“Do I?”
“Almost. It’s very charming. I like your contacts too.”
“My contacts?”
He pointed. “Yes, the blue contacts. For your eyes.” He leaned closer at her expression of confusion. “Or are those your real eyes?”
She gave a nervous laugh. “What else would they be?”
“Some people wear contacts to change their eye color. I thought... Well, I hadn’t seen anyone else here with eyes that color.”
She lowered her lids, the way she always did when people noticed her eyes. Sometimes people teased her about them, a mean kind of teasing that said you don’t really belong here. But she’d been born in Mongolia, to Mongolian parents. People whispered that she wasn’t her father’s daughter, that her blue eyes had come from someone else. She’d have to find out about these contacts, so she could make her eyes gold, or brown.
She looked back up at him and shrugged. “My mother used to say they were blue because I was born outside, and I looked up at the sky, and so my eyes stayed blue. In Ulaanbaatar, it’s dirty and polluted, but in the north and the west, the blue sky stretches as far as you can see. Do you know they call Mongolia ‘the land of eternal blue sky’?”
“No, I didn’t know, but now I do.” He squeezed her hands, then inspected her cuffless wrists. “I want to give you some money.”
“No. Absolutely no. This wasn’t a transaction.”
“Of course it wasn’t. Sara, I don’t want to cheapen what we just experienced. Because we just experienced something. Something you’re going to remember every bit as vividly as me.”
Exactly. That’s why I have to get out of here. She didn’t know if it was the kindness in his voice, or the wistfulness, or the beauty of his words, or his insistence on intimacy even as she shied away from it. Whatever it was, it brought tears to her eyes.
“Please,” she said. “I have to go.”
He hugged her again, tightening his knees around her so she felt enveloped by him. By the time he drew away, she’d mastered herself.
“If you want to give me money,” she said, “I would appreciate cab fare, so I don’t have to walk home alone.”
“I’ll take you home.”
“No. Please. I’m sorry. I’m thankful for tonight, but—”
“Let me help you.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Your job—”
“I’ll find another job. I have another job. The club was for extra money. So…I’ll be okay. I don’t want you to worry about me.”
“But you won’t take my money.”
“I don’t need it.” I don’t need you. She was trying to convince herself. And failing.
He stared at her a long time, though his expression was cloaked. She preferred that. She didn’t want to know his thoughts. It would be hard enough to let him go without knowing the real man, the sober, concerned, slightly heartbroken man looking at her right now.
“You’ll be my best memory of Mongolia,” he said at last. “My eternal girl with the eternal eyes.” It was his goodbye, a very poetic one. He released her and she went into the bathroom, cleaned up as best she could, and dressed to go.
Jason walked with her down to the lobby of the hotel and out into the smog and noise of nighttime Ulaanbaatar. He stood out among her fellow Mongolians, with his unusual height and his tousled, brown-golden hair. Even the way he hailed a cab was gorgeous…the raise of his hand, the intent expression on his face. He held the door as she climbed in, giving her money for the driver. “You better bargain the fare,” he said. “He’ll cheat me.”
I’m sorry, she wanted to cry. I’m sorry this is a dirty, corrupt city that takes advantage of foreigners. I’m sorry I’m leaving you alone. I’m sorry I have to protect myself from you.
“Thank you,” she said instead. “For making it so real.”
“You’re welcome. Please take care of yourself. My last orders,” he said, waving a finger at her. Then her beautiful Master kissed her on the forehead, closed the cab door, and stood watching from the road side as she disappeared from his life.
It was only later, when she went to pay the driver, that she realized Jason had pressed an entire month’s salary worth of money into her hand.
Chapter Three: Sara
Jason moved carefully through the second-world circus tent, stepping over rough benches and dodging unrecognizable puddles of matter on the floor. His Mongolian translator pulled her scarf more tightly around her neck and gave him an encouraging smile. He had no idea of her age. She might have been thirty or sixty, with her smooth, broad cheekbones and wide-set, smoky-rimmed eyes.
