True North (Compass series Book 4)

by Tamsen Parker

  I’m really fucking happy, and that’s not something I say lightly. It actually makes me a little nervous because it’s unfamiliar, something I’m not used to, this foreign thing that might be a dream.

  The fantastical man sitting across from me isn’t doing anything to kill that feeling, either. Rey Walter is unreal. We’ve been talking business since we sat down, which looks a lot like me talking because Rey doesn’t have much to say. No surprise there since his business relies on him keeping his mouth shut, which I very much appreciate.

  So he’s been hearing about the bill I’m trying to get pushed through and some of the other projects I’ve got going on, and we’re comparing travel schedules. I thought mine was bad, but he zigzags around the country as much as I do, maybe more. It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t make faces when I talk about how much I travel. This is just how we live.

  I finish telling him about the neighborhood tour I took today and take another sip of my whiskey, trying to ignore the penetrating gaze he’s studying me with. Fail.

  “So how’re things at the Black House? Haven’t been back since your initiation.”

  I try to ignore the prick of affront. I hope not. He didn’t even call. Jesus, what’s wrong with me?

  “What do you actually want to know?”

  He shrugs, bringing his own drink to his lips. “Whatever you’d be inclined to share.”

  Why won’t he just come out and ask? I know what he’s wondering about. Or is he? Does he already know? How often does he talk to Pressly?

  “I have a date.” The words spill out of my mouth in an eager rush, and his eyebrows tick up.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  Like you don’t know, you sagacious prick.

  “Yes. Friday.”

  “With our favorite little nymph or someone else?”

  “It’s Pressly and you know it, jackass.”

  Rey sets his glass down with a clunk and a laugh. “I’m glad we’re at the point in our relationship where you feel comfortable swearing at me out loud and not only in your head.”

  Caught. “It was that obvious, huh?”

  “I get that a lot.” He grins, like it delights him that he enrages people and there’s nothing they can do about it. At least he owns it. “And besides, subtlety is not your middle name.”

  It’s Elmore, and if he imagines for one second that I don’t already know he knows that… I grunt and take another drink.

  “At the club for a play date or something else?”

  “Very much not at the club.” I’d called Press last night to finalize our plans. Dinner. I’d been prepared for her to downgrade it to drinks or maybe even the dreaded coffee, and I’d been thrilled when she hadn’t. An honest-to-god date and it made me feel like gold.

  “Her idea or yours?”

  “Mine.”

  “You want to tell me what your intentions are?”

  My intentions? He sounds like Pa Allwyn when he’d cornered me at a cocktail party Press had insisted on dragging me to not that long after we’d started dating. I’d worn my nicest suit, but with the way most of the people had looked at me, I’d still felt like I was a coal-smudged hick. Beau had trapped me by the bar and basically threatened to break out a sawed-off shotgun and end me if I fucked with his little girl.

  “I don’t know why, but Pressly seems to like you. You keep her happy and safe and in school until she tires of you, and we won’t have a problem. But I swear to god, Lewis, you’re going to act like a goddamn gentleman or I’ll end you and feed your body to my neighbors’ pigs. Am I making myself clear?”

  I’d stuttered in response, but I hadn’t backed off. I think I gained a little of his respect for not turning tail. He never liked me much better, though.

  “Intentions?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about, Slade. Don’t play coy because it doesn’t look good on you. I wouldn’t have said anything about a play session or six, but that’s not what’s going on. What is this?”

  I curl my fingers around my glass, empty now, and wish it were full. I could raise a hand and the overly attentive waiter would bring me another, but a fourth would probably make me sloppy and I don’t dare.

  “I like her.”

  “I know you do.”

  A couple drops of amber liquid cling to the side of the tumbler, and I have the absurd urge to lick them off. As if any amount of alcohol would let me relax under his scrutiny.

  “I like her as more than a plaything. I like her as more than a good fuck. I miss her. I miss my wife.”

  Rey shakes his head. “You had me until that last part. She’s not your wife anymore, and for good reason.”

