A Matter of Trust

by Radclyffe

  "Your wish is my command." After a second's hesitation, he continued, "By the way, Sarah called and asked that you call her."

  "Oh?" Sloan queried. "Did she say what she needed?"

  "No," Jason said somewhat distractedly. "We didn't talk long."

  Sloan found it fascinating that Jasmine and Sarah apparently shared an easy friendship that had blossomed almost immediately and they never appeared to want for conversation. Jason, however, seemed awkward and unsure of himself on the occasions when Sarah had called or dropped by the office.

  "Okay, fine, thanks. I'll call her when I get home from the gym."

  "Try not to offend anyone or break any hearts for the rest of the weekend, okay?" he said semi-seriously.

  "Yeah, right," she muttered, crossing three lanes of traffic to a cacophony of honking horns and angry gestures, exiting into downtown traffic. As if it were always up to her.

  * * *

  "You should have a spotter," the pleasant female voice announced calmly.

  Sloan looked up through her braced arms and saw Sarah's face, bisected by the barbell, peering down at her with a faint smile.

  "Yeah," she grunted, pushing up another rep. "So I've been told. How'd you find me?"

  Sarah slipped two fingers under the bar, bracing her legs, and followed the rhythm of Sloan's arms up and down, ready to take more of the weight if Sloan began to tire. "I called the office again, and Jason told me. Say, if you really want a workout, we could spar."

  Sloan blinked sweat from her eyes. She had been lifting ferociously for forty minutes, and her muscles were starting to hum. She still had the vague sense of disquiet that had plagued her since leaving Michael, and she welcomed the thought of a good bout. She lowered the weights to the upright cleats and wiped the back of her arm across her face. "I thought you were all pacifistic now that you're into eastern medicine and yoga and the like," she said teasingly.

  Sarah's eyes sparkled with challenge. "I'd consider whipping your butt just another form of meditation, Sloan."

  Sloan pushed up off the bench. "You're on, Sifu Martin," she said, employing the traditional term for a Kung Fu master.

  Ten minutes later they faced each other in the adjoining studio, bowed respectfully to one another, then stepped into fighting positions. Sloan faced Sarah full on, her lightly wrapped hands held face high, elbows in, balancing lightly on the balls of her feet in the typical Muy Thai kickboxing stance. Sarah turned sideways, knees slightly bent, both hands extended slightly, ready to block Sloan's punch or pivot away from one of her roundhouse Thai kicks.

  It brought back memories for Sloan of the hot humid jungles of Thailand, and the crowded noisy streets of Bangkok, and the young naïve agent she had been nearly a decade before. It had been her first overseas assignment after joining the Justice Department right out of college, and she had been intermittently home sick and excited. She and Sarah gravitated to one another because they were both Americans, and both female, and close in age. Sloan's area had been communications, at least that was her job description. In addition to developing networks for the government's allies in Southeast Asia, she was also covertly helping to electronically infiltrate government and corporate systems of interest to the United States throughout the region. She didn't think of herself as a spy, but looking back, there hadn't been any other word for it. Sarah Martin was a cultural liaison from the State Department. The two of them had become immediate friends and spent much of their free time together. They had ended up training in the same dojo, and the spiritual bonds they forged went deeper than blood. Despite their years of separation after Sloan had been forced to leave the service under a cloud of suspicion, their connection now seemed as strong as ever. There was no one she trusted as much as Sarah.

  Sloan's temporary lapse into the past cost her a not so gentle strike on the side of her jaw and a resounding take down from Sarah's swift follow-up leg sweep. Fortunately, her reflexes were still sharp, and she managed to land without rapping the back of her head against the floor. She was up in an instant, shaking her head slightly and frowning at Sarah's delighted laughter.

  "You're rusty, Sloan," Sarah taunted good-naturedly. "Getting soft with that desk job of yours."

  "That was just luck," she snapped. She circled, keeping a wary eye on Sarah's lightning fast hands and feet, and after feinting a left hook, stepped in quickly to deliver a knee strike to Sarah's mid-section. The air wushed softly between Sarah's lips at impact. Sloan grinned in satisfaction.

