*
Three hours later, I collapse at my desk. At least when I check my personal cell, there’s a text from Rey:
Call me.
This is promising. I take a well-deserved minute to do just that, resting my feet on my desk.
“Aloha, kitten.”
“Hawaii?”
“If you don’t mind the flight.”
“I don’t.”
“Good. I’ll have Matthew make the arrangements.”
“You’re the best. Give Matty a kiss for me.”
“Will do. We’ll talk later.”
I press the end call button on my phone and tuck it back into my purse. That’s one thing I don’t have to worry about anymore. Seventy-two hours of debauchery and my clock will be reset. I’ll be good to go for another month or so. I take a deep breath and close my eyes before I press the intercom button.
“Lucy.”
“More coffee, Ms. Burke?”
“Please.”
It’s going to be a long day.
*
Twelve hours later, I’m on my way home and Jack’s got a draft of the report on his desk. He’ll hate it, but it’s better to give him a product that needs a lot of work than to give him nothing at all. He’s not difficult to manage once you understand him, but I think most of my predecessors—my many, many predecessors—were scared off before they had the chance.
Not me. I’ve got my sights set on running the place one day. Of course, I’ll have to change the name. Jack Valentine Associates has a nice ring to it, but I think Burke Consulting Group sounds better. I’ll get rid of the heavy wood and leather bank décor and go more airy and modern. But I’ve got a few years to plan my interior decorating. Jack’s still got two kids in college from his second marriage. Or are they from his third? I can never keep track, although I know he’s on wife number four. Candi—with an i that I bet the vacuous woman dots with a fucking heart. Thinking about her bottle-blonde head and unsubtle boob job make me cringe. There you have reasons number seventy-eight and seventy-nine why I’ll never get married: becoming that or being left for that.
At any rate, I think I’ve got, at most, seven years before I’m in Jack’s corner office. Which is reason number three: it’s hard to sit behind that luxuriously big desk if you’ve got a husband and kids on the other end of your phone. I know people do it and do it well, but it can’t be easy and it’s not worth the bother to me. I didn’t bust my ass at Princeton and Columbia to change diapers, oh no.
I spend the rest of my drive mentally redecorating Jack’s office and selecting the color scheme for my business cards. By the time I’ve parked my car in the garage, stumbled into and out of the elevator, and made it down the endless hallway to my apartment, it’s eleven thirty, and I debate whether or not to call Rey. After a minute of half-hearted agonizing while I kick off my shoes and hang my bag by the door, I dial. If he’s busy, he’ll let it go to voicemail, but it’s rare he doesn’t take my calls. Sometimes if he’s in the middle of a training, but often even then.
“Kitten, I’m glad you called. I’ve been waiting on you.”
“I hope not. I should’ve texted to say I’d be late. I’m sorry.”
“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I’ve been looking forward to talking, that’s all. I think you’re going to be very pleased.”
“Hawaii’s a good start. What else have you got for me?”
“Y’ever play with a Cris Ardmore?”
I pause for a second. “No. Would I know him by any other name?”
“Nope.” I hear his smirk all the way from the Castro, and I know why. He knows it annoys me when people play with ridiculous fake names (e.g., Strider the Hobbit), which is pretty hypocritical but can’t be helped. I have huge respect for anyone who plays with their real names. “He goes by Cris. No h.”
My nose wrinkles.
“No h, huh?” The respect-o-meter has gone down. That’s almost as bad as Candi with an i. Why no h? I shouldn’t be too harsh. His parents could be dingbats, and I shouldn’t fault the guy for that. God knows I’d get scrapped from just about anything if having sane parents were a requirement.
“Give the guy a break, India.”
“You know me too well. Tell me more about this Cris Ardmore.”
“He’s on the big island, been active in the scene for a long time there and on the West Coast. I asked around—no one’s got a bad thing to say about the guy. Safe player, knows the rules, keeps his subs happy.”
“Why haven’t I run into him before?”
Rey pauses, and I wonder if his hesitation is from reluctance or because he’s so damned delighted with himself he wants to make a royal pronouncement.
“He’s monogamous with his subs, and he just ended a five-year contract.”
Holy. Shit.
“I get to be the rebound fuck?” I squeal with delight.
“Yes, you do.”
“You’re the best! How did you pull this off?”
“I know a guy.”
