I give Matthew all the information I have about Allie: his full name; the make, model, and license plate of his truck; his sister’s name; the fact that I suspect he’s former military and he’s recently worked construction. That should be plenty for him to work with.
“Sooner rather than later, please.” I turn back to my monitor and review the notes on the woman I’m seeing this afternoon before another session with Tom and Julie. Anna’s a darling, just starting to figure out what she’s looking for, and my time with her is usually a delight.
“Yes, sir.”
*
“No.”
Tom pauses in his backswing, the strands of the flogger flopping limply over his elbow.
“What?”
“Can you not see this?” I step forward to where Julie is tethered to the wall by a pair of leather cuffs. Her shoulders are rising and falling too rapidly, her breath uneven and her knees have locked. “Look at how she’s breathing, how she’s standing. You need to check in with her.”
“She’s fine,” he says dismissively. Well, sure, she’s fine. I wouldn’t let him go until she wasn’t fine. What kind of cut-rate production does he think this is?
I want to smack him upside the head in a nonconsensual way, but roughing him up is not what I get paid for. Not by him anyway.
“Yeah, she’s fine now, but you understand if you keep this up, she won’t be and you’ll have to stop.”
I lay a hand on Julie’s back and feel her heart pounding through layers of muscle and bone. She’s slumped against the wall, her forehead pressed against the cool surface and her fingers curled loosely around the bars attached to the cuffs. I stroke my thumb over her skin, warmed pink by the strokes of the flogger. At least Tom had picked up the motion quickly and she hadn’t had to endure the clumsy falls bottoms sometimes do with someone new.
“Look. I know it’s a pain in the ass to check in with your sub when you’re in the groove. You feel like it messes with your rhythm, and it takes you out of your headspace. That can be true.”
Tom pulls a face, and again I itch to give him a good whack, but only my fingers twitching on the hand I’m not using to soothe Julie would give that away and I have no illusions Tom’s paying that close attention. “So why would I—”
“Because if you do, you’ll be able to play with her harder and for longer. You might be taking two steps forward, one step back, but at the end of the day you will have gone further than you would have if you’d forged straight ahead. Get it?”
The corners of Tom’s mouth pull out to the sides in a not-quite-frown. Maybe that doesn’t matter to him. Maybe he just wants to whale on her for a while and then fuck. If that’s true, I hope Julie wises up and finds a better match because, from what I’ve seen of her, submission means more to her than that. “So what am I supposed to do?”
His tone is grudging, but he asked the question. A small surge of victory pulses through me. Perhaps Tom can be taught. So I coach him into coming up behind her, wrapping an arm tight across her collarbones, and laying a hand over her heart so he can feel how it beats. I don’t tell him to nuzzle at the side of her neck, but he does it anyway. I want to pump my fist in the air and yell, Fuck, yeah. Because in that moment, I’m pretty sure Tom and Julie are going to be okay.
He’s talking to her softly, and she nods, whispering something back to him. I watch with a great deal of satisfaction as he uses his own knees to nudge hers to slightly bent while he strokes the side of her ribcage. I’m tempted to turn my back and give them this moment, but I can’t quite look away.
It’s one of the best parts of my job, to see couples click. And no, there isn’t a lick of jealousy there. Not a one. I’ve got Matthew, hopefully I’ll have Hart as a new fuck buddy, and I’ve got an invitation to a play party this weekend I’d been indifferent about, but it’s seeming like a better and better idea with every passing second.
There’ll be at least half a dozen people I know there, and the playspace is one of the nicer ones. I’ll bring my bag of tricks and let loose for a few hours. Well, as loose as I ever do.
Tom pulls away from Julie, though he doesn’t take his hands totally off her when he turns to me. “We’re good. Now what?”
I want to high-five Tom for the plural: We. Yes, grasshopper, yes. Instead, I give him half a wry smile. “Now you get to smack her around some more.”
They both laugh—short, breathy, barely tonal things that reek of adrenaline and anticipation. He kisses her cheek and gives her a squeeze before he lets go and then drifts the strands of the flogger across her back that’s paled in the interim. I point it out to him. “There’s another perk. You get to pink her up all over again.”
Julie’s fingers tighten around the bars, and Tom finds the right distance, bringing his arm back once more. When the strands land across her ribcage with a satisfying crack, Julie squeals and yanks at her wrists, pushing her body into the wall. Too hard. He forgot he has to warm her up again. There’s no miracle cure and he’ll have to work hard, but he’ll get it. I really think he’ll get it.
*
After bidding Tom and Julie farewell, I head back to where Matthew is working diligently at his desk. The man’s focus is impressive.
Seeing his straight back, his long neck…if it weren’t for our new arrangement, I’d come up behind him, grab his throat, and sink my teeth into his earlobe. The minute I did, he’d melt and then we’d take an hour break to do…whatever I felt like. Because that’s what we both like best. As things stand, I can’t do that, and it makes me particularly eager to see if he’s completed his task of digging up more information on my friend Hart.
I make my footsteps heavy so he knows I’m coming, and if it’s possible, he sits up even straighter. He’s so lovely, my Matthew. Though he’s not mine anymore. Hopefully, given our many years together, I’ll still have a place in his heart. He certainly has one in mine.