  They sparred continuously for 25 minutes until they were both dripping from the exertion and panting audibly. By mutual agreement, they stepped back, bowed to one another, and collapsed next to each other on the floor.

  "God, I needed that," Sloan gasped when she could catch her breath.

  Sarah, lying on her back, turned her head so she could study Sloan's face. "What's up?"

  Sloan shrugged. She didn't want to try to explain it – she didn't really want to know. "Just tense I guess. Too much time sitting at the computers like you said."

  "Oh yeah, right. Remember whom you're talking to. I've seen you work around the clock and then some without even noticing."

  "I was younger then," Sloan said with just a hint of bitterness.

  Sarah knew how difficult the subject of Sloan's past was for her, even now, and did not pursue it. Instead, with uncharacteristic hesitancy, she said slowly, "I want to ask your advice about something."

  Sloan shifted slightly so that she could meet Sarah's eyes. "What?"

  Sarah blushed faintly, but she continued in a steady voice, "I want to ask Jason out."

  For a second Sloan was at a loss for words. "I didn't realize you were interested in him," she finally managed. It wasn't totally unexpected, now that she thought of it. Sarah seemed to be calling or dropping by the office more often lately. And of course there were all the nights at the Cabaret when Jasmine was performing. Still, she was surprised.

  "Why wouldn't I'd be? He's handsome and smart and he's got a great body," Sarah stated somewhat defensively.

  Sloan didn't see any point in pretending that they didn't both know what the issue was. "What about Jasmine?"

  Sarah grinned, her eyes sparkling. "I love Jasmine. But you know me, Sloan, I've never been into women that way."

  Sloan had to laugh. There had been a time in those first few months in Thailand when she had tried very hard to get Sarah into her bed. They had everything going for them - common interests, similar jobs, and they were thousands of miles from everyone they knew. Finally, one night after too many beers, Sloan had boldly leaned across the tiny table in a dimly lit Bangkok bar and kissed Sarah soundly on the lips.

  Sarah had kissed her back, quite thoroughly, and then settled back into her chair and studied Sloan gravely. Her exact words had been, "I've been wondering for months what it would be like to kiss you. You're a damn good kisser, Sloan. As much as I love you though, I'm just one of those girls that has a thing for those ridiculous male appendages. I hope you don't take it personally."

  And Sloan hadn't.

  "Sloan?"

  Sarah’s voice brought Sloan back to the present. She seemed to be wandering into places she really didn’t want to go quite a bit lately. "Damn it, Sarah, I hate to get in the middle of these things. You're one of my oldest friends, and Jason not only works for me, I'm fond of the little shit."

  "I know, that's why I wanted to talk to you."

  Sloan sighed. "How long has it been since you were with someone?"

  For a moment, pain shimmered in Sarah's green eyes. "Four years. He was an attaché in Bangkok. I thought we had something special. Turns out he didn't."

  "I'm sorry," Sloan murmured. She knew Sarah didn't take relationships lightly, and she hated to think of her getting hurt. She also knew Jason had had more than his share of heartache because of the part of him that was Jasmine. Sometimes thinking about Jason and Jasmine made her head swim, and she was well used to it by now. She could only imagine what
it would be like dating him.

  "It's up to Jason to tell you how things are with him and Jasmine and everything. All I can tell you is that I don't believe he's ever dated a woman who knows about Jasmine. You might have your work cut out for you in that regard."

  Sarah was quiet for a moment, remembering how much she enjoyed watching Jasmine perform the night before, and how part of her had been excited knowing that Jasmine was part of Jason. It wasn't something she needed to analyze in great depth. It simply was. "He’s a transvestite. It’s not just an act at the Cabaret for him, I know that. We all have diverse dimensions, sexually and psychologically, that we express in slightly different ways. There are parts of Jason that are best expressed through Jasmine. I don’t understand it completely, but it doesn’t seem to bother me." She sighed. "I just wanted to let you know before I did anything."

