Deep Control

by Annabel Joseph

  “Hmm. Did your pilot want things to get serious?”

  “I don’t know. I think so. I mean, he would have tried it, because he’s the kind of person who can do anything—”

  “Tried it? You mean love? He would have tried to love you?”

  “He does love me.” I grimaced in a pointless attempt to keep my voice steady. “He did love me, and I think I loved him, but I just don’t know if I can deal with the risks. What if it’s like you and mom?”

  “Me and mom?” He sounded confused. “What’s wrong with me and mom? I love her so much.”

  I couldn’t take the quiet passion in his words. He meant what he said: love, present tense. I couldn’t bear it. My tears gushed out, emotion choking me. “I can’t deal with that. Loving someone who’s gone.”

  “Why, gone? What’s happened to your pilot?”

  “Nothing. Devin’s fine. His name is Devin, and nothing’s happened to him, but what if something does? He flies planes for a living. We met during a freaking crash, dad.”

  “What? You were in a plane crash? Honey, you have to tell me these things.”

  I put my head back against the sofa cushion and beat it there a couple of times. “We were almost in a crash, but he saved us. He’s a good pilot.”

  “Then why are you worried?”

  “Because mom died.”

  My father was silent a moment in sympathy for me, who still hadn’t gotten over this thing, this fact that my mom had died, even though love was stronger than death.

  “You’re a scientist,” he said when he spoke again. “You know that things die. I’ll die, your pilot will die, you’ll die, but something comes before that, honey, and that’s life. Experiences and laughter, and memories. Maybe children, maybe animals that become part of your heart. What’s his name again? Devin?”

  “Yes,” I said, sniffling. “Some of his friends call him Dev.”

  “He’s alive, isn’t he? Right now?”

  I thought of Devin that night at The Gallery, pushing Milo off me, avenging wrongs that weren’t wrongs, his eyes on fire.

  “He’s very alive,” I said. “He’s the most alive person I know.”

  “Then maybe you need him. He might help your bad mood.”

  “He probably would, but it’s too late for us.”

  “Too late?” My dad’s hmm was sharp rather than pensive. “If you won’t believe me, believe Albert Einstein: Time is a relative term.”

  Not in this case, I thought, crying a flood of tears, for all the good they did me. I’ve been awful to him. This time, it’s really too late.

  Chapter Twenty-Six: Devin

  Another night, another European hotel room.

  I’d landed in Frankfurt at nineteen hundred hours with Ayal at co-pilot. It was the first time we’d flown together since our emergency landing in the Azores six months ago. Neither of us mentioned it, although she asked how I was doing.

  “Great,” I told her. “Perfect.” Then I changed the subject to her recent engagement, because near-death experiences tended to clarify relationships. Ayal had a gorgeous, hefty ring. If I’d been dating Ella when we almost crashed, we might have ended up together. I might have proposed to her in the weeks afterward with a gorgeous, hefty ring also.

  Maybe. But probably not.

  I declined Ayal’s invitation to dinner, thinking I might try to pick up one of the German flight attendants, but I didn’t. As usual, the energy was wrong. Instead, I got in a taxi and rode to my hotel, holding my pilot’s cap in my lap, tracing my fingers over the silver trim. It used to remind me of the collars the submissives wore at The Gallery, but I hadn’t been there in a while. I couldn’t work up the enthusiasm to go.

  When I got to the hotel, I showered and sprawled on the bed, and flicked through a few cable channels. Nothing interesting. I opened my laptop and typed in her name, even though I knew I shouldn’t. Dr. Ella Novatny. I didn’t even have to type astrophysicist afterward, because she was the only Dr. Ella Novatny on earth.

  Fuck. Why didn’t I just call her?

  Because I’d never had a relationship like ours, and I didn’t know what I was doing. All my life I’d been a player, a jerk. I didn’t know how to be a boyfriend even if she wanted one, which she clearly didn’t. The whole thing was painful, and to force anything else to happen between us…it would only make things worse.

