Cards of Love: Page of Swords

by Booth, Ainsley

  I’ve often wondered if it is. If the good doctor struggles with insomnia, but she’s never said anything, and we don’t have that kind of relationship.

  We don’t have any kind of relationship, really. I’m her landlord—and I need to remind myself of that fact every hour on the hour. But she’s also slid into my life as a constant presence, even if it’s all superficial. If I were any other kind of man, I would ask her out and see where it might go. And if she were any other kind of woman, maybe I might do it anyway, knowing that it likely wouldn’t work out.

  So I watch until she’s through the door, then I turn my attention back to the bar. She was my last customer for the night. I clean up, then lock the front door and take the till back to the office to balance up the books. I’m eight bucks out, which I berate myself for.

  I should hire staff. But that would require doing payroll, and I’m already overwhelmed by the quarterly tax forms and basic accounting for the audit I just know is coming someday.

  I flash back five years, to the restlessness I often woke up with, that had driven me out of the city centre that day and landed me here, in this building, talking to a realtor who looked me up and down like he wasn’t sure a guy like me could afford a building like this.

  Except I could.

  So I did—and I negotiated a hell of a deal in the end, too. Because that’s the guy I am. Smart, adventurous, and way too impulsive for my own good, but just clever enough to yank my mistakes out of the fire at the last second and turn them into decent saves.

  I still love the building, but I stopped loving the daily grind ages ago. I started looking for new projects a few years back. I’ve started too many to count, and let nearly all of them fall by the wayside.

  I’m untethered. Unfocused.

  There is a strong argument to be made that I should focus on the bar, which has always been my strength. Listening, talking, selling.

  My computer screen goes dark, sliding into a set of generic screensaver images. I click on the mouse and scowl at the screen. Accounting is not my forte. And when the bookkeeping program closes, behind it is the still incomplete zoning application.

  No, Meadow, I didn’t do what I set out to accomplish today. I fucked around with a harebrained idea and pushed today’s to-do list to tomorrow.

  I promise myself that I’ll finish the application in the morning.

  Before I plan a street party.

  Before I get distracted by my tenant’s teasing, knowing looks that make me want to cover her mouth and really give her something to be surprised by.

  3

  Meadow

  It’s bright outside when I finally wake up. Oh, I how I love a day off after a couple of shifts in a row. Rolling over, I grab my phone and do a quick check of my messages while I stumble to the bathroom.

  After a long, hot shower, I twist my hair up into a bun, then throw on some comfy clothes. Coffee is in my immediate future. A giant, frothy latte made by Tessa at the shop across the street—the third best thing about this apartment.

  The first is just how big it is, and since I don’t have much stuff here, I get to enjoy the spacious expanse of it.

  The second is that Bas is always downstairs with a ready smile for me.

  With that in mind, I order him a coffee, too. While I’m waiting for those, I let Tessa draw me into a conversation. She’s just stuck her daily Tarot card on the wall. She likes to do a card reading for herself every morning after the rush.

  “Why don’t you do it first thing?” I ask her.

  “Some days, that early in the morning still feels like the day before, if that makes sense? And it’s so hectic and rushed. My mind isn’t clear and focused. And it’s something fun to do at my first lull.” She grins. “You want me to do a reading for you?”

  I shake my head. “I’m good.”

  “All right. Here you go, two lattes. You got your muffins already?”

  I raise the paper bag. “Yep.”

  “Have a great day, Meadow.”

  “You too!”

  Conversations like that make up for the thirty-minute commute into the city.

  As does the view when I go to find Bas in his office. Technically, he lives in the other apartment upstairs, but this is his domain—a large, light-filled space behind the bar, with a gorgeous desk and a big-ass leather executive chair behind it, large enough for all of him and his smile, too.

  He rocks back on the chair and spreads his arms wide. “How did you know I haven’t had coffee yet today?”

