by Helena Maeve
I worried that Elliot would have a hard time seeing me, but he was already there when I arrived, propped against his bike like James Dean reborn. He was wearing leather pants today and a denim jacket that should have recalled the worst of the eighties but really, really didn’t. His slanted shades reflected my stunned, wide-eyed expression.
I wolf-whistled when I saw him. Class wasn’t in my repertoire.
“Would you look at that? Someone’s late for once.”
“I never made a fuss about punctuality,” I pointed out as I took the helmet he held out to me. “Admit it—you just got here an hour earlier.”
Elliot scoffed. “Thirty minutes.” Before I could get the helmet on, he leaned over and pecked me on the cheek. The judiciousness of the kiss was something I’d consider later—we might have been out in the open, but we were surrounded by tourists and shoppers and no one was paying us any mind—because right then and there I was too preoccupied with quashing the fluttering of butterflies in my stomach.
“So, uh, where are we going?” I had already figured out that the Clift wasn’t our destination, or we would’ve just stayed in bed.
“It’s a surprise,” said Elliot. “Don’t worry. It’s totally painless.”
“Wanna bet?” Sarcasm was my last defense against apprehension. I don’t think it fooled Elliot, but I would’ve died before I owned up to feeling nervous at the thought of being driven to some fancy restaurant where I’d make a fool of myself. My social anxiety was alive and well, untroubled by the fact that I’d learned how to wield a flogger—or that last night’s dinner had gone off without a hitch.
I held onto Elliot as we joined the flow of traffic on the back of his bike. I had dressed more appropriately this time, abandoning my flower print dresses for a pair of comfortable black jeans and a gauzy chiffon print shirt with three-quarter length sleeves. Both had been on sale at Nordstrom’s when I’d bought them. They had last season stamped all over the crinkled fabric.
Then again, I could’ve worn one of Mrs. Hamilton’s Dolce evening gowns and still I wouldn’t have measured up to Elliot. He was magnetic—handsome, yes, and definitely sexy, but he was also captivating in a way that I couldn’t quite describe. I had seen other women shoot him lingering glances, so I knew I wasn’t the only one to notice.
I pressed my body tightly against his as we sped along Van Ness, leaving Nob Hill and Clay Street far behind us. I thought we might be going to the Wharf, but Elliot took a left before we hit Galileo Academy. We were, I realized, bound straight for the Golden Gate Bridge.
“We’re leaving the city?” I asked, pitching my voice high over the roar of the engine.
Elliot nodded his helmeted head. He was taking me out of the city. Interesting.
Traffic lessened as we passed Presidio. I found myself trying to remember the last time I’d made time to walk along the pier and watch the water shimmer in the sun like glittering crystals. Vague memories resurfaced—of myself as a kid, when my parents and I would sometimes take the bus into the city on Sunday afternoons. My mom even made a game of counting out the ships that bobbed in the water—to keep me from noticing how often she and Dad fought, I think—and I remembered sitting on benches spattered with bird shit, chewing pink cotton candy as I tallied yachts and ferries, fishing boats and cruise ships moored far in the bay, between us and the impenetrable walls of Alcatraz.
“Have you seen it?” Elliot asked me, canting his head toward the island.
“No.” And I didn’t want to. Places I couldn’t escape from didn’t appeal to me. “I really hope you’re not taking us to Oregon,” I shouted back. “I have to work tomorrow!” And in a surprising turn of events, Mrs. Hamilton wanted me to take Zara to her medical appointment because she couldn’t make it. Again.
Elliot’s laughter caught on the wind. It seemed to reach me from very far away. “Patience, grasshopper. You’ll find out soon enough.”
Somehow I managed to smother my curiosity as we arrived in Sausalito. Elliot seemed to know his way through the warren of streets, which helped reassure me that we weren’t just driving aimlessly around but did nothing for my anxiety levels.
The suburbs of San Francisco weren’t all created equal, but I could see full well that Elliot wasn’t leading us into a dump. Far from it. We stopped in a residential neighborhood and parked outside a modest two-story house with a walnut wood façade and a couple of Canada plum trees leaning heavily against the picket fence.
