by Stasia Black
She gasps and looks furious, her mouth opening like she’s about to go off on a tirade but I hold up a hand.
“He always stays a respectable distance away. Nothing invasive is involved and he only follows you when you’re in public.”
“So you had some guy fucking watching me? And what, like reporting back to you my every move?” She looks both furious and mortified and for the first time I second-guess my decision to have her followed. I only wanted to keep her safe. More than anyone, I know exactly how dangerous Bryce Gentry can be. It’s why I never wanted her working for him in the first place. Some part of me knew the security guard was an invasion of her privacy but her safety mattered more. It was all I could think about.
Even if it was too little too late.
I hold up my hands again. “He never got close enough to see anything. But when you went off alone with certain… individuals,” I swallow to hold back how I really feel, “he felt that they were unsafe scenarios. He just stayed within earshot in case he heard you in any distress. But he never saw anything,” I hurry to add.
She makes an exasperated noise and I hurry on. I need to make her understand. “I’m worried about you, Callie. Something happened with Gentry. Don’t even try to deny it.”
Her gaze drops at the name and I watch her closer than ever. She swallows and then I notice her hands are trembling.
Jesus, no. She looks afraid. I’ve hoped that whatever he did, it was just threaten her. But what if he hurt her, physically? I’ll kill him. I’ll kill the fucking bastard.
She starts to fidget with her hands and her chin juts out as if she realizes too and is upset about the fact.
“Something happened, something bad, and you changed.” Everything in me wants to reach out to her. Please, Callie, just let me hold you. Let me make it better.
But I also know that sometimes nothing makes it better. It’s a lesson Gentry himself taught me.
If only there were a way to take on some of her hurt myself. To bear it for her. If only she would let me.
She rubs her temples with both hands, looking tired. Looking overwhelmed. Clubgoers stream by us, in and out, voices chatter, cars honk, and the beat of the music from inside the club thunders on and on in the background.
For a second when she looks at me, I can see indecision in her eyes and I think, maybe this is it. The moment she opens up to me. Maybe we can fix this and we’ll be stronger together. Maybe both of us can heal from the wounds Bryce Gentry inflicted on us.
Because the truth is I need her to save me as much as I want to save her.
But then she crosses her arms over her chest and glares at me. “So? What the fuck is this?” Her tone is scathing. “An intervention? Are you here to show me the error of my ways and lead me to the righteous path?”
I can’t do anything but let out a dark, self-deprecating laugh at that question. “I’m the last person in the world to know anything about righteousness.” Our eyes catch again. “But I do know a little bit about finding my way back to sanity after Bryce Gentry blows up a person’s life.”
She squirms a little under my gaze but she doesn’t look away.
“I’m not suggesting that I know what you’ve been through,” I say, “whatever happened. I’m not saying that you should tell me what it was or that I have some great wisdom I can impart.”
“What the hell are you saying then?” She throws up her hands.
Okay, here’s the pitch I’ve been leading up to all night. Stay calm. Don’t let her see how much I want this. “There are safer ways to get the same—” I cast about for a word, “—effect as what you’ve been doing.”
She blinks like, okaaaaaaaaaaaay. And?
So I press on. “There are ways to do it safely. In controlled environments. One possibility is to do it with a partner that you have an established agreement with, no other attachment or strings.” My eyes briefly drop at this. Of course that’s what I’d want more than anything. Mainly because the thought of her with anyone else makes me want to put a fist through the wall.
But by the look on her face it’s clear that’s not going to be on the table. Like she thinks I’m saying all of this just in an attempt to get her back in my bed. Which I’m not.
At least I think I’m not. Jesus, I just want what’s best for her. In the end, I swear that even if I do want her, I want what’s best for her more.
“But that’s not the only option.” I rush the words out. “There are groups of people and places, and I’d like to introduce you. It’s a world where safe, sane, and consensual are the most important tenants.”
Her eyes widen like that phrase rings a bell. My breath quickens and yeah, my cock stiffens a little at the thought that she’s even passingly familiar with the idea of what I’m suggesting.
“As in… BDSM?” she clarifies, eyebrows at her hairline. “Like Fifty Shades?”
I look around. Jesus, say it a little louder. Then I lean in.
“Okay, first of all, those books and movies got a lot of things wrong. A lot. And second, it doesn’t have to be seedy and sleazy.” My eyes search hers. “Most of us who live the lifestyle have perfectly normal lives on the outside. And like I said, all play is safe, sane, and consensual.”
Her eyes went wide as saucers when I mentioned the ‘most of us who live the lifestyle’ part. What is she imagining in her head? Whips and contracts and ball gags? The Fifty Shades version of an emotionally distant, overly-manipulative dominant?
Her eyes are darting every which way and she’s backed up a couple of steps. Shit, am I the one scaring her now?
I frown and don’t go any closer. I don’t move back though, either. “I can’t tell if that face means wow, how interesting or, wow, how can I distract him because I need to get the hell out of here right now.”
“It’s just…” she trails off. “A lot to take in?” Then she nods and repeats, “A lot to take in.” It’s a statement this time.