“You know all the guys.” I hold my phone to my ear with my shoulder as I pour the last of a bottle of Malbec into a glass. “But seriously, you’re amazing. What do you want? I’ll do anything.”
He laughs. “Why don’t you wait until you get back to sell your soul to the devil?”
“You’re hardly the devil. I’m about to sing you the fucking Hallelujah chorus.”
“And you’d sound like an angel, but we don’t have time. Matthew is putting together a dossier for you. In the meantime, anything specific you want to know about the illustrious Mr. Ardmore?”
“How old is he?”
“Thirty-nine.”
Well within my range.
“Do I get a picture?”
“You do.”
“Is his contract weird?”
“I don’t have it yet. He has to write one.”
That’s not unusual. Most of the guys Rey finds for me don’t keep contracts like this on hand.
“Was he surprised to get your call?”
“They always are.”
I snort. I know.
“You’re the best thing that ever happened to me, Reyes Llewellyn Walter. I could kiss you on the mouth.”
“Monday night. We’ll see if you still want to kiss me or if we’ve moved on to the punching phase. For now, go change into that sexy lingerie I know you wear when I’m not there and get some beauty sleep. Don’t want to be all puffy for—”
“Cris Ardmore,” I breathe, my mouth caressing his name. The more I say it, the more I like it. I don’t even notice the missing h much anymore. Yes, Mr. Cris Ardmore sounds promising.
*
A good thing, too, because the rest of my week is a fucking misery. The report gets done well and on time, but not for the lack of everyone and their mother trying to fuck me over. Tuesday went a lot like this:
“Janis, I don’t care who you have to screw to get those numbers. Hell, I don’t care who I have to screw to get those numbers, but I need them by close of business, or we’ll all be fucked and not in a nice way.
“Look, this is my job on the line, but it’s your life. If this doesn’t work out, they know it’s not our fault and you’re going to flat-out lose the units. They’re going to take your funding away, Janis. Every penny. Is that how you want to go down in history?
“Every single motherfucking last housing authority is watching you and I would suggest not making any more of a hash out of this than you already have. Get me the goddamn vacancy numbers by the end of the day, or I’ll make the call to Cooper myself.”
I slam the receiver down and am surprised by a slow clap coming from my door.
“Well done, Ms. Burke. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“You know I do, Jack. I just like to save it for special occasions, not wank off every day like you.”
Thankfully, he laughs like I thought he would. I’ve caught him in a good mood. His hair’s only slightly disheveled, and his tie’s still on.
/>
“What’s up?” I ask, not bothering to take my feet off my desk.
Jack launches into concerns about some of the other projects we’re working on. I take notes on things I need to take care of and issue assurances on what I’ve already dealt with. It’s not the longest laundry list he’s ever had for me, and everything should be taken care of by the time I leave.
He says on his way out, “You sure are earning that three-day weekend you talked me into.”
“I always do.”
“Yes, you do.”
Though I technically only get two weeks of vacation per year, I’ve talked Jack into giving me three for all intents and purposes. He doesn’t seem to care as long as it doesn’t interfere with my projects. Not to mention he can see the difference when I get back. I’m more focused, more patient, work longer hours, and don’t flinch no matter how harsh he is. All in all, well worth it for him.
I check my personal cell when he’s gone, and there’s another text from Rey:
LMK when you’re home. I’ve got a messenger in a holding pattern.
Fun. This must be the dossier on Cris Ardmore. That will make for some interesting reading while I lounge in the tub with a glass of Pinot tonight. But first…
“Lucy!”
“Coffee?”
“Please.”
This budget for the City of La Jolla is a certified disaster, and it needs to be dealt with before I can go home. I don’t bother to start looking at the spreadsheets until Lucy delivers what may as well be manna from heaven. She might be incapable of anticipating my needs, but the woman makes a damn good cup of coffee. I take a sip and dive in, emerging seven hours later with my rank gym bag and my ubiquitous roller bag stuffed with my laptop, notes for tomorrow, and a draft of the LAHA report Jack will scream at me for the second he gets me on the phone.
I text Rey as soon as I get home, and ten minutes later, there’s a hipster with gauged ears and too many tats at my door. I guess Rey really did have him in a holding pattern. I give him a bottle of water and a nice tip before I send him on his way, and then slip into my waiting tub and get some more info on Mr. Ardmore.
