it should have forced me, for self-preservation’s sake if nothing else, to stop looking out that window and searching for him. But it didn’t. I sat. I watched. Waited. For someone who never came.
Of late, I’d been staking out the street less often, though I never stopped completely. I couldn’t abandon that remaining sliver of hope.
I gazed down the street on this windy and cold March day. Where was Gibson today? Was he traveling, as Paulina said he often did? Negotiating a deal in Russia? How cold was it in Russia in March? Perhaps he was somewhere warm, opening a new office in Dubai. Was it warm in Dubai in March?
It was chilly in the window so I pulled a blanket around my shoulders, tucked my legs up and wrapped both hands around my warm mug. A man in dark pants and overcoat, far down the street and headed my way, caught my eye. I couldn’t see details but something about him was familiar, something about the proud way he carried himself.
What if Gibson weren’t traveling at all?
I sat up straighter, in spite of knowing it was foolish, that the man in the distance never turned out to be who I wanted him to be. I leaned forward, as if those few inches closer would make all the difference. I squinted.
The man seemed tall, the long lines of his body promised it. And his hair was dark, his head lowered against the wind driving into his face. His hands were in his coat pockets and he walked upright with a purposeful pace.
Like Gibson.
My heart beat faster and my breath grew shallow. I told myself to stop getting excited.
But what if it really were him? Coming to tell me he couldn’t live without me anymore, that he’d made a terrible mistake letting me go. So he’d come to reclaim me. To make everything right. To tell me he, what?
That he loved me? He’d never said it to me. But I hadn’t said it to him, either, though it was true. Perhaps it was that way for him, too.
The man in the overcoat grew larger the closer he got. Now I could make out his shiny shoes, the crease in his pants and the way his hair blew in the wind. I couldn’t clearly identify his face yet. Bad angle, the way his head was lowered, and I was on the second floor looking down.
I was more convinced than ever that the man was Gibson. In less than twenty steps, he’d be crossing the street, to come to me. I sat my mug aside, combed my hair with my fingers and wondered how terrible I looked. There was no time to fix it. He’d be here in a moment. My God. Finally. I stood.
Ten steps. Five. One.
Then he didn’t turn to cross the street. He passed by.
And I got a clear view of his profile.
Not Gibson.
Overwhelming disappointment pushed me back down into the window seat. Why did I do this to myself? This was torture of the worst kind, an evil, teasing devil that never got its fill.
Once again, I wanted to blame Paulina, and I might have, but I recognized I was the one to blame. I was the one who sat in the seat, who let herself believe in something that never had a chance of being true.
I needed to face it, to stop tormenting myself with false hopes. Gibson was never going to come get me. He was never going to walk down that sidewalk, up the stairs, scoop me up and tell me he couldn’t live without me.
Never.
Like a gut shot, that realization.
All these months I told myself I was moving on, but in all actuality, I was just waiting for Gibson. I’d gone through the motions, settled in and nested, devoted my time to art and school. I proclaimed I’d created a good life for myself, a fulfilling life with purpose and meaning.
It was all a sham. I’d scammed myself. I hadn’t been building anything, I’d simply been making the best of the waiting period, until Gibson came to his senses and reclaimed me.
I warmed up then, let the anger get me good and revved. What the hell was wrong with me? I tossed off the blanket and twisted away from the damned window.
I was appalled. I’d turned myself into a self-exiled Rapunzel, staring forlornly out her tower every day, passively waiting for her prince to come rescue her.
What new weakness was this? Or, more like, what old one? Every time I forged a new path I eventually meandered back
onto the old one. Damn.
It had to be enough. At some point. It had to be.
And it didn’t matter how much I wanted to deny it, I needed to end the waiting and truly get over Gibson or I needed ... what?
To try again? To find a way to make it work?
I had no evidence, nothing to suggest that anything had changed. The situation today was as irreparable as it ever was, perhaps even more so, since I didn’t actually know if he still wanted me.
What had Paulina said about reconsidering the hopelessness of my situation? She said that I may have missed something. I didn’t know how that could be possible. I’d been over and over it, countless times.