And she’s not running. All good signs. “I understand. I do. I didn’t mean to,” I wave a hand, “ambush you like this. I was going to suavely run into you in the VIP lounge, buy a round of drinks for your group…”
I shake my head before thinking about why plan went awry before I go looking for walls to put holes in. Just the image of her in that guy’s lap—
“Yeah.” My hand goes to the back of my hair and then I drop it. Jesus, I’ve never met another woman who gets to me as much as Calliope Cruise.
But better to leave it here than to press for too much too fast. “Well. You have my number. So.”
I pause, waiting for her to say something. To give some indication of whether she’ll call or not. To stop me from leaving and declare her undying love for me.
Yeah. She does neither.
Time to go. I give her a half smile. “I’ll see you, Callie.”
I stop myself from reaching for her as I pass by her to head for the town car. But only just barely. Where is all my normal discipline and iron control?
I lock my jaw and start down the sidewalk.
Okay.
But I never could leave well enough alone. When I reach the corner, I turn back around. She’s just standing there on the corner, and God knows what could happen to her if—
“My driver, Sam, is just around the corner,” I call back, “and I could—”
She shakes her head quickly and holds up her phone. “My Uber’s coming. I’m good.”
Of course. Callie is nothing if not self-reliant, or haven’t I learned anything after knowing her for four months?
I flash her a smile, linger looking at her for only a moment because I want to memorize the way she looks tonight, and finally turn to go.
Four
CALLIE
The bottle of wine I drank after getting home from that showdown with Jackson didn’t really help and only results in a monster headache on Saturday morning. Seeing him again after all these months…
He was as gorgeous as ever. The firm jaw and the roug
h stubble on his face. His strong eyebrows and the flat, arrow shape of his nose. At one point when we were arguing, he stepped so close I could smell his aftershave.
The familiar woodsy pine brought on a rush of memories I can’t help losing myself in: the stubble of Jackson’s cheek rasping on my neck as he kissed his way to my ear. Breathing him in while I clutched him close as he thrust into me, over and over again. Him mastering me…
But he’s been fucking following you.
I snap my eyes open and then go to wash my face with cold water. No. I will not be thinking about Jackson Vale anymore.
I spend the rest of the weekend marathoning the second season of Outlander with my sister, Shannon. Thankfully Shannon is addicted to two things in life: strong coffee and immersive TV shows. When we have marathon TV sessions, she gets more lost in the story of the on-screen characters than anyone I’ve ever met. Perfect for me since it means she’s too caught up to concern herself with what’s going on in my life. So I spend the weekend watching TV, eating ice cream, folding laundry, and texting Lydia.
What I do not do, however, is let myself think about any of the things that came out of Jackson Vale’s mouth.
Nope. Not happening. I’m officially checked out for the weekend. The only drama I can handle is of the 18th-century Scottish variety.
And, in small doses, Lydia’s. Lydia rarely has drama, after all. She’s really into the redhead from Friday night, Shayna. Turns out they didn’t hook up that first night. Instead they hung out and walked around downtown San Fran in what apparently turned into one of those epic all night get-to-know-you sessions that ended after sunrise and pancakes.
She only slept a few hours before waking up and immediately blowing up my phone with texts about every detail of the night. After more pings coming in before I can even text back, I finally just call her and we talk for about an hour.
I’ve never heard her so excited about a girl. When we finally hang up I feel the briefest stab of something in my gut. Jealousy? No, I don’t think that’s it. Maybe just the hurt of a memory when I’d been similarly happy at the beginning of what I imagined might be a great relationship. Which leads back to thoughts of Jackson and the confusing tangle of thoughts and emotions and…
“Come on,” Shannon calls. “How long does it take to go to the bathroom? They’re about to land back in Scotland. That means we’ll get to see Jamie in a kilt again. Get your butt back in here!”
Yeah. Time to check out of my own life again. I hurry back into the living room. “Just let me grab another pint of Ben & Jerry’s.”
Now it’s Monday and I’m heading into the CubeThink offices with no better idea of what I would say to Jackson’s unorthodox proposal if I ran into him in the elevator. Not that I usually see him in the office. But what if he’s waiting in the lobby for me, ready to ambush me as I head into work?
When I get there, though, the coast’s clear and I let out a small sigh of relief as the elevator climbs to my floor.
I check my phone. 7:51. Good. I’m going to be conscientious to be early for a while so Marcy doesn’t hold the one time I was late against me for too long. No one can hold a grudge like that lady. So far I think she’s satisfied with my job performance, but you can never really tell with her. It’s not like she gives out compliments. She just seems to berate me less than others on the team.
My immediate coworkers are a small group of four fellow coders. When I started, we were just scrubbing code that comes down to us from above, debugging and scrutinizing it for errors, and then setting up experiments to check run times. Wash, rinse, repeat.
But lately, I’ve been getting to write some code. The algorithms we were working on in the middle of summer were dubbed too slow for product viability. We were given a shot at increasing data-run time with our own code, not just quality testing other people’s work.
I was determined to prove myself, and I’ve actually come up with some solutions that seem to be working. It’s the first time in my life where I feel like I’m accomplishing something that I can be proud of. Something that I’m earning for real—not just because I have a pretty face and a big rack.
