Her default fix popped into her mind but she pushed it away. There had been therapy for this, when she was younger. After her parents died. Unbidden, the thought came back again. The knife in her bag was sharp. It would only take a couple of minutes. She could go somewhere quiet.
Shut up. She’d promised Sabrina they could still be friends no matter what. And Jude? Neither of them deserved the guilt she’d leave them with. This is what they’d agreed on. She could do this. Splashing water on her face helped a little, but she still looked red and blotchy. She’d tell them she’d had an allergic reaction and sneezed a lot. A little sob escaped her, and she bit the next one down. Her stomach knotted and she felt nauseous. Breathing slowly, she calmed.
She started to reframe. What had she learned from this? When she walked out of the restroom, the girl who cared too much would stay behind. The old Q would be back. Trying to be loving had been a mistake. First Nico, now this. Getting attached to people was for idiots – no more making a fool of herself. Her inner cyborg shut off the part of her that craved love. Violence, and how it made her feel, would have to be enough. She left the room awhile later, the last of her tender feelings ground beneath the soles of her boots.
Chapter 17
Jude
One of his lecturers had mentioned his father’s favorite saying today and it had hit home. The old medical saying that was supposed to help with diagnosis: If you hear hoofbeats, expect horses not zebras. He hadn’t been to see his dad yet.
Study and hospital rounds absorbed his time. Shit. Jude slammed shut the laptop and beat a short drum solo on the lid with his hands. The words in his head pattered in time with the beat.
An-atomy, an-atomy, path-ology and zebras. Fuck-ing zebras.
He slumped back in the chair and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. Fact was, he hadn’t done much at all for two months except try to settle into studies, and he was still a fish out of water…or was that a zebra?
And he still missed the girls – missed them so much his gut ached. Just yesterday, he’d come across a photo of the three of them Sabrina had emailed to him a month ago.
Every night he shut his eyes and went to sleep remembering the feel of their hair in his hands. The feel of their bodies too, but mostly he pictured their hair gliding across his fingers. Sabrina’s tousled blonde. Q’s dead-of-night black. His beach bunny and his goth. The sexiest chicks ever and he was obsessed with their hair…and the way they talked. And what they’d said. How good they’d made him feel just by being there. Sometimes he wafted into dreamland thinking of them both lying with their heads on his chest, snuggling.
Snuggling for chrissakes. He was destined to study medicine, to be a doctor, not to be a playboy Dom with girlfriends left and right.
Fuck. He set both elbows on the desk and leaned his forehead on his palms. Fuck fantasies. Fuck swearing when there was no reason. Fuck everything.
He sat up and shoved back the chair then went in search of his jacket and a pair of pants suitable for visiting his father. Far as he knew, all that was clean was a blue T-shirt and a pair of faded brown pants. Maybe he should start just buying black, like Q. At the sudden ache, he froze, halfway to the closet, and put his hand to his chest. Heart attacks didn’t happen to men this young, did they? Not commonly. Think horses, not zebras. He squeezed his eyes shut.
Fuck horses too.
As soon as he pulled into the parking lot at the nursing home, he felt queasy. He hated visiting this place. In fact, he hated all places with the sick. The accumulation of illness and sadness overwhelmed him every time. Blood, he could handle. Puke, wet diapers, kids vomiting on him…all those were okay. Just not this. Not places where death poked its scythe in way too often.
He stared at his hands on the steering wheel. Some doctor he’d be. The smell of fresh-cut timber excited him, and the firm feel of a hammer in his hand. Making things. Building. That was him. Sick people made him sick.
The nurses smiled as he went past. The entertainment room was packed with elderly men and women in wheelchairs watching TV, playing cards and gossiping. IV drip stands stood like strange metal trees. His march down the corridor was as lonely as that of a soldier coming home from war without his buddies. His soles squeaked on the floor. He took the right turn to the door, and pushed it open.
