by Joey W. Hill
As they were taken to a booth and handed menus, he touched her hand. "Why don't we keep it casual for a few minutes before we launch into anything?"
From the strained look around his mouth, she figured that was more for him than herself, but she was okay with giving him that breathing space. He'd implied she'd pushed him into a corner, and she guessed she had. But Des didn't seem the type to let himself be pushed around, so she held onto the hope that he was willingly having this conversation with her.
As she glanced at the menu, he pulled out his monitor and fitted it with a lancet. At her glance, he passed it to her. "Want to try it? Test your blood sugar?"
"Oh, God, I'd pass out. I could never stick myself."
"Do me then." He held out his hand. "Just hold it against my finger tip, then press that button."
She did, a quick click. He captured the tiny drop of blood on a test strip. At a beep from the monitor, he glanced at the resulting number and put it all away. Removing his pump from his pack, he slid it on under his clothes, connecting it to the injection site cannula by feel, his hand moving under the shirt.
"You've been doing this a long time."
"A very long time." He checked something on the pump screen, made an adjustment, then tucked the device back into the wallet he hooked over his belt. He flipped his shirt back down over it and picked up the menu as the waitress returned.
They ordered, and when the waitress asked if it would be one check, Des nodded. "I'll be taking it," he said. "My treat."
"I should have ordered the Belgian waffles to go."
"You still have time." Whatever he saw in her face had him reaching across the table and gripping her hand. "I'm sorry I've caused you any sadness or doubts, Julie. I really enjoy being with you."
"I love being with you." She gave him a weak smile. "That's kind of the problem. Sorry. I guess it's impossible to get someone without baggage once they pass thirty."
"I bet my baggage outweighs your baggage."
"Oh really?" She fished in her purse, pulled out a dollar and set it on the table. "I'll bet a dollar it's not. You seem totally together."
"I'm a Dom. We're all about the illusion of total control." He winked, but set his own crumpled dollar next to hers. He sipped his unsweetened tea then, as if gathering his thoughts. He'd let go of her hand and she curled both in her lap, feeling adrift until he pressed his foot against hers under the table, connecting them.
"Just tell me, Des. Please. I poured my guts out to you. Quid pro quo."
His lips quirked, but he set down the tea and nodded, crossing his arms on the table. "I don't have any interest in in-depth discussions about this. But I owe you what's behind the curtain if we're going any farther. So I'm going to tell you what I need to tell you and, when this meal is over, there's no need to talk about it further. I'm not a disease."
The sudden fierceness in his tone, the set of his jaw, alerted her to the maelstrom of emotions going on beneath the surface. She might lose that dollar. He wasn't as together over this as he'd first appeared.
"Doesn't matter what you tell me. I could never think of you that way, Des."
He glanced over the dining room absently, as if he'd rather be anywhere else than talking about this. She shifted her foot so her toe pressed on his and he brought his gaze back to her. He had some kind of glitter on his shoulder, maybe from the shingles he'd been handling. When she reached toward it to brush it off, he caught her hand.
"It's probably fiberglass. The splinters are nasty." He held onto her hand, resting it on the table, playing with her fingers and studying them.
"I told you I had a bunch of health issues when I was a kid. I was a preemie, and my mom split as soon as they discharged her. They said I wouldn't survive a week, because she was a prescription drug addict and that affected my development. When I made it to age five, I started having seizures. They said I'd be dead before I was ten. Then the diabetes started. So on and so forth."
Her heart skipped a beat as he lifted his gaze to her face. "About the time I hit twenty-five, the damn doctor stopped giving me the doom-and-gloom, 'You won't live past so-n-so.' Probably because I told him next time he said it, I'd feed him his stethoscope through his anus. But there are a couple things I can't beat. I'm insulin-resistant and my kidneys are wearing out. I don't need dialysis yet, but it will come sooner than later. Renal failure. That's the track toward the end, love. I'm not a good transplant candidate because of my medical history."