  “I know.” Guilt swirls in my stomach along with the salmon and the caviar and the whiskey. It’s not a pleasant sensation.

  “Pressly’s a tough girl and maybe she seems fine now, but you’ve got to know when I met her, it was like someone had carved her heart out with a rusty spoon.”

  The image makes me cringe—not just picturing Pressly in pain, but the slow, cold withdrawal. It had hurt me as much, but I didn’t know what else to do, had been in so much pain myself, and couldn’t see my hand in front of my face for how fucked up and miserable I was.

  “I—”

  “I’m going to stop you right there. We talk a lot about you and your wants and your needs, and that’s perfectly fine. That’s part of my job, and it’s worth every one of the many pennies you pay me. But for five minutes, we’re going to make this about Pressly. If you can’t do that, then we’re not having this conversation. I’ll sit here while you call her, cancel your date, and tell her you’ll see her at the club. Up to you.”

  Fucking hardass.

  “You’re doing it again.” He takes another swig of his cocktail. Some artisan thing I wouldn’t be caught dead drinking but he totally pulls it off.

  “Swearing at you in my head? Yeah.”

  I stare into my glass some more, tracing the angles with my gaze and turning over what he’s said. I’ve been seeking Press out because I think I’d be better off with her than without her. But maybe not the other way around. And if I love her, that’s something I need to think about more. Maybe the only thing I need to think about.

  “She said yes,” I offer.

  “That’s weak. Do better.”

  Ouch. Fair though, so I try another tack. “Do you know what she wants?”

  “We’ve talked about it.”

  “And are you at liberty to say?”

  “I can tell you that she likes the club, but she rarely sees people from there outside. The fact that she agreed to go on a date tells me something about how she feels about you. She trusts you. She likes you. And I know she wants to get married again. Have a family. But she’s not set on getting everything she needs from one person. Anyone she’s with has got to be okay with that. She’s not going to settle.”

  The unsaid again strikes me as if he’s said it out loud.

  “She shouldn’t. She deserves the world.” That I know with every inch of my body. His dark eyes bore into me and it makes me uncomfortable, like he can see into the depths of my black soul. Maybe he can; I wouldn’t put it past him.

  If he’s waiting for me to blink, back off because I can’t handle the idea of not being her everything, he’ll be waiting a while. I’d like to be, obviously, but when I’ve seen Spider tie her, it hasn’t made me jealous. If we’re talking more than rope…well, I haven’t entirely managed to shut down the jealous caveman part of my personality that wants to drag her home by the hair, but I think we could work something out and it would be well worth trying. I like the idea of an audience, and maybe that would tide her over while I figure out whether I’d want to involve other people more directly.

  I dare Rey with my own glare to argue, to call me out. It’s true that I’m still getting comfortable with this whole notion of what we do, of it being okay. It’ll take me some time to sort it all out, but Press would be worth any work I have to do, any hoo
ps I have to jump through.

  “There’s one more thing, but I’m going to have to say I to explain it.”

  He narrows his eyes at my guff. “Fine. But this had best be good.”

  “I’ve always loved Press. I drove her away because I loved her. I didn’t want to hurt her, and I thought there was no possible way she could love the monster I felt like. But the cat’s out of the bag and it turns out I’m only going to hurt her in ways she likes. I don’t know what I did in a past life to get so goddamn lucky, but without that big, ugly secret between us, I can start concerning myself with other ways I can be better for her. Be worthy of her. Make her as happy as she always made me.”

  Rey drops a nod and finishes off his drink, looking like I’ve gone up a notch in his estimation. “That’s a good start.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  ‡

  Pressly’s apartment is nice. Not that I’d expect anything less, but it’s reassuring to see. I’d offered to help her when she moved out and she’d declined. I’d hoped it was out of pride and not out of embarrassment over where she’d ended up. Not that Ma and Pa Allwyn would ever let their baby stay somewhere trashy. It’s bad enough she lives up here instead of at home.