  I scrolled through the results. Not the images. I couldn’t deal with the images of her in her glasses, lined up with her fellow researchers, or posing for a professional headshot. No, I scrolled through the journals and news releases instead, searching for her name and the various articles and prizes attributed to her. She’d published a lot in her career, which I learned was a really science-y thing. It separated the drifters from the doers. She had papers in the Journal of Cosmology and Astrophysics, and New Astrophysics, and The Astronomy Report…

  I read her articles sometimes in my lonely hotel rooms, skimming over the words I didn’t know, which was seventy-five percent of them. No wonder she’d only wanted me for sex. I could have just kept having sex with her, and giving her the pain she liked. We both enjoyed it.

  But I was coming to realize that wasn’t enough. When it came to Ella, I had a lot of lizard-brain desires and emotions, and none of it made sense. None of it was explainable in words. Like the science journals I read, I only understood seventy-five percent of what I felt, and the rest was…theoretical.

  So I didn’t call or text her, just pored over her meticulous articles, taking life one internet search at a time.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven: Ella

  I slowed on the sidewalk as I reached the front of Fierro Music’s New York offices, tugging at my sedate blouse and cardi, and adjusting my glasses. For a centuries old violin-making business, their headquarters seemed surprisingly modern, tucked between brokerage storefronts and a real estate showroom on 19th Street.

  Now that I’d found the place, my nerves felt even more on edge. I didn’t know how this visit would turn out, or if Milo would even be there. I’d made an appointment with a polite receptionist, but that didn’t mean Milo would keep it. At this point, I was desperate enough that I had to try.

  I was offered tea or coffee in the lobby, but I declined, staring at the old world fireplace and finely worked molding that outlined the high ceiling. There was a faint smell of wood and varnish, a sheen to everything that reminded me of The Gallery. Devin had told me Milo was one of the founding members, and I could see that luxe sensibility here, along with the muted suggestion of power.

  Holy crap, what was I thinking, coming to see him? Why was I here?

  Because you need to get over Devin, and there’s only one way to do that, which is to lose yourself in panic and pain.

  I sat in one of the leather wingback chairs, but I felt too tense to lean back into its softness. The office was quiet, deathly quiet. I’d expected some kind of sound, either instruments playing, or classical music piped over a speaker. After a minute or two, the receptionist’s voice cut through the silence, igniting my anxiety.

  “Dr. Novatny? Mr. Fierro is ready to see you now.”

  “I…okay.” I stood, feeling stupid. “The son, not the father, right?”

  “Yes. If you go down the corridor, past the work studios, you’ll see his office door on the right.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  My shoes sounded loud as I walked across the wood floor. Wood on wood. Everything here was wood. As I entered the central hallway, the scent of varnish and woodwork grew stronger. As I passed, I glanced to either side, into the “studios,” finding tables and tools, and instrument artisans working under white lamplight. The work surfaces were a mess of wood scraps and shavings, but the floors were meticulously clean, and the smell… I didn’t know if I liked it or hated it.

  “Well, look who it is.”

  I turned at the rough greeting and saw Milo at the end of the hallway, waiting for me. His hard, black eyes didn’t look welcoming. He stood beside
a door that read Massimiliano Fierro in black block print.

  “Hello, Ella. How have you been? Come into my office.”

  He gestured and I followed him, fascinated by the casualness of his dress. I’d only ever seen him at The Gallery, where all the Doms wore suits. Now, he wore dark jeans and a white linen shirt, like the men and women I’d seen in the workshops, and his long hair was tied back in a low ponytail. All he needed was a leather apron. His office might as well have been a workshop, since there were violins and parts everywhere.

  “Did you find the place okay?” he asked.

  I nodded, clutching my hands together. “Is your real name Massimiliano?”

  “Yes.”

  How had I not known that? For all the times we’d played together at The Gallery, I barely knew him at all.

  “Do you actually make violins?” I knew his dad owned Fierro Violins, but I never thought Milo and the other employees assembled them in the middle of Manhattan.

  “I do. I make them, I play them, I sell them. Please, have a seat.”

  His office was like the lobby, only smaller and more intimidating. He sat behind a polished wood desk and leaned back in his chair, pursing his lips.