The room itself was clean and smelled fresh. A vase of beautiful roses sat on the table – his mother must have been here recently. She still came most weeks. The view out the opened French door was stunning – trees, an expanse of green lawn, flower beds overflowing with bright blossoms. A few birds flitted past, chirping.
He took a breath and went to the bed. He stood a while, flexing and clenching his fists. Looking at the man in the bed made him feel so empty. This wasn’t his dad, not anymore. Not since six years ago, soon after he’d started pre-med.
He looked around and found a chair then pulled it up next to the bed. The noise at last attracted the attention of the skeletal figure in the bed. Drool hung from his chin and his eyes were rheumy and sightless. Though the nurses must clean his face each morning crusts had already collected on his eyelids and lips.
His father. His world, until that day. The stroke had taken his father’s mind if not his body. The family, him included, had waited in turns for weeks, praying at first that he’d survive, then praying the brain damage might not be as bad as the tests indicated. All for nothing.
No matter the positive spin people tried to put on this, he’d never been able to see the point in life if you didn’t even know it was passing you by. This was the man who used to carry him on his shoulders, and who gave him bear hugs when he needed comfort. If he’d so much as nicked his finger, his mother had sent him to Dad. As if she couldn’t put on a Band-aid.
Jude smiled weakly. He saw through it now – her plan had been to let his father be involved in his son’s world. As a surgeon his days had been filled with work. The good memories still crowded in though – waking at night to a gentle kiss on his forehead and a smile, sitting on the floor with him laughing as his armies of toy soldiers got flattened by their basset hounds galloping through, buying popsicles at the beach.
But the brilliant surgeon had become a husk.
The ache in his stomach intensified but he reached over and took his father’s thin hand. What to say? He always went through the news when he visited…no matter how gruesome or strange or how bland. His years in Europe had meant telling some hair-raising tales of traffic on the autobahns as well as sexy stories of the European girlfriend who’d dumped him for a German accountant, of all things.
When he’d begun this story-telling routine it had been in the hope that somewhere inside, his father understood. He knew better now but the habit remained. He took a breath and began to speak.
The start of his story went fast – the early days of summer at the beach and how his friend, Fredrick, had given him the mansion to renovate. When he reached the time when he’d found Sabrina and Q in the yard that night, hunting ghosts, his throat tightened. But he went on, describing Sabrina’s antics and smart-ass replies, and Q’s quiet, no-nonsense, yet amused, way of handling her. He stopped talking. Was feeling like throwing up when you thought of a girl, or girls, a good or a bad sign? He shifted on the chair.
Diagnostically he was doing a shit job. This was not the result of a stomach ulcer. When you hear hoofbeats, think horses. He’d been avoiding his true emotions all along. But what could he do? He was trapped in limbo – in the land of not knowing which way to turn without disappointing himself, his father, his mother, and wrecking his life in general.
In the quiet, the flick of a book’s pages and crack of its spine carried from somewhere outside.
The wind gusted and a swirl of bright fabric curled across the door opening. The perfume was familiar. His mother? The toe of a red shoe, a woman’s shoe, made its appearance in the doorway. Yes, his mother. Ever the polite one who held you and listened to your grievances without criticizing – she was say
ing, hey, I’m here, without intruding too much.
He bent his head and held his father’s hand tighter. He couldn’t tell her, not face to face. Every time he’d gone home to say hello, or had met her for lunch, he’d stayed silent about the girls. This big bad Dom was a chicken.
He’d never shied away from telling his mother of past girlfriends, but he’d kept his kinkier activities to himself. This time though, the risk was there. Two girlfriends…two lovers, was not average, not acceptable in polite society. Maybe it wasn’t even normal but he wasn’t going to broadcast it to all and sundry. Somehow though, he needed to tell her. Would she be disgusted? He desperately hoped not. His mother was his bedrock – the one he’d relied on when the world went nuts.
He cleared his throat and went on.
The summer rolled past in his head, given life by his words, made all bright and shiny and wonderful. Though the reconstruction of the mansion played a part, it was the women who came to life as he spoke.
