She makes a strangled noise. “He was all manic when he picked me up last night. When we got home, he’d made all this food. Like he’d spent all day in the kitchen. I don’t even know how we’re going to eat it all.”
“You’re rambling.” If it sounded like clinical mania, I’d be concerned. Grief can manifest in some strange ways. But she would’ve called last night, no matter what the hour here, if she were that worried. So instead I wait. Also, I’m not worried about the food. For such a tiny girl, India eats like a garbage disposal. Especially if Cris is putting her through her paces. If he’s all worked up, he probably will, for both their sakes.
“He told me he wants to have a baby.”
Holy what the ever-living fuck now? That’s what my brain screams, but what comes out of my mouth is, “Oh?”
“You can take your fucking oh and shove it, Rey Walter. You heard me. A baby. What the fuck am I supposed to do with a baby?”
“I have some ideas…”
“Seriously, Rey.”
Yes, seriously. I curse myself when I suck air through my teeth. I don’t have a lot of tells, but that’s one of them. She’ll have heard it, and it’ll freak her out I’m at a loss too. Get yourself under control, Walter. Dammit. If Cris has gone off the deep end, then I’m the only one she’s got.
I’d been under the impression Cris didn’t want to procreate, and for as long as I’ve known her, India’s been scared shitless of the idea. Not that people never change their minds about these things, but Cris is the polar opposite of fickle. Especially about something literally life-altering. A baby? Jesus.
“What did you say?” I cross mental fingers, hoping she didn’t respond with a stream of expletives, though that’s the most likely scenario.
“After I started breathing again, I told him I thought he was probably reacting to losing his dad.”
Huh. India is…not the most astute person when it comes to human psychology, but her reasoning makes sense. The whole mortality thing can really shake a person up, and at forty-five, Cris isn’t the springiest of chickens. Plus, he spends a lot of time by himself. Maybe the loneliness of having a part-time spouse is grating on him after it being the status quo for years, though India’s made an effort to go to Kona more often since Mal died. I suppose a baby could seem like a reasonable fix for all those problems: carrying on the genetic line and a companion, all in one squalling, if adorable, package.
“That sounds like a distinct possibility. What did he say?”
“He got huffy and went to clean up the kitchen.”
“Okay…” I’m not one of those “never go to bed angry” types. Sometimes you need time, and things can look infinitely better in the morning, when you’re not so cranky because you’ve actually had a good night’s sleep instead of staying up to the wee hours hashing something out with your partner. That doesn’t explain why she’s calling. “I’m not seeing what the problem is.”
“There wasn’t a problem. Until this afternoon.”
She sounds guilty. For India to actually feel guilty… “What did you do?”
“I went to Kona. To the animal shelter.”
Her small sentences and the reluctant way she’s dragging the words out of her mouth make the alarm bells go off in my head. Animal shelter? Dread is echoing loudly through my skull. “You didn’t.”
“He can’t replace Mal with a baby!”
Oh, she did.
“I know that, and so does he, somewhere deep down. But you tried to replace his dead father with a dog, India.” My disbelief has gotten the better of me. I try not to show any strong reactions when I’m dealing with India at all, because that rarely goes well, but come on. India might be one of the smartest people I know, but sometimes her lack of common sense is utterly astounding.
“I know!” she wails. “That’s what he said when I came home.”
“When was that?”
“Like an hour ago.”
“Where is he now?”
“Cris or Mano?”
“You named the dog.” It’s not a question, just an observation, and I rub the bridge of my nose.
“He had a name already.” Her words are shaped by her scowl. At least I haven’t lost total radio contact with my self-protective India. “Cris is in our bedroom, and Mano’s sitting on the couch with me. He’s a great dog, hadn’t been at the shelter long. Australian Shepherd mix. I’d send you a picture, but I don’t know if I’ll have to take him back.”
There’s a rustle in the background, and as if it’s going to help, I strain to decipher the noise.
