by Cox, Chloe
That was when the world stopped.
A big guy with a neck beard jostled her and tried to apologize in an affected southern twang that he probably thought was flirtatious. Catie blushed, first because she’d been lost in a moment of terror, and then because the physical movement reminded her of the ben-wa balls she wore inside her. It was an immediate jolt, a sudden, sexual reminder of Jake—and of what had happened, and of how vulnerable she’d just become. Belatedly, it knocked some sense into her: she couldn’t very well figure this out standing stock still in the middle of the bar like she had a spotlight on her, just waiting for the man in the dark grey suit to get a good look at her.
“Taking my smoke break!” she shouted at the bartender.
“I thought you didn’t smoke?”
But she was already through the swing doors that led to the back storerooms and the alley entrance.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
She had spent the past few days ever since she’d shown up, apparently unannounced, at Stephan’s House, convincing herself that she really could go through with her original plan. She could do it. She could write the story, she could make it truthful, she could save what was left of her family. She had dealt with her anxiety about being found out, about her eventual exposure, by being realistic. Not everything could possibly be as welcoming and nurturing and wonderful as it seemed at Volare, and she felt like she’d finally seen the darker side. First, Roman had brought her into his office to announce that he would be her mentor, but he’d only done that to foist her back on Jake as soon as possible. Which, at first, she hadn’t minded, but then she’d gone to Stephen’s House to get background for some catalog, as instructed, and Jake had been…
He’d been different.
Well, not entirely different. She’d been thinking about it all week, trying to figure it out. None of it made sense, was the problem.
Nothing she’d been able to find about Jake—about Jacob Jayson—had seemed like it fit the man that she herself had encountered. Some of it Catie remembered or already knew. His mother had been a sort of free-spirit heiress, indulging in all kinds of weird ashrams and fads, doing all kinds of drugs, lots of lovers. Had Jake out of wedlock when she was in her forties, no mention, ever, of who the father was. Anthea Jayson seemed to court the newspapers, reveling in the attention, in scandal and notoriety. And when Jake was born he apparently became a part of the show. Like a theater prop.
And then Jake himself: not too much tabloid coverage of him as soon as he got old enough to avoid it. The opposite of his mother, in that sense, which didn’t surprise Catie; she knew all about trying to get away from the kind of people your parents were. There were only a few society page mentions: when his mother died while he was away at Harvard, and then when he published his book on Shakespeare. A few academic articles, but they all tapered off, like he’d stopped taking his academic career all that seriously. And then a few mentions in the gossip rags, and then, five years ago, everything just…stopped.
It was like he’d disappeared. Like he’d just rejected public life, and instead threw himself into…Volare.
Catie realized she really had developed certain expectations about Jake, and maybe that hadn’t been entirely fair. She’d watched him, obviously, when he tended bar at Volare—tended bar! The heir to the Jayson fortune! His family built the freaking railroads, and who knows what else—and he was always so…solicitous. Like making sure everyone was ok, and everything functioned well, was his job. And then when he’d caught her, he’d been so high-minded about it. Noble, actually. ‘Noble’ was the word she was looking for. Determined to do right by everyone, and with the integrity to go talk to Roman, but still keep his promise to her. He’d gone from being the impossibly hot but remote Dom that she fantasized about to this impossibly hot Dom who was also impossibly chivalrous—who she still fantasized about. Who wouldn’t love that?
But now that she thought about it, she never could recall Jake in any kind of intimate conversations. The Volare lounge was this unspoken safe place for the kinds of people who frequented the club, the kinds of people who were often isolated by their own power, or fame, or wealth. It wasn’t unusual for people to come there for comfort, and Jake would watch over them. He would keep an eye on everyone, but he was never the one anyone cried to. He never involved himself personally whenever anyone had a problem. He made sure someone else did that. Catie herself had done more of that, just hanging around the lounge and talking to people, the way she did.
And then there was what had happened at Stephan’s House.
Catie kicked open the delivery door that opened on a side alley and propped it open with a brick. She didn’t actually want to go outside—January in New York sucked; she did not understand why anyone who could live in California would choose to deal with this suckage instead—but she needed the fresh air. Thinking about Jake always clouded her mind.
She wondered, for the millionth time, whether she’d made too big a deal about what had happened. What had happened, really? She’d walked into the bathroom and the sounds of crying behind one of the stalls had transported her immediately back to high school, when half the girls she knew had had serious problems, and she felt like she’d known exactly what to do. The girl’s name had been Alice. Alice had half-heartedly cut at herself, and was almost as upset about falling back into bad patterns like that as she was about what had made her cry. She’d said that—“bad patterns”—and Catie could tell Alice had been to therapy—therapy most likely provided by Jake and Stephan’s House.
Alice had just talked. Man, that kid had been through more stuff…
And Catie had just listened, tried to let the girl know she cared. When the door had opened and Jake had walked in, Catie had had this momentary thought of the two of them, together, helping Alice. Like playing house. She’d wanted very badly to see Jake help Alice. He’d been a jerk to Catie all day, but in a way, that was so inept it was almost funny, and if it had been a movie, this was where Jake would have shown his true colors, saved the day, been the hero. He’d be someone Alice could rely on.
