by JA Huss
And just as I’m about to lay my lips on her mouth and allow my hand to find its courage…
“Holy fucking shit!” That’s me. Or, actually, that’s me reacting to a galloping, mewing caterwaul that stampedes into the room and crashes into my legs.
“Betty! Dave! Stop that!” Myrtle shouts at the uninvited servals who chose this fucking moment to remind me that they live here.
Watching Myrtle chase two rambunctious servals around a candlelit big cat sanctuary while wearing nothing but stockings and unfastened garters is probably going to be the image that visits my memory on my deathbed. I can’t imagine it’ll be bested.
“Shoo! Shoo! Go on!” she says, waving them out of the room.
Once they’re good and gone, she turns to me, lowers her head, shakes it, and says, “We should have just gone down to the dungeon.”
I laugh.
“Shit,” she says, “I’m sorry. Fuck.”
“What?” I go to her. “Hey, no, no, what’s wrong? Hey don’t do that.”
“This is just… this whole year has not gone the way I expected.”
“No?” I ask, pushing a tendril of hair aside. “Why? What did you expect?”
“I don’t know. My resolution had been to just be… normal. Y’know? Like, more active in the community. Just teach a class at the community center, or… oh, shit.”
“What?”
“That woman Pearl is still expecting me to teach a Subs for Hubs class.” She groans. “Nooooooo. Jesus. I forgot about that. Christ. OK. That’s it. I have to move.”
“Move? Whoa. Slow down. What are you talking about? Move where?”
“I dunno. Away.”
“Why?”
“I think I need another reset.”
My palms start sweating very unexpectedly.
“No, no, no. Hey, look at me. Look at me.” I take her by the shoulders. She looks back and forth at my hands.
“Why do you keep doing that? I can look and listen without being handled.”
“Hey,” I say. “Don’t get weird.”
“Don’t get weird? Oh, OK. Yeah, I won’t get weird.”
“Stop it. Just… we’re going to Vail this weekend, and—”
“What? You still wanna go to Vail?”
“Of course. We had a deal. Why wouldn’t I wanna go?”
“Um, well, the deal has pretty much fallen apart, don’t you think?”
She gestures at her naked body and I try not to think about it too much because I have a point to make.
“Whatever. Vail was still part of the deal. And beyond that… I just want to take you to Vail. So, let me take you to Vail. OK? Can we go to Vail tomorrow? Vail?”
“Stop saying Vail.”
“Will you come with me?”
She takes a long moment, sighs, but finally… nods her head.
“OK. Great. Cool,” I say.
“What about tonight?” she asks.
“What about it?”
“Your reward. You don’t still want your reward?”
I look at her. Smile. Breathe out. Stroke her cheek and tell her, “I got it.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE - MYRTLE
So… that was one of the weirdest nights of my life. Which is saying a lot, I realize. Because my life was weird from the first breath of air I breathed. Librarian mother meets lion-tamer father. I mean, that right there is the stuff ridiculous sit-coms are made of.
Only it wasn’t a sit-com. My parents are serious to the nth degree and I guess with that kind of atmosphere permeating my formative years, there was no chance of me turning into a something other than what I am.
The way I look at it, I had two choices. One, be a mousy academic who hides her true self away in shelves of books. Or two, fall into the trap of adrenaline-induced exhilaration and spend the rest of my days wondering when my lifestyle was going to kill me.
To be fair to them both, they came out of it just fine.
My father has navigated his dangerous lifestyle very well. He’s still alive, so that’s saying something. And he’s happy, as far as I can tell. Maybe even extremely happy. Not many people get to live the dream like he has.
And my mother has settled down with a sensible man who accepts her for who she is and won’t be eaten by carnivorous animals one day at work.
Both of them just live their lives in a way that makes sense, but I never quite got the hang of that.
I fell into both those worlds at one point. If you looked at me at age fifteen you’d have said with one-hundred-percent certainty that I’d grow up to be just like my mother. And if you had seen me at age twenty-three, you’d have said my lifestyle was going to kill me just like it did the designer who made my dungeon queen outfit.
There was, at no point before I came to Le Man Magazine, any kind of… intermediate middle. I was one or the other and it took a long, long time for me to realize I didn’t have to be one or the other. That I could just be myself.
And for the past several years that’s who I truly thought I was. Myrtle Astrid Rothschild, executive assistant to Pierce Chevalier at Le Man Magazine.
Myself.
But it’s not true and it took Pierce promoting me to VP to realize it. I took my job as his assistant too seriously. I realize that now. I based my whole new identity on that role and so it was inevitable, that when it was taken away from me, I’d be lost.
That’s how I feel now. That’s where I’m at.
Lost in an identity crisis.
It was nice. I do admit that. Being with Pierce as a woman who might be starting to understand who she is, was nice. We didn’t have sex. In fact, after he basically said he was satisfied just looking at me in this new way, he and I made our plans for this afternoon and he left. I accompanied him to the door, opened it up still mostly naked as the cold night wind wrapped around my body, and watched him walk away.