“Hey, hold on,” India says into the phone, and then I’m guessing she pulls the phone to her shoulder because everything becomes muffled. It’s the most maddening thing in the world. Let me hear it already, because I know I’ll be getting it secondhand in a moment anyhow. Especially since I heard my name. I hope Cris isn’t upset she called me, but he can’t be surprised. They talk for a couple of minutes, and though it’s indistinct, there’re no raised voices or angry tones. Then she’s back.
“Sorry about that.”
“Do you want to call me back?” I don’t want to stand in the way of dialogue, especially given our history. No matter how much I’d like to play puppet master with the two of them, mash their faces together like Barbie dolls—kiss and make up already, dammit—I won’t because I’ve been asked not to interfere and I’ll be respectful of her wishes. Until I can’t anymore.
“No, he’s gone again.”
“What did he want?”
She laughs, a short chary sound that’s almost a sob. “He wanted the dog.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh. Because of course he did. I bet Cris is rubbing the mutt behind the ears as we speak. Maybe India wasn’t being so dumb after all. “You guys are going to be okay. You know that, right?”
“I do.”
Chapter Nine
‡
After I’ve finished a session with one of my favorite couples on the East Coast and I’m on my way to have dinner with my mother, I check my voicemail. The missed call number is familiar, and my heartrate speeds up. Hart. I haven’t changed his number to a nickname because I need to think of something worthy for this man who’s stolen more of my thoughts over the past week than I’d like to admit.
I put up the screen in the back of the car. Mostly for show because Kirill’s driven me before and he’s the soul of discretion. Besides, even though he’s three thousand miles away and wouldn’t be able to tell one way or the other, I like to respect my dalliance’s feelings. Hart’s a private sort about these matters, and I don’t think he’d care for me chatting about blowjobs in front of my chauffeur. Because I’m assuming that’s what we’re going to talk about.
It’s not surprising to me that, when I check the message, there’s not actually anything there besides a slight whooshing sound, perhaps as Hart holds his phone away from his ear, trying to decide whether to say something into the void. I could call him back, but honestly, I’d like to be on the other side for a change. To be pursued, even if he’s only in pursuit of some head.
I toy with the phone in my hands. How long can I keep up the façade of not being interested enough to dial him? I’m downright delighted he tries again. Because I’m a manipulative son-of-a-bitch, I let it ring three times before I pick up.
“Hart, so glad you called.”
I hope he enjoys the languid caramel of my voice. It practically oozes sex and sensuality, and I picture him shifting in his chair. Or perhaps his truck, because he’s sure as hell not making this call from his sister’s. Fuck it.
“What are your plans tonight? Besides blowing me?”
His brazenness amuses me, but I keep the laugh inside because I wouldn’t mind playing that way with him for a bit. He’ll find out soon enough that, even if I’m the one physically on my knees, he’s still at my mercy.
“As much as I’d love to suck you off, I’m actually on my way to dinner. With my mother. In New York.”
There’s a beat and then a petulant and slightly abashed, “Oh.”
“I’ll be back on…Thursday if you don’t mind a raincheck. I’ll even take you to dinner first. Meet me at Souray’s, eight o’clock. Unless you’re watching the kids,” I add as an afterthought. Never will I make him choose between them and me, though I’m used to other people—powerful people—dropping myriad things for an hour with me for which they’ll pay handsomely. Here Hart’s getting me for free. A bargain.
“Kendra’s got Thursday off—”
I don’t wait for him to finish because that’s plenty enough leeway. “Perfect. I’ll see you then.”
And click. I picture Allie holding the phone away from his ear, maybe muttering curses as he realizes I’ve hung up on him. But he’ll be there. Oh, he’ll be there.
*
Two days later, he is. Looking as though he must have borrowed his sister’s iron, he walks in wearing a button-down of the palest mint green and dark grey slacks, black belt, and black shoes that show off the polishing skills he must’ve honed in the military. The quality of his clothes isn’t terribly high, but he’s mouthwatering in them anyhow and he gets even more so when he sees me in the back booth and smiles, his cheeks growing round and his lips spreading to bare those fabulously white teeth.