There was literally a picket fence—and it was painted white. I arched an eyebrow.
“What’s this?”
“Come have a look inside,” Elliot entreated, producing a key from his back pocket. I had no choice but to follow, helmet in my hands and unease bubbling in my belly.
Inside, the entryway was obviously being renovated. The walls were stripped, the hardwood floors were being laid and the gaps in the staircase made me think that going upstairs was probably as innocuous as playing Russian roulette.
That didn’t stop Elliot, who had barely set a foot inside before reaching for my hand to lead me into the depths of the house. “Are you sure this is safe?” I asked. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for urban exploration, but I can’t help feel that I should be wearing my helmet…”
“The structural engineer said there’s nothing to worry about. Come on—” Elliot shot me a big, shit-eating grin and I could at least recognize that his enthusiasm was pretty infectious.
I gave myself half a second to appreciate his dimpled smile before I said, “What structural engineer? Elliot—” Where were we? What was this place?
Upstairs, the landing formed a mezzanine with a couple of doors leading into what I imagined were bedrooms facing the back of the house. Refurbishment efforts must not have reached this level because the cast iron banister had faded to orange rust and the plaster was peeling from the doorjambs in papery flakes. Elliot led me into the room farthest from the stairs. I could tell it must have been the master bedroom, though there was no bed—no furniture whatsoever really—and I’d barely even caught a glimpse of the other room.
Compared to the Hamiltons’ house, this was almost humble. It must’ve cost a fortune, all the same, what with waterfront views of the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz. The city gleamed like a jewel in the fading sunlight. It was breathtaking, I had to give him that. There could be no other reason why I was standing there, silent as the grave, when a million questions were rattling about inside my head.
“I’m thinking of buying it,” Elliot said. Given enough time, he wasn’t a man to keep secrets.
I opened my mouth to speak. Closed it. Opened it again. “Why?” was all that came out. I was still reeling. I knew Elliot had a hefty disposable income—people didn’t stay in five star hotels if they were dirt poor—but the idea that he would pony up a couple of million on a whim left me slightly breathless.
I couldn’t help but wonder at his motives.
Elliot shrugged carelessly. “I like Frisco—”
I snorted, shaking my head. “No one calls it that around here.”
“I like the people,” Elliot went on. “They never let me get away with anything.” I had the sneaky suspicion that he was talking about me. His embrace confirmed it.
I let him pull me close, my hand circling his nape. Moving to San Francisco was entirely his prerogative, as long as I didn’t feature into his decision more strongly than the seagulls cackling in the harbor. “What about Nantucket?” I asked, trying not to let myself be distracted by his lips and failing.
“I like the East Coast, too,” he said.
“Good.” I kissed him before I could think the better of it, molding my body to his as if I could distract myself from the anxiety I felt at the thought of our two weeks becoming two months or two years. There was nothing to be done about the guilty pleasure I felt when I considered the possibility, so I resolved not to acknowledge it.
Elliot backed me up against the wall, his hands at my waist. A puff of powder
y white dust rose from the thick velvet drapes as we kissed. I pulled away, coughing profusely.
“Maybe you should wait to have people over until after you’re done renovating,” I suggested, between bouts of hacking.
“I’m not showing it to people,” Elliot pointed out archly. “I’m showing it to you. And if the view didn’t win you over,” he added, “let me show you the dungeon.”
I thought I had misheard, but as he led me downstairs, past the stripped foyer, and pried open a door that led under the stairs, I realized he was being serious.
“I’m not going down there,” I protested. “There’s gotta be mice and spiders and—things. No thanks.”
Elliot snorted. “Try hot tub, home theater and wine cellar.” He flicked a switch and lamps bathed the stairs in a warm golden glow. The light made the steep descent considerably less creepy, I had to admit, but the red carpeted steps still made me think of slasher movies. “Want me to go first?” Elliot offered, sighing when I wouldn’t budge.
