“Goodnight, Matthew.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
He leaves, turning off the lights and closing the door on his way out, and I climb under the covers before checking my cell one last time. A quick scroll through a dozen texts, three times as many emails, and listening to a couple of voicemails tells me there’s nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.
Rest up, Reyes, because someone will need you again soon.
When I close my eyes, it’s not Matthew’s sad-sweet expression I see against my lids, but the virile form of Allie Hart and his honorable intentions. I can be forgiven for stroking off to thoughts of taking him in hand until I come in a hastily grabbed hand towel from my bedside table.
Chapter Three
‡
The sound of the doorbell pulls my attention from the screen in front of me. Not knowing how long I’d be in Kona, I’d built a few extra days into my schedule, and I’m glad I thought to. I’m mostly caught up on the things I missed and have put out the fires that cropped up while I was away and then some. Easier to focus, and I have a feeling I’m going to need it.
Matthew’s windchime voice welcomes my new clients. Even from here, the man’s tones are domineering. I allow myself the only eye roll I’ll get for the next few hours. We’ll see how this goes.
I wrap up my task and stand, straightening my cuffs because I like to make a good impression. With everyone, but especially people I’m working with for the first time. Walking into the entryway, there’s a man in his early fifties wearing expensive jeans and a leather jacket that hasn’t been broken in yet. He’s got a hand wrapped possessively around a pretty blonde girl in a dress I don’t think she picked out. The small movements of her shoulders look as though she’s trying to move the straps to cover more of her cleavage, but she only succeeds in deepening the already deep V between her breasts and she stops.
They both seem nervous, which isn’t unusual. The man is compensating with brashness, and the girl is fidgeting. They don’t seem to be seeking reassurance from each other, which isn’t a good sign.
“Good evening, Mr. Nickerson. Pleasure to meet you in person.”
Tom takes my hand in his and shakes too vigorously. “Glad you could finally find time for me.”
Me, not us. I note the pronoun and don’t acknowledge the dig, although I make a tally in the dickwad column for Tom. I’m a busy person, and if clients can’t wait, that’s their prerogative. I’m by no means desperate.
“Would you mind introducing me to your partner?”
“This is Julie.”
Julie offers me a shy smile, but not a hand, so I nod at her.
“Now that the pleasantries are taken care of, let’s get started, shall we? Right this way.”
I show them down the hallway to the stairs that lead into the basement that’s been retro-fitted into a dungeon. I’m not crazy about the word, but it’s common usage. Makes me slightly envious of Cris and India’s wood and light-filled studio. They have the luxury of it being a private space, whereas mine is not public obviously, but more of a classroom than anything else.
Once down the stairs, I study their reactions to all the furniture and equipment around them. It’s a large room with just about every apparatus you could wish for, including a few St. Andrew’s crosses; a couple of suspension rigs; a grid of metal for whatever a pervy mind can dream up; walls full of crops, canes, paddles, clamps, cuffs, and yes, whips and chains. Basically, a fantasyland for the kinky.
Julie wrings her hands as her eyes dart around, but Tom’s already taken off, touching and examining various equipment.
“You use all this stuff?” he asks as he pokes at a sybian that’s been placed on a table.
“It’s all been used in sessions I’ve conducted, yes.”
I can understand being distracted, but he hasn’t even looked back at Julie to check in with her since he left her side. Another tick in the column.
He rattles a cage, and she cringes. I have my work cut out for me.
“From our phone conversations, I understand you’ve done some bondage and spanking and you’d like to incorporate a stronger D/s element into your relationship. Am I getting that right?”
“Yeah,” Tom says from where he’s fingering a singletail. “I want to get more hardcore.”
Again with the singular pronoun instead of the plural. With more experienced players, I don’t worry about that so much. It’s a style thing, and it gets some people off, either to treat their partner as a thing or to be treated by their partner as chattel. With couples without enough experience to have developed that vibe? I don’t trust it. It reads as selfishness instead of attentiveness. I want to drag him over to the chalkboard by his earlobe and force him to write lines until the ideas are seared into his brain: I will pay attention to my partner. I will be respectful of her wishes. I will be responsible and worthy of her at all times.
