by Poppy Flynn
"Of course, you did something even worse, didn't you?" Desi accused, stabbing a finger into his chest as she got as far in his face as she could manage, given her stature.
"You ran off my best friend." She stabbed her finger again and then again.
"You started some small-minded persecution campaign against a woman who didn't deserve it and intimidated her so much that she's gone into hiding.
"Like hell, she didn't deserve it!" Jake had spat back at her. "She deserves every last little thing I can think of to throw at her and more!
"No, Jake." Desi curled the fingers that had poked him into a fist and pounded his chest with that, instead. "You're just jumping at shadows that aren't there, making assumptions that are based on your shitty past experiences. Take the advice Luanna gave to Logan—read the damn article!" Desi slapped a printed sheaf of A4 copy paper into his stomach.
"What's this?" he asked, snatching away the offending object before she could start whacking him with that, as well.
"It's a print out of an email Charlotte sent me a couple of weeks ago asking my opinion on whether she should publish a helpful and progressive article about D/s and BDSM in the hope of getting your precious club—not that she knew it was yours at the time, of course—out of the clutches of the nasty gutter press, by blowing the myths out of the water and concentrating on a positive and constructive narrative revolving around the ideals of consent, care and mutual respect as the core values of those committed to the lifestyle," Desi enlightened, her voice raising with each sentence and her eyes resting for a few seconds on each man in the room before finding the next one and finally settling angrily on Jake.
"There's a copy of the original, rough transcript there, too. It's a damn masterpiece, but you, of course, didn't bother to find that out before you started planning your own little revenge party, did you, Jake?" she accused. "I didn't pick the email up until a couple of days ago. Then I tried to get hold of Charlotte. I've been trying for forty-eight hours to reach her. All of her phones have been disconnected and she didn't reply to any emails. The last one I sent came back as a delivery failure due to a deleted account. I went around to her house as soon as I got back into the area. The property is locked up, dust-sheeted and empty." Desi choked out the last words, censure evident in her livid condemnation.
"Since Joel also got a courtesy message from Micah saying he was taking a few days 'leave' due to 'current circumstances', we got in touch and he told us the whole sordid story. As gratified as I was to find out that at least one person knew Charlotte better than to take things at face value, I've come to realise that you managed to withhold that avenue of support from her, as well." Desi cut her gaze to Connor, who looked away in discomfort.
Not that she'd finished with him, she'd just let Jake off the hook for a few seconds whilst she roasted Connor, instead.
"So, about Laurel. Since that is a company matter, Connor, I expect your full list of grievances, of which I am led to believe there are many, in writing. I already have Laurel's version of events, and I will be checking and cross referencing as necessary." Connor had shifted from foot to foot and refused to look Desi in the eye. It was an incongruous image for the big man.
"Since I still retain superiority within this branch, I strongly suggest that you three all go back to head office while I pick up the pieces of the many lives you have shattered and try to glue them back together."
With that, Desi had marched towards the door, but as she crossed the threshold, she turned back and glared at the three of them. "And don't hurry back!" she had uttered coldly.
Jake had taken the copied transcript, which was dated ten days before he had hurled his accusations at Charlotte, and the magazine article and gone straight to the airport to catch the next available flight. He resisted reading either during the journey, still being carried by his own self-righteous bitterness, regardless of Desi's revelations.
When he finally reached the comfort of his own apartment, he was glad he had waited, for, within the pages, lay the substance of his next humiliation and, although there was no one to there to witness it, he didn't need an audience to feel the shame.
It was during the reading of her words that Jake realised just how much he loved Charlotte and just how much he'd thrown away.
And that knowledge had opened the flood gates to his pain. Before he'd finished, his cheeks were wet with tears of heartache and sorrow and guilt.
The article had been titled 'Safe, Sane and Consensual—Exploding the myths of the BDSM lifestyle'.
It spoke of the sub-culture of family among reputable clubs throughout the world, how they supported and promoted one another, warned of imposters and wannabes who threatened the security of all their members and the reputations of their venue. It spoke of the stringent principles of safety, of training and educating, contracts and limits, safe words and supervision, vetting and screening. It spoke of the unprejudiced camaraderie and the non-judgemental attitudes—yeah, that had been a hard one to stomach—among the open-minded community. It spoke of the pivotal significance of consent and the misinterpretation of sadomasochism as abuse and the immense magnitude of importance in understanding the difference. And finally, it spoke of care and appreciation and mutual respect and the myth of drunken orgies and how far they were from the truth. It referred, instead, to the two-way communication and negotiation and the acceptance of responsibility for the pleasure of both parties and how that often surpassed the experiences in conventional relationships, since there was no room for ambiguity and, therefore, disappointment and then more. It spoke of the power of aftercare and discussion to ensure all parties were ultimately fulfilled and content, and how the result was meaningful, well-rounded, healthy and without deception.