My thoughts are full of the project as I grab a coffee and settle into my cubicle. It’s your basic workspace, small but not claustrophobically so. Some people plaster the thin divider ‘walls’ of the cubicles with hundreds of pictures of their kids or their cats. I don’t see the point in that. I’m here to work. I don’t want anything else distracting me. Sure, I have a picture of Charlie that I keep taped to the left-hand side of my desk, but that’s all. This is not my home away from home. This might be a very good job, but at the end of the day, that’s all it is. A job.
The morning is all clear too, so I can get straight to work. Marcy likes us to come off the weekend and jump directly into whatever we’re supposed to be working on. She calls it starting off the week right. Weekly meetings are usually on Thursdays and Fridays. I think the whole Friday meeting thing is to try to get us to obsess about work all weekend.
Might work with some of the more anal types but her mind games don’t work on me. Not after working for the master of mind-fuckery. Plus, I like not having to socialize on a Monday morning when I’m not in the mood.
Like today. Another plus to being a little early? No one’s congregating around the coffee like they do when everyone gets here right at eight o’clock. The last thing I need is anyone wanting to do post-mortems about our respective weekends. It’s bad enough when Bonnie sends me an IM to ask where I disappeared to on Friday. I just shoot a quick message back that I’m deep into working on something. It does the trick. She leaves me alone for the rest of the morning.
It’s about an hour till lunch time when I lift my arms over my head and stretch my neck back and forth that I hear a throat clearing behind me. I swing around in my office chair. A guy stands behind me who looks barely old enough to be in college, shifting awkwardly back and forth from foot to foot.
“Um, hi. Are you,” he looks down at the paper he’s holding in his hands, then frowns, “Cal-ee-o-pee Cruise?”
I roll my eyes at the complete butchering of my name. “Who’s asking?”
The kid looks up at me. “It’s Mr. Vale. I’m interning for him this semester.” He looks very proud of the fact.
My stomach goes tight just at the sound of Jackson’s name. What the fuck? What’s he up to? We don’t see each other at work. That’s our deal. I told him that before I ever agreed to work here. This job wasn’t supposed to come with strings. Does he think just because of whatever Friday was that he suddenly has the right to—
I shake my head and hold out my hand. “Just give me the note.”
The kid’s eyes widen and I realize how clipped my tone was. I force a smile I don’t feel and add, “please.”
He hands the note over and I realize it’s not just a note, it’s a small envelope. I roll my eyes again, this time at the ceremony of it. Why not just send me an interoffice IM like a normal human being? I shove my thumb in the corner of the envelope to rip it open. Inside is just a folded piece of paper with only a few words written in Jackson’s neat handwriting: Please come up to my office. I need to talk to you about something. It’s extremely important.
That’s all. No hints as to what he’s talking about. My foot starts tapping in frustration. Is this just about what he brought up on Friday? Because so help me God, if he tries to push me about his genius plan of becoming my fuck buddy or whatever, his balls are going to be black and blue by the time I’m done with—
“Miss?” the kid butts into my thoughts.
“What?” Again my voice comes off too sharp. But hell, what do I care if I come off like a bitch? Men in offices are short with their employees all the time.
“What should I tell him you said?” the intern asks, seeming intimidated by me. The thought makes me sit up taller and I can’t help myself from smirking a little at him. I bite back what I really want to say just in time—run along little puppy and
tell your master that I’ll answer his summons.
I glance at my laptop screen and then click to lock my station. I head to the elevator without another word. The intern follows at my heels. I push the up arrow.
“So how do you know Mr. Vale?” the kid asks.
Silence. I don’t have any use for inane conversation with some barely legal guy I’ll never see again, so I don’t bother.
The elevator dings and I step inside. The kid moves to follow, but I smile and give a head shake. “You catch the next one.”
I push the closed-door button before he can say anything else. I roll my shoulders and relax as the elevator starts to move up. Damn, I never realized before how good it feels to be a bitch. I think I missed my calling in life.
I smile to myself as I step off onto Jackson’s floor. His middle-aged cardigan-obsessed secretary only nods and waves me through the door from the lobby that leads to the back offices. I’ve been here on the top floor just once before, but it’s enough to remember that Jackson’s office is the last one at the very end. The corner office. Naturally.
The old world elegance hits me all over again. The part of the CubeThink’s offices where I work is perfectly modern. More industry-standard—brightly lit, fake plants around for ambiance. Ours has nicer furniture and desk spaces than I might expect at most office jobs. Other than that, though, it’s fairly sterile.
But up here in the executive offices, comfort and elegance seem to be the watchwords. Even more so when I knock and I enter Jackson’s space. A hulking cherry wood desk dominates the room, complimented by comfortable leather chairs and a plush beige carpet. Not to mention the intimidating man himself who immediately stands and comes toward me as I enter.
He tries to wrap his arms around me in—oh God, is that a hug? Is he seriously trying to hug me? Does he know me at all? I’m not a hugger.
Then I try to recall some of the anger I felt when his little intern was sent to fetch me and cross my arms over my chest. “Desperation isn’t a good look on anyone.”