I take his cue, though, ignoring Julie, because I need for him to respect me if I want him to listen what I say. If I try to shove these things down his throat, he’ll walk out and likely take his irritation out on his partner. So appearing to be a jerk it is. Short-term loss for hopefully a long-term gain and I’ll make it up to her later.
“Would you mind having her get undressed? I’d like to see how she responds for you.”
I happen to know the temperature in the dungeon is on the cool side. It always is when I have new clients. In clothes, you wouldn’t notice, but scantily clad or nude, you certainly would. Julie’s going to be head-to-toe goose bumps momentarily. I’ve had some clients call me out on it straight away. They tend to be easy to work with, although not usually the ones who need me.
Tom walks back over and lifts his chin at his partner. “You heard him. Take your clothes off.”
I swallow a sigh. Yes, she heard me as the blush gracing her cheeks confirmed, but she was right not to do anything without his permission. He could have said no. Also, he hasn’t mentioned the temperature. Again, with more experienced people—Dominants I know and trust—I wouldn’t worry. They’d know their partner was uncomfortable, and they would be choosing to make them uncomfortable. But I suspect this is pure ignorance on his part. Thus far, I’m not a fan of Tom.
Julie takes her shoes off, shrugs out of her dress, and removes her bra and underwear. Because of the chill, her nipples have gathered and I can see the blanket of gooseflesh rising on her smooth skin. Still nothing from Tom, even though he’s staring at her.
“She’s lovely,” I comment, hoping, hoping while he ogles her, he’ll notice she’s cold and say something. And yet…
“Isn’t she? She’s just a waitress, but those tits make up for her lack of brains.”
I want to wrap poor Julie up in one of the blankets I have on hand and shove her out the door, telling her to run. But that’s not my job. Not quite yet, at any rate. “Let’s get her on her knees, shall we?”
*
Two hours later, I’m showing Tom and Julie out of the dungeon, and I’m tapped out. I’d managed to coax Tom into being somewhat more attentive, but I’m not sure if the lesson will stick or if he’ll apply it to anything but exactly the things I’ve pointed out. It’s certainly possible to learn how to be an excellent Dominant, but I don’t get the feeling he has the patience or interest to do so. I think what he really wants is rough sex. Which is fine, if he can find someone who wants that too. I don’t get the feeling Julie is that someone.
“Might I have a moment alone with Julie?”
It’s possible he’ll say no to be a dickhead, but he shrugs. “Sure. Mind if I take a look around?”
“Be my guest.” That’ll buy me more than a minute.
When Tom’s wandered off again, I turn to Julie. “May I touch you?”
She looks up at me with wide blue eyes. “You already have.”
“I know.” I have, and she’d given me permission then. I wouldn’t have without it. “Sometimes it’s hard to say no to your top, though, right? He’s not
paying attention. It’s completely up to you.”
She worries the corner of her mouth with her top teeth. “Yeah, okay.”
I lay my hands over her shoulders and grip them firmly. “Here’s rule number one, Julie. You never have to do anything you don’t want to do. Tom should have been telling you that from the start. I know you’re both new to this and there’s a lot of stuff going on, but if you only remember one thing from today, I want it to be that, okay? Tell me.”
“I never have to do anything I don’t want to do.”
I smile at her, and the corners of her mouth curl up. “That’s right. Now, once more with feeling.”
A nervous giggle escapes her, but her voice is stronger this time. “I never have to do anything I don’t want to do.”
“Good. Tom has my information, but I’m going to give you my card too. If you ever don’t feel safe or you just want to talk, call me.”
She takes the card reluctantly, stuffing it deep in her Louis Vuitton satchel, likely a gift from Tom.