  “Thanks for seeing me,” I said.

  “No problem. Does Devin know you’re here?”

  I looked down at my lap, then back at his intense stare. “I haven’t talked to him since…that night.”

  “Oh, yes, the night he punched me out for you, and you broke up with him in front of all his friends.”

  His tone was difficult to read. Maybe angry, maybe furious. Maybe just unfriendly. If I could have gone back in time and not come here, I would’ve, but it was too late now.

  “That night was difficult for both of us,” I said. “Things got crazy.”

  “Yeah, I was there.”

  “My relationship with Devin was always difficult. He’s so busy with his pilot’s schedule, and I’m so busy with my research—”

  “We’re all busy.” Milo cut me off, merciless. “But he made time for you, more than he’d made for any submissive before.” He waved a hand. “Anyway, what can I do for you? Why are you here?”

  “To ask you to help me get over him.”

  His brows flew up. “Are you serious?”

  “I mean, help me by taking me to The Gallery.” Now it was easy to read his mood—angry—but I swallowed and forged ahead. “I haven’t gone because I don’t have a sponsor, and I’m not really interested in going to any of the other BDSM clubs in town. I was hoping you’d take me to The Gallery, or sponsor me, or whatever, so I could…” My words spilled out, weak and pleading. “I want to be hurt. Badly.”

  “Ella…”

  “Otherwise I’ll keep thinking about him, or I’ll go after him, and that won’t be good for either of us, but especially him.”

  “You are talking so much bullshit at me right now.”

  His gruff words shut me down. I bit my lip and closed my mouth, and started to get up. “Sorry, I’m stupid,” I said under my breath.

  He came from behind the desk and arrested my flight. “Sit your ass down. I know you’re not stupid, so something else is going on.” He sat in the chair beside mine, blocking the door. “So, to be clear, you came here to ask me, Devin’s best friend, to take you to The Gallery. Is that right?”

  I couldn’t look at him, so I answered to my lap. “I didn’t know who else to ask.”

  “The Gallery was Dev’s place before it was yours.”

  “Is he still going there?” When I hatched this plan to find masochistic release, I convinced myself I wouldn’t mind if I ran into him, that it wouldn’t be awkward, since we hadn’t spoken in months. “If he’s there, it wouldn’t bother me. I don’t think it would bother him.”

  “Bother him? He’s been there every week since you cut him loose, Ella. He’s been going crazy on every blonde bimbo in the place. I don’t think he’d even notice if I brought you.”

  “Oh.” I swallowed hard, feeling surprised. Jealous. Devastated. “Good for him.”

  “I’m lying to you, you little bitch. He’s been working his tail off, staying in on the weekends, moping over you like a pathetic motherfucker. And I hate to see it, I really do, but that’s life, you know? Women cut you loose, you work through it, you move on. But here you are.”

  He drew out the words—here you are—so they sounded ominous. I couldn’t hold his gaze.

  “Here you are, Ella, in my office, in his best friend’s office, asking if I’ll take you to The Gallery to scratch your fucking itch.”

  I looked past him at the door, wishing I could get to it. I’d somehow rationalized that this would be okay, that Milo would agree to sponsor me, that maybe I could even play with Devin again sometimes, casually, for fun. God, he was so angry, and if Devin was here, he’d probably be angry too.

  “I’m just going to go,” I said meekly. Apologetically. “Just let me go.”

  “Oh no, Ella. Not yet.”

  “Please, I won’t ever talk to you or Devin again. I won’t try to come to The Gallery.”

  “No, I have some questions for you. Some…confusions.” He made a vague crazy-cuckoo sign around his head. I wondered what would happen if I screamed for help. Would that be an overreaction?

  “See,” he said, “I’m confused because when you and Devin played together, we were all amazed. You were both so in tune with each other, so deeply into it. We watched and we marveled, because Dev has a history at The Gallery. He’s always been the serial seducer, the careless playboy with a blonde supermodel on each arm. But here comes this new girl, short, skinny, brainy, with those glasses.” He ran his eyes over my body with such disdain it hurt me. “Oh, she was still blonde, but there was more to her. For Devin, obviously, there was more.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, like that might offer protection from his critical stare. “I can’t help how Devin felt about me,” I said. “I told him from the start that I didn’t want things to get too intense between us. He knew that.”

