Cards of Love: Page of Swords

by Booth, Ainsley

  That’s something sexy and possibly kinky that I would feel comfortable wearing in public. And on the same page is a link to ballet-styled boots, which make a lot more sense for an Ontario Halloween—and an outdoor street festival any time of the year—than slippers would. Done, and done.

  I quickly add the tutu, the boots, some fishnet stockings, and two kinds of body leotards to my cart, because a girl likes options when it comes to baring skin. Then I pick a corset which, if I weren’t wearing a leotard, would bare more than just the tops of my breasts.

  It’s a filthy costume that makes me feel funny.

  It’s perfect.

  As I push the order button, the lounge door swings open and a woman I don’t know walks in. She’s in scrubs and her badge says Dr. Addison Greer, Paediatrics. I catch all of that in the split second before I close my laptop, a little too quickly to be casual.

  She skids to a halt. “Sorry, am I interrupting something?”

  I laugh nervously. “Nope.”

  “I can come back.”

  “It’s fine.” I hold my breath for a second. “Actually, I just want to make sure an order went through. It’s a Halloween costume, nothing inappropriate.” Not too inappropriate, anyway. Not in its individual parts.

  “Averting my eyes,” she says gently, swivelling away from me. “I’m Addison, by the way. I’m new to the Paeds team. I’m covering Max Donovan’s shift tonight. And I adore Halloween costumes, so the dorkier the better.”

  “This is less dorky and more trying-to-impress-a-man,” I admit. “Which is a weird thing to share with a new colleague, but I’m sure Max will tell you have a tendency to put my foot in my mouth about all sorts of things.” I open my computer, double-check the order went through, then stow it away in my messenger bag.

  I stand up. “You can turn around again.” I hold out my hand. “Meadow Pedersen. Obstetrics.”

  She beams and squeezes my fingers gently. “Max said I’d like working with you, and he wasn’t wrong.”

  “Have you had a look at the board? We’re going to have a busy night.” As I say that, my pager goes off. I sling my messenger bag across my body and point in the general direction of the nursing station. “Shall we?”

  “After you.”

  “Where did you come from before here?”

  “Colorado. Before that, I was in B.C. That’s where I know Max from.”

  “Neat.” And with that, we’re into the thick of it. One mom has started pushing, another is in a nice holding pattern, having a wee rest before she gets started. I stash my bag under the desk, re-tuck my curls into a tight bun on the back of my head, and take a deep breath.

  It’s time to welcome some new people into the world.

  6

  Bas

  A week before Halloween, a courier driver comes into the bar late afternoon. “I’ve got a package for a Meadow Pedersen,” he says, totally ignoring the fact he’s in a bar and I don’t look like my name is Meadow.

  It’s possible, of course. So I play it that way. “That’s me,” I say dryly.

  The dude doesn’t even blink. “Sign here.”

  I want to give him a fist bump for being cool about identity, but just in case he’s simply bored out of his gourd, I don’t bother. Instead I scrawl something that could be Meadow, but could also be Absalom, and take the box from him.

  It’s surprisingly heavy.

  I text the intended recipient.

  Bas: Got a delivery to the bar for you.

  Meadow: I’m on call until tomorrow morning, and sticking close to the hospital. Can you put it upstairs for me?

  Bas: Sure thing.

  Meadow: Thanks.

  She adds a flower emoji.

  Fucking cute as hell. I send back a grinning devil, because flowers aren’t my speed, and truck upstairs.

  Even after six months of living in my rental unit, Meadow doesn’t have much stuff. She’s barely here, to be fair. She seems to live at the hospital, often sleeping there. Today being a good case in point.

  But the poor woman doesn’t have much furniture, either. The front room is massive, and has enough space for a full living room set, but she only has one small love seat. Of course, she’s just one small person, living here all by herself, and she never has anyone over.

  But still.

  I wonder about that every time I’m in here, which isn’t that often. Mail deliveries like this, the occasional landlord repair issue.

  Her couches, or lack thereof, are not my problem. I leave the package just inside her front door, lock up carefully, and head downstairs to tend bar and daydream about the street party.

  When I get back downstairs, the bar phone is ringing.

  I grab the handset loosely and put it to my ear. “Duke and Main, how can I help you?”

  “Bas,” a woman’s voice snaps crisply in my ear.

  I smile, recognizing my favourite cop from the first syllable. “Corrine, what can I do for you?”

  “Your little street party has grabbed some high-level attention.”

  “In a good way or a bad way?”

  “In a the prime minister talked about attending kind of way.”

  As much as I would get a kick out of the nation’s leader drinking my beer next to a guy dressed head-to-toe in latex, I can’t imagine that would be a good look on the next days’ morning news. “That’s not a good idea.”

  “We realize that,” she says dryly. “And he realizes it too, but it came up at a meeting, and some of the people in attendance are talking about coming, and while we can run interference on the PM’s calendar, everyone else in this town is a private citizen. So I need a favour from you.”

  “Anything.”

  “Can I come out there and get a walk through on the plan? Unofficially. Low-key.”