  It’s all big pastel floral prints, but in a way that’s upscale, not gaudy. Peaches, pinks, baby blues, and minty greens. But she is, by far, the most beautiful bloom in here.

  Rosy lips and cheeks, wearing a cream dress, peep-toe shoes that show off her pedicure. She’s always perfectly done out. Always.

  I can’t quite find my tongue, so I thrust the flowers I brought at her and she smiles. “Peonies. You remembered.”

  Of course I did. We got married in May so she could have piles of them at our wedding. I have myriad faults and flaws, but being forgetful isn’t one of them.

  She buries her face in the blooms and inhales deeply, the pink petals reflecting on her skin. She’s so pretty I might fall over dead.

  When she lifts her head, she regards me curiously, probably because I’m standing there like a Neanderthal instead of saying anything out loud. I still can’t find my words because the gears of my brain are stuck together with how damn sweet she is.

  “I’ll put these in water, and then we can go.”

  I take a seat on her couch, drubbing my heel on her throw rug and glancing around her living room. So many familiar portraits, books, and paintings. But so much I’ve never seen before. More reminders that, when we got divorced, Pressly moved on. Far more effectively than I did.

  It takes her a while to arrange the flowers to her satisfaction in a perfectly sized vase on her small dining table. I knew she wouldn’t hurry. It’s one of the things I like about her. Whatever else I think of her parents, they taught Press not to be hurried by men. So I wait like the patient suitor I am, wishing I would’ve written conversational topics out on notecards because I don’t know how to talk to her about anything except kink and sex anymore.

  Ten minutes later, she stands in front of me, clutch in hand, shawl draped over her shoulders. “Ready?”

  I nod and stand, holding out an arm for her to take, and we head out the door.

  Once we’re seated in a dim corner of the restaurant—one that was an easy walk from her apartment, even in those perilous shoes she’s wearing—she tucks her hands under her thighs on the other side of the table. A nervous habit I used to find adorable. Newsflash: it still is.

  I peruse the menu and notice she hasn’t cracked the leather portfolio at all.

  “Is there something wrong?” I’d asked Jenny to make this reservation, and she’d assured me this place was well-reviewed. If she’s wrong, I’m going to—

  “Nothing’s wrong. I like this place. I just thought you might…” She trails off, screwing up her mouth.

  My sticky brain snaps shut on a memory. When we’d go out, I used to tease Pressly about being so predictable that I could order for her, even if we’d never been to a restaurant before. It’s been over six years since I sat across a dinner table from her, but I bet I could still do it.

  “You want to play like that? Fine by me.” I give her what I hope is a rakish smile, but my face feels awkward and I probably sneered at her.

  I flip through the menu, zeroing in on what she’d choose immediately: sole meuniere. Though there’s filet here and I could really sink my teeth into some red meat, I’ll order the pork aux champignons because Press likes sweet whites and I can’t stomach bastardizing such a fine cut of beef by drinking it with a Riesling. The things I do for this woman.

  For appetizers, salads for us both—because if I don’t eat something green, she’ll scold me—but I balance it with a cocktail—because if I don’t dampen these nerves, I’m going to vibrate out of my chair. Plus, there’s a prosecco, pear-lavender thing that looks like something Pressly would like.

  When the waiter comes back, I gesture him close and order behind the menu because the cloak-and-dagger act will make Pressly laugh.

  I went out on a few dates after the divorce, more to keep up appearances than anything else, but it turned out I didn’t know how to flirt with anyone but my wife. Still don’t. But when Pressly’s cocktail arrives, she claps her hands and relief floods through me. I’m not hopeless.

  We talk over our salads about her job, about the senator. I try not to be a dick, but the guy is crazy-conservative and likes to fuck my department anytime he gets the chance because it doesn’t do a damn thing for his mostly rural, old-wealth district.

  “He’s not a bad man, Slade,” she admonishes me when I can’t contain a huff. “He’s doing his best.”

  “His best to get reelected you mean.”

  “Well, wouldn’t you? And he really does care about his constituents. Which is more than I can say for some of them.”