He was already at work when I got here this morning. He looked up from whatever he was discussing with Valerie when I paused at my office door and smiled at me. And for a moment I debated if I should say something. But then he took his attention back to work and I didn’t.
I didn’t know what to say.
Thank you felt appropriate, but I’m just not sure what I’d be thanking him for.
Relieving me of my corset? Unbinding me? Allowing my true self the opportunity to spill out?
I’m just not sure.
I live with danger every day. Down the hill from my house live thirteen lions, eight tigers, six mountain lions, two jaguars, and a snow leopard. They are all tame in their own way, but still, deep down inside they know who they are. They know what they are. And at any moment one of them could just decide… you know what? This is not who I am and I’ve had enough. I need a reset.
They could have an identity crisis too.
I understand this. Have lived with it my whole life. That’s why there’s what constitutes a cage surrounding my home. That’s why there’s a guard at the gate with a small arsenal of firearms locked in a safe behind her. That’s why we keep tranquilizers in the fridge and hundreds of pounds of fresh meat in the freezers.
I was taught at a very early age that the proper precautions can save your life and maybe I took that too seriously too? Maybe I applied it with too much rigor? Maybe I, like Pierce, really am all the toos?
Maybe the corset is my cage? Maybe the whip is what keeps them tame? Maybe the blindfold is my hope that one of them won’t wake up one day and have an identity crisis?
Of course, I’m not talking about the cats. I’m talking about the men in my life.
Or lack thereof these days, because Pierce is the only man in my life. Has been the only man in my life for a couple years now. I used to date when I first came to work at Le Man, but I stopped. I don’t even know when that happened, exactly. I just know it’s been a while now.
And up until that morning when he pointed his finger at me and told the whole world I was the Sexpert, I was happy. I really and truly was.
>
And since that day I’ve been sad. Because it was a wake-up call. It was a sharp slap in the face that nothing I thought was real, is real.
I’m sitting at my desk running all this through my head when my phone buzzes.
I press the speakerphone button and say, “Yes?”
“Hey,” Pierce says.
“Hey,” I say back.
“Did you bring your weekend bag with you this morning?”
“Yes.”
“Then… you wanna get out of here early and beat the traffic?”
I get a strange tingling feeling in my body as I say, “Yes. I’d like that a lot.”
I can feel him smile through the walls that separate us. “Let’s go.”
There’s nothing to clear off my desk for the weekend because I truly do not have a purpose here, so I just log off the computer, grab my purse, and exit my office.
Pierce is waiting just outside. He smiles at me, which for reasons that remain elusive, gives me that tingling feeling again, then places his hand on the small of my back, urging me forward with him, and looks over his shoulder at Valerie to say, “Have a nice weekend.”
I am lost in the feeling of his guiding hand on the small of my back, so I don’t even hear if Valerie responds. I just know we leave together. And that it is very apparent we are leaving together because by the time we enter the elevator with a half a dozen other people, he’s holding my hand.
I stare straight ahead at the elevator doors. Afraid to move. Afraid to speak. Afraid to do anything.
When they open to the garage, we spill out like a herd, which dissipates quickly, and then Pierce is asking me, “Is your bag in the back seat? Or the trunk?” Because he has successfully guided me to my parking space, where my Tesla sits right next to his Escalade. This makes me let out a small laugh.
“What?” he asks.
“I must’ve been lost in thought when I pulled in this morning and didn’t notice the Escalade, because for some reason I pictured us driving up the mountain in your McLaren.”
“I would never drive you up a snowy mountain in a McLaren.” And then he smiles at me. “That would be irresponsible.”
Yes, it would, I think to myself. And that’s not who he is. Not with me, anyway. Not anymore. “Trunk,” I say, thumbing my key fob to release the lock.
He lets go of my hand and approaches the rear of the car, then plants his hands on his hips, looking down into the abyss of my trunk, and shakes his head.
“What?”
“We’re not going to Paris. It’s just a weekend.”
“I like to be prepared,” I say, hiding a smile as he takes out the matching three-piece set of Tiffany luggage. “And believe me, I’d bring all six pieces for a Paris trip.”
“Here,” he says, leaving the luggage as he clicks his key fob and motions me over to his car. “Get in while I load.” We walk over to the passenger side and he opens my door, waits until I’m comfortable, and then closes me in.
I admit, I like being on the receiving end of his good manners. I have always known he was a cultured man, but this is the first time I’ve ever experienced it as his… date.
It’s nice.
I check my watch. Almost one-thirty. Then fidget as I decide how to appear… casual. Do I cross my legs? I cross them. But today’s pencil skirt lands above the knee, which means it’s now mid-thigh, so I uncross them. Press my knees together. Decide that’s a position my mother would choose and stop doing that. I cross my ankles like a lady, decide I’m not really the ankle-crossing kind of lady, and cross them the regular way again, angling my body a little so I’m facing Pierce, just as he opens his door and slides into the seat.
The Escalade is roomy but his long legs take up all the space under the steering wheel.
“Have we ever been in a car together?” I ask.
“No,” he says, hiding a smirk.
“You’re sure?” I ask.