She was pretty, but nowhere near as pretty as Sara.
She’d been gone one day. Not even one whole day, but he still felt her loss like a hole inside him. He wished he’d never gone to the BDSM Fun Club. If only he’d stayed at the hotel and worked. If he hadn’t traipsed off to that damn club like some sex tourist, he wouldn’t have met her and he wouldn’t have gotten her fired. And you wouldn’t have had a night with her either. You wouldn’t have known her submission, or enjoyed that longing in her gaze. The way she’d touched him, the way she’d responded to him…
Now he was suffering. Sex hangover. He’d spent all morning and a good part of the afternoon fondling her cuffs and masturbating to the scent of her on the cane. No matter how many he rubbed out, he couldn’t stop craving her. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Had she gotten home safely the night before? Would she find another job? A better one this time? He’d given her all the money he could while she was too upset and distracted to notice. Did she have regrets this morning? Was she missing him too?
Jason was supposed to be focused on work, focused on this act Lemaitre was so interested in. Before his promotion Jason had been an acrobatics coach, but now he scouted all kinds of acts in search of undiscovered talent. That was why he was here, not to get torn up over a cocktail waitress he’d met at a kink bar. She’d told him straight out, one night. Now he had to get over her. Jason hoped this trapeze act was good enough to warrant all the drama of this journey.
He and the translator finally settled on a bench halfway up the stands. She left an appropriate amount of space between them, causing Jason to suffer repeated bumps from the brawny man on his other side. He sucked air through his mouth rather than his nose. These folks obviously weren’t into showers. With the cool temperatures outside, Jason wasn’t sure he blamed them. Even in spring, Mongolia was chilly, sometimes snowy. The stands were soon full to bursting with an exuberant Saturday night crowd.
The show started late, without any intro or fanfare. Jason knew within minutes that he’d been sent on a wild goose chase. It might be Mongolia’s largest circus, but it had no production values, no polish. It was only a series of acts performed by people who looked every bit as rough as those in the seats. Juggling, a little tightrope, but not very high off the ground. There were muscle men lifting things like oil drums and tires, and a smiling trio of contortionists who balanced bowls on their heads. These acts were interspersed with comedic bits that his translator tittered at but didn’t bother to translate.
This ragtag revue brought to mind circuses of the past, before innovators like Michel Lemaitre arrived with glossy lights and special effects and a million-dollar infrastructure whose sole purpose was to create theatrical art. He looked around at the smiling, clapping spectators. What would they think of a Cirque du Monde show? They were so appreciative of this low-level nonsense. A show like Cirque Brillante or Cirque Vivide would probably cause a riot.
The entire program lasted a little over an hour. The crowd grew restless, and Jason worried that the trapeze act he’d been sent to scout wasn’t even going to perform. Then a great cheer went up, pounding and yelling. The children rose to their feet and bounced up and down as a beat-up trapeze dropped almost to the ground, then was ratcheted skyward in uneven tugs. Jason looked up and saw men winching the ropes to the rigging. It didn’t look safe, not by Cirque
du Monde standards. Not by any standards.
Jason took a deep breath as the trapezists, a man and a woman, took the stage. The man was compactly built, typically Mongolian, with a broad, attractive face. His partner stood with her back to the audience, her dark hair styled in a tight ponytail. She had a gymnast’s body, lithe and muscular, beautifully proportioned. Her red leotard was plain in design, but it brightened up the dreary circus tent.
“These performers are well known, very popular,” the translator said over the din of the crowd. “The woman’s parents also did trapeze, but they died in an accident.”
He grimaced, watching them raise and lower the off-kilter bar. “A trapeze accident?”
“A car accident.”
Jason glanced down at the note in his hand. The performer’s names were miles long, indecipherable. At last the apparatus was ready to go, and the man leaped up and caught a rope affixed to the bar. He used it to haul himself up, and then hung by his knees, extending his arms for his partner. The woman climbed the rope next and he grabbed her by her arms. A warbling soundtrack whirred to life over static-y loudspeakers. At the resounding approval of the audience, the woman looked over her shoulder and smiled.