The waitress brought their food. As she placed the plates on the table and asked them if they needed anything else, Julie watched Des switch gears. His usual genuine charm and humor made the waitress smile and Julie's chest ache. She'd poured open her heart to him, all her worries about pursuing a relationship, and he was giving her the same. Quid pro quo could be a bitch.
"Hey." He drew her out of her head. The waitress was gone. "Don't look like that, love. Nobody knows when it's going to end."
He took a breath. "But that said, I'm not in denial, either. That's why I'm telling you. I have no way of explaining to you, other than this, that you're different to me. I've gotten involved with plenty of women in session. None outside of it. Yet when you look at me the way you do...I like it. I want to spend time with you, in every way I can. But I'm not going to let you get any deeper without knowing what might happen. I wouldn't want to do that to you."
She swallowed and he narrowed his eyes, making a threatening gesture with his fork. "You get teary on me, I'll take your pancakes and eat them myself."
She blinked the tears back. "That's just mean."
"I'm not always nice." He made a stab at her plate and she fended him off with her fork, making him smile and things unknot a bit in her gut. He sobered though, probably because she couldn't entirely mask her reaction.
"Will I have a much shorter lifespan than you?" he said. "Pretty likely, unless you die in a car crash, though I'd be severely pissed if you did."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"You do that." He reached across the table and tapped her hand. "But I'm not going to be gone tomorrow. In the meantime, we can keep going as we're going, figure out where we'll end up together. Or you decide we're friends from here forward, and that's the end of it. Ball's back in your court, love."
His tone, his direct look, said he was ready to be done with the subject. She sensed a withdrawal in him, a closing down, the wall coming back up. He'd put himself out there for her, to let her know, but he must be anticipating rejection, pity, sympathy or her withdrawal. Whereas she'd dealt with her build-up of feeling with an outpouring that made her feel drained, he dealt with the same kind of stress by containing it.
He genuinely didn't like talking about this. But he had, for her. Because he wanted more from her. He wanted to see where this would go.
He'd given her the answer she'd sought, mostly, and now the question was whether she was willing to risk taking this road one more time. Up until the other day, with Pablo, she hadn't given a lot of thought to her mortality. Des dealt with his on a daily basis. Could she really be so chickenshit as to back away from a relationship with a guy she really liked for fear he might hurt her with his death? If nothing else, it was the first time she'd had that risk in a relationship.
"Ball's back in my court, hmm? Thought you said once you had the ball back you wouldn't give it up."
"I did say Doms were all about the illusion of total control. You have to give me the control, love. Every time."
She wasn't sure that was entirely true. When he was exercising his will upon her, she couldn't find her own with both hands. But this was a different kind of moment.
She picked up her fork. "Can you pass me the maple syrup?"
He obliged. "You're not going to tell me which way you're going to go on this?"
"Not until I eat. I don't make any decisions on an empty stomach."
"All right, but just keep this in mind. If I do tear your heart out like those other losers, you'll get the satis
faction of dancing on my grave while you're still young enough to do it without a walker. How many guys can offer a girl a perk like that?"
She paused in mid-pour, blinking at him, and then a laugh bubbled out of her, she couldn't help it. He looked so earnest, only a little twinkle in his eye. She set down the syrup. "I'm sorry. Oh God, it's awful of me to be laughing at that."
"Actually, it's the most beautiful thing I've ever heard."
She stopped, seeing the truth of it in his gaze. He was looking at her as if he'd like to see her laugh every day of their lives. She cleared her throat, feeling heat in her cheeks.
"So this is why you haven't had many relationships outside of a scene."
"Yeah. It's my big skeleton in the closet. So do I get the dollar?"
"I'll think about it. Not sure if your mortality really measures up to my wretched dating life. Maybe we'll just leave both dollars as part of our tip."