Name: Ardmore, Crispin Michael
Aliases: Crispin Ardmore, Cris Ardmore, ____________
DoB: 10/25/____
Sex: M
SSN: ____________
License #: ____________
Marital Status: Single
Address: ____________
Occupation: ____________
Employer: ____________
Education, High School: ____________
Education, Undergraduate: ____________
Education, Graduate: ____________
Education, Professional: None
Criminal Record: None
Bank Accounts: ____________
____________
____________
____________
____________
Credit Scores: ____________
Current Partner(s): None
Past Partner(s): ____________
____________
____________
____________
____________
____________
HIV Status: Negative
STI Status: Negative
A lot of it is redacted. Despite requiring the information, I don’t want to see it. I do like proof that it’s been collected, and I want Rey to have it as an insurance policy in case anything goes awry—or, really, to ensure nothing goes aslant in the first place. I rarely get refused, despite the invasive nature of the prerequisites I insist on, but maybe it’s too strange an opportunity to pass up.
Imagine: You get a call out of the blue from a well-respected trainer you’ve almost certainly heard of, and if you haven’t, someone you know has. He offers you a weekend of no-strings-attached play with a trained submissive provided you pass the screening process. She’ll come to you, and should you choose to spend the weekend with her somewhere other than your home, all expenses will be taken care of. If it sounds pretty alluring, it’s meant to.
I’ve never bothered to ask the men who say yes why they agree, and by definition, I don’t have the opportunity to ask the ones who say no. There’s no contact with refusals, and they don’t get a second chance.
Everything here is in order, as I expected. Rey doesn’t waste my time. And there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for the lack of h in Cris. Crispin. I like it. A lot. Not Christopher, not Christian—Crispin. I wonder giddily if he can recite the St. Crispin’s Day speech from Henry V. I’d best get this out of my system before embarrassing myself by asking when we meet.
I’m also pleased by the undergraduate and graduate degrees. Not that I haven’t played with some very fine men with a high school diploma or less—and a PhD by no means guarantees a guy knows his way around a woman’s body—but Rey knows I’m slutty for postgraduate degrees. He must’ve been clapping his hands like a little girl at recess when he put this together. Or really, when he read it over after Matty put it together. I tease myself by flipping through a few more mostly-blacked-out pages consisting of some references Mr. Ardmore provided, along with a couple Rey sought out before he even talked to the guy.
I hold my breath before flipping to the last page where his picture awaits. When I get photos—and I don’t always since I don’t require it—they’re usually full-body shots—although, mercifully, clothed. Believe it or not, Rey has to specify this. Dude, we’ll get there. If it’s not a head-to-toe, it’s what looks like a professional headshot. But this… It’s a candid of a man. Laughing.
What? Usually they do their best to look intimidating, intense. You know, dominating. But not this guy. You can’t even see his whole face because he’s turned to the side, and he’s laughing. The corner of my mouth tugs up involuntarily.
What’s your game, Cris Ardmore?
He’s got a mop of curly dark hair, what some might call bushy eyebrows but I don’t mind, and a layer of what I’m hoping is perma-stubble. His teeth are white, straight and sharp against his tanned skin, and he’s got what I think are light blue eyes. Or maybe grey. The picture isn’t taken from close enough to say for sure.
I don’t know if he’d be considered conventionally attractive—there’s something off there—but I won’t kick him out of bed. If I have the chance. Sleeping arrangements can be sticky with what I do. I won’t fret about that now.
I grab my phone from where it’s resting next to my empty wine glass and text Rey, despite it being almost one in the morning:
Me likey.
My phone pings a minute later:
Thought you would. Now go the fuck to sleep.
I laugh, text back a kiss, and do as I’m told. I have an early morning tomorrow and don’t even have Adam’s puppy-dog face to look forward to.
Despite being wrecked and having had one—okay, three—glasses of wine, I have trouble falling asleep. I find myself wondering if I’ll get to see Cris Ardmore laugh. I think I’d like to.
Click here to purchase Personal Geography and continue reading Cris and India’s story.
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Craving Flight: © 2015 by Tamsen Parker
Cover Design by Amber Shah of Book Beautiful (www.bookbeautiful.com)
ISBN 13: 978-1-942427-03-2
EPUB Edition
All rights reserved. Where such permission is sufficient, the author grants the right to strip any DRM which may be applied to this work.
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Craving Flight Page 13