Jason froze. He knew that smile. He realized now that he knew that body too, that perfect, proportionate body. He looked back down at the note. The man was Baatarsaikhan, the woman, Sarantsatsral.
I suppose you could call me...Sara.
Just like that, his heart was in his throat. He looked up into the rigging, hoping the trapeze was truly secure. There was no cushion or safety net underneath, no space-age crash mat like they used at the Cirque. He’d been worried before, but now it was his Sara performing. His Sara?
One night, he reminded himself. You spent one night with her. She’s not yours.
Even so, he didn’t want to watch her plummet to her death. He hunched over, biting his nails as the act unfolded. The duo was fast and reckless, doing releases that made his mouth drop open. She did somersaults, flips, and even handstands on the narrow bar. Then she did them on her partner’s shoulders while the bar shimmied under them, and he wanted to scream at her, stop that. Get down! It’s not safe. It wasn’t even really a trapeze act. It was aerial acrobatics, with a little suicidal crazysauce mixed in.
So many goddamn releases, so many skills in the air... Sara, what are you doing to me? But her partner always caught her, always propelled her into the next move. His strength was amazing, her acrobatics were amazing, but the timing was the awe-inspiring thing. So many opportunities to drop her, but the man caught her every time in smooth, perfect coordination. The translator clasped her hands to her chest and took sharp breaths at each risky stunt. She was enjoying this. Jason was on the verge of a meltdown.
Then the man let go of one of her hands. The audience cried out and Jason tensed, but it became apparent it was part of the act, as Sara rolled into a ball and twisted around in a circle, supported only by one hand. The man’s fingers were miraculous, and she moved like water, fluid and sinuous. A flex of arms and legs and she was airborne again, then caught and swung, each muscle in perfect alignment.
The act concluded with a lightning-fast barrage of risky catch-and-release maneuvers, shock and awe as the music rose to a fever pitch. If Jason had her back in his hotel room, he would have caned her to shreds for what she put him through, but she didn’t make one mistake. Finally, Sara shimmied back down the rope and her partner followed, and they took a bow for the cheering audience. The translator turned to Jason, her eyes alight in wonder, and she didn’t even understand the important things, like how strong the man was, whatever his name was, or the precision of Sara’s performance. They had so much potential, so much to offer Cirque du Monde.
He couldn’t wait to get her there. She’d have no more worries about a second job, or about money. What would Sara think of the sprawling Paris headquarters, with its luxurious practice studios and cutting-edge training equipment? What would she think of the costumes, the makeup, the flashy sets? He had to get both of them there right away, her and her partner. They didn’t belong in this marginal circus, in their plain red leotards, climbing a rope to their trapeze in a rickety tent.
But after last night, how could Jason approach her, professionally, as a talent scout?
After ten solid minutes of applause the program ended and the audience filed out, chattering happily. Jason looked over at his translator. “I need to talk to them. Can you introduce me?”
They made their way behind the curtain, to the dank, windowless staging area. Jason clutched his notes, his Cirque papers that gave him an official, legitimate reason to be here, even though he’d caned and fucked the shit out of Sara last night. Never doing the local-pleasures thing again, no, because Sara with the eternal blue eyes was part of the goddamn act he’d come here to recruit.
The translator led him to the man first. Baat-something-or-other. She pitched into a lengthy introduction, and was midway through it when Sara turned from her gym bag and saw him. Her eyes went wide and immediately flew to her partner. She gave the barest shake of her head. Jason understood the message. Pretend we’ve never met.
It was difficult but he managed as best he could. The translator was still prattling on in Mongolian to the man, gesturing, her voice rising and falling. Jason didn’t have the first idea what the woman said about him. “Cirque du Monde,” he heard in the midst of it. “Paris.”
“Tell them the offer is immediate,” he said, cutting in. “They could come right away, train at headquarters, and be placed in a show after the Exhibition in a couple months.”