His voice strengthened as he told of the days on the beach, of Q’s nasty boyfriend sent packing, of the way the girls’ hair shone in the sunlight and their legs… No, not that. He stopped and began again with the time of the séance and how Sabrina had fooled him and Q, but then she’d laughed and they’d figured it out, and she’d made a run for it…
He stopped again. Damn. They’d had a lot of sex. Kinky sex. And a lot of crazy fun too. He’d just censor things. So he told of Sabrina painting him, but not of tying the girls up and beating Q until she nearly orgasmed from that alone, or of making rough love afterward. The ghost episode got a mention, but not the spanking. All in all, he found himself telling of how he’d slowly and inexorably fallen in love with Sabrina and Q.
By the end, his eyes were wet. He wiped them, squeezed his father’s hand and walked to the door. She was there, of course. In a pretty floral dress with her blonde hair in a chignon. Though her hair was streaked with grey, it was clear from which side of the family he’d gotten his hair and eye color.
He sat on the bench beside her and kissed her cheek. “Hi, Mom.” Then he waited. If she hadn’t heard him…hell, could he say all that again?
“Oh, Jude.” She brushed back a straying lock of hair from his forehead. “Why didn’t you tell me? You love them, don’t you?”
He dipped his head then looked her in the eye. “Yes. I do. But they both live in New Jersey.”
“And so?” She waited, fingering the book on her lap.
Though he searched there seemed no anger or criticism in her tone or expression. “You don’t mind?”
She sighed. “Well, it would have been nice if you’d found some girl next door to fall in love with, but you’ve never fit in any mold, Jude. You were always the one who stole the cookies before they were cool, or fell out of the tree and broke your arm. And playing cops and robbers, you were the one who forgot to untie the girls, but…I suppose that prepared me.”
“Um…” Trust mom to bring that up.
“So.” She patted his leg. “No, I don’t mind if you have an extra girlfriend. It’s unusual, but really dear, you’d have to be a serial killer to get me worried…or want to run for president. When are you going back to speak to them?” She raised her eyebrows.
“I may not have said this before, but Mom, you must be the most awesome mother ever.” It didn’t help him much though, not with his career to keep in mind. “Going back though, I don’t know. How can I? There are other difficulties and by now they may have forgotten me.”
“Hush! Never. No girl could ever forget my boy. And other difficulties? Jude, for the last two months, whenever I’ve met with you, I’ve seen your pain and I’ve been meaning to speak to you.” She sat up straighter, and took his hand. “Be honest with me, please. Do you wish to continue with this medical career?” When he opened his mouth to reply, she held up a finger. “Because, it’s clear that you hate it.”
“Uh. How the hell…how did you know?”
“I’m your mother. And don’t swear. It looks bad. Why then, are you continuing to torture yourself?”
What a question. But, freed of all expectations from her, he saw it. “Dad. He always wanted this.”
When she shook her head, shock hit him. “No. He did not. Do you think your father an ogre?”
An ogre? “No. Of course not.”
“Good. Then why would you think he would want you to study medicine when your heart lies elsewhere?”
That floored him. The world stood still while he unscrambled his thoughts. His only words seemed inadequate. “I don’t know.”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” she said brightly. “I will not have you this unhappy. Go say goodbye to your father, then I am taking you home, and we are going to talk and figure this out, even if it takes all night.”
If only it were that simple. No matter what she thought, the chances were that Sabrina and Q would toss him out on the street if he tried to ease his way back into a relationship.
“Stop frowning at me!” She slapped his thigh then rose to her feet. “Be positive. We will sort this out. Come.”
He stared after her. And maybe it wasn’t just hair color that he’d inherited. He stood. If freed from this medical career that had been dragging at his soul, he wasn’t giving up. If she or Q gave him the slightest chink of an opening, he’d use it. If there was one thing he was good at, it was persuading women.