  “Sure. That’s why he’s left you alone. We all left you alone, but here you are, asking me to take you to The Gallery, like that would fucking be okay.”

  “I don’t want you to take me anymore.” I stood, ready to barge past him if he wouldn’t let me out.

  He stood too, blinking down at me with his harsh, dark-eyed gaze. “I can’t take you, because Devin still loves you. He loves the fuck out of you, and I can’t say why, because you treated him like a shitty, self-absorbed bitch.”

  “You don’t know us,” I cried, my voice breaking under his onslaught. I knew he was a sadist, but on top of that, he was so mean. “You don’t know what our thing was about.”

  “No, I don’t. Explain it to me.”

  I shook my head. My feelings were unraveling. Tears blinded me.

  “How did you feel about him, Ella, before you ended your relationship?” He took my arms. “And don’t lie to me, because I saw the way you looked at him when you were in The Gallery, when he held you after your scenes. I saw the way you looked at each other.”

  “Don’t touch me,” I said, pulling away from his grasp.

  “No, I know. You don’t want me to touch you. You don’t want me to take you to The Gallery, not really. That’s not what this is about.”

  I collapsed in my chair, covering my face. “I can’t go with him,” I sobbed. “He hates me now.”

  “He doesn’t hate you.” Milo crouched beside me, putting an arm around my shoulders. “I think you hate what you did to him.”

  “You don’t understand.” I shook my head, my voice muffled and sniffly. “You don’t understand.”

  “I understand that my best friend beat me up for playing with you, my best friend who, before you came along, had elevated the sharing of submissives to an art form. He cares about you, and I think you care for him so much you want to punish yourself.”

  I drew away from his tentative embrace. That wasn’t true. I’d always enjoyed
being hurt. It was part of my sex life, the way I was wired. But in this case, if I was honest, it was something more. I needed cathartic pain to drive Devin out of my heart. I needed pain so harsh and loveless that it felt like expiation.

  And that, I finally admitted to myself, was the real reason I’d showed up at Milo’s door.

  “I don’t know what to do.” I leaned away, toward the wall, needing to get away from Milo’s truths, and his judgmental stare. “I feel awful, but I can’t be with Devin. It’s too scary.”

  “Do you love him?”

  Ugh, he wouldn’t let me breathe, or think. Tears flowed down my cheeks. He handed me a tissue.

  “Do you love him?” he asked again. “Do you love Devin Kincaid?”

  “No. I don’t want to love him.”

  “Do you know how he’s changed since he’s met you? He’s not the man we knew. He’s better now, more thoughtful, more present. He used to put himself down all the time, belittle himself, but he doesn’t do that anymore, even though you wrecked him all to pieces when you broke up with him. You made him better. Maybe…” He waited until I looked up at him. “Maybe loving Devin would make you better, too.”

  “It already has,” I cried. “But it’s also made things worse.”

  “In what way?”

  “It’s just that love is so risky and complicated, and it can hurt people so badly. My father loved my mother so much that after she died, he couldn’t cope. He turned a little crazy.”

  Milo shrugged. “That’s the best kind of love, the kind that makes you a little crazy. So that’s a bullshit reason. What else have you got?”

  He handed me another tissue, since I’d soaked the first one. My father’s craziness wasn’t a good enough reason? Then what did I have?

  “Love is pointless,” I said, trying a new tack. “Do you know how vast the universe is, and how infinitely small we are, with our feelings and our love and our relationships?”

  “Bull. Shit.” He scoffed at me in disbelief. “If you’re going to use the ‘vastness of the universe’ argument, then I’m going to use the ‘you found each other in the midst of all this vastness’ argument, and you’ll lose. Don’t spout your astrophysicist bullshit at me. When you and Devin played together at The Gallery, you made your own universe. I can’t imagine how things were when you were alone together.”