The translator only spoke to the man, and he didn’t seem impressed with what he was hearing. Sara stood behind him, off to the side. She looked shell-shocked. Traumatized. Jason stared at her, trying to express without words that everything would be okay. He assumed from her behavior that this partner must be her lover, maybe even her husband. He wouldn’t judge and he wouldn’t get her in any more trouble than he already had. He wished he could touch her again, though, fuck her, give her pain, give her joy. They’d had such a wonderful scene together, such a connection. At least now he understood why she’d been so insistent about leaving. One time. One night.
The translator prodded him. He’d been so lost in memories that he’d missed her comment. Sara’s partner glowered at him.
“They do not wish to come to Paris,” the translator repeated in her clipped voice. “They prefer to perform here.”
What? They didn’t wish to come to Paris? The man hadn’t even asked Sara, and anyway, no wasn’t an option. They had to come. “Did you explain about the state-of-the-art facilities?” he asked. “About the excellent benefits and salaries? About the beautiful theaters?” He cast a pointed look around the sagging tent.
With a terse smile, the translator addressed the man again. He shook his head and went off on a long spiel that didn’t need translating. He wasn’t feeling the whole Cirque du Monde thing.
Jason met Sara’s eyes. He couldn’t understand why she wouldn’t speak up. Was she afraid of her partner? Or afraid that Jason would expose what they’d done together?
With one last scowl at Jason, the man took Sara’s arm and led her away into the night. Halfway across the dirty, graveled lot, she tried to turn around, but he nudged her forward with a sharp word. Jason almost lost his shit. If they were in Paris he would have said something, or done something, but this rough-edged town probably wasn’t the place to start an international incident.
He wanted to, though. He wanted to beat Baat-de-baklava or whatever into the ground and kidnap Sara and put her on a plane. He wanted to rescue her from her lug of a partner and take her to the Cirque, and make her the star she was born to be. They could find her a new act, a new partner. Michel Lemaitre would take care of everything.
Jason wanted to do that, but he could only stand, powerless, as Sara and the other man walked away.
Back at his hotel room, Jason paced and fumed, and sulked over
the previously-arousing leather cuffs. Stupid. He was so stupid. Of course a gorgeous woman like Sara would already be in a relationship. He didn’t know why it bothered him so much, that she could be so open and submissive to him when she was already with someone else.
Well, he knew why it bothered him. Because he was strung too tight. Because he liked the people in his life to be well-behaved and perfect. He wanted Sara to be well-behaved and perfect because some part of him still thought she was his slave.
But she wasn’t his slave—she never had been—and he didn’t even know if he could get her to Paris now. What a clusterfuck. It was nearly eleven, with a long, cold Mongolian night staring him in the face. He spent a half hour trying to get onto the hotel Wi-Fi so he could bring Michel Lemaitre up to date.
Michel,
The trapeze act was spectacular. Unfortunately, they didn’t want to come. Or rather, he didn’t want to come. I’m still hoping to speak to the woman again, because I think she might be convinced. She’s talented, real Cirque material.
Also, I may have accidentally done a BDSM scene with her and fucked her to pieces. Do you think this will be a problem?
He deleted the last part and sent it, and then collapsed on the bed. At some point, he drifted off, because he woke to a tapping on the door.
He flew to unlock it, his fingers fumbling with the unfamiliar deadbolt. Please be Sara. “Hold on a second,” he said. “Don’t go.”
He glanced at the clock. It was almost two in the morning. He opened the door and there she was, his beautiful slave girl. His trapezist with the eternal eyes, now red from crying. He almost kissed her, almost pulled her into a crushing hug, but then he remembered he had to work with her now. Professionally.
“Thank God you’re here,” he said instead, drawing her inside. “Thank God you came.” Then, “Does he know you’re here?”
Her face crumpled and she covered her eyes. “No. And I don’t know if I should be here.”
Bound in Blue Page 4
