*
“You’ve got some ’splaining to do, India.”
“Hmm?”
Constance is glaring at me across the finely set table. As usual, Rey’s got us into a hot spot, and I’m already sipping on a French 75.
“Oh, don’t you bat your lashes at me. Uh, Slade?”
“Riiight…”
After I swallow, I wrench my mouth to the side and my eyes up to the ceiling. Perhaps if I’m evasive enough she’ll let it drop? But no such luck. “Do you want to talk about this before or after Rey gets here?”
“You can’t tell on me.”
“I can and I will. He’s going to know something’s up anyway. That guy is a real live psychic, right?”
“May as well be.”
“Well, there’s your choice. Tell me while you can or tell us when Rey gets here.”
Constance doesn’t use her Domme face on me often—that would be unprofessional—but she whips it out now and to good effect. She can still have the same impact on me if she tries.
“Fine.”
“Did you sleep with him?”
“Yes.”
“Was he any good?”
I shrug. Before I’d pushed him too far? “Not bad. Not really my type.”
Constance’s eyes go wide with alarm. “He didn’t—”
“No. I told him if he tried to mind-fuck me I’d castrate him. Turns out he can be a person when he feels like it. I might even call him a man.”
“High praise.”
“Exceeded my expectations, that’s for sure. You should see the body he’s got under that suit.”
“I’d rather not.”
I laugh. Constance has a… I wouldn’t quite call it a phobia, but a strong aversion to the male anatomy. The word “cock” makes her flinch. When Glory and I were feeling bratty, we used to tease her about it. And then get the punishments we so richly deserved. “Trust me, it’s nice.”
“Is this is going to turn into a regular thing? Because if it is—”
“No. No way. This was…” What the fuck was this? It was an emergency patch to get me through. One that I recognize in the clear light of day as a self-destructive impulse that tells me I need Rey to find me someone appropriate soon. “I needed something. Anything. But he wasn’t so good I’d risk doing it again.”
“No more lost weekends?”
Tears well in my eyes, and I fiddle with the stem of my champagne flute, not able to look her in the face. No one except Rey and Matty knew about Crispin, never mind our break-up. Or, technically, the non-renewal of our contract. But Constance knows my game for the past several years, although not why I play it. I won’t have to explain everything.
“I’d been seeing someone. Consistently.”
I may not be looking directly at you, but don’t think I don’t notice the raise of those brows, Constance.
“And now?”
“Now…” My voice cracks on the last word. “Now I’m not.”
“Oh, kitten.”
Constance slides her chair next to mine and puts an arm around me, tugging my head down to her shoulder. My nose is filled with the comforting coconut-and-shea-butter scent of her, and the warmth of her hand on the back of my neck squeezes the tears from my eyes. My shoulders heave, my ribs ache, and the drops fall as she soothes me, my fingers digging into her triceps.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t know.”
She strokes my nape, letting me get her suit coat wet with my tears. I shudder in her embrace, re-experiencing the wrenching pain thinking about Crispin always brings. I miss him so much. It hurts way worse than the damage Slade did. Constance is murmuring to me, the typical break-up platitudes. When she gets to, “He didn’t deserve you, kitten,” I mumble into her shoulder, “That’s the problem. I’m pretty sure I didn’t deserve him. I wasn’t enough for him.”
Constance’s chest rumbles with laughter. “I’d hate to meet the man for whom you are not enough. You’re a handful and a half.”
Laughter catches in my throat, but doesn’t quite leave. I’m a handful all right. More trouble than I’m worth. “He liked me. Like really liked me. The real me, too. Not just Kit. And I couldn’t be a person for him.”
“Hunter did a number on you, didn’t he?”
I snort through my tears, flinching at the sudden contraction of my sore ribs. “Several.”
“That’s why you left?” Constance had been surprised when I took a job in San Diego. We’d talked about working at HUD together, and I’d told her about my aspirations to work in the mayor’s office in New York. Whereas Hunter had shaken his head and denigrated my dreams as a fantasy, Constance had been enthusiastic, introducing me to people she thought could help. All for naught when the positions I applied for were exclusively on the West Coast. I’d felt bad, but not enough to explain my sudden change of heart.
