Just One Night, Part 3: Binding Agreement (13 page)

CHAPTER 17

D
AYS PASS INTO
weeks, weeks into months. I don’t hear from him. The wound stays where it is, carved into my lungs so I feel it with every sigh.

But I don’t sigh quite as much anymore.

Initially I thought Simone’s suggestion that I start my own business was silly, even stupid. Isn’t that why Robert and I had broken up? Because he wanted me to play by my own rules and I had wanted to play by rules that were already set in stone by others?

It took me a few weeks of unemployment to realize that no, that wasn’t it at all. Robert had wanted me to play by
his
rules. Dave had wanted me to play by rules that were set in a different time, in a different place, in a world that only truly exists in those men’s clubs he can’t get into anymore.

I don’t want that either. And that’s when I realize that for once in my life I don’t have to live in the extremes. I don’t have to make fear my lover but I don’t have to run from it either. If I can just face it, a little at a time, find that illusive middle ground . . . that place where you set some of the rules but not others . . . then maybe I’ll be okay.

So I take the leap, decide to work for myself. I start small, a little office leased out of a big building. I seek out clients whose profits are still modest, businesses with untapped potential, fledgling entrepreneurs whose ideas can be spun into gold. I give them my ideas and they give me their money. And little by little the success grows, slowly, like drip-brewed coffee. It takes a while but the unhurried process just makes the coffee a little richer, better, and a hell of a lot more satisfying.

Simone and I have gotten into the habit of hanging out once a week. Sometimes we have dinner. Other times we wear our tightest dresses and go to the most exclusive lounges in LA. I let the men look, enjoy their attention, but it stops there. I have boundaries again, but they’re
my
boundaries. The only expectations I’m trying to live up to are the ones I’ve set for myself. It’s a completely new experience for me and at times it’s unnerving. I still occasionally doubt myself and wonder if I’m doing something wrong. But the men at the lounges admire me, my friendship with Simone has strengthened, and my new clients respect me. The mistakes I’ve made have not led to the ultimate rejection. I have not been erased . . . not even by my parents.

Yes, they still call me daughter. We speak every few weeks, never more often than that. They don’t understand me but they’re afraid to question the change. Afraid I’ll mention Melody again. So in that way perhaps fear is still working for me, finding dark ways to keep my parents’ disapproval at bay.

I get through my days just fine. It’s the nights, when all the lights are out and I lie alone in my bed, it’s only then that I find myself sighing. That’s when the pain seeps in through the cracks under the door.

Sometimes I talk to him. I tiptoe out to my tiny backyard still dressed in my nightgown. I curl up on my patio chair and stare up at the moon. I ask him what mysteries he’s seen since we last spoke. I ask if he’s angry. If he’s hurt. When I’m feeling bitter, I ask if that rock he calls a heart still beats for me. I ask if he ever tires of all the worshipers, if anyone or anything could ever understand him as well as the ocean. All those witches and tribes of men who dance for him, give him offerings and songs, do any of those gifts compare to the tidal waves I gave him?

And then I close my eyes and feel my tides rise. I imagine him standing behind me, his hands in my hair, then my shoulders, finally sliding to my breasts, toying with my nipples until they’re as hard as his heart.

I hear his whisper in the sounds of the wind. “One more hurricane, just for us.”

And there, in my backyard, he comes to me, illuminated in the darkness. I slip my hand between my legs, the nightgown gathering around my thighs, and I feel his mouth work its way down my spine, across my hips. I feel his hands caressing my stomach, holding my waist, strong hands with a tender touch.

My legs fall open, inviting him to dip into my waters. I’m wet, ready for him, eager and available. When I run my fingers along my sex, it’s his tongue I feel, toying with my clit before sliding inside of me, tasting me, making me tremble.

And then he raises himself up, makes a trail of kisses along my hairline, my jaw, my cheek. He bites down gently on my lower lip. Yes, this is where we belong, right here, wrapped up in the cool breeze of early spring. I look up and all I can see is the deep purple midnight sky. With few stars, the light of the moon drowns them out, all but Mars with its red glow.

Mars. The God of war.

I feel his breath in my hair; it’s the wind, and I feel his arms wrap around me.

In those moments all my senses are heightened. The scent of the grass is his cologne; the drops of dew are his sweat as he labors on top of me, taking me, right here in my backyard.

I slide down in my chair and when I press my fingers inside, the moon seems to shine a little brighter—its gravitational pull just as strong and overwhelming as it ever was. The waters rise as my hips move to this imagined rhythm. I can’t say either of us is controlling it. This rhythm—passionate, at times frenzied, unpredictable in its periodic change of tempo—this is just who we are. We’re lost in it. When I kiss him, the wind moves through the trees; when I arch my back, they bend.

“That’s how strong our passion is,” he says and I cry out in the kind of agony that can only be brought on by love.

His hands are everywhere now. On my breasts, my waist, my ass; I run my thumb to touch myself in just the right spot as I continue to plunge my fingers inside . . . but it’s his thumb I feel, his erection thrusting inside my walls.

The ecstasy is almost unbearable. It shakes me, heats me from within, and I’m reminded that the ocean has volcanoes, too.

“Explode inside of me,” I whisper. “Make us complete.”

And he does, and the waters crash over the shores. Power, beauty, destruction . . . life. It’s all there as we cling to each other. I can still feel him throbbing inside of me, each twitch adding ripples to my calming tide.

It’s only then that finally the orgasm is complete.

On those nights it takes me a few seconds to catch my breath, a few moments before the fantasy fades, only minutes before the melancholy sets in.

When I walk back to my bedroom, there is no one there to kiss away the tears.