Chapter 18
Q
The throbbing of the dungeon’s music seemed to control the swish of the flogger against her back. Stretched tight against the St. Andrew’s cross, Q wondered if this asshole was ever going to get on with things. Enough fucking warm up, already. It wasn’t the rye she’d downed before she left the house either. This idiot was just clueless. She tossed her head in annoyance, forgetting there was no longer a sweep of hair to work with. At least it didn’t get in the way. Neither did her tiny boy-shorts or the X’s of black tape over her nipples.
He came to check on her again. With a disdainful flick of her eyes, she met his dark gaze. The uncertainty she saw there completed the mood-kill.
“Are you okay? Was it too hard?”
Never send a boy to do a man’s job. She glared at him. “Sorry, I hadn’t realized you started yet.”
There was a chuckle from someone just out of her field of vision. “You’re new at this.” An unfamiliar man’s voice.
The young man smiled wanly and nodded. “My submissive likes sensual play, but not pain. I’m not even quite sure how to get a flick out of this thing. Q volunteered to be my guinea pig.”
She’d been playing at the club a lot lately. Tonight it was hard to decide if it was helping her forget or forcing her to remember.
“May I?” The flogger changed hands, and a man walked into her line of sight. Not much taller than her, he was stocky and well-muscled. He looked a little rough around the edges, but it might have just been in comparison to the kid. He raised his brows at her.
“You’re a pretty little thing. What’s your name?”
The look she gave him would have turned a lesser man to stone. “Like he said, it’s Q. Just the letter. And no, it doesn’t stand for anything.”
He didn’t even blink. “I’m Lee, in case you care. Do you want me to take over?”
“If you know one end of that thing from the other, it will be an improvement,” she growled, low enough that her words didn’t carry to the young man. He might be useless but even in her nastiest mood, she didn’t feel the need to knife innocents with insults.
Lee backed up a few paces and shook out the falls of the flogger. “How much can you take?”
“Whatever you can manage to deliver... Lee.” The sarcasm with which she delivered his name made it an insult.
He smiled pleasantly and proceeded to beat her.
***
The screams he drew from her won him Q’s grudging respect. They talked a bit and Lee told her he had a single-tail back at his place, and a selection of canes. Q wanted to
check them out and figured tonight was as good a night as any. When he took her down she tucked her cold, numb hands under her arms. The changing rooms first then she could have more pain.
“O-M-G! Q!” The riot of red curls and buxom figure made Ivy easy to pick out, even in the club’s gloom. “Honey, what did you do with your hair? New piercings too?”
She nodded to Ivy as she brushed past. Her friend followed. Even hammered, Q couldn’t bring herself to be rude. Ivy had helped her hold it together when Nico had disposed of her. At the time she hadn’t had anyone else in her life who would have understood it all. She turned, and concentrated on not slurring.
“Hey, Ivy. Yeah. Just the bridge of my nose, the bull ring and my tongue. I’m trying to decide what to do next. I’m looking to get a brand or some cutting done.”
Her friend smiled and squeezed her arm. The kindness set Q’s teeth on edge. “I love the blue hair. Where’d you get it done?”
“I did it myself.” She’d hacked it off with a knife about five minutes before she left the house, but that sounded crazy even to her drunk self so she didn’t add that bit. Was that enough? Was this little tete-a-tete done yet? Her body started to rock a little to the beat of the metal blasting from the sound system.
The aggressive feeling was coming back. She needed to get out of there. “I gotta go, Ivy. I’ve got a guy waiting.”
“Yeah, about that, Q...” She walked her to the change room and sat on a bench while Q found her clothes and struggled into them.
Tight leather pants were a bad idea when one was drunk. She hissed as she drew them up her thighs, feeling every welt individually.
“That Lee guy is new. You hadn’t met him before tonight, right?”
“You the morality police all of a sudden, Ivy? Don’t judge me. I have no intentions of fucking him yet. I just want to see what he can do.” Internally she was grumbling. This conversation and the entire situation was pissing her off and she was losing her endorphin buzz.
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