So I lay my hands on his shoulders—surely so innocent a touch is allowed?—and he bends his graceful neck to rest his head against my forearm, docile as a cat wanting to be petted. I oblige him, stroking his head and neck as I would with any loyal pet and then scritching him behind the ear to make him laugh. Please never leave me.
Finishing that brief connection, I ask him what he’s been up to this morning.
He hands me a thick file folder. “I’ve got the information you asked for.”
“Hart?” I flip it open without waiting for his response, and yes, there’s Allie, staring back at me from an unfortunate driver’s license photo. It’s no wonder he shaves his head. He looks impossibly boyish with hair, even close-cropped to his shapely skull.
“Yes, sir.”
There’s something about Matthew’s tone that makes me look up. His lips are pressed slightly together, rendering them into a reluctant line. I cock my head, and Matthew’s eyes widen accordingly. Every particle of him is paying attention to me, which is the next best thing to having him sucking me off under the desk or strapped to the cross downstairs.
“And? Any highlights you’d like to share?”
“Arrests,” he blurts out, his flush turning his light tan skin a shade of pink I adore.
Not shocking. “For what?”
“Gang activity.”
“Recently?”
“No, sir. All juvenile offenses. Recently, he’s had a string of jobs, mostly in construction, landscaping, that kind of thing. Almost as many addresses. Only one phone number and only one email address.”
Smart of him, even if it weren’t for his sister. Makes it easier for employers to find you and to keep your life in order. It also tells me he likely doesn’t have creditors hounding him.
“Before that?”
“Before that, service in the military. Army, to be more precise.”
“Enlisted or officer?”
“Enlisted. Infantry. His record’s a bit unusual. He got special dispensation to enlist despite his record and his, um, tattoos.”
Right.
The military used to not be particularly fond of ink until you belonged to them. They’ve loosened that rule, but back when Hart would’ve joined up, basically anything from a prior life wouldn’t have been okay. Even now, they’re not so keen on things that could be recognized as gang symbols, and it’s hard to blame them for that.
“How? Someone go to bat for him? Were they having a hard time meeting recruitment goals that year?”
“He went before a judge who gave him the choice to join up or go to jail.”
“His service record?”
“Impeccable.”
“No criminal activity since then?”
“None, sir.”
I nod slowly, considering what to do with this information. No wonder he’s had difficulty finding employment. Between wanting to be around for his sister, his tattoos that might clue some people in to his past, and the notorious difficulty of getting civilian employers to see the value in the skills you acquired in the military, it’s not surprising he’s been stuck in fly-by-night jobs.
“Thank you, Matthew. I’m going to the den to review this. Meet me in there with some coffee and whatever you’d like to drink.”
“Yes, sir.”
*
Two hours later, I’m shutting Hart’s file. Matthew’s been sitting on the floor at my feet working on his laptop, while I’ve been reading in my favorite chair. I ask him questions when I have them, though there aren’t many because he’s thorough and well-organized. Everything I’d like to know is in here. Including a bit of information I wasn’t expecting.
I knew Hart felt a strong sense of responsibility toward his sister, and I’d chalked it up to filial devotion. Given what I know now, I have to wonder if it isn’t something more than that, if guilt isn’t the backbone of his motivation.
Shortly after Hart had attended basic training—or rather, the infantry version of basic training—his sister had married one of his division mates, man named Lamar. It wasn’t so long after that they had their first deployment, and while they were away, Kendra had their first child.
Military life can be hard on a family, and it looks as though Kendra picked up and went wherever her husband was stationed. Lamar moved up the ranks faster than Allie, and Allie had left when he could’ve chosen to sign up for another haul. Perhaps because he didn’t want her to be left with nothing if her husband were killed or disabled? Of course, it doesn’t say in these papers, but the movie is playing out pretty clearly in my mind.
He moved around with Kendra and the kids, picking up odd jobs as he could. Then what he’d likely been worried about happened. Lamar got killed during deployment to Afghanistan.
There are substantial death benefits when someone’s killed in the line of duty, but those don’t last forever. Between moving, paying off any debts they might’ve had, and…living, I wouldn’t be surprised if that cushion was gone. Even if it’s not, a family would probably want to be judicious in its use.
Hart’s made it abundantly clear he’s not interested in charity so I’m not going to offer him money, but surely, surely, helping him find lucrative employment he is in fact qualified for wouldn’t count as charity? Besides, what’s the worst thing he could do? Tell me to fuck off? He’s done it before.
For the most part, I don’t tolerate disrespectful language from my clients or anyone in my charge, and if Matthew ever dared, he’d find himself on the receiving end of some terribly firm discipline, even if I had to rely on Peter to administer it. Allie swearing at me gives me some kind of perverse pleasure, though, one I’ll be sure not to let on about.
So, decision made. It’s time to deploy Operation Employ Hart.
