Just One Night, Part 3: Binding Agreement (11 page)

“No,” I say out loud, to myself, to the night. “It’s better to live with the humiliations. It’s better to live with consequences.”

I get in my car and drive, my cheeks still burning with shame. Even when I’m miles away, I’m sure I can hear the whispered words of the bartender, I can hear his crude laughter as he tells those strangers my most intimate secrets.

But this time I don’t have to feel ashamed of how I responded.

This time I’m strong enough to live with the insult.

CHAPTER 14

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I’m prepared. I know Mr. Costin won’t make a big formal announcement that I’m leaving, not yet, but these things spread quickly. After all, this isn’t just gossip. It’s the tale of the downfall of a feared rival. Doesn’t matter that I chose to quit, the story will be spun as stories always are. Drama will be added; the ending will be rewritten to deliver more satisfaction.
She was pushed out, she couldn’t cut it; Mr. Dade tired of her, threw her to the wolves
. Maybe they’ll even say I cheated on Robert with Mr. Costin. They might say that when I went into his office, I had not been speaking but had been on his lap, spread out on his desk, my legs open, inviting. Maybe they’d have me on my knees.
She thought she could just keep sleeping her way up the ladder but this time she betrayed the wrong man.

I smile to myself as I tie my hair back up in a twist. The story has a certain circular narrative that works well. I look in the mirror. I’m not wearing any makeup. It’s the way Robert likes me, but he also likes it when I wear my hair down. Dave was the opposite. He wanted my hair neat and tidy but he appreciated the effects of a little bronzer.

But to wear my hair up, with no makeup . . . it’s like I have no mask and no shield. This is just me on my own terms. I’m vulnerable but I want to be strong enough to admit that. I want to be touched by the consequences of my actions. I want to reinvent myself once again, this time using only my own definition as a guide.

I want to, but it scares the hell out of me. I never really did manage to make fear my lover; the best I can do is face it.

I walk into the firm, prepared for the fallout, the derision, the whispers that won’t be so soft anymore. But the atmosphere remains the same. Everyone is deferential. The whispers remain behind closed doors, too quiet to hear.

When I get to my office, Barbara looks tense. “He’s here,” she says.

I don’t have to ask who he is. I glance at my closed door. “In there? Waiting for me?”

She nods, blinks, straightens her posture. “Would you like me to bring you anything? Coffee?”

“Did you bring him coffee?”

“I brought him espresso.”

I can’t help but smile. Yes, people will always worship the moon. I decline the offer of coffee or anything else and suggest that she take a little break. Fifteen minutes . . . maybe a half hour; take your time. She gets the message and takes off while I stare at my closed door.

It’s my office. I shouldn’t be nervous about walking in no matter who’s in there.

But it won’t be my office for long and this isn’t just somebody. It’s Him. I felt so strong when I woke up this morning. I felt strong last night when I refused to seek punishment for the bartender. I felt strong when I handed in my notice.

But I so rarely feel strong in the face of Robert’s opposition. It’s so hard to say no to him, to resist our connection.

“It’s only the moon,” I whisper to myself. I lay my hand on the doorknob, take a deep breath, and step inside.

He’s sitting in front of my desk, facing it, staring out the wall of glass. He doesn’t turn as I walk in but I know he feels me, senses me. . . .

I close the door behind me.

“You quit.”

Carefully I step forward until I’m only a foot behind him. Still he doesn’t turn.

“I handed in my notice.”

“Let’s dispense with the euphemisms. You’ve never used them gracefully. You gave up, on the job, on us, on absolutely everything that could ever matter.”

I laugh at that. I can’t help it. I switch positions again, stand in front of him, lean back on the front of my desk. “There are a lot of things that matter in this world, Robert.”

“You should sit,” he says, his eyes still on the window, “in your chair.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s your chair!” He doesn’t yell but there’s ferocity to his voice that makes me jump. He jerks his eyes from the window and stares directly into mine. “This is your office. This is where you belong until you belong somewhere else, on an even higher floor, with a new throne and a wider empire! You belong here and you belong with me!”