“I’m serious. This is what I do. Even when you’re not technically my client anymore, you can call me for anything.”
She nods, but I don’t think she believes me. Why should she? She has no evidence to back up my assertion, and it’s not as if I hand out references. I understand why she doesn’t trust me yet, but I want her to. Oh, I want her to.
“Okay. I’ll see you next week and I promise I’ll turn the A/C off.”
I wink at her and she flushes. “Okay.”
*
After bidding Tom and Julie a good night, I try to sit down and catch up on some paperwork. Instead of finding the focus that usually comes so easily when I sit at my desk, with Matthew’s back kitty-corner to my own, my mind keeps wandering. My efforts to bring my attention to heel are half-hearted at best. I’m sensible enough to know when to give in.
If this had been a few days ago, I would order Matthew to the dungeon and toy with him until my concentration found its way home. Matthew isn’t mine to toy with anymore, though. Something that tastes like sadness pools on the underside of my tongue, and I try to swallow it away.
I’m happy for Matthew. And for Peter. I am. They’re well-suited to each other, and unless things go horribly awry—as they sometimes do—I’m placing mental bets with myself on when I’ll get an invitation to witness an official collaring. Maybe even a wedding.
Perhaps it would be best for everyone if I took myself out of the equation and out of the house. There’s no need for Matthew to blame himself for my lack of focus. I push back from the desk, and when Matthew turns a questioning gaze my way, I shake my head.
“That session was more unnerving than I’d thought. I’m going out for a bit. I’ll text you.”
“Yes, sir.”
He turns back to his work, mind eased. I head out of the house, grabbing my keys and slinging my suit coat over my shoulder.
Chapter Four
‡
It’s not entirely surprising I find myself pulling into a parking spot a block away from the bar I’d wandered into a few days ago. I’ve had thoughts of Allie Hart since I abandoned him to mind the bar he was ill-prepared to deal with. Not that he’ll be here. He was doing his sister a favor, and it’s likely when I step inside, it will be someone who can make a proper Manhattan who greets me and not the especially white teeth that made Hart’s smile so appealing.
I pull the door open, struck by the already familiar scent of this bar. The corner booth I ought to have opted for last time is open, and I’m near to claiming it when I notice who’s behind the bar. It’s not Allie, but it is the next best thing.
The woman is drying a pint glass with a towel when I step up to the bar. She doesn’t cease her work. Indeed, she puts the now-dry glass down and takes up another one while offering me a smile. “What can I get for you?”
“That depends.”
Like her brother, she’s got a glass face. Which you’d think would’ve gotten steamrolled out of her after she started working at a bar, where it’s best to keep a neutral expression no matter what kind of shit goes down in front of you, but apparently not. Hart’s sister has clearly decided I’m going to be a pain in her ass, which may be true.
She raises an eyebrow and cocks a hip. “On what?”
“Do you make a better Manhattan than your brother?”
At the mention of her brother, her face softens and she rolls those cynical eyes with a lazy shake of her head. “A panda bear with a bottle of vermouth could make a better Manhattan than my brother. One?”
I lift my chin in assent as she sets another dried pint glass aside and gathers up what she’ll need to make the cocktail. Taking down the right bottles is a good start, and I watch her move easily. She has the same grace and muscular build as her brother, but also the ease of someone who’s tended bar for quite a while. It’s a treat to watch her select a respectable rye and a vermouth that will pair nicely with it and, god bless her, stir the concoction over ice for a good twenty seconds. Through, she sets the perfectly full glass in front of me, still grace personified.
“Do you want to open a tab?”
“No, thank you.” Since I can’t explain exactly why I’m here at all, I can’t make a night of this. Just the one and then I’ll be on my way—back to Matthew, back to my records.
“Then it’s thirteen.”
I hand over a twenty, wanting to tell her to keep the change because it’s seven meaningless dollars to me, but I’m not sure if her illness is common knowledge and I don’t want to get Hart in trouble for spilling to a stranger.