  Fair. I’d rather have someone who I disagreed with but who was a genuinely devoted public servant than a hypocritical asshole any day.

  “Plus, even though he’s a good ol’ boy, he treats his female staffers with respect. No games of grabass in Senator Johnson’s office.”

  The idea of someone grabbing Press who hadn’t been given permission to makes me see red. “I’m glad you’re happy there. It sounds like a good fit for you.”

  “And you’re not doing too badly for yourself. I’m surprised you have time for a dinner date.”

  “For you? I’ll make time.” Even when I was working insane hours at the firm, I’d tried to carve out time for her. It wasn’t always enough, but I’d tried.

  Our salad plates and drained cocktails get cleared, and a waiter sets down our plates with a flourish. Everything looks delicious, especially Pressly’s shy smile over her sole.

  “Nicely done, Mr. Lewis.”

  “Cheers, Missu—” I cut off the Mrs. Lewis that was about to come out of my mouth in this exceedingly awkward way that’s fooling no one. “Ms. Allwyn.”

  She clinks my glass, and we sip at the sweet liquid. White wine’s only saving grace is that it’s served cold. Pressly takes a bite of her fish, and her eyes roll up into her head in a pale but still gratifying approximation of the other kind of pleasure I’ve been bringing her.

  “Good?”

  “Mmm,” she hums, closing her lips around another bite. “So good.”

  After she swallows, she excuses herself to the ladies’ room, and I stand as she does. While she’s gone, doing whatever it is that takes women so freaking long in the bathroom, I continue to eat, resisting the urge to text Rey and tell him it’s going well. I don’t need his stamp of approval. Although I’d be lying if I said I didn’t hope texting him was one of the things on Pressly’s powder room agenda.

  When Pressly gets back, she’s got this devious glint in her eye, and when she leans over me, I can smell that reapplying whatever perfume she wears is one of the things she was doing in there while I chugged the rest of my wine.

  “Congratulations, Secretary. You’ve won the prize for round one.”

  Prize?

  Then s
he slips something into my coat pocket and slides into her own seat, color high in her cheeks. When I reach in to see what she’s put there, I feel…silk. Lace. Warm and slightly damp. I almost choke. She put her panties in my pocket. If they’re in my pocket, it means they aren’t on her, and if they aren’t on her, it means there’s very little between the juncture of her thighs and mine. The idea short-circuits my brain because I’m not prepared for this Pressly. I thought I was on a date with buttoned-up, won’t-let-a-boy-get-to-first-base, perfect-ponytail Pressly. Not depraved, wanton, never-met-a-sin-she-didn’t-like Pressly.

  “I, uh… Thank you?”

  Oh, for fuck’s sake. Could I be any less cool? Not only not cool, but I think I’ve insulted her. Her face has fallen from delightedly mischievous to mortified. I should say something, try to play along, but she totally sprung this on me and I can’t walk it back.

  “Sorry,” she mutters, shoving her hands under her thighs again. It’s not in a sweet way this time.

  “Press, I—”

  “No, you’re right. That was entirely uncalled for and I apologize. Please…” Her eyes close, possibly blinking back tears, and she opens them again on a hard swallow. “…dispose of them at your earliest convenience.”

  And because I don’t know how to fix this and I’m an insensitive asshole without two brain cells to rub together, I ask, “How are your parents?”

  She plasters a smile on her face, but only after she looks like she’s going to puke all over what’s left of her dinner. “Good. Mama’s roses are beautiful this year, and Daddy’s started collecting model trains. He’s taken over the whole basement. Drove Mama crazy at first because she had to find a new place to store all the Christmas decorations, but now I think she’s glad he’s got a hobby so he doesn’t make her nuts with all that free time on his hands.”

  She’s put on her best Southern hostess, chirping about her family and maintaining conversation even though I’m guessing she’s dying inside. I used to admire her for that, her ability to put a mask on her feelings that wasn’t just hate and anger, but now it makes me sick to my stomach.