  “A lucky guess,” I murmur as I hand his latte over to him. Even after six months, there’s still a sizzle against my skin when his fingers brush mine. I ignore it. We’re well past that.

  A lovely friendship is way better than an unrequited crush.

  “Are you working on the street party idea?” I curl up in the chair across from his desk and nod at the scatter of papers between us, all covered in pencil sketches of Duke Street, with the various shops on either side. “And also, how have you been this productive without caffeine?”

  “I run on enthusiasm,” he says, like that’s normal.

  My enthusiasm was murdered somewhere in the third year of residency. “I’m jealous,” I admit.

  His brows pull together as he looks at me. “You okay?”

  I smile brightly. It doesn’t matter. I still love my job. It’s just not party-planning level of fun. “Yep. So, Halloween is a go?”

  “I think so.” He shrugs. “I’m just playing around with it. Not a big deal. Maybe it would be better to throw it at someone else. I’ll see if Tessa wants to do it.”

  I swallow back the criticism that jumps to the tip of my tongue. It’s not my place to say, no, don’t give this up!

  There’s so much to adore about Bas. His fire, his protectiveness, and the way he looks at you and everything else in the world disappears. Poof. It’s just you and him, and it would be so easy to get caught up in that.

  Hell, I did, in a single second, when I first met him.

  But.

  But.

  The man can’t commit to a single woman, a single plan, a single anything to save his life. He’s constantly coming up with the next great idea, and then he drops it—or hands it off to someone else—as soon as he gets bored.

  I can’t imagine how much it would hurt to be handed off because he got bored of me.

  No. That’s a lie. I can imagine, and that’s why I’ve never acted on my feelings for him.

  My phone vibrates. I glance at the screen. It’s my cleaning lady.

  “Sorry,” I say to Bas, sliding off the stool. “I have to get this.”

  “Work comes first.” He grins.

  I don’t correct him. Outside, I take a deep breath and answer the phone. “This is Meadow.”

  “Sorry to bother you, Ms. Pedersen. I’ve just finished cleaning the unit and the previous guests seem to have taken the hairdryer with them.”

  I sigh. “Okay, thanks for letting me know.”

  “Would you like me to pick up a replacement?”

  I shake my head even though she can’t see me. “It’s all right. I’ve got the day off, and it’s been a while since I’ve visited the condo. I’ll do it.”

  Ending the call, I make sure my phone is on silent and head back inside.

  “Everything okay?” Bas asks.

  “Yep.” I slide back into my chair. “I need to head downtown in a bit. Something came up but it won’t take me long. I’ve got some time to finish going over the plans with you, if you want help.”

  His warm gaze slides over my face. That right there. It’s scary how good it feels having his full attention. “You really like this idea, eh?”

  “Yep.”

  “Good.”

  “If you want to give it to Tessa, I bet she’d be all over it.”

  He strokes his beard slowly. My eyes catch on the hypnotic slide of his thick fingers against his skin. “No,” he says. “I think I want to keep this for myself. If you�
��re going to help me, that is.”

  My breath catches in my throat and I nod. “Count me in.”

  4

  Bas

  By the end of the week, I’ve spoken to all the business owners on the street. Tessa at the coffee shop and Mabel from Weirdaker Games at the other end of Duke Street have both agreed to write a letter of support for my street party zoning application.

  When I’m across the street at Tessa’s getting her signature, she runs over her plans for a stall.

  “It may be basic,” she warns me. “I don’t want to do a ton of baking for the end of the day if we don’t have a clear idea for turnout numbers.”

  “Basic is fine.” It’s what I usually serve at the bar. Pretzels, bowls of nuts, cheese plates.

  “We could do candy. Trick or treat at each stall. It technically contributes to the requirements of having food on hand to go with the alcohol.”

  I laugh out loud, grab my phone, and text Meadow to get her thoughts.

  Bas: What do you think about trick-or-treating at all the stalls?