I pull back and wipe my eyes with a napkin. I’m sure it’s a faux pas, but I don’t have my Emily Post on me to check. “Partly. Did you know he told my parents?”
“About—”
I have to laugh. Her face is ashen; she couldn’t look more horrified.
“Yeah. He provided them with some…visuals.”
I need to stop talking, otherwise Constance is going to lose the sandwich we split for lunch.
“They’re why I left.”
“They didn’t take it well?”
“Would your mom?”
Constance cackles her loud, braying laugh, and I join in. An image comes to mind of Mrs. Cooper, brandishing whatever kitchen utensil was most handy, raving about youth these days with their crazy hair, slovenly dress, and terrible manners. I can’t imagine what she’d say about collars, canes, and clamps. “I take your point. She’s been as cool about Glory as I could’ve hoped, but anything else would probably do her in.”
“You’re so lucky.” The jealousy seeps into my voice, my green eye getting greener with envy over how perfect Glory and Constance are for each other. And stupidly, that she has her mom’s approval for her partner, if not her lifestyle.
“I am.” The glow that had faded creeps over her cheeks again. It might not seem this way to people who don’t get kink, but Constance worships Glory. It’s as plain as day on her face, and there’s an ache in my chest because I don’t think anyone will ever look like that when they talk about me. I’d like someone to. “I never thought I’d find someone like Glory. It’s nigh on impossible—finding someone who’s compatible on so many levels. I have to laugh at all those pretty little vanilla straight girls who think they have it rough, like there aren’t enough fish in their sea. Try shrinking to a pond of queerness. And then a puddle of kink. Not to mention your standard intellectual, personality, chemical attraction, sense of humor issues. I’m left with maybe three options.”
“You found your raindrop.”
“I did. If this guy isn’t willing to take you as you are, he’s not yours. There are more raindrops in your sky, India.”
I suppose that’s one way to look at it, but the more likely possibility is I was too stupid and stubborn and paranoid to enjoy what I’d found. Crispin deserved more than I could give. I should’ve tried harder, offered him the blood from my veins if that’s what he’d wanted, because god knows he would’ve bled for me. I fucked up, and I need to deal with the fallout. Move on, and—despite how painful the idea is—hope Crispin’s found someone who can give him what he needs. He’s a good man, and he deserves someone who’s less of a disaster than me. Someone who can love him properly.
I steer our conversation back to Glory and get Constance to gush over her for the fifteen minutes it takes Rey to show up. She keeps her word and doesn’t rat me out. And though Rey can tell something’s not quite right, he won’t ask me in front of Constance.
Dinner is fun, almost like old times. When I collapse into bed with Rey afterward, I snuggle drunkenly under his arm, laying my head on his chest.
“Who was he?”
“No pillow talk?”
; “Pillow talk is for good girls who don’t keep secrets. Who was he?”
I pout, but I don’t bother trying to lie. “Slade Lewis.”
“Were you safe?”
“Of course.” Jeez, I know I was stupid, but I’m not a total and utter moron. Slade’s clearly been around the block, and I don’t want his manwhore cooties. Fuck, yes, I insisted on protection.
“I don’t mean like that, kitten,” he assures me, stroking my arm. His fingers apply the perfect amount of pressure, telling me, I’m here, I know you, I love you. No matter what.
“He didn’t know what he was doing, but he didn’t hurt me.” Except for the bruises that make me flinch when I roll in the wrong direction, the ones I’ve covered up with a T-shirt and cropped yoga pants. “Much.”
I feel bad about my white lie, but I don’t know what Rey would do if I told him how bad it really was. Or if he knew it was my fault. No, I do know. He’d be livid and lecture me for a good half an hour, and I can’t handle that right now.
“Was he any good?”
I shrug, my shoulder meeting up with Rey’s ribcage, which is firm with held breath. Poor Rey, he’s fretting.