His lips curved, and though her stomach tilted at the gesture, she covered it with a noncommittal noise. "Honestly, I feel kind of dumb for unloading all that other stuff on you now. It would be nice to turn back time, to undo every stupid thing I've ever done."
"Then you wouldn't be who those moments taught you to be, right?"
"Why can't we learn lessons from being brilliant and perfect?"
Des smirked. "Because the Powers That Be are sadists." He touched her fork with his, a small tinny noise. "You shouldn't be embarrassed. I'm very glad you trusted me enough to share all that."
"If that's your kind of show, anytime you want a front row seat to my insecurities, I'll give you a free ticket."
"Don't do that, Julie." He spoke sharply enough her surprised gaze flickered up to his face. "Anything you share with me so honestly is a gift. That's part of what drew me into rope and working with subs. During a session, if everything goes the way it should, all we feel is so out front, no hidden motives or things unsaid, left to fester and infect the relationship." He pressed the toe of his work shoe down on her canvas sneaker, enough she felt his weight upon her toes. It was an intentional discomfort that focused her attention and sharpened other things inside of her. He saw it, his expression whetting with a Dom's interest, but he wasn't letting it go. "Okay?"
"I'll try. Okay." She wet her lips. "Why is that so important to you?"
"Because the world is full of so much crap we tell ourselves and each other that doesn't really mean anything. That's one of the things I liked about you from the beginning. You're clever and funny as hell, but there's not a dishonest bone in your body."
"Hmm." She returned her attention to her food, wanting to conceal how unsettling his words were. To be praised for the things she'd begun to think were flaws...it annoyed her, the clear evidence that she'd let those who tore her down define her. She should know better than that.
He'd ordered a giant vegetable omelet with a side of dry wheat toast, and she stole a sliced grape tomato that fell out the end of the omelet. In turn, he took a bite of her pancake, soaked with syrup. Fair was fair.
"When you tied me up, I noticed you touched my hands a lot. I liked it. Why do you do that?"
"Any blackberry jelly on your side?"
She checked the condiment container, and handed it over, their fingertips brushing. He briefly held onto them, giving her a warm look.
"It connects us emotionally, making sure we're still taking the journey together. The practical side is I'm testing your circulation. If your hands are cold, I know I need to adjust the form or release you to avoid damage."
"Hmm." That was how it had made her feel. Connected to him, not objectified or separate, the subject of an experiment, no matter how sensual. "You know, you're kind of a hypocrite. You'll do a dangerous stunt on a steep roof, but you freak out if I have a rope mishap."
"That's different. One's about me being in charge of me, where I can be as much of a dumbass as I want. The other is wanting to take care of you."
"I can't feel that way about you?"
"You don't need to feel that way about me."
She screwed up her face and crossed her eyes at him. "You know that's crazy thinking, right? Being in a relationship is caring about each other. It's not one-sided. That's part of you trusting me."
He rolled that over in his mind, obvious from the introspection, the slight gold glint to his irises when he was giving something real thought. His jaw had a light layer of afternoon stubble on it and she reached across the table to trail her fingertips over the sandpaper feel, just because she wanted to do so. He had told her she could be open and honest about all her feelings, and she hoped that included when she wanted to touch him.
"That idea will take me a little time," he said, closing his fingers around her wrist and pressing his lips to the heel of her hand. She liked the feel of that, especially as he gave her that look that said he liked knowing he had her caught.
"Okay," she said. She feigned indifference, despite her pulse speeding up against his hold. "But it's kind of Relationship 101."
"A lot of things are Relationship 101. Doesn't mean they're easy skills to master."
"Isn't that the definition of 101? Entry level, beginner stuff?"
"Eat your food, woman." He released her with a smile. "Else you'll find out how we Southern boys handle mouthy females."
Chapter Seven
He was drawing her away from more serious topics, and she took the hint. She caught him up to speed on what was happening with Consent, the successes and setbacks, routine for a theater's first production.
