“Ugh, you don’t know the half of it. I know he did a lot of that stuff back in college–I swear, they did degrees in fucking–but I always thought of it as something you leave behind when you settle down, you know?”
“I think it depends on how you view the other people involved,” I ventured. “That is what you’re talking about, right?”
“Yes. Only in bed, though. Not like bigamy or anything. Not swinging.”
“No swapping of the car keys here.” I grimaced in a mock shudder. “Seriously though, you know it’s not an insult, don’t you? He’s not saying you aren’t enough.”
“But that’s exactly it! That’s what it says!”
“You have to think of it like…like using a toy.”
“Ew.” Her gaze darted about. “Isn’t that, like, really demeaning?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. “But if everyone is enjoying themselves, does it matter? Actually–no, I don’t think it’s demeaning at all. You can still like the other person and respect them without falling head over heels. You can have a connection without it being the connection.”
Elise went quiet for a moment. Mulled it all over. “I feel like our bedroom is for us,” she said finally, her mouth drawn.
“You shouldn’t do anything you don’t want to do.” I nudged her arm. “Does he know how you feel?”
“Oh yeah. He says he’s fine with it, but he told me what his fantasy was and he can’t take it back.” She pulled her arm away with a rueful smile. “Maybe it’s all screwed from the beginning. I’ll have kids and get fat, and he’ll run off with his secretary.”
“With all due respect, it sounds like you’re putting more pressure on yourself than he is.”
“Huh…you’re probably right.” She sighed. “Don’t you ever worry that you’re not enough?”
“For?” I couldn’t say Joseph’s name, then. It was too much of a lie and she’d confessed so much already. “If he thought I wasn’t enough, then he’d end things. He’s that type of person.” I chewed my bottom lip. “I don’t think he measures women in the sense that you’re talking about.”
“You’re very tolerant, Leila.” She laughed, shaking her head. I wondered if she meant stupid, but then her eyes narrowed.
“I just don’t see the point in ignoring desire. Not when it won’t harm anyone to indulge it,” I said. “If it suits us both…”
Can we find something that suits us both?
Oh. Oh.
Elise peered at me over her tall glass. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah, of course.”
“Good. Hate to think I was bringing you down.”
“No. You should talk about this stuff. More people should, it’s more common than you might imagine.”
“You think?”
“I do.” I finished the last syrupy dregs of milkshake and pushed the glass aside. “Be thankful he doesn’t want to wear a nappy and be bottle-fed, or something.”
Her eyes bulged in horror. “Is that a British thing?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s universal. Not that it makes it any less scary.”
“So you think…you think I should marry him?” Her tone wavered.
“I think you should be honest. If you don’t want to indulge him and he still wants to marry you, why not?” I said.
“Why not,” she murmured. Then she snapped up to catch my eye. “Would you marry a man like that?”
I blushed so viciously that my hands felt cold in comparison. “Oh God. We’re not looking to do anything like that.”
“But if you were–would you?”
“I’m not sure I’m marriage material.”
“You’d look good in pearls and a twinset, you know.”
That was a joke, right? Or not, knowing Elise, as I had for barely days. Still, pearl necklace…can’t ever think about that in a mature fashion.
Elise laughed. “Don’t look so disgusted, Leila. You’ve already got his credit card and he’s parading you around like the spoils of war, or something.”
That’s what some men do with whores! Maybe not the credit card thing…only the naive ones…but then I wasn’t about to run away with it. Not from my boss.
“That’s what he’s like,” I said weakly.
“Yeah, right. He has never brought a woman to meet us. And there have been a lot of women,” she added in disapproval.
That’s also what some men do with whores when they want to boost their egos or prove they aren’t gay.
Only Joseph wasn’t ugly or gay.
“We’re really not serious.” I looked away.
“Maybe you should look to be.” Her tone dragged, the vowels long again. “He’s a very successful guy.”
“Money isn’t everything though, is it?”
“No. But it would hardly hurt your career.”