  Meadow: Yes! Sugar highs are not a problem for grown-up trick-or-treaters.

  I repeat that line to Tessa, and she agrees. While I was texting, she picked up her Tarot deck. She notices that I noticed, and holds it out. “Do you want a reading?”

  I shake my head. “Nah. Another time, I’ve still got a lot of planning to do and a bar to run.”

  Something about Meadow’s text continues to whirl around in my mind as I walk back to the bar.

  Grown-up trick or treaters.

  Grown-up.

  I rub my hand over my jaw.

  One way to get a good minimum number of people to turn out, people who would buy food from the coffee shop and keep me in good standing with a business neighbour, would be to invite a bunch of community groups with large volunteer pools. I happen to know a few of those circles.

  Free tables for any non-profit group. I rap my knuckles on my desk and open a new email window.

  * * *

  The response is overwhelming. And through the grapevine come requests for paying tables, too, from vendors in the city who are tired of fighting for overpriced event opportunities there.

  I set up an application form on Saturday. By Sunday, I have thirty interested vendors and there’s only enough space for twenty in the requested licensed area.

  “That’s a good problem to have,” Meadow says as she slowly picks at a muffin in the doorway to my office Monday afternoon. “Isn’t it?”

  I tug on my short-cropped beard. Not short-cropped enough right now. I’ve been distracted by the street party planning and haven’t trimmed it in a few weeks. “I don’t want to burn any bridges. But on the other hand, I want the event to seem like an in-demand booking. Right now, I’ve confirmed ten vendors and put the rest on a waiting list. I’ll pull most off the list in the end, I think. We can have a second row of vendors outside the licensed area, around the corner.”

  She nods slowly. “Cool. What else do you have planned?”

  I flip through my notes. “Outdoor heaters, because some of the costumes will be…risqué, I bet.”

  “Like, how risqué are we talking?” Her foot thunks against the door frame as she stands more at attention. “Because right now, my costume plan is pretty pedestrian, and if I need to step up my game, I need time to get organized.”

  “It’s not a contest.” Definitely not a contest. One of the vendors asked that, because they wanted to sponsor a prize. Nuh. Not my style to judge people as better or hotter than others. I want this to be as inclusive as possible. “Be your adorable self and don’t worry about how dirty other costumes get.”

  “I’m not worried,” she says frostily. “But good to know you think I’m adorable.”

  The way she says it pricks at me, and I lift my head to look at her.

  Oh yeah, that’s a familiar glare. No woman wants to be told she’s not sexy. I give her a grin. “Sorry. You’re sexy as hell, Meadow. It’s all good. Wear whatever you want.”

  Her nose is still out of joint, though. She drops her hands, her muffin forgotten now. “I feel like this party has changed significantly from the funtimes beer garden of last week.”

  “I guess it has.” I shrug. I don’t care if things are sliding around. That’s life. Great ideas emerge from chaos. “Maybe hold off until we finalize the theme and announce the list of vendors. But because you’re my friend, I’ll give you a heads up—there will be some fetish wear in the mix. Lots of role-play type costumes.”

  “Kinky stuff?” She doesn’t blink.

  Meadow—the good doctor, the sweet tenant—doesn’t blink at kinky costumes.

  I guess one sees everything at the hospital, but I was expecting her to squirm a little.

  Deep down, I’m a little disappointed she didn’t, which is fucked up. It’s good that she’s cool with whatever. “Yep.”

  “Huh.” She looks at me, eyes narrowed. “That is a change.”

  “Kind of developed over the weekend while you were working.”

  “Interesting.” Then she smiles, her eyes twinkling, and leans in. “Can you imagine me as a Domme, Bas?”

  My mouth runs dry. No, I can’t. Not even a little bit. I can see her in a collar, naked except for a small strip of leather stamped Property of Absalom. I can see her in a 1950’s pin-up girl costume, walking funny because I make her put a plug in her sweet, round ass before she goes out to play.