Instead he’d gotten this look. And then he’d walked away.
The look itself had been weird. Odd. Like this flash of raw emotion—of pain, almost—and then, like a curtain had been a drawn across his face, it was gone, and all that had been left was…nothing. His face had become a blank. And he walked away. He’d seen there was someone in trouble, he’d felt something, and then he had walked away.
Suddenly, Jacob Jayson didn’t seem like someone anyone should rely on.
Maybe that was a bit harsh. Obviously Catie’s reaction to that would be more personal. She had kind of a grudge against people who left other people hanging. She’d tried to figure out what Stephan’s House was all about—narcissism? Control? An attempt to clean up the family name after years of his mother’s exploits? Maybe just the best he could do, even with all that money? No, that wasn’t fair. Obviously, the truth had to be more complicated. She knew she was being irrationally judgmental, but she wasn’t having a rational reaction. She was having an emotional one. She just couldn’t understand walking away from someone who was in pain. But Jake did, and it meant he was like all the other people who had disappointed her in life. He was no better. Maybe not worse, but no better. It meant she had been living a fantasy these past few months at Volare.
And all that made her think maybe she could go through with Brazzer’s exposé after all. Except now there was a man outside, in the bar, who had seen her at Brazzer’s office, and who had seen her at Volare. A member of Volare. Obviously, the man in the dark grey suit hadn’t recognized her; she doubted he remembered every young actress type he saw in L.A., even the ones who showed up in a tabloid office. The man in the grey suit must have been there placing a story or making a deal for one of his clients to get photographed “candidly” by the paparazzi—stuff like that happened all the time. He probably hadn’t even noticed her.
Right?
“Sh
it,” she said to the empty alley.
The real, if remote, possibility that she might be exposed, in the very way she was planning on exposing Volare—well, no, she would do a better job, she’d make it look good, otherwise she couldn’t live with herself—made it all very real. And there was the fact that it was Friday, and she’d decided to obey Jake’s order, even though she had to cover a shift, even after all that. She had, as he’d instructed, carefully inserted the ben-wa balls, thinking of him the whole time. Why? What was wrong with her? Even now, she could feel them inside her. They kept her…not constantly aroused, unless she thought about Jake. But constantly aware.
That’s what pissed her off, if she were being honest. What made it a challenge, still, to commit to what she had to do. She was disappointed in Jake, and she was hurt by that disappointment, hurt in a way that felt bigger than just one man, like she’d had a glimmer of hope that maybe some people, somewhere, wouldn’t let you down, and she’d pinned those hopes, fairly or unfairly, on Jake. And yet still, still, thinking about him could get her hot. He still had a hold over her. She still dreamed about him, about the things he’d already done to her. He was still inside her head, and now…
Catie shuddered. She could psychoanalyze herself later. Right now she had to figure out what the hell she was going to do about the potential disaster waiting for her out in the bar. She had to get her story straight in case he recognized her from Volare, and she had to come up with something in case he recognized her from Brazzer’s. That was the real danger. She’d go dye her hair or something tomorrow, but right now she had to wing it. She pulled her hair back and rolled it into a makeshift pile, sticking a pencil through it. That would have to do for now, and she’d known some men to be fooled by less than an updo.
She took a deep breath, promised herself she wouldn’t think about Jake, and forced herself through the double swing doors.
And walked right into Jacob Jayson.
chapter 12
Another physical shock; another jolt that rattled the ben-wa balls. Only this time, it was the man himself standing in front of her. Catie’s throat suddenly felt very dry.
“We need to talk,” Jake said.
She shook her head. This was nuts. “How did you even find me?”
He seemed annoyed at the digression. “Your emergency contact on your Volare application, one Daniel Boylan, was very forthcoming, if difficult to understand while on a bus full of actors. We need to talk,” he said again.
“Not now we don’t,” she said. She could see the man in the grey suit over Jake’s shoulder. If he saw her with Jake, he’d recognize her for sure—and he’d be one step closer to connecting the dots between her, Volare, and Brazzer.
Jake’s eyes flashed.
“You remember our agreement?”
“It wasn’t a contract.”
“It’s not a contract in any legally binding sense. It is in a morally binding sense. Training does not work without a full commitment. I have committed. I allowed you to—” Jake broke off, as though genuinely aggravated. Catie watched him roll his neck, like a fighter between rounds, and had two thoughts: Holy crap, that is sexy, and, I can’t believe I have the power to get under Jacob Jayson’s skin.
“Training is not a part time endeavor,” he said, looking down at her. “And while I am your trainer, you are my sub.”
A shiver went through her. She tried to hide her smile, shifted her weight, and was reminded—again—of the ben-wa balls. This time, it felt like her whole body quivered. She finally met his eyes, and thought she saw something searching, something questioning. Did he think she would back out?