I don’t answer; I can’t find my voice.

He stands up, slowly; there is less than four inches of space between us now. He takes my face in his hands, lifts it up to his gaze. “You belong with me,” he says, his anger suddenly gone, replaced with what seems like exhaustion.

“I thought so, too,” I say quietly, “until you showed me your world.”

“You don’t like what you see?” He shakes his head. “That has not been my observation.”

“Oh, it’s an enticing world. You make fantasy reality. That bar, Wishes.” I smile slightly and repeat the word. “Wishes. It’s like a
Pan’s Labyrinth
–type fairy tale—”

“Which is a hell of a lot more interesting than the G-rated Disney fairy tales Dave wanted you to live in.” He lifts my arm, kisses the inside of my wrist.

“Yes,” I say, struggling to keep my focus, “except in this fairy tale good and evil have no meaning. You just make wishes and they come true. Those who don’t play along are kicked out of the game.
Of course
that’s appealing when you’re the one making the wishes. But it’s your world, Robert, not mine.”

He releases my arm; his face hardens. Anger passion, frustration, and yes, love, I can see it all there, smashing together, tearing him apart. “It could be our world. That’s what I want, Kasie. I want us to rule side by side. I want the wishes that are granted to be
our
wishes. It could happen, just give me some time—”

“Oh Robert, you can rewrite history but you can’t rewrite the present. I’m leaving you and this job not because of the power that I don’t have yet but because I don’t want to rule. Not like this.”

“So you want to play somebody else’s game?” he seethes. “You want to let them trample you? Take everything away from you?”

I reach out, let my fingers rest on his chest, right above his heart. “I used to wonder what it was that connected us. I couldn’t figure out why we were so intensely drawn to each other. I’ve been telling myself that you are the moon and I’m the ocean, that you raise my tides with your gravity.”

He smiles for the first time. “The moon and the ocean, I like that.”

“It’s a pretty metaphor,” I acknowledge, “but maybe a bit too simple. I think I sensed in you a kindred spirit, a fellow runaway.”

His brow creases; he moves out of my reach. “I’m not running away from anything, Kasie. I never have.”

“Robert, you’ve been running your entire life. So have I. The only difference is that I’ve been running from my sister’s mistakes and you’ve been running from the mistakes of your parents. We’ve worked so hard not to be them that we’ve forgotten how to be ourselves.”

“No,” he says, almost childlike now. “I saved you from that! It was Dave who wanted to remake you. He was the one who wanted to turn you into a little Stepford wife! I set you free!”

“No, Robert. You just got me running in a different direction.”

His hand goes to his stomach; he clutches the fabric of his shirt, and for a moment I see the little boy, the one who was forced to stand and watch as his father was dragged off to jail for a crime he didn’t commit. The boy who watched his mother count out how many apples she could afford to put in their shopping cart. I see that boy’s confusion. I see that he’s lost.

Again I step forward, again I reach for him, and again he pulls away . . . but not by much. When I reach for him again, he stays still, let’s me run my hand over his cheek, smooth from his last shave. He closes his eyes and there it is, the thing I didn’t think was possible. . . .

The moon sheds a tear.

I kiss it away, then the next one as it falls down his face. And then a soft sob as I pull him to me, take him in my arms, kissing each salty tear as it falls in increasingly rapid succession. I want to soothe the little boy inside. I want to wrap my arms around him and tell him it’s okay, he can relax. He can stop running.

He finds my mouth, kisses me fiercely; his arms circle me, pull me closer, his need so intense, it takes my breath away.

“Let’s stop running,” I whisper and in a second we’re on our knees, both of us clinging to the other. He’s pulling off my jacket. His skin is still salty as I kiss his cheeks, his jaw, his mouth.

Gently, he lowers me to the floor and when I whisper his name, a little cry escapes him and I can hear the release of the breath he’s been holding for all these years.

Our shirts are off; it’s skin against skin. I can feel it but can’t see it. Our eyes stay locked, closing only long enough for the kisses that we keep indulging in.