Jake realised that it was a perception that would have encompassed even her relationship with him. He wondered how she could have brought herself to publish it after everything they'd done to her, after all that he had put her through.
It was then that he had understood the depth of her true belief in the lifestyle and that is was bigger than one single, flawed experience and worthier of being shared and admired than keeping it secreted and misunderstood in any petty retribution she might wreak against either a man or a club which had wronged her.
She was a far bigger person, a far better person, than he could ever hope to be, and that was when he understood the true extent of the destruction he had wrought against her and found it a torment he could hardly bear to think of.
His actions had stripped her of home, companionship and familiarity and even threatened her most treasured ideals—family and belonging. The knowledge left him too sickened to even look at himself, but he'd known, above all else, he had to make things right.
Of course, three months on, he still hadn't achieved that, and he'd run out of avenues to explore.
Charlotte sat in her sparsely furnished cottage in the middle of nowheresville, a place she had chosen by literally sticking a pin in a map and looked down at the contents of the envelope she had retrieved from the post office box she'd managed to open in her mother's maiden name. She made the trip just once a month, since it was located over fifty miles away, and the only people who used it were her publishers. She'd been lucky enough to secure the property with utilities paid as part of the rent, so there were no bills to worry about and her editor knew to send things shortly prior to the date she'd specified, if he wanted a prompt response and couldn't complete via the new email account she'd set up. Even in this new dawn of technology, some things had to be done the old-fashioned way, but not very many.
Of course, now she had a dilemma, but she supposed it at least took her mind off feeling sorry for herself or focussing on the constant sensation of being adrift.
She absently rubbed at her abdomen; at seventeen weeks, she was just starting to develop a baby bump, but yoga pants and baggy sweatshirts still hid it from general awareness. Not that she saw anyone who might notice or even care, except the rural community
midwife, and she already knew. She did a dry staples and store cupboard shop once a month when she made the trip to pick up her post and a weekly dash to one of several different farmers' markets in the various villages that surrounded her rural location. So far, she'd managed not to visit any of them more than twice and she managed all of it with just the aid of public transport, so she hadn't had to register a car. She used a pre-paid burner phone to keep in touch with her midwife. No one else had the number. There was no one else to give it to.
Charlotte recognised the onset of one of her routine and increasingly frequent bouts of melancholy and picked up the letter that had been sent three weeks prior, according to the post date, in an effort to steer her thoughts in a more positive direction.
Idly, she wondered if she should turn the radio on and sing. The last time she had spoken to her midwife, a week ago, for her monthly check up, her voice had sounded rusty from lack of use. It had stunned Charlotte to think of the days and weeks that went past with no human contact, not even a conversation. Maybe a better idea would be to start talking to her baby so that the poor little mite didn't come into the world believing it was totally silent.
Shaking her head and realising that her mind was wandering, she contemplated whether that was a sign of unhealthy solitude. She'd read somewhere that such seclusion and social isolation could be damaging. But not as great as the risk of losing her child, she decided. Besides, once the baby was born, they would have each other and she wouldn't be alone any more. She wouldn't feel the soul-destroying loneliness that ate her up and spat her out as a shadow of herself which, she feared, grew fainter and fainter each time and subsequently led to longer bouts of despondency and desolation.
At least she didn't cry anymore; even that required too much effort these days. And she was doing it again, letting her mind wander off with the fairies, instead of concentrating on making a decision…
Dear Ms. Chapman, she read, then skimmed ahead to the key details.
'We are interested in publishing a book of Shibari rope bindings based on the photographs that you provided to support your recent article.'
The advance they were quoting for the deal was a life altering sum for someone like Luanna who had been a struggling single mother for most of her adult life. Charlotte could not, in good conscience, deny that opportunity to the woman who had been her friend.
How it would be received by the Blackwood Universal directorship, for whom Luanna worked, was anybody's guess, but that was Luanna's decision. The amount the publisher was offering would allow Luanna to quit her job if necessary.
Charlotte fingered another piece of paper. It was wrinkled and dog-eared from too much handling and there were smudges on the print where her tears had smeared the ink. It was a photocopy of a typically sensationalised gutter press feature. The worst kind of story—one that relied on speculation and innuendo and which gave genuine, hardworking journalists a bad name. It was the last email she had received from Desi before she deleted her account. Charlotte hadn't had time to read it back then, so she'd just printed out the attachment while she finished her packing, along with all the other pertinent information she needed to retain for the new email account she eventually set up.
Sometimes, she teased herself with Desi's deliberately unsaved email address until her fingers ached to type it into her laptop and contact her dearest friend.
Sometimes, she read the article and her heart ached for Jake, whom it was undoubtedly written about, despite the gagging order that prevented naming names. It told of an unnamed sex club close to the university where they'd all studied and the nephew of a high-profile company founder and how his depraved and perverted addictions led him to abuse his lovers with a brutal whip for sexual gratification and how his family's fortune prevented any legal action being taken against him. The only thing that led any credence to the entire fabrication was the fact that it had been written by the nameless individual's former girlfriend.