The hope she’d felt in him flickered back to life, and with it, her conflict over what she had to do for Brazzer. She quickly squashed both thoughts; she was so tired of thinking. And here, in front of her, was this man who made her happy to feel instead.
“I’m working, sir,” she said, carefully emphasizing the word. “I just took a break. I can’t leave Giselle on the floor by herself, unless—“
“Who is Giselle?” he said.
“The other waitress.”
“Wait here.”
Catie watched Jake stalk off into the crowd, his expensive suit completely out of place amongst the carefully hip crowd. He wasn’t dressed like the man with the grey suit—Jake was more Saville Row than Fifth Avenue—but he was still in a suit, and that was probably enough. Sooner or later, the man with the grey suit would notice him, would recognize him, and if he saw him with Catie…
She tried to fade into the background, hugging the double doors. She could still see the man in the grey suit through the crowd, his head swiveling around. Probably looking for his waitress. Catie turned her back, doing her best to huddle in the corner.
Suddenly she felt him behind her. Jake. His hand on her shoulder, on her waist, turning her to face him. Her body reacted almost violently where he touched her, like it was a near burn. He blocked out everything. Just the mass of him, of his tall, athletic, patrician body, like some kind of Greek statue—he seemed somehow denser then everything around him, more solid. All she could hear, see, and touch was him.
“Giselle says to take as long as you like,” Jake said. “She also says thank you.”
“For what? What did you—”
He leaned in, stopping just short of touching her, his lips a hair’s breadth away from hers. She could feel the heat coming off his body. Could hear the rumble in his throat. He said, “Does it matter?”
She caught her breath.
“No,” she whispered.
How could she already be so useless? Such a pile of hormones? Two minutes ago she’d been condemning this man, and now she would probably run away with him to Morocco if he asked.
Jake pushed her back through the double doors, and then they were in the wide hall, lit by bare, ugly fluorescent bulbs, the door to the alley on one end, the door to the storage rooms on the other.
“What did you want—?”
He cut her off. “Somewhere more private,” he said.
“There’s just the storage rooms,” she said doubtfully, looking down the hall.
Without waiting he grabbed her hand and led her down the hall, walking almost too fast for her to keep up. She was wearing comfortable shoes—you had to, to run drinks in a bar like this—but her skirt was short and her shirt low cut, and practically running in the colder air of the hall with the ben-wa balls inside her made her feel very…alive. Jake pushed open the storage room door and pulled her inside.
It was even colder in here, and dark. The cold storage was on the other side of the room, but the whole place was cold. Unheated. Catie could see her breath in the cool fluorescent light that streamed in from the window on the storage room door.
“Is everything ok?” she asked.
“I need you to listen,” he said. “This will be difficult for me to say.”
Catie could only see one half of his face in the light, but it was enough to recognize the signs of struggle, as though he were physically wrestling the words out from some part of his mind that very much wanted to keep them hidden. She had followed him here, overwhelmed by her physical desire for him, in spite of what she’d thought of the man after watching him walk out on that girl; now she was held in place by her desire to see that man come forward and speak.
“You should not have been at Stephan’s House,” he finally said. “Roman sent you… I do not know why Roman sent you. But he surely knew it would result in something like what happened.”
“What did happen?” she asked quietly.
“What happened was that you saw a man who knows his own limitations and respects them. Normally I would not feel the need to explain myself, but our situation is…unique.”
“Our situation?”
Somehow she felt, right then, with certainty, that he wanted to touch her. And she wanted him to. But they both remained still, just a few inches of chilled air between them.
“Your notes,” he finally
said. “Your thesis. Our arrangement.”
Catie tried to tell herself she wasn’t disappointed. Of course that’s what he meant. Of course it was.
But she couldn’t quite keep it out of her voice.
“I still don’t understand what you mean,” she said. “About…your limitations.”
“Don’t lie,” he said sharply. “I saw you. I saw you look at me, when I interrupted you and Alice. I saw that you saw.”
She thought back, thought back to the expression that had been on his face: pain, and then emptiness. But first, pain.
“You don’t know what I saw,” she said, her natural stubbornness taking over. She poked him in the chest. “I don’t know what I saw, either, but I damn well have a better idea than you do. Why did you leave like that? Isn’t that your thing? To help those kids?”
He was silent. She poked him in the chest again.
“Well?”
This time he caught her hand. He brought it back to her side and to the small of her back. Then he drew her toward him until she was pressed into his hard, muscled leg, his face hovering right over hers.
“I told you once before that I am not built for attachments,” he said, very low. “It is more than that. I am not…capable of the normal things that people do in those situations. There are reasons why, but it no longer matters what they are. It remains that I am deficient in this area, that I cannot be of aid when people…feel. And given Alice’s state of mind, it is likely that she would interpret my deficiencies as a reflection upon her. She would take them personally. It would harm her even more. I could not allow that to happen, and so my only alternative was to leave, and make sure that someone with the right skills found her.”
Catie felt her defenses crumbling, felt all her hard won rationalizations fading into paper-thin excuses. If he did what he did because he thought it was the best he could do, and not because he just didn’t want to be there, didn’t care…