It’s never been this way before. It’s never been so . . . equal. The only power I feel is the power of our unspoken love. It fills the room, slides up the walls as surely as his hands slide up my thighs. Everything seems to take on a golden hue—soft, rich, nostalgic, and new all at the same time.

My skirt is around my waist; I feel the tight twist of my hair loosen. I grasp his sculpted arms, press my breasts against his hard chest. He’s so strong, this man-child of mine. He’s built like an athlete. Like a runner.

We roll over the hard floor and I pull desperately at his belt. Nothing can separate us. I want to be connected to him in every way. I need to take him inside of me, inside where he can feel safe.

His pants come off. He’s ready for me, needing me. I feel his erection pressed against my hip as his mouth continues to explore mine as if he’s never kissed me before, as if each kiss is fulfilling a dream.

And when he enters me I’m the one who cries out. I didn’t realize how much I wanted this. How much I’ve been wanting to make love to
this
man, Robert, the man Mr. Dade never lets anyone see.

I feel his lips on my neck now; his touch is so warm, his heartbeat so strong, as strong as mine. The rhythm pounds together in an enthralling and discordant beat.

And then he stops; still inside me he puts his hand gently against my face and looks down into my eyes, his own gray eyes wide in wonderment, like he can’t believe he’s here, with me, making love to me without his mask, without my shield.

And the love I feel pouring out of him . . . it makes me cry and then laugh as he imitates my earlier actions, kissing away my tears.

And he moves again, moving his hips in circular motions, hitting every spot as he holds me. We’re so quiet now. No one standing outside the door would be able to hear. This moment is private, special, and so earth-shatteringly beautiful.

I squeeze my thighs together so that I can tighten myself around him, feel every ridge, savor the friction. He turns us on our sides and I intertwine my legs with his. Our bodies are clasped together like two pieces of a puzzle, a perfect fit. He presses inside me, grinding against me, our arms are wrapped around each other. Lightly, I run my nails down his back and he kisses my cheek, my forehead, my hair.

My head is buried in his neck as the orgasm comes, rolling through me like a slow wave. Yes, I’m the ocean again but this is not a hurricane. This is the wave that beckons. I arch my back, shuddering as I give in to it.

In that moment, as he comes inside of me, whispering my name, showering me with loving kisses, I feel the culmination of our devotion pounding through me. I feel him collapse against me, his passion finally spent.

And in that moment I wonder, is this yet another beginning?

The thought should scare me but it doesn’t. Nothing could scare me right now. Not now as I hold Robert in my arms, feeling his warm, uneven breathing against my skin. No, there’s nothing to be afraid of here. Here, in this moment, there is nothing to run from.

And we stay like that for what seems like forever but is probably only minutes. Just the two of us, holding each other in tender silence.

It’s not until I hear Barbara return, hear her drop something on her desk, hear her chair screech across the floor unceremoniously, that the moment begins to fade. The golden hue dissipates. The hard floor begins to feel uncomfortable against my back.

And something in Robert changes, too. He stiffens and without his moving a muscle I feel it. I feel him pulling away.

I don’t say anything when he gets up. I don’t speak as he pulls on his clothes, tosses mine to me.

He won’t meet my eyes.

“You should tell Mr. Costin you’re not quitting after all,” he says. “He won’t give you a hard time about it. I’ll see to that.”

His words are mechanical but that’s not what bothers me. What bothers me is that the things he’s saying . . . it’s as if the whole conversation that led up to us naked on the floor, making love, it’s as if he’s erased that whole conversation from his mind. Or perhaps more accurately, it’s that he’s letting me know he will never acknowledge it again. He’s telling me that any moments of truth, any glimpses I may get of the man underneath the ambition, will never be more than that: moments and glimpses. They will never last. They will never influence the greater narrative.

I pull on my shirt. I’m so tired, so incredibly sad. “I’m leaving this job, Robert.” I’m still sitting on the floor. I look up at him. He stands above me, once again taking on the posture of a king. “I’m taking a new path,” I remind him. And then I add, with just a spark of hope, a dose of pleading, “Will you come with me?”