The diner-light heat drained from my face. “Oh. I see what you mean.”
“You keep a guy like him happy and you’ll be laughing all the way to your own office. There’s all this bullshit about equality for women, but you know what it’s like–they’re the ones at the top. Now you seem like a clever girl and he thinks you’ve got a lot of potential. You want my advice?”
I nodded silently.
“Don’t screw this up.”
“I’ll think about that.”
“If you’re okay with his fooling around, it’ll be ten times easier for you.” It was just an insinuation, but it sounded like it fell out wrapped in barbed wire. In the melee of lies that stalked us that afternoon, if Joseph and I were dating, then of course he was cheating. He was the Chairman of the Whored. The idea hurt her more than me–that there were men like him, that her Kenji might still be that man, that women like me would surpass enabling to defend it–and she couldn’t just eject it. She had to spit it out.
“Just because Kenji was like that before, doesn’t mean he is now,” I said. “He isn’t Joseph.” And he wasn’t–far from it. He was a shadow, a spectator. Kenji had asked Elise to marry him, but Joseph had refused Isobel that courtesy and severed their relationship with the same knife he used to lure me.
“I know that.” But she didn’t believe it.
“He wouldn’t propose just for the sake of it, and he wouldn’t stick around after you said no if he didn’t think you were special.” I nudged her hand. “You’re allowed to marry him because you love him, you know. It doesn’t have to be a strategic decision.”
Her posture softened. “Yeah.”
“And you do love him. The two of you are quite sickening.” The smile crept up on me and wouldn’t be tamed, and like all wanton creatures, its teeth were sharp. Kenji was the Matt that fit her. “He trusted you enough to tell you his fantasies. That’s huge. Be flattered.”
She swallowed. “Even if they weren’t all about me?”
“It’s sex. It’s fleeting, momentary. Marriage…isn’t.”
“So when did you get so clever about all this stuff, huh?” She gave a mock tut. “Do they teach sexual politics along with British law?”
“I. Um.” I fucked men for money and saw this entropy all the time. “I did a night class.”
When I got back to the hotel, a note lay on the dresser from Joseph, stating a change of venue for dinner. He would send a car at eight. The address appeared to be an apartment–if it was, I’d be seriously overdressed.
As beautiful as the Leger dress was, as much as I loved its subtle suck at my hips–it didn’t feel right. I twisted in the mirror a dozen times and all I saw gazing back was a creature like Elise, thinking of offices in frosted glass and desks in shiny mahogany because they were the things easiest to get.
I was not that girl.
Somewhere behind the wardrobe door, blue silk whispered. Beckoned me. I still don’t know why I packed the dress I’d first worn for Charlie–one of the oldest things I owned–but it made sense. I slid into stockings and suspenders, draped the cool fabric of the skirt so it skimmed midthigh. I didn’t need a bra beneath the crossover bod
ice, but then Joseph appreciated such touches. The shoes went on last.
In the mirror, I smiled at my reflection in relief. Those were my red curls tumbling down to lick at a pale slither of cleavage. No Charlotte here. On the other side of the world and dabbling with a man I barely knew, it was too easy to forget who I was…and I had to cling to something.
* * * *
The doorman at the apartment building was expecting me. He ushered me into a lift, pressing the button for the top floor with a gallant nod of the head. I was so used to creeping into these places with my eyes down, I didn’t quite know what to do with myself.
Joseph answered the door barefoot, his shirt untucked and collar open. In my skyscraper heels, I didn’t have to stretch to peer over his shoulder.
“This is a funny-looking restaurant,” I said.
He stepped aside. “I couldn’t be arsed.”
“And they say romance is dead. I–is this yours?”
The apartment seemed small enough beneath the milky lamplight. His London flat had a minimal feel to it, but with its thick carpet and aged leather sofas, this was cosy. Bookshelves tapered into sloped attic ceilings, and the cityscape poured through glass doors to paint the walls in shadows. Outside lay a wide terrace with curved railings, and the wooden rise of a hot tub. Leather, glass and outdoor baths: he’d brought a little of Sweden to New York.