  Sloan nodded, and sat up. She reached for a towel and tossed one to Sarah as well. She rubbed her face vigorously and then blotted some of the sweat from her hair. "I can't think of anyone I'd rather see with him," she finally said. She smiled. She meant it.

  Sarah flashed her another grin. "Speaking of that sort of thing, what's the story with you and Michael?"

  Sloan stopped what she was doing and froze. "There's absolutely nothing between Michael Lassiter and myself," she said stiffly.

  "Okay," Sarah said softly. "My mistake then."

  Sarah thought it prudent not to mention that both Michael Lassiter and Sloan had spent an enormous amount of time studying each other when they thought the other wasn't watching. It hadn't escaped her notice that Sloan had been particularly charming and touchingly attentive with Michael. It had also been obvious that Michael Lassiter, for all her excited interest in what was happening around her, sparkled every time Sloan leaned over to speak to her.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  IT WAS JUST after 6 AM, and Sloan didn't expect anyone to be in at Lassiter and Lassiter for several hours. She preferred to work before and after business hours when there were fewer interruptions, and more privacy. She had spent the better part of a week working on changes in the main system at Michael’s firm, and had decided to take another look at Michael's personal computer. She turned from the console in surprise when the door opened behind her, her automatic smile of recognition turning swiftly to concern when she saw Michael. She rose quickly and took several steps forward, her heart pounding. Michael stepped into the room, then faltered to a stop when she realized she was not alone. She looked like she hadn't slept in days. She wore no makeup and her face was pale, the shadows under her eyes dark and hollow. From across the room Sloan could see the haunted expression on her face. She had clearly dressed hastily, her khaki suit too rumpled for her usual impeccable taste.

  "I'm sorry, I didn't expect anyone," Michael said in a voice hoarse with fatigue. She smiled weakly, one hand reaching to the sofa back for support.

  Sloan saw her shudder, and she had to force herself to move slowly. Every instinct demanded that she go to her, touch her, assure herself that Michael was not hurt. Her stomach churned in a liquid state of near panic. Her own voice was tight as she said, "Are you all right?"

  Michael looked as if she had just emerged from a dream and was still uncertain if she were truly awake. She sat hesitantly on the leather sofa, her hands clasped in her lap, and stared around the room in confusion. Sloan went to her side and knelt on the carpet in front of her. Slowly, afraid that she would startle her, she took Michael's hand.

  "Michael?" she said very gently. A muscle twitched in Sloan’s neck with the effort it took for her to be calm when her mind was screaming with anxiety. "Are you hurt? Can you tell me what’s happened?"

  Michael ran a faintly trembling hand through her hair and fixed on Sloan. Slowly, her blue eyes grew clearer, and she managed a small smile. "I'm so sorry. This isn't like me. I didn't get much sleep, and I can't quite seem to get my bearings this morning. I'm really fine. Thank you for your concern, but I'm quite all right."

  It was a valiant lie, and Sloan respected her for it. But she couldn't accept it. There were too many possibilities coursing through her mind, not the least of which was that Michael's husband might have something to do with her current state. She forced herself not to imagine what might have happened, because the mere thought of anyone harming Michael was physically painful. "What happened last night?"

  "I'm afraid I made your job a great deal more difficult," Michael said slowly. Her face became almost expressionless, and Sloan knew that she was drifting in some memory.

  "Michael?" Sloan tried again, hoping to bring her back.

  Abruptly, Michael stood and began to pace agitatedly in front of her desk. She glanced at Sloan, and then her eyes surveyed the room as if seeing it clearly for the first time. "He wants this, you see. I knew he would, but I didn't appreciate just how much. Not this space - I don't care about that. It's not this room, this building," she said vehemently. "It's not anything that you can touch. It's the ideas, the plans, the hopes and dreams I've spent my entire life putting into form. It's not me, or the money. He wants the things that I've created, the very best part of me. He doesn't care if I leave him, as long as he takes what's most important to me."