What if the answer didn’t lie in something I’d missed? Maybe I’d mishandled it.
I told myself to be honest and asked if I’d been patient enough. I couldn’t confidently answer that I had. I was upset at the time, hurt, itching for a resolution. If I had waited longer, nudged him gently, been less insistent, might it have made a difference?
I realized, too, that part of my impatience may have stemmed from the fact that I was intimidated by the new lifestyle of privilege. The mansion, the cars, the money and servants. I didn’t know how to deal with it then any better than I did today. Now, however, I could be on the alert, look out for the insecurities to reveal themselves, minimize their impact.
I also wondered if I could have proven myself to Gibson better. I knew now that I’d been pretty ignorant of the intricacies of D/s and BDSM. Gibson once said I hadn’t done my homework. He was right. I hadn’t. I’d hardly glanced at the title page of the textbook.
Well, I’d done it now. I read book after book, scoured web sites and internet forums, even made some online friendships. I’d asked questions, sought answers, quizzed Elaine and Ron in particular until they probably wanted to plug their ears. I discovered how truly little I knew.
The only thing I hadn’t done in my quest for knowledge was gain real world experience with a dominant. I couldn’t do it. I tried a few times, made it as far as agreeing to a date, but never followed through, always cancelled. I wanted no one, no one except Gibson.
So I gained knowledge second hand. I understood now why Gibson had concerns regarding my reticence to use safe words. For one thing, I learned that I had been slipping into subspace fairly easily. I knew now that a dominant had to take special care when a sub was in that impressionable state. It was a revelation, reading about subspace, the marvelousness of it, and the serious dangers, recognizing the time I’d spent there without knowing what it was.
I realized that I couldn’t trust my judgment when I was in subspace. No wonder, then, that Gibson couldn’t.
However, I wasn’t always in subspace when I was with him. It was the exception more than the rule and he would have understood this. So why the uncalled-for overall lack of trust, rather than applying it to the specific situation?
Even more puzzling, was why he didn’t talk to me about it. He mentioned it once or twice, that I could recall, but we never discussed it at any length. Why not? If his concerns sprung from my ability to enter subspace, then that should have been a logical topic to explore together. It made no sense that he ignored it.
Nonetheless, in the months since our split, I had gained knowledge and a fresh perspective. Perhaps it could facilitate a reconciliation, or at least reopen the conversation with him, offer up a potential meeting ground.
I knew from Paulina that he was unhappy, and perhaps that came from missing me — if Paulina were correct. I wanted her to be right, wanted him to miss me.
At any rate, Paulina would surely know if he were seeing someone. That she approached me had to mean he wasn’t.
I mentally ran a recap. Gibson and I were both still single. It was possible that I’d been impatient for results and rushed a resolution, which meant there was a chance that more patience could yield a different result. And I was armed with new knowledge that might prove to make the biggest difference of all.
It all added up to a chance. A miniscule chance, perhaps, but a chance.
I needed to make a decision.
I’d made a decent life for myself, but I’d only been playing at it. It was time to decide, to stop waiting around and get on with it, or try to reconcile with Gibson.
I turned and glared at the window. Who was I?
I wasn’t fucking Rapunzel, that was for sure. Not anymore. I knew from hard-won experience that if I went around waiting for my life to change, or waiting for someone else to do it for me, I’d be waiting forever.
I’d get myself out of the damned tower. One way or another.
I could live without Gibson. I’d survive, especially once I quit clinging to false hope. But there was no denying that a life with Gibson was so superior to one without him, that I’d have to be a fool not to venture one last effort to get him back.
More thoughts along the same lines pumped me up and soon had me feeling I could do this. My blood was high and my vision was clear.
Dammit.
I wanted Gibson Reeves.
I could keep looking down that street every day and torturing myself with the impossible, or I could get up and seize what I wanted.
If life had a soundtrack, mine would have been playing the theme from “Rocky,”, or any other uplifting score which accompanied montages of athletes training to do the impossible.
That was me. I was going to do the impossible.
And I was going to do it now.