“Hungry?”
Next to the doors, he’d set out a picnic, blanket and all. “Joe. You are secretly so twee.” I sank down beside him on the soft throw and arranged my legs awkwardly.
“Fuck off. Blini?”
I plucked one from the tray he offered.
“And before you say anything about the cupcake stand,” he went on, “Sadie hired it from…somewhere.”
“Of course she did. Have we got ginger beer too?”
“It’s ginger ale over here. And yes. With whiskey.” He sprang up toward the kitchen area. “Ice?”
“Please.” If I even liked whiskey. Erm. I’d been offered it a hundred times on networking dinners and always associated it with those bleugh-tastic liquor chocolates nobody wanted at Christmas. “Why are you staying in a hotel if you’ve got this place?”
He pushed a tumbler into my hand, the ice clinking in pale syrup. “Bringing you straight here might have been a little strange. And I can keep an eye on everyone if I’m at the hotel.” He scowled. “Especially Yves.”
“What kind of cupcakes do we have?”
“I don’t know, some lavender shite. This is what it’s like to live with Nigella Lawson, isn’t it?”
“I can only imagine.” I watched him as I chewed. “I’m sure you have.”
“Not really my type.” He reached out and touched me for the first time since I’d arrived. It occurred to me then that without even noticing, I’d grown comfortable with him, even in this unfamiliar space. He traced the seam of my stocking with a fingertip and my blood followed in a hot little surge.
“I like these,” he murmured. “They suit you.”
“Thank you.”
His hands curved around my ankles, toying with the shoe straps.
“Did you have a good time visiting?” I asked.
“Yeah…was good to see my sister.”
“You didn’t catch your parents?”
“It was good to see my sister,” he said drily.
I smiled as his fingers made the journey back up my calf. “How is it that they’re all over here, and you’re in England?”
“My dad’s American. They moved when I was a teenager. I didn’t want to go, so I stayed with my grandmother.” He reached my thigh and kneaded hard. Harder.
“They just left you?”
“Pretty much.” He lowered his eyes.
“And where does the Swedish thing fit in?”
“It’s where my Grandmother is from. She had my mother in England.”
“Sounds complicated.” I caught his hand as he went to lift my skirt. “Be patient.”
He sat back and eyed me playfully. “If that’s what you want.”
Before he moved, I brought his fingers to my lips and nipped at each one.
“I’ve had the image of you doing that in my head all day,” he said. “That kiss you gave me this morning…”
“I like making you wait.”
He drew his hand away and reached for a cupcake adorned with mint leaves. “I like it more than I ought to.”
“Why’s that?” I stole some of his cake icing and he went to smack my palm. “What’s wrong with a bit of delayed gratification?”
“Nothing, if you have the time.”
“We’ve got all evening, haven’t we?”
“We’ve got until Friday. Do you think it’s enough?”
I blushed, unsure where to look. Whores weren’t meant to blush, of course–cliché declared it genetically impossible. Maybe that only applied to Charlotte, who would roll her eyes at the act of modesty. “There’s one more job left, remember? I’m sure you can think of something.”
“Oh, I will.” He observed me with a strange melancholy: considering. Dissecting.
In an effort to ignore that, I took a great mouthful of whiskey, then almost choked on the dull, dry heat.
“Not a whiskey fan, hmm?” He laughed.
“Sorry.” The glass clinked as I set it down. “That wasn’t very graceful.”
“You have grace in the right places.” He was stroking my legs again.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
“And you’re gorgeously coy,” he went on, pushing plates aside so he could sit next to me. “You could teach a lot of women in your profession a thing or two.”
“Lawyers, or call girls?”
He kissed my throat. “Both.”
“Gifts, compliments, cake stands…I’m starting to get suspicious.” I took the half-eaten cupcake from his hand and sampled it. “Or is this the gold standard from the Chairman of the Whored?”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“Elise warned me about your evil, manslutty ways,” I said.