I do lay the two one-dollar bills on the table, and she drops a nod of thanks before scooping them up and tucking them into her pocket. I take a sip, and goddamn, it’s phenomenal. This woman makes a Manhattan the way it’s meant to be sipped.
Wanting to savor the divinity in liquid form this priestess has laid before me, and checking to make sure she’s not needed elsewhere imminently, I raise my voice so she knows I’m talking to her as she picks up yet another pint glass.
“So where’s your pinch mixer this evening?”
“Allie?”
I give a casual half-nod, half-shrug, trying to ignore the spark of jealousy that lights between my shoulder blades. Allie. That’s what his friends call him.
“You know my brother?” Suspicion creeps into her expression, and I watch her gaze crawl over my hair, my jaw, my tie, my suit. She’ll have the practiced eye of a person who relies on tips to earn a living. Apparently I don’t fit in with his usual crowd.
“Only from a few days ago.”
She nods thoughtfully, still drying that line of pint glasses. I’m tempted to ask her if she could give me a way to get in touch with him, but I’m not sure if he’s out to his family. Hell, I’m not a hundred percent certain he’s not straight. I’m willing to wager an ugly slur and possibly a threat to my physical safety he isn’t, but I won’t take that chance with his family. Because keeping secrets is what I do.
Something must occur to her, because she drops her drying cloth and points a triumphant finger at me. “You’re the guy who jumped over the bar, aren’t you?”
I trace the never-ending edge of the coaster under my glass. Interesting he described me that way. That he described me at all. Pleasing, in fact.
“He said you were cute.”
I highly doubt Hart would’ve described anyone as “cute,” but I’ll take it. And that answers another question.
“Did he, then? He’s pretty nice to look at himself.”
“Lucky you think so.”
“Why’s that?” Will she take my number? Pass it on to her brother? Tell him I stopped by and tease him about his admirer?
“He just walked in.”
She gestures with her chin to the entrance. Allie’s broad frame fills the doorway, backlit against the darkening sky. He waves at his sister without a second thought, then does a comical double-take when he sees me.
His face clears, and he walks ov
er, eyeing me the whole time. I resist the urge to reposition myself in a way that would be more flattering. I don’t look so bad, though, perched on the bar stool with a drink in my hand.
“Hart.”
The corners of his mouth twitch, and I hope it’s because he’s resisting a smile. Yes, I remember you.
His sister has turned not-so-subtly toward the other side of the bar, studiously ignoring us. “It’s Walter, right?”
“Rey, please.”
Walter sounds so stodgy. Because it is fucking stodgy.
“Rey. What are you doing here?”
“Thirsting for another Camden. Your sister made me this instead.”
I lift my glass, the liquid sloshing inside. His nostrils flare, and I bet if his skin weren’t so dark and the light so low, I’d be able to see the flush that’s undoubtedly heating his face, watch the blue notes turn to pink. I shouldn’t tease.
“Going to leave another insane tip?” His face and voice have gone a bit hard, and chagrin tightens my jaw. “You shouldn’t have done that.”
I’m not going to apologize. He needed help, and I was in a position to give it to him. That’s all. That’s my job. To help where help is needed, if I can. And I could. I take another sip of my drink and wait for him to insist on paying me back.
“I’d pay you back, but I didn’t think I’d see you again.” He probably already gave the money to his sister, and it doesn’t seem like he’s in the habit of carrying a few hundred dollars around in his wallet.
“It wasn’t a loan. It was payment for services rendered.” He snorts and shakes his head. I smile at him, the curve of my mouth conspiratorial because we both know that’s ridiculous. “Don’t laugh, Hart. It takes a great deal of talent to make a cocktail that disgusting.”
“It’s a good thing I’m better at just about everything other than bartending.”
My, my, my. Since he’s clearly in a flirting mood, I pick up what he’s putting down. “It would be concerning if that were your special skill. Not much hope for you at all.”
The Cartographer (The Compass series Book 6) Page 3