I wave, a small gesture with a few fingers, and lean back against the tufted linen of the banquette to survey him. I’m going to enjoy the hell out of this evening.
He slides in across from me, looking vaguely uncomfortable. Perhaps because this is a nicer place than he’s used to. I’d thought of that, had tried to curb my urge to take him to the highest-end place I can because I’m an asshole that way and I like to show off. I’d thought here would be okay, but…
Or maybe he’s nervous. Let’s go with that. Like first-date nervous. Even though this isn’t technically a date. It’s sustenance before a blowjob to give it at least the appearance of being polite. I’ve already seen him inebriated, plus I’ve already had my cock down his throat. Let’s call it date three. It’ll be the first with any real talking.
And talking we’ll do. I’m drinking to make sure of it. I’m already halfway through the French Blonde in front of me, and I’m planning to have another. Perhaps a third, depending on how long it takes me to leach information out of Hart.
“How’s your week been?” I ask, lobbing a softball, hoping to ease him into the interrogation.
“Good. Got a few leads on jobs, hung out with the kids yesterday while Kendra was at the bar. You?”
“I’d have to say excellent.”
“You like traveling?”
“Mostly. I’d better not hate it. I do it a lot for my job.”
“You must be pretty fancy if you fly all over to do your coaching.”
The corner of my mouth curls up before I take another sip of my drink. Before I have to answer, our waitress comes over and takes Hart’s drink order. He grins at me after ordering a Coke, and I have to purse my lips to keep the laugh from spilling out. He’s taken his lesson to heart. Drunk Hart equals no sex, and he’s planning on getting his. Good, because I’m planning to give it.
“I have a particular skill set.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Are you really a life coach?”
The question amuses me. “What else do you think I might be, Hart?”
“I dunno. But I feel like a lot of your clients must want to fuck you.”
This time, I can’t help it—the St. Germain, lillet, gin, and grapefruit juice come bubbling out my nose. It should sting, but really what stings is the blow to my pride. I try not to projectile snort liquor on my partners until we’re further into our relationship than a back-alley blowjob and a drunk dial.
If it were India sitting across from me, she’d cackle and clap her hands. I think it’s one of her goals in life, to get me to laugh so hard I splatter my cocktail of choice over the table linens of whatever swank eatery we’re dining at. Hart’s looking at me with a similar expression of triumph.
“That might be true,” I concede, dabbing the liquor off my upper lip with my napkin and not bothering to tell him I do, in fact, fuck a good portion of my clients. “I’m not some high-class rent boy if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
Though I’m sure a lot of people wouldn’t make the distinction.
“I wasn’t…” He fumbles, and I feel badly about it. Not that I’m insulted by the suggestion I might be a sex worker. I’d be a damn fine one. Usually I wait a bit longer to show my cards, but I like Hart and I don’t want to prolong the agony if he’s going to turn tail and run once he finds out what I am.
“I’m not insulted. Also you’re not entirely off-base. Are you familiar with kink at all? BDSM?”
His eyes widen, not unexpectedly, and his skin seems to get darker, maybe a more purple undertone to the dark brown than the usual cool blue. I’ve made Hart blush. I’d like to make him do it again.
“Not really.” His eyes skate over me, and I’m not sure what he’s looking for. Some kind of scarlet K? It’s not as if you can identify kinky people by looking at them. From talking to them for a few minutes? Depends on how good you are at talking and exactly how loudly the kinkster inside of them is begging to be let out. Some of the kinkiest fucks I know are also the most straight-laced outside of the bedroom/dungeon/club, whatever their preferred playspace.
“Well, that’s my stock and trade. Some people call me a trainer. If people want to learn about kink, I teach them. Sometimes help them find partners who would be a good fit.”
“You make money from this?”