  Cabinet ministers, I’m assuming. From what little I know about Corinne’s job, it sounds awful. A lifelong capital region RCMP officer, she recently transferred onto the Prime Minister’s security detail and now she’s a glorified babysitter.

  This conversation is a prime example. “My plan is your plan, my lovely.”

  She chuckles. “I’m not your lovely anymore.”

  No. That hadn’t worked out between us. “Are you still seeing those two guys from the Senators?”

  “Nope. I’m enjoying some me time right now. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you.”

  * * *

  She comes around the next night, around nine. The bar is busy enough, but I’m between customers when the door opens and Corinne stalks in. She’s wearing snug jeans and a leather jacket, with heavy boots on her feet, and carrying a helmet.

  “Cold night for a ride,” I say as she tugs off her gloves and sets them on the bar.

  “Nice and brisk,” she says with a grin. “How’s it going?”

  I shrug. “It’s going.”

  She searches my face, then nods. I don’t give her anything else. We’re not close friends. Mostly acquaintances through the kink community, who dated for a short while and figured out we weren’t compatible that way. And now she’s here in a professional capacity, so I’m not going to do a deep dive into all the ways I’m dissatisfied with my life.

  None of her business. “Do you want a drink?”

  “I’d take a Coke.”

  “For sure.” I pour her a tall glass and add a lime to the rim. “So, what do you need to know?”

  “Do you have a map of the street party perimeter?”

  I pull a sketch out from under the bar and slide it across to her. “I’m having this printed up as well, but here’s the rough draft.”

  “Flying by the seat of your pants, eh?” Another grin, and I frown. Nothing wrong with her observation, and it’s true, but it grates at me. Yeah, I do a lot of shit last minute. But I get it done, and it’s my fucking party. She taps her fingers on the zigzag marks I’ve used to denote where the perimeter fencing will be. “This will essentially seal in the space, except for the official entrances?”


  I nod. “Basically.”

  “It’s the not-so-basically parts I’m curious about. The secret back exits out of places like this bar.” She looks to the rear of my building, and everything connects in my head.

  She wants to know where she can smuggle a VIP out if shit-disturbing bloggers show up or something. Okay. I grab a red marker and draw all the possible exit lines on top of my sketch. “Official entrances are here and here, at either end. Those will be staffed for the entire duration of the event. These four businesses—” I point to my bar, the coffee shop, the gaming company at the other end of the street that is doing an escape room haunted house, and the gift shop across the street from that. “We are all open all night, mostly for people to use the facilities because we decided porta-potties are disgusting.”

  Corinne laughs. “Good call.”

  “Each building has a back entrance. So those are all options. On this side of the street—my bar, and the gift shop—there’s an alley that runs the full length. That’s a bit better for car access, if you need it. But the other side, you can walk to a side street pretty quickly.”

  She scrubs a hand over her face and sighs, I’m assuming in relief. “Great.”

  “Tell me to mind my own business if you want, but who’s your big concern? If I can help out and keep my eyes open, I’m happy to. I want this to go off without a hitch.”

  A long, pregnant pause stretches before she nods. “All right. Ellie Strong wants to come to your street party.”

  I choke on a laugh. “The prime minister’s wife?”

  Corinne’s mouth twitches. “She’s been stir-crazy at home with the baby, and thought it would be fun.”

  “So when you said it came up in a meeting…”

  “I mean a dinner party at 24 Sussex.”

  “Ah.” I scratch my beard. “You don’t want to just tell her that she can’t come?”

  “The only person who might get away with that is the PM, and he has given his blessing for her to do whatever she wants in this regard. He agreed not to come himself—that adds too much—but if she wants to have a girls’ night out with her friends, that’s her right.”

  Everyone else in this town is a private citizen. It’s a stretch, but I support the principle of the idea. “All right. What do I need to know?”

  Her face gets serious. “Look, Ellie doesn’t want to bring any drama to your event, or any embarrassment to her husband’s office. But she has a right to live her life freely and fully, and it’s my job to make sure she can do that without making too big of a fuss about it. Understood?”

  Completely. I begin rearranging the street plan in my head. I’m going to need some help here. An outside perspective. A woman’s input. “I’m on it.”

  Corinne reaches across the bar and wraps her hand over my forearm. “You are a gem.” Her lips twitch, but she doesn’t let me in on the private joke. “Don’t clean it up entirely, all right? Let the woman have some fun.”

  “I’ll walk the line and keep it on the entertaining side of depraved.”

  “Perfect.” Her fingers slide against my arm and I catch her hand in mine and give it a small squeeze before she leans back and grabs her gloves. But she doesn’t leave right away. “So the rumours are true? The whole kink community is turning out?”

  “That’s what I hear. Is that going to be okay with Ellie Strong.”

  She tips her head back and laughs. “Yeah,” she finally says. “It’ll be okay.”

  “What will be okay?” We both turn as one.

  I should have seen Meadow arrive. I don’t know why I didn’t.

  Corinne sizes her up, and I made the safest introduction I can imagine. “Meadow, this is Corinne, an old friend who will be coming to the street party. Corinne, this is Meadow. We met when she rented the room upstairs, and she’s been a great support with planning the party.”

  As far as intros go, it’s not bad.