Chapter Eight
‡
I’m out of town for much of the next week, criss-crossing the country to visit various clients. Stops in New York, DC, Atlanta, Chicago, Houston, and then San Diego to spend an overnight with India before I head back home to my own house, my own bed, and yes, Matthew. I’ve heard not a peep out of Hart, and I try not to be irritated by it, but his lack of communication is a mosquito buzzing in my ear. Difficult man.
At least I’ve been busy and will continue to be so—I have to be on a plane stupid-early tomorrow and have a mountain of work to do before I can go to sleep. I’ve told Matthew no interruptions and have been trying to ignore the notifications that flash on my phone every few minutes, but when LO flashes on the screen, I answer. “What’s the story, morning glory?”
It’s Friday, so if India’s calling at this time of night, she’s either in Kona or there’s something really wrong. Possibly both.
“Rey, I—”
I kick my feet off the desk and put them on the floor, sliding the chair I’d been leaning back in closer to my desk to wake up my computer. That tone of voice usually requires a plane ticket.
“What happened?”
“No one’s hurt, I promise. We’re all fine. Sort of.”
My head cocks to the side, and my eyes narrow, the phone still pressed to my ear. This is interesting. No one’s hurt, no one’s dead, she’s not in tears, and she said “I.”
“What did you do?”
Even though I can’t see her through the phone, I can imagine India wrinkling her pert nose and wrenching her mouth to the side because that’s what she does when she doesn’t want to talk about something but still needs my help.
“Why do you assume I did something?”
I’d laugh because she’s not here to hit me if I did, but I shouldn’t. If she’s calling, she must’ve fucked up quite a bit, and I don’t want to make it any worse. I’m more than a little proud she and Cris can work through their periodic tiffs without my intervention, but I can’t deny it makes me feel needed, useful, when she does call.
“Didn’t you?”
“Yes.” Her confirmation is muttered, and I can barely hear it. At least she admitted whatever this is was her fault. Another good step.
“Are you going to tell me what happened or should I guess? I’m assuming this is to do with Cris, yes?”
Not that she never flips out about business things, but that she can generally handle on her own, with the crack team of people she’s put together who can stand working for a taskmistress like her or with a little help from Cris. Burke Consulting Group is flourishing, and she turns away more work than she takes on. That’s where her strengths lie. It’s with people—and, god forbid, feelings—where she falters.
“Yes.”
“What was it this time? Did you scorch his favorite saucepan? Pick up the wrong wax for his surfboard? Try to foist an e-reader on him again?”
She snorts at my patently ridiculous suggestions because none of those scenarios would elicit more than a shrug from her extremely laidback husband, and I smile. All hope is not lost.
“No. It was so much worse.”
“So tell me, little one.”
I push back from the desk, because this is sounding increasingly like an issue that, while it would be nice to ease her through while cuddling her on a couch, probably won’t necessitate a flight across the Pacific. More likely a lengthy phone call and a series of check-ins over the next few days. It’s going to be okay, so I walk over to the fridge and pour myself a glass of juice.
Strolling over to the couch, I take a sip, enjoying the cool, intense burst of tartness that fills my mouth and cools my throat. I sink into the cushions, wondering precisely how long it’s going to take India to work up the nerve to confess whatever her latest transgression is. “Are you going to talk to me, or should I call you back when I’m finished with my Pilates?”
She laughs. “You do Pilates on Tuesdays and Thursdays, asshole.”
I don’t answer, but take another swallow of my juice. It’s different than the one Matthew usually gets. I like this one better. I’ll have to tell him to switch. And get some more hummus. My grocery list musings are interrupted by a heavy sigh. Showtime.
“So you know Cris has been depressed since Mal died.”
“I do.” Cris
and his father had been close, and even though it had been a long time coming, I know the loss was devastating. Continues to be devastating. I can understand why. I met Mal a few times before he passed away. He was a genuinely good man who loved his family and never seemed to be angry at the shit hand he’d been dealt. He and India had adored each other.
I lost my dad at an early age to violence, and it still haunts me. I don’t have a whole lot to mourn because we didn’t have much time together, which would explain why I hear the same words of his echo through my head all the time: “Helping people is the best most important thing you can do. You have a super power and you should use it.”
Cris must have a hundred thousand conversations running through his head. Every time he steps into the kitchen, he must hear Mal’s ghost whispering in his ear. Maybe about how to perfectly poach an egg or wisdom about something more fundamental. Whatever it is, the pain of never being able to hear his real voice again can’t have dulled enough for the memories to inspire fondness and nostalgia. It must be excruciating.
“Well, I thought he was getting better, but then he got worse. I hated it, Rey. He seemed so lost and listless.”
It’s funny sometimes to watch the two of them together—India such a high-strung, busy little bee who can’t sit still as opposed to Cris, who’s slow and easy, like a sloth. Or moss even. His ease isn’t ever directionless, though. It’s always intentional. He’s very present, Cris. One reason he makes such a good anchor for India. He can chain her up and hold her down, and she’ll stay because he’s so rock-solid. India must feel like her bedrock’s shattered, and I cringe because that must hurt them both.
Then something occurs to me. She’s been using the past tense. Something must have gotten even worse, and that’s why she called me. “Then what happened?”
The Cartographer (The Compass series Book 6) Page 7