“Positive.” His eyes meet mine for a moment as he backs out of his parking space, then refocus on his task.
But wow. That was some look he just gave me.
We’re silent as we make our way out of the TDH and get in the freeway, and that silence is deafening. I want to say something to break it. Anything. But nothing comes to mind. I am literally speechless.
It’s several more painful minutes, when we’ve settled into the ride, when he finally speaks. “I think I need to give you a safe word.”
“What?”
“You know, a safe word. Like you gave me for the dungeon stuff.”
“Did you pack whips and handcuffs?” I laugh. “Why in the world would I need a safe word?”
“Because you seem… guarded. And you’re entitled to your privacy, but I think…” He sighs. “I think I need to know more. About you, I mean. So, I’m going to ask a lot of questions. And I don’t want you to feel obligated to answer. I’ll accept whatever, but at the same time, I don’t want to feel like some things are off limits.” He glances over at me. “You can have all the decision-making power. I’m fine with that. But I want to lead.”
I have to run these words over and over in my head for almost a minute. “You want to lead,” I say, finally able to reply.
He nods. “Yup. I’m just… that kind of guy. I like to lead. But you know that.”
More silence from me. Because I don’t know how to respond. When I agreed to this weekend I figured we’d look at the aspens from the safety of the car. I pictured us eating at nice restaurants. Maybe strolling through Vail Village looking into shops. Possibly there’s snow up there and the runs are open, so there might be some skiing. And… probably some sex. I mean, he didn’t hide the fact that he was turned on this week. And I’m not averse to sex with him if that’s where it goes. Pierce is what I’d like to call “the total package” as far as I’m concerned.
It that weird? Plenty of people are sexually attracted to their boss, right?
Yes, but most of them do not take him to their sex dungeon to get him hard.
Actually, getting him hard wasn’t my plan. My plan was… well, derailed comes to mind.
Which reminds me of what’s happening in the present moment.
I did not figure intimate conversation was going to be part of this.
Which is stupid of me. Just another example of how far away I am from that domineering, powerful woman I used to be. Because she would’ve thought of that. She would’ve had rules in place from the start. She would not have been blindsided by the threat I might need a safe word to communicate with him this weekend.
“So what is it?’
“Huh?” I say, absently looking at him.
“Your safe word. Because I’m dying here. I’m dying to know more about you and I’d like to get started right now.”
“Wallflower,” comes out of my mouth unexpectedly. And I really do want to stab myself in the eye for that. But it was automatic. It’s the only safe word I’ve ever had so it just… came out.
“Wallflower?” he laughs.
I suck in a deep, deep breath and nod my head. “Yes. My safe word is wallflower.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR - PIERCE
“So... What do you want to know?” she asks.
“Well, a lot, I suppose. But suddenly I just kind of want to know the etymology of ‘wallflower.’ Weird expression. Wall. Flower. Where does that come from?”
“I dunno. I think it means a woman who kind of sits by a wall waiting for a suitor to come ask her to dance or something.”
“Oh. Yeah, I get that. Huh. That’s actually nicer than how it’s always sounded to me.
“How so?”
“Your version presumes that the woman is, in fact, a flower.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“I mean, it makes her sound as though she’s a flower that can’t thrive in her current habitat, but that perhaps the suitor is the kind gardener who helps her find the light and soil and allows her to bloom and flourish. That’s nice. I like that.”
&n
bsp; She stares out the window for a moment, considering. The way the sun is shining through, I can see her reflection in the glass. “So,” she says, “In your version, the flower is incapable of thriving on its own and needs the help of a man to reach its potential?”
I bite at my bottom lip. “So! Let’s talk about you, then!”
She laughs, and I feel something like relief.
“Sure,” she says. “Shoot.”
“Um…” I don’t actually know what I want to ask all of a sudden. I go with an obvious one. “Do you have any siblings?” She shakes her head ‘no.’ It’s such a guarded head shake that I decide I’m going to have to give a little to get a little. Maybe opening up to her will cause her to feel easier doing the same. So…
“Hey, did you know I had a sister?” I ask.
“Yes, of course I did.”
“Really? You did? How? Did I tell you?”
She shakes her head again, “Your mother.”
“Paulette told you that?” She nods. “When?”
“Two Thanksgivings ago, at your house when you hosted the orphans’ ball.”
“No shit?”
“No shit.”
“... Was she drunk?”
“Maybe a bit. Not sloppy.”
I’ll be damned. “What did she tell you, exactly?”
She twists her head to half look at me and half not. “That you had an older sister who died when you were three.”
“Yep. That’s accurate. She say any more than that?”
“Um. That she was eight. That she drowned. That she liked to read. That she used to make you wear dresses.”
“Well... OK, let’s all just... I’d call them ‘frocks,’ but… what do you want? We lived in France.”
She smiles. Then she says, “Do you remember her at all?”
“Who? My sister?”
She nods.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I say, “Oh, yeah. Hundred percent.”
“Really?”
“Yup. I remember everything about her. I remember the way she laughed. I remember the way she ran. I remember how she ate her poulet… that means chicken.”