  But it’s not as safe as I expect, either. Meadow frowns. “I haven’t helped that much.”

  “Moral support,” I reassure her. “Speaking of which, how was your day? Want a drink?”

  She glances at Corinne. “No, I’m going to head to bed. Nice to meet you.”

  The cop barely has a chance to respond in kind before my tenant is gone in a tiny ball of blazing curls and obvious huff.

  “I, uh…” I shrug. “She’s a doctor. Sometimes her shifts are brutal. She’s lovely, though.”

  Corinne gives me an appraising look. “I have no doubt.”

  I swallow a defence of Meadow. For one thing, she doesn’t need it. And for another, she’s none of Corinne’s business. Instead I turn back to what is her business—the tightrope walk we’re about to embark on. “I’m going to do some work on this tonight. Look for an email from me with the relevant details tomorrow. And if you have any sway over Mrs. Strong’s costume—”

  “None.”

  “In that case, I’ll keep my thoughts to myself.”

  “For the best.” She pulls her gloves back on and grabs her helmet. “For what it’s worth, your Meadow wasn’t tired just there. She was jealous. And we both know there was no reason for it, so you could share your thoughts on that with her, if you were in the mood to talk about something.”

  I laugh, because she’s wrong.

  Corinne shrugs. “I’m telling you, a woman knows when she’s being sized up as competition.”

  “You’re not competition,” I insist, and damn if that doesn’t reveal more than I meant. “Go away. Please. I need to look after some things.”

  She smiles and takes her leave.

  I raise my voice and tell the guys at the back of the bar that it’s last call.

  “What the hell, man? It’s not even ten!” one of them hollers back.

  “Personal emergency.”

  They grumble, but they also bring their glasses to the bar on their way out. Good guys. “Next round is on me,” I promise, and they wave before following Corinne out the front door.

  I stalk in the same direction and lock up behind them.

  Duke and Main is closed for the night.

  After turning off the lights, I take a deep breath, try to unscramble my thoughts—unsuccessfully—and take the stairs up to Meadow’s apartment two at a time.

  She answers on the second knock. She’s changed into leggings and a t-shirt that’s too big for her. Her face is bare and her hair is piled up in a bun on top of her head.

  Something clenches hard inside my chest. Something that feels a hell of a lot like stupidity.

  She doesn’t say anything, so it’s on me to lead this.

  Fuck. I clear my throat and start with safe. “You got your package.”

  She’s polite in return. “I did. Right where you left it.”

  “Good.”

  “Good.” Then she sighs, because she’s braver than I am. “It’s late, Bas.”

  “It’s not. I’ll tell you how I know it’s not late. I just had to kick two guys out who wanted to stay and drink for a few more hours, but honestly, I don’t give a fuck about that.”

  “You closed the bar?”

  “I wanted to talk to you.” I wait a beat, searching her face. “Unless it really is late, and you have to get up in four hours, and then I’ll go and open up again.”

  She swings the door wide open. “Come on in.”

  7

  Meadow

  It’s been a while since Bas has been up here. He showed me the place when I rented it, gave me the keys when I moved in, and he came up twice to fix things in sexy landlord style.

  He’s never come up to talk.

  I always go to him. Follow him around like a lovesick puppy—which he ignores like a boss. So, I don’t know, I guess I got complacent.

  Obviously, my little flounce out of the bar was noticed. I probably offended his new friend.

  The one he was touching.

  Gah, I’m a sucker. A sucker who has been paying for two homes for six months, although the AirBnB gues
ts enjoying my condo downtown more than cover the mortgage.

  But still. I moved out to the sticks for a pair of big hands and a gorgeous smile, and tonight I saw those hands on someone else—totally his right, because I’m nothing to him—and now he’s going to lecture me about boundaries or something.

  Let’s get it over with.

  And maybe I’ll move out, because who needs a thirty-minute commute anyway?

  “What’s up?” I ask as he follows me into my empty living room.

  I may be the sucker who’ll pay for two homes. I won’t buy extra furniture. Now I’ve got two apartments with half the usual amount of stuff in each.

  Good thing I like a spartan aesthetic.

  “I think we’ve got something we need to discuss. Between us.”

  “Sure,” I say breezily. I’m not looking at him. Something I’ve learned through medical school and residency is take feedback with a certain detachment. It’s just data. Just information. Not personal.

  Even when it’s painfully personal.

  “Do you want coffee? Tea?” I lead him into the kitchen and reach for the kettle. I don’t even have a coffee maker here, but I can do a pour over if I need to. Hell, it’s still early enough that the coffee shop across the street might be open. “We could go over to—”

  “I want to clear the air.” His voice is low and rough, like he’s not fucking around.

  I turn to look at him, almost against my will. But I can’t not look at him a second longer.

  He fills the doorway.

  Great, I’ve trapped myself in the kitchen with someone three times my size, not that Bas is scary. No, he’s not frightening. But the look on his face is terrifying in a different way.

  In a real, emotional way.

  Like he knows he’s going to break my heart. So maybe he has been paying attention all this time.

  God. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to hear whatever it is, except I invited him in. “About what?” I manage to squeak.