"I'm grateful to Madison for being so hands-off and yet so accessible at once. Sometimes a producer can really get underfoot, but in all fairness that usually happens when there's a clash between budget and art and the producer has to remind the directors they can only work within the resources they have. She and I don't have that problem. I've done enough of the fundraising side I know you have to squeeze the most out of every dime. And she loves and appreciates the creative process. She's worked with any changes I've suggested to help the show and the theater succeed. She's a managing and artistic director's dream."
"So you're both?"
"I'll wear a lot of hats for this first performance. We already have great volunteers. They just don't have the expertise a paid staff would be expected to have, so I'm doing a lot of teaching. Thank God Harris has a strong background in technical direction, and the students Madison recruited have been a godsend."
They continued their meal with more conversation along the same lines. She appreciated how keenly Des listened, and the useful insights he offered, but she couldn't forget the weight of that kiss by her car, the words they'd exchanged here. Or the question she hadn't yet answered for him.
She watched his hand, tapping the table to make specific points, and how his fingers spread out loosely when he was listening. Like a resting spider. Yet there was a waiting tension to them.
He finished his meal first and when the waitress took his plate away, he took the salt and pepper shakers out of their holders and absently twisted them around one another.
"I wasn't entirely honest the other day, about why I was so pissed with myself about Pablo," he said. "Or rather, I was, but since then I realized there was another reason. Maybe the main reason. It went back to the first rope session I did with you."
Making the salt and pepper shakers the pillars on either side, he started stacking the jelly packs into a brick wall. "I give every sub I work with the safety lecture, to make sure she knows how to take care of herself when it comes to rope bondage."
When his gaze flickered up to hers, Julie was caught by the russet shades, the golds, rusts and browns in his vivid irises. "I didn't do that with you. I didn't want to think about you seeking out similar experiences with other Doms. I figured your next rope session, if you had one, would be with me."
"Oh." That night, her first sub situation, she'd thought what had happened had only happened to her. She'd thought it was nothing unusual for him. Yes, it could be sp
ecial and hot, as he'd said, but it was like cake. Cake was always wonderful, but a man could have lots of different pieces of cake.
"Can you say right out what you're saying?" she asked slowly. "I have a bad habit of assuming feelings that aren't there."
"I didn't want you doing that with anyone else," he said bluntly, making her heart jump. "That was a new feeling for me, so I didn't really get it until I walked in and saw you in the middle of another rigger's set up. So I'm sorry that my testosterone surge was what kept me from protecting you better."
"Ironic." She attempted to keep her tone nonchalant. "Testosterone is what usually triggers the 'get behind me and I'll take the hail of bullets' vibe."
"Yeah, but it's not known for triggering brain cells at the same time. Just for the record, I'd find us both a place to hide from a hail of bullets."
"Smart and sensible." She put the grape jelly at the apex of his structure of jelly packs. "I have some marmalade left over here. Who likes marmalade? The name doesn't even sound appetizing."
"It's okay." He kept his hand still as she curved hers over it, tracing his chapped knuckles. Beneath the table, their feet still touched, pressed, stroked.
There wasn't as much noise in her head as there'd been earlier. Hearing that Des was interested in more with her had shut down her litany of defenses. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. That damn Will Shakespeare.
"Give me another bite of your pancakes." He reached to pinch off a piece. She fended him off with her fork.
"Rude man. Don't even say please."
"You're supposed to get hot and bothered by my commanding tone, not criticize my manners."
"That sounded more like a whine. Madison warned me there's a fine line between a Dom and a guy being obnoxious. Or avoiding household chores."
"Who said there has to be a line at all?" He gave her a look of triumph when she cut off another hunk of pancake and passed it to him. She hadn't put syrup on this one, so he ate it like a piece of bread, then sat back. He pulled the band from his hair to let the thick strands fall on his shoulders and rumpled his hand briefly through it, as if to ease the pull on his scalp. He slid the band around his wrist.