“Could be. If you could get a hold of him.” Slade had respected my limits when I’d stood up to him and told him what they were. Perhaps he’s another lost soul who hasn’t found an acceptable outlet, so his needs spill over everyone in his path. If that’s the case, and if he could learn to control himself, Tsunami Slade could be just the thing some kinky girl is dreaming of. Just not me. “But you don’t need to worry. I’m okay.”
The tension leaves him like water from a slow leak in a garden hose. Now that he’s not so scared, he’s planning how best to scold me.
“I know you’re a big girl, but…”
“No, it was a bad idea. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t let it happen again.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When will you have time? I’ll find you the best there is.”
“I don’t even know. With Phoenix heating up and managing the receivership here…” All the projects I have come rushing through my head like rapids over jagged rocks. It’s killing my bubbly buzz.
“Hush, little one.” He pets my hair and pulls me closer. “Don’t stress. Just let me know. I heard Ethan might be back on the market if you’re interested.”
Ethan. I’d liked him. He’d been my favorite for a long time. I’d been hoping for this day before I met Crispin. But when I see Ethan in my head—blond, broad, and bright-blue-eyed—he looks washed out by Crispin’s dark coloring. And he was never much of a conversationalist. Not that there was much room for conversation. I’d liked it that way. But now…
“Do you—do you think he’d want to talk to me?” My voice is tremulous with echoes of my skittering heart because I’m daring to hope for more than I’ve ever dared hope for. Even if I wasn’t enough for Crispin, maybe I could be enough for someone else? Maybe I could be enough for Ethan? As far as sex goes, we’re compatible, and our kinks line up nicely. At least I know he’s in my puddle. Might he be my raindrop?
Rey’s fingers catch, maybe on a tangled curl, but possibly in surprise. This is the first time I’ve wanted more than a beating, some bondage, and sex out of my assignation. Or, at least, the first time I’ve been able to say it out loud.
“I’ll ask him. Now go to sleep. You’ve got an early morning tomorrow.”
I’m thankful Rey knows me well enough not to make a huge deal out of this. I know it’s been years since I could admit it, but I wouldn’t be able to handle him throwing a goddamn tickertape parade over what should be something minor. You crave a connection deeper than an orgasm? Shocker! It hurt when the words left my mouth, but it felt right. Necessary. I’m ready to take a risk. The payoff could be worth it.
“Yes, sir.” Like a good girl, I close my eyes and try to dream.
Chapter Twelve
‡
I spend a week in LA doing site visits, staff training, file audits, and anything else I can think of. The ship is righting, and I’m hoping by the end of the year we’ll be rid of this project—or it will be so far on the downslope someone less senior than me can manage it. Maybe I’ll talk to Jack about getting Evans involved up here.
Everything is looking good except for a few hiring anomalies: duplicated Social Security numbers on paperwork, doubtless the result of some careless, barely paid minion who’s dizzied up by how many people they’ve had to hire after the mass exodus following the embezzlement scandal.
I put the file on a corner of my desk to be double-checked before I leave. We haven’t had much to do with entry-level hiring—we’re a consulting firm, not a staffing agency—and there haven’t been any whispers of trouble in HR. But I’m starting to wonder if someone’s taking advantage of the microscope being focused elsewhere to try and get away with something. The thought troubles me through the afternoon, and when I can’t take it anymore, I throw down my current project—calculating the depreciation of LAHA’s property holdings portfolio—and pick up the manila folder.
After flipping through the stack, I realize all the doubled socials are on forms accepted by the same HR rep. Fuck me. Not another one. This agency is where good consultants go to die. It’s like fucking public policy administration Whac-A-Mole, which is even less fun to play than it sounds. And a press conference tomorrow before I leave? Great, fucking great.
I spend the rest of the day snooping around the HR files, using the backdoor access into the software we’ve built into all the systems here. There’s duplicate information all over the damn place, even some overlapping addresses and phone numbers. I call in a few favors at the SSA and IRS and narrow it down to one address where a family of six lives—one of whom is listed as the employee who signed off on all these hires.