I jumped up, found my cell and scrolled to the number I wanted. The call was answered right away.
“Good afternoon,” the woman said. “Roundtree Holdings. How may I help you?”
“Gibson Reeves’ office, please,” I said, breathy from adrenaline.
“One moment.”
A few seconds later, a familiar voice came on the line. “Mr. Reeves’ office. May I help you?”
“Hi Mary,” I said. “It’s Nonnie Crawford.”
“Oh, Nonnie. It’s so nice to hear your voice. How are you, dear?”
“I’m okay, thanks. And you?”
“You know me. I just keep plugging along.”
I smiled. Sweet woman. “Is Gibson there or is he out of town?”
“He’s in, but he’s not in the office right now.”
“Do you expect him back this afternoon?”
“He didn’t say, but you know how he is. I’m sure he’ll be back at some point. Do you want to leave a message?”
“No, thanks though.”
“I’ll tell him you called.”
“I wish you wouldn’t.”
“Hmm. Okay. If that’s what you want.”
“I appreciate it.”
We said our goodbyes and I ended the call.
My head swirled with a hundred thoughts at once. I would do this, I would go to Roundtree and wait for him, spy on the entrance until he arrived. When he did, I’d let him go to his office, then I’d follow him, force my way inside if necessary (not that force would likely be necessary, as if Mary and Kurt would resort to fisticuffs to hold me off, but it was satisfyingly dramatic to consider the possibility), and then I’d march up to Gibson and demand that he listen.
I’d tell him we needed to try again, and that we needed to meet in the middle. We’d been apart long enough. I missed him. He’d have to listen. I wouldn’t allow no’s. I’d pull out all the stops. Seduce him if I had to, not that seduction would be a sacrifice on my part.
God, I wanted him so badly. I ached for him, for the pleasure of his company as much as the thrill of his touch. For everything about him.
A mental warning buzzed in the background, dampening some of my excitement. What if it doesn’t work? What if you put yourself out there and he doesn’t agree to try? Or he does try, but nothing changes. You’ll break your heart all over again, just when you were finally getting over him.
It didn’t hold me down for more than a few seconds. I dismissed the warning, reminded the voice that I clearly wasn’t getting
over him. And possible embarrassing dismissal was no deterrent; risking my pride was nothing.
I headed to the bathroom for some cosmetic and hair repairs. I worried over what I should wear, but the montage soundtrack was so loud and insistent in my head that I couldn’t take much time with my appearance. I was raring to go. I threw on a fresh pair of slacks and a pretty blouse and called it good.
I grabbed my coat and my purse and stood in front of the door. I squared my shoulders, took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.
It was time to storm the citadel and rescue my man.
I opened the door, marched out, locked it quickly behind me then tromped down the stairwell like the woman on a mission I was. I was beyond determined. I debated subway routes. I was bursting with energy and confidence.
I turned the corner at the mid-level landing, and much to my surprise, came to a jarring halt.
With a loud oomph, I ran straight into someone on the remaining half-flight of stairs, a complete and shocking end to my charge.
I looked into the eyes of the someone I’d run into ... a man ...
Gibson Reeves.
Bouncing off his hard body sent me stumbling backward. The impact didn’t budge him at all, which was a good thing since his position on the top step was more precarious than mine on the landing. He reached out and grabbed my arm, steadying me so I wouldn’t fall.
His touch ignited my senses.
Holy hell. It was like when I saw him for the first time, a fiery spark of energy ping-ponging through me. Now here it was, happening again.
This uncanny reaction, the physical recognition, left me with a single thought blazing in my mind.
He’s the one.
Our gazes held and, at the same time, we blurted out, “Sorry.”
He looked wonderful, and he smelled like I remembered, with the addition of the scent of the wind and the outdoors. His hair was slightly mussed. He wore a knee-length overcoat, like the man I’d mistakenly thought was him earlier.
“Are you okay?” he asked. “I didn’t —”
“I’m fine. Are you —”
“Fine. Fine.”
We stared at each other. He took me in, head to toe, and I did the same to him. I looked where I wanted to touch.