“Yes.” I wasn’t ashamed of my stubbornness. I was used to thinking I had only myself to count on and I wasn’t about to be murdered in some deserted house by a masked psychopath.
My well-founded fears seemed a trifle less important by the time I reached the bottom of the stairs. The dungeon, as Elliot had called it, must’ve served as a game room of far milder proportions. There was a slightly scuffed pool table and a bar that had long been emptied.
“What do you think?” Elliot quipped, stealing my attention from the bare walls.
“Okay, it’s not the kind of place where I’d hide a body.”
He scoffed. “You watch too much television—and not the right kind. Doesn’t this remind you of Cat Oh Nine?”
It didn’t, not even a little bit, but I could see where this was going and I didn’t want to take the wind out of Elliot’s sails. “You’re in the market for the perfect playroom, is that it?”
Elliot flashed me a grin. “Something like that… Why? Wouldn’t you come to play in here? Once it’s done up, of course. I could get all kinds of things fitted in. A cross, if you like that. A sling—” He settled his hands at my hips, narrowing the space between us to a few trifling inches.
What did it matter what I liked? And, suddenly, the penny dropped. We weren’t sightseeing. He was showing me a window into what my life could be if he got a place in San Francisco. I saw it clearly—Elliot would fly back and forth between California and Nantucket, calling me up when he was in town so I could come over and be his—what? Mistress was too strong a word for it. Call girl, my subconscious supplied testily. I would be caught in his web—with no way to leave our arrangement for fear that he would tell the Hamiltons about my proclivities, my loose moral character.
Mrs. Hamilton would fire me in a flash.
I squared my jaw. “Why are you doing this?”
“I thought it might be nice to have a place we could meet that’s not the hotel… Besides, I need someplace to leave the bike,” he added sheepishly. “The road trip fell through. I need to be there Sunday to take care of some things, so I’m taking the red-eye instead. My agent was relieved to hear it.”
That was all good and nice, but it didn’t address the problem I felt prickling under my skin. “So you rent an apartment,” I hissed, breaking away. “You don’t buy a house.” Certainly not one that needed so much done to it before it became habitable.
Elliot seemed taken aback by my outburst and fair enough, it was slightly out of the ordinary. I couldn’t help myself. My cheeks burned. The trap was closing around me, my exits suddenly blocked. Elliot’s confusion made me feel like an asshole. He was happy about this and here I was plucking holes in his vision—
“Are you okay?”
I shook my head. I was the opposite of okay. I needed to get out of here. I started for the stairs, groping for the banister, and missed. If not for Elliot, I would’ve hit the ground like a log.
“Hey, hey… It’s okay. You’re fine.” He put his arms around me. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I said, but I’m sorry. We can go back to the hotel…” Yes, the hotel where we smothered our moans and never played as hard as we could for fear of getting a visit from the concierge.
One of us was wrong and I wasn’t sure I still thought it was him. I let Elliot lead us up the stairs, struggling for breath.
Elliot got us out of the house by supporting most of my weight and I sat down on the front step, hugging my knees. The breeze wafting in from the bay was cool and smelled of algae. I inhaled deeply.
“I’m sorry,” I breathed. “I don’t know what came over me.” I knew and it was because I knew that I felt completely mortified.
“Don’t worry about it,” Elliot said, giving me the benefit of the doubt. I couldn’t understand why he found it easy to act like I wasn’t a basket case. I wondered if I could learn to emulate his nonchalance. All my best attempts seemed to fall short. He rubbed my back until my breaths resumed a more normal pace. “Do you want to grab something to eat? Nothing fancy,” he hurried to add.
“No five star restaurants this time?”
He shook his head. “My wallet couldn’t take it.”
Last night must’ve cost him a pretty penny. I wished I hadn’t enjoyed it as much as I had, I hated feeling like a mooch. “Only if it’s on me,” I said and kissed his cheek.
Elliot pulled me to my feet like I weighed less than a feather. He was gentle about it. I tried to forge a smile until his back was turned. How was I going to cope with him leaving in three days? I glanced over my shoulder at the modest riverfront house. This could be salvation, if I allowed it.