I ask around HR, people I’ve worked closely with, people I trust. When they say they’ve seen neither hide nor hair of these alleged new employees, I get Jack on the phone and give him the bad news. Another fire to be put out and I’m running out of extinguishers. My body is still recovering from my ill-advised encounter with Slade. I need a goddamn vacation.
While I’m gathering information to be handed over to the detective I’d rather not be friendly with at LAPD, Jack drops mention of a project Patterson’s been put on. It sounds like I’m going to have to deal with that, too. For the second time ever, my sinuses start to burn at work. I can put up with a lot, but my nerves are frayed to the breaking point. I haven’t been taking care of myself, and I’m a few blinks away from tears.
I take some deep breaths, the outward expansion of my lungs making my ribs throb. “Don’t worry, Jack. I’ll handle it.”
“You always do.”
Yes, I do.
*
There are more cameras here than usual, and I wonder why. It’s not supposed to be anything other than an update on the receivership, and aside from Brad Lennox, no one’s been all that interested in us since the scandal broke. But here they are, even two local television crews. I guess it’s not so surprising. Public housing’s been making the press again, and the news stations will look for any chance to rehash the ugliness that rocked us a few months ago.
A ball of lead forms in my gut as I approach the podium. I feel like I’m walking into a trap. I stand behind the new executive director of the agency, a woman named Cynthia Quaid we poached from the regional HUD office, as she gives the update. When she’s nearly done, I take over, not wanting to give the reporters an excuse to rip her to shreds. She’s good but new, and she doesn’t know the ins and outs of the agency yet. Not like I do. Though that could be said of anyone other than Jack. I finish the update but hesitate before asking for questions. The eagerness on Brad Lennox’s face gives me pause.
The last time I was here, Crispin had been proven right about Brad having a crush on me. After a press conference, the fucker waylaid me to ask me on a date. A date. When I’d declined as politely as I knew how, saying it wasn’t a good idea sinc
e we’re involved professionally, he’d gotten nasty, calling me something insulting. It made me sad. Not that we’d been friends, but I’d respected the guy. While Brad had given me a hard time in pressers, he’d always done it with class and with information to back him up. I hope my refusal to go out with him hasn’t changed that.
I take questions from the few reporters who’ve got their hands raised. Most of the inquiries are put to rest with one-sentence answers, including a question about my work in Chicago. Then there’s no one left except Brad. I’m tempted to end it—our time’s up, after all—but I don’t want to give him a reason to cry coward. If he’s got something to call us out for, I’d rather hear it now than see it in the Thursday morning edition of the Times.
“Yes, Mr. Lennox? Last question please.”
His posture shifts as he mimes thoughtfulness, his pen in the air as he cocks his head, eyes not meeting mine, but headed to his hairline.
“Ms. Burke, were you aware your agency is currently paying a full-time salary to ten people who can all be traced back to a man named Jason Garrett?”
Fuck. How the fuck does Brad Lennox know about the HR shit I dug up yesterday and have been trying to deal with quietly? That doesn’t matter. All that matters are the flashbulbs going off in my face and the smug-ass look on Brad’s face. You think it’s that fucking easy, Brad? You’ve got another thing coming if you think you’ve had the best of India Burke. I let the panic settle in my throat before I answer. When I speak, my voice is steady.
“Yes, Mr. Lennox. We recently became aware of the fraud perpetrated by Mr. Garrett and have been working to address it quietly so as not to alert him before we could file charges. I hope you have reporters on standby at Mr. Garrett’s home who are willing to perform a citizen’s arrest since Mr. Garrett will no doubt try to flee the area now that you’ve tipped him off to our suspicions. You can explain to the taxpayers why Mr. Garrett is sitting on a beach in Acapulco with his ill-gotten gains instead of in prison as he ought to be because you felt like making a statement instead of an arrest. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get on the phone with LAPD before that happens. No further questions.”
Intimate Geography Page 12