“Quite a bit. I’m good at what I do, and I can keep my mouth shut. I have a lot of celebrity and VIP clients, but outside a pretty rarified crowd, no one’s ever heard of me.”
“You’re okay with that?”
“I’m quite happy with the way things are. My relative anonymity allows me to do my job in a way fame wouldn’t. Also, I’m not really after the flashbulbs and screaming fans.”
“Then why do you do it?”
There are so many answers I could give to that question. Because it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do? Because it’s fulfilling a promise I made to my dead father in a way I’m sure he’d never thought of but I can’t imagine he’d disapprove? Because this is the only community where I’ve ever truly felt at home and I’m repaying a debt of gratitude? I don’t think Hart and I are to the soul-baring portion of this program yet, though. Truth be told, I’m not sure we ever will be. A man can dream.
“Beats preparing TPS reports.”
Hart nods but looks distracted.
“You can ask me anything you want. I can almost guarantee I’ve been asked before, and I’m annoyingly hard to embarrass.”
He looks up, his head turning slightly so he doesn’t have to ask while looking at me straight on. “So you’re…into that, uh, stuff?”
My throat constricts with a held-back laugh. Given “that, uh, stuff” is basically my entire existence, I’d say yes. Also, it’s a good opportunity to poke the bear. “Yes. As are you.”
He gets that same look on his face he’d had when I suggested he wanted to suck cock. Ire covering up uncertainty and perhaps a feeling of too-close-to-home truth.
“How the fuck would you know?”
“Because you’ve already done it with me.”
Sure, Walter, pour gasoline on the fucking flames because that’s always a good idea. That’s what he looks like too, with flames about ready to shoot out his ears and nose. Probably more uncomfortable than a French Blonde, but I wouldn’t know.
“What are you—”
I tick the reasons off on my fingers. “You got on your knees for me. You gave me control of your orgasms. I think you liked it when you called me ‘sir’ at the bar. Shall I go on?”
“I’m not some sort of pussy.”
“I didn’t say you were. On the contrary, bottoms and subs are the strongest people I know. Good ones are worth their weight in gold. A
lso, female genitalia is amazingly resilient, unlike men’s, so I’ve always thought pussy was a ridiculous slur and I don’t appreciate its use.”
He looks decidedly disconcerted, so I decide to give him a break. It’s a lot to think about. “Enough about me and kink. What about you? What do you want to do when you grow up?”
His eyebrow quirks up, and he shakes his head slightly. “I was already doing it. Army. Infantry.”
“Why’d you stop?” Most people, if they’re lucky enough to find what they want to do with their lives, don’t ever let it go. Except for two reasons: love or money. Which one was it? I have my suspicions, but I want to hear it from him.
“My sister married one of my buddies from my unit, even though I told her not to. Military life isn’t easy, and if something happened to both of us, it would’ve killed her. She’d still have my mom and my other sisters, but they’re back east and Kendra wouldn’t want to move back there. So when my time was up, I didn’t sign up for another haul. Figured if I didn’t go into the reserves, I’d have more options. Thought I might be able to make better money outside the military than in it. Lamar was moving up faster than I was, had plans to be an officer, and then while he was on tour in Afghanistan, he got killed.”
Love and money. Ideas are starting to come to me, though. If he’s trained with weapons and wants to make good bank, private security might be the way to go. Good help is hard to find in that arena, and I know of two firms where I could put in a good word and Hart would be as good as hired. I can picture him now: dark suit and darker sunglasses, talking into his wrist while he escorts some starlet on the red carpet. He’d be good at that. He’s personable and nice to look at, but can put on the veneer of a threatening heavy at the drop of a hat.
If my mind conjures an image of him stripping out of said suitcoat to reveal a leather holster strapped around his broad shoulders and how else I might put said holster to use…well, where’s the harm in that?
“So you like guns?”
He shrugs and looks sheepish. “Sure. The bigger, the better.”
The Cartographer (The Compass series Book 6) Page 8