  I can see her in any number of submissive costumes.

  None of them are appropriate for me to suggest, so it’s good that she giggles and shakes her head. “Oh, man, the look on your face.” She goes back to nibbling on her muffin, frostiness gone, and I choose discretion over trying to explain anything.

  I don’t have a good explanation.

  I do, however, have a semi-hard dick. And it’s interfering with my ability to think clearly, so when she finishes her snack, and says she’s heading upstairs to nap, I forget to tell her that I know a lot of the people who will come to the party.

  I’ve played with a fair number of them. In dungeons and at sex parties.

  Hey, so, your landlord is a dirty dog, and you might want to re-think joking about sexy costumes with him. Also, he’d totally understand if you’re re-thinking the entire friendship.

  Except that would be a lie. I’d fucking hate that.

  I should tell her sooner than later. Ease her into the idea that I have a darker side, but it’s no big deal.

  And my fantasies—of the collar, of a rosy pink ass, or a cute little bunny tail wiggling at me as she hops away—will stay safely locked up.

  What Meadow wears to the street party is entirely up to Meadow—and none of my business.

  5

  Meadow

  The absolute best part of my job is delivering babies, and tonight we have a full house on the delivery ward. There are three women in active labour, two inductions in the early stages, and at least one woman on antenatal that we’re watching and might take in for a c-section later if her bloodwork changes.

  There’s a fine balance in medicine between watching the numbers, trusting the numbers, and making the gut call to ignore the numbers because your Spidey Sense says this one isn’t like the others. That sense gets stronger over time. I’ve seen some consultants with decades of experience make some whacked out calls—and be right—because their internal reference database is just that varied.

  I’m relatively new to this. My internal reference database is a picture-perfect memory of all the recent evidence published in peer-reviewed journals.

  I’m a barrel of fun at parties.

  Speaking of which…I still don’t have a costume for Bas’s street party. His kinky street party, although he hasn’t been more forthcoming about that aspect of it. But I got the gist. I also picked up, loud and clear, that he doesn’t think that’s my scene.

  I’m going to prove him wrong. I’ll show him I’m a hell of a lot more than adorable. There was something
about that exchange that pushed me off the awkward should-I, shouldn’t-I fence I’ve been teetering on for the last couple of months.

  I should.

  I should tell him how I feel.

  I should admit the deception I fell into when we met.

  I should tell him the truth, because in the end, if I don’t, our friendship isn’t real.

  A tremor of fear ripples through me at the thought of losing what we have—but what we currently have isn’t what I really want. And he’s friends with a lot of his exes. Why couldn’t he be friends with the girl who had a crush on him, lied to him, and moved into his apartment like a perverted stalker? If I don’t frame it that way, of course, because yikes.

  I’ll need to work on my presentation of the truth.

  One thing at a time. First, a sexy costume and a way to make it clear to him that I’m not the little miss goody-two-shoes he’s pegged me as. Second, I’ll make it clear I want him. Third, I’ll admit that’s been the truth from the moment we met.

  “It’s a good plan,” I say out loud, under my breath.

  “The induction in room 3?” the resident next to me asks.

  I glance up the white board, and the progress stats. Yep, that’s a good plan, too. “Mm-hmm. I’m going to take a few minutes and do some Halloween shopping, all right? Page me if anything changes.”

  “Sure thing.”

  The staff lounge is empty, so I stay there instead of heading all the way to my office. I fire up my laptop and Google sexy adult Halloween costumes. Then I immediately close that window, because no, not that sexy—this is still a public street event, after all—and I try again.

  Classy kinky costumes doesn’t return better results.

  But then, on the side, I see an ad for a store selling corsets, and when I click on that, a whole array of options present themselves. Cosplay. Steampunk. And then I see a tutu.

  It’s been fifteen years since I last wore a ballet leotard, but for the decade before that it was practically a second skin to me.