He cracked a grin over the rim of his glass. “And you answered her with a straight face?”
“I’m quite good at looking horrified about prostitution. Go on. Try me.”
“All right then.” He crossed his legs and fell back on his hands. “You might be interested to know, Miss Vaughn, the things I’ve learned about your lady colleague. She appears to be selling herself on the side.”
“Oh God.” Hair went tight around my finger as I twisted. “I’ve never understood that kind of thing.”
He chewed his bottom lip; he was convincing, comically so. “Me either. Why waste a couple of grand when you can invite a girl to an overpriced floor picnic that your assistant did all the work for?”
“Now there’s the mark of a man who wants to impress.”
His laugh was dry and mocking. “Oh, fuck off.” He sprang to his feet. “Come and see the view from the terrace.”
He pulled me up. Waited as I steadied myself on the heels. Then he unlocked the glass doors and flattened himself against them as I stepped out.
I didn’t get as far as two feet on the ground.
A light little kick took one leg from under me and I smacked forward on to the tiled floor, my palms hot and fizzing on impact. The door slammed and it rang in my ears. Then he eased me over with another foot to the shoulder, and I lay sprawled on my back beneath the darkening sky.
Kneeling, he brought my trembling arms above my head.
“This morning,” he murmured, tugging me toward the railing, “the way you said no to me. I liked that.”
There were no words–I poked them, prodded, but they wouldn’t come out to play. This businesslike manner of his aroused me. Disturbed me. Did both because all this was planned.
Something cool and smooth bound my wrists together. As he secured me to the railing, the ends flew across my face: a thin twist of silk rope. The mark of a professional. He checked his knots with a vague frow
n of concentration and then snipped the end with a pair of scissors. He’d brought a little of the other side of the mirror to New York too, it seemed.
“What are you doing to me?” Charlotte played his game, but Leila heard the blood soar in her ears.
“Making sure you stay just where I want you.” He crawled back down and took my ankle in his hand. “It’s very convenient, this terrace.”
I tugged my foot away and he caught it again, looping the rope in a tight crisscross. It chafed against my gossamer-thin stockings.
Breath stuck in my throat. “I don’t think this is a good idea.”
“I’m just practicing my knots, baby.” He snapped another tight. “It’s an art form. Did you know that?”
I twisted sideways to look at him. “Untie me. Teach me how to do them.”
Creamy hair fell into his face and obscured the smile that flickered. “Nice try.” He fondled my free calf, raked his nails over the seamed black nylon. “I’m going to leave this one free. Makes things a little more interesting.” Then he came forward on flat palms and settled between my spread thighs.
“Joseph–”
“Shh.” The kiss was inescapable; he filled his hands with my hair, held me tight to his mouth. He tasted like mint and sugar.
Now the world became a cold stone landscape with its edges barred in black iron rails. The breeze drew shivers, cool despite humid air, as if the setting sun was a fire ablaze in the distance. So Charlotte came to purgatory, tugged so fast she arrived with no plucky escape plan, or bag of tricks to rival his.
But maybe she didn’t want to escape. Liked to be helpless. Liked the frothy kiss of pain at her wrists.
Joseph appeared above me clutching the scissors, and I split the silence with a wrought yelp.
“What?” he whispered.
“Don’t–”
“You mean this?” Twin blade tips lifted my skirt. His signature was obscured by my suspender belt and he eased the band down with uneven breath. A fingertip traced scratched letters. “You think I’m going to do this again?”
“Please don’t.”
I think.
“Oh no, sweetheart. This is perfect as it is.”
There was a rough snip as he cut the hem of my dress, and then the roar of torn fabric filled my ears. I wanted to weep as he split it up the middle–it held so many memories–but a strange calm took hold as he ripped the capped sleeves. He stripped Charlie away, destroying any slither of his grasp on me. Naked, sacred…I was utterly bare.
Breaking Joseph Page 5