  She stopped pacing as abruptly as she had begun, standing in the middle of the room, disoriented again. She began to tell the story, her voice a dull monotone, as if recounting someone else's experience. Sloan clenched her hands in her pockets, willing herself to silence, trying to ignore the almost irrational fury that pounded in her head. God, if he had touched her...

  She had been asleep, Michael explained, when he returned the night before, close to midnight. She hadn't expected him, and was startled awake by a light in the hallway. The next instant, he was in the room, his presence seeming to dominate the space. As she recounted the tale, the memory was sharp and clear and razor-edged, each word etched in her mind. Suddenly, she was there again.

  "Are you awake?" he asked.

  "Yes," she said. "I thought you were still in L.A."

  He dropped his raincoat over a chair and began to undress. "I finished up earlier than I expected, and I’m damned tired of hotel rooms. I want to sleep in my own bed."

  As he approached, naked except for his briefs, she could see enough of his face in the dim light slanting into the room to read his expression. Her heart sank. She recognized his intent, although she hadn't seen that look in his eyes for months. It wasn't something she had given any thought to previously. It was simply part of their life, part of what had become the routine of their existence together. She rarely thought about it until it happened, and then gave little thought to it after. Perhaps it was because she had decided to leave him, but suddenly she knew with absolute certainty that she could not sleep with him. She slid from the opposite side of the bed, and reached for a robe from a nearby chair. He stared at her across the bed, clearly surprised.

  "What are you doing?" he had asked.

  "I'm going to sleep in the guest room."

  "What?" he said in astonishment. She had never refused him before.

  "I meant to tell you when you returned from this trip, because it wasn't something I wanted to do on the phone. I want a divorce."

  He stared at her open-mouthed for what seemed like an interminable length of time, his expression frozen. Then his body went rigid, but whether it was anger or shock she could not tell. Eventually when he found his voice, it was even, controlled, and exceedingly cold.

  "And is this something open to discussion, or is your decision final?"

  "I'm certain," she said in a steady voice.

  He nodded once, and walked across the room, slipped into his trousers, and pulled a shirt from the closet. She watched him, waiting for something to happen, realizing that she had no idea what he would do. How strange, to be witnessing the beginning of the end of their marriage, and to discover that her husband was a stranger. Why had she not known that before? How could she have been blind to what had been missing for a decade? They h
ad been sexual, but never intimate. Why had it never mattered before this?

  When he was finally dressed, he walked to the windows that overlooked the gardens in the rear of their estate. His profile in the moonlight was sharp and might have been carved from stone. His voice was as cold as winter. He proceeded to make it clear to her that she could divorce him if she desired, but he would fight for control of the company, despite the legal agreements they had made previously. Throughout his entire discourse, he barely raised his voice as he outlined with cold calculating precision exactly what he intended to do if she made any attempt to fight him.

  She said almost nothing as he spoke, not surprised by what he said, but by the way he said it. He might have been talking to someone of so little consequence to him that he couldn't bother to be upset. It was almost as if she weren't human, and she realized that she probably hadn't been a person for him in a very long time. She was surprised that it didn't hurt, but it had been years since she had needed him or expected him to be more than a business associate.

  Nevertheless, when he finished his ultimatum, she was shaken, not by what had transpired, but by the knowledge that she had spent 15 years of her life with someone whom she did not love, and who did not love her. What had begun as mutual need had slowly dwindled until they had little more than their name in common. She realized how truly alone she had been and wondered why she had never known.

  Michael stopped speaking and stared at Sloan, her expression a mixture of anger and bewilderment. "He informed me he had no intention of leaving the house, and I knew I couldn't stay there another minute. He didn't bother to ask if there was someone else – he must have known there wouldn't have been. He was kind enough to inform me that I had no worries about any of his activities. He had always been careful and had even been tested. For his own safety." She shook her head in disgust. "By the time I had packed and found a hotel, it was six in the morning. I couldn't think what else to do, so I came here." She laughed harshly. "This is the only thing I know how to do, I guess."