Charlotte thought of how gentle and restrained Jake was with his whip, the care he took with his submissives, and knew how deeply the story would have cut him. How the betrayal of a woman he had openly called his girlfriend would have wounded him and how the experience would have influenced his opinion of journalists, in general, and herself, in particular. In some ways, it helped to know that his reaction to her article was just an involuntary self-preservation reflex that had him instinctively lashing out at a past grievance.
But mostly, it just hurt that she had never really meant enough to him to reveal any of his confidences. There were so many things she hadn't known. Not just about the woman he had trusted and who had betrayed him, but about losing the position in the company he had been groomed for all this life, about the degradation and judgement from his family's affluent social circle that he was forced to endure. Desi had covered it all.
She wondered if she would have done things differently had she known. Undoubtedly, she would have, but still… It brought reality into crisp definition.
She had thought they were becoming close…more than close. On more than one occasion, during their many conversations, she had ventured into territories she had vowed never to travel through again, harsh and painful truths and memories which held up glimpses of her past to his scrutiny. She had thought they were building a shared pathway to their future, trading in trust and secrets, hopes and fears, as they paved the way to forever.
She had been a fool.
She had been the only one lining that path. She'd just been too blind to see that, while she was laying a painstaking foundation, Jake had just been sprinkling a fine dust that would blow away with the first strong breeze, while the only direction her own path led was to heartbreak.
Pushing the destructive thoughts away, Charlotte printed out a 'with compliments' slip which held no more information than her name and placed it in an envelope with the publishing offer. She didn't know where Luanna lived, so she addressed the envelope to the Finance Manager at Blackwood Universal's East Coast office. That was as much as she was prepared to do.
She wouldn't use email and risk having the IP address traced, the same with a phone. Plus, she couldn't risk talking to anyone from her old life. Her resolve was too fragile. She ached for companionship and familiarity, but she wouldn't do so at the expense of her child.
Still, in her weaker moments, her lonely mind tried to rationalise that it would be okay just to ease her tenacious grip on her seclusion just a fraction, to listen to a friendly voice and spend just a few minutes speaking to someone who actually knew her.
Then she would hear Jake's parting words in her mind and know that it would never be worth the risk.
Instead, Charlotte scraped her hair back into a low ponytail, jammed on a hat and coat and made the two-mile walk to the closest post box.
Luanna Morgan sat at her desk frowning at the plain, white envelope at the top of her mail pile which was addressed to her but didn't look quite official. It was printed and stamped, but there was no return address and no franking. She put it to one side while she dealt with the remainder of her post.
Coming back to it thirty minutes later, she wondered if the long absent father of her son had decided to make yet another attempt to worm back into his life. Luanna pressed her full lips tightly together at the thought. The boy he had been back then had run scared as soon as she had revealed her pregnancy. In some ways, she didn't blame him. They had been stupid, immature teenagers who had dabbled without thought of consequence.
Of course, she'd been scared, herself, but running hadn't been an option for her. So, for fifteen years, she had scrimped and slogged and suffered against circumstance, against prejudice and against coercion, in order to make a life for herself and her son.
In truth, she had been one of the lucky ones; she had the unwavering support of her family, but that didn't mean it had been easy to be an unmarried, pregnant sixteen-year-old with an interrupted education.
And, in fifteen years, the man he had grown into
had never come forward to offer any assistance, despite the fact that his family was rich, and he could have saved his son from hardship and ridicule, he had never concerned himself with the complication of paternal responsibility; until now.
Luanna had ignored his last letter, pretended it didn't exist, just as he had pretended Luanna and her son—his son—didn't exist.
This one didn't look the same, the first had been hand-written and sent to her parents' address. Maybe it wasn't even him. She concluded that the only way to deal with it was to open it.
Ten minutes later, she dropped the envelope onto Logan Thornton's desk, hoping her fingers weren't betraying the fine trembling that she felt vibrating through her body.
Another man, another mistake. After fifteen years, she had thought herself responsible enough not to make any more. Turned out that age was no safeguard against foolishness.
She looked surreptitiously at the stunning amber eyes that were partially concealed by glasses and the long, gold streaked, caramel hair which was bound with a leather que at the back of his neck. When he shed his corporate skin, he reminded her of a lion.
Absently, her fingers went to the carved amber lion pendant she wore round her neck, a gift bought but never given. Realising her actions, she snatched her hand down and looked away, unaware of the golden eyes that gazed back at her with soul deep yearning.
They had barely spoken over the past fourteen weeks, and when they did, it was all business. Not that he spent much time at the East Coast office for her to talk to, even if she wanted to. And she'd considered it a time or two, but by the time she'd calmed herself enough to be gracious, after their one and only very civilised disagreement, he'd hightailed it out of town without so much as a backwards glance. That reaction had told her all that she needed to know.