Salvation, I thought, or just another cage?
* * * *
My days off always seemed to pass by too quickly. I had returned to the house on Clay Street this morning around five, after I had my way with Elliot for one last time. Unless the Hamiltons decided to fire me, I wasn’t going to get another chance to see him before his flight on Saturday.
I tried not to think about that too much as I packed the kids off to school, brought them back and made sure they got started on their homework. It was hard to do. For once, my trusty distractions were well behaved—Riley more so than anyone else—and they left me with little reason for a scolding.
Even the Hamiltons seemed to have reached an uneasy ceasefire, the war suspended for the moment as they each regrouped behind separate barricades. I wondered if Mr. Hamilton would go on his trip to Naachtun after all. It wasn’t like he had a lot keeping him in San Francisco.
I was in the kitchen, peeling bananas for Zara’s milkshake, when he came down the stairs. He was wearing a white polo shirt and corduroys with a snakeskin belt. He looked more country club adherent than intrepid explorer, but what did I know? I was seeing a man who defied all my preconceived ideas about what sexual submissives were supposed to be like. Clearly judging books by their cover wasn’t my forte.
“Hey, Mr. Hamilton,” I greeted as he sauntered toward me. “You want to grab a glass? I’m making banana and strawberry milkshake for Z. I’m sure there’ll be some left over, if you want…”
I knew that Mr. Hamilton was a whiskey and beer kind of guy, but we were in California, where the weather taught us all not to underestimate the value of a refreshing smoothie.
Mr. Hamilton shook his head as he joined me at the kitchen island. “You know, it never ceases to amaze me how good you are with the children, Miriam. I really don’t know what we’d do without you.” He rapped his knuckles against the granite counter top, cocking his head as if to catch my eye. I glanced up at him. It didn’t help—the height difference between us was hard to make up and I was wearing slippers. “We’re very lucky you chose to stay on despite my wife’s…eccentricities.”
Surprise stopped me short. “Oh… Thank you?” I had to admit it hadn’t occurred to me to think that he or his wife had ever noticed my efforts, but maybe I’d judged them too harshly. As busy as they were, no wonder they needed help with the hous
e and the kids—and the garden and the house in the Hamptons, which I had never seen but which apparently also came with a pool.
My ego swelled. I was gratified to think they understood that caring for their children wasn’t easy. They were three individuals with individual needs and mood swings, and there was no One Size Fits All technique that would work for all of them at the same time.
“Thanks,” I said again. “That means a lot.” I couldn’t help but feel a little flustered. Performance reviews with Mrs. Hamilton were usually all about what I was doing wrong.
“Of course,” Mr. Hamilton said, smiling broadly. “Frankly, you deserve more than just my thanks.” He grimaced, heaving a sigh. “I know my wife has very set ideas about how things should be done. She only allows me so much input… I’m sure you feel she doesn’t take your input seriously. It’s the same for me. I’m locked out of raising my own children, you see? She makes all the decisions. No wonder Riley is having trouble in school.”
I didn’t know what to say. My first instinct was to bristle on Riley’s behalf—she wasn’t having trouble in school. She was a straight A student who took violin and Mandarin lessons three times a week. She was going to get into a great college someday and change the world.
Perhaps if Mr. Hamilton spent a little more time at home than he did traipsing through the mud of other countries, he’d see that.
So much for not judging them harshly. I bit my tongue.
There were some points he’d made that I agreed with. For instance, Mrs. Hamilton’s parenting methods left a lot to be desired. I was no stranger to the discomfort she exhibited whenever she had to talk to me. Sometimes I wondered if it was the fact that I was Iranian that unsettled her—if my ethnicity was only good for her politically correct street cred—or if it was the fact that I could actually communicate with her children that made me into a weird animal.
All the same, nodding my agreement with Mr. Hamilton’s rant seemed somewhat impertinent. I refrained. “I’m sure Mrs. Hamilton has her reasons,” I hedged, impressively insipid.