But the sadness doesn’t last, either. It weakens as the sun rises and continues to dissipate as I get on with my day, my work, my life. And it’s in this process that I find myself. It’s while signing another client to another contract, it’s when I’m able to hire my first employee, when my file cabinets are filled with documents covered in beautiful, soothing numbers, that I realize, I’m never again going to be lost. I may have some steep climbs ahead of me, some jagged rocks I need to navigate, but I’ve got my compass.

There are days when I barely think about my past; I’m too wrapped up in my present, my future, my life.

And then there are days like this.

It started off fine. I take a call from a potential client, typing notes into my computer. The woman on the other end of the line is the owner of three successful restaurants, all located in LA County. She’s looking to expand outside the area but could use a little guidance in regard to executing her plan. It’s the kind of project I was put on in my early days at the firm, back when I was getting my feet wet, the kind of project that’s so small no one at the firm really cared if it got messed up or not. But now that it’s my business, these types of accounts have become the fuel that keeps the acceleration steady and consistent. So I get her details, set up a time for us to meet face to face in the coming days, and ask her how she heard about me.

“I was referred,” she says mildly. “By my tax attorney actually. Dave Beasley.”

My fingers hover over my keyboard. “Dave,” I repeat.

“Yes, that’s right.”

I type the name into the appropriate line.
Referred by Dave Beasley
. Even when I stare at the words on the screen, I still can’t quite comprehend them.

“When was this?” I ask.

“Oh just a few days ago . . . actually it might have been a week. Time’s been getting away from me.”

Which is what I thought Dave wanted to do, get away from me. But he had to know this woman would mention his name. He had to know I would seek him out. “Can you give me the name of the firm he works for?” I ask, casually, as if this is another question for my form.

She gives me the name of a firm I know well. A direct competitor to the firm he was apparently fired from. It’s a lateral move, but considering the state he was in when I last saw him . . .

I wrap up my conversation with the woman on the phone, lock up my office, and go to see Dave.

CHAPTER 18

I
T TAKES ME
just over a half hour to get to the nondescript building housing this law firm in Culver City. Not knowing if he would have agreed to speak to me, I didn’t call first. But unless he’s had a complete personality transplant, he’ll see me if I show up in person, if only to prevent a scene at his work.

I announce myself to the receptionist out front; I want to keep my voice light and professional but a layer of nervousness colors my tone. Not that it matters. Most people sound nervous when they go to see a tax attorney.

In less than two minutes he comes out. The man I saw at Chipotle has been replaced by a guy who bears a much greater resemblance to my former fiancé.

He graces me with a practiced smile, shakes my hand as if I’m a client, and leads me to his private office. As soon as the door closes his smile drops and his eyes become wary, which is as much as I expected. What I didn’t expect . . . or at least was uncertain of, was the sophistication of the office itself. It’s nice, maybe even a little nicer than the one Dave had before. And it’s so very him. The walls are white, the desk is neat, not a single paper left out. The file cabinets gleam as if they’ve just been polished. There are no plants. No pictures. A Jack Nicklaus–autographed golf ball sits in a case. Dave isn’t a really big golf fan but he thinks he should be. It’s a little lie to enhance the bigger ones that he surrounds himself with.

“I guess you got a job,” I say while examining the autograph. If it wasn’t for the certificate framed directly above it, I would never know what this signature said. Writing on a golf ball with a felt-tip pen can’t be easy.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead he takes his time as he walks to the chair behind his desk, ensuring that he’s in his place of authority. “A quick glance at the company website would have answered that question,” he points out.

“Yes,” I agree. I turn, face him. “But it wouldn’t have explained why you referred one of your clients to me.”

He gives a slight nod. Clearly he had anticipated the question. “So Lynn Johns called you?” He smiles, a little maliciously. “It’s a small account but I figured you’d take what you could get. Tell me, Kasie, how does it feel to be playing in the minors again?”

I study his face. “No, you didn’t refer her just to see if I’d take a smaller account, to see if I’m desperate. So what was it? Is there a trap here I’m not seeing?”

He holds my gaze, but only for about five seconds before abruptly turning away. “She needed a consultant. Referring her to you seemed prudent.”

“Prudent?”

“Look around you,” he snaps. “I’m back where I was, different scenery, same position, same prestige. The rumors about my embezzlement disappeared within a week of our last conversation. You whispered a request into that man’s ear and suddenly my career has risen from the sewer, freshly scrubbed and smelling of lilacs.” He adjusts his position, his cheeks red with anger and embarrassment. “Guess that makes him my hero, too, huh?” he sneers. “Mr. Dade, the man who fucked my fiancée has now, in his infinite mercy, decided not to destroy the rest of my life. I suppose you’re here to ask me to thank him? To humiliate me just a little more?”

I let the words sink in and consider what they mean about Robert and my feelings about him. “No,” I say. “I would never ask you to thank a man for not making your destruction his goal. You don’t have to thank me either. Not with words, not with clients.”

“Yeah, well I prefer to play it safe if it’s all the same to you.”

He’s still not looking at me. It’s kind of funny. Here we are in his office that is so much nicer than mine. The view spans across the city to the hills. He has the power of a well-established firm of lawyers behind him. And yet he’s the one afraid of
me
. I haven’t been in this position for some time now and like an ex-smoker sucking up the secondhand smoke of others, I will always take a guilty pleasure in the scent of power.

But I won’t pick up the cigarette. “You can do what you like, I’m just telling you your future doesn’t depend on your support of me.”

“I don’t support you, Kasie,” he retorts. “All I’ll ever do is send you a client or two. Try not to sleep with them, will you?”

I smile at the insult; he’s earned the right to hurl it. And I’ve earned the right to walk away. So I do, leaving Dave to his success and anger.

*   *   *

I’M NOT IN
the mood to go home. Instead I go to a small hotel, not far from Dave’s office. I find the bar, a quiet place with dark corners. I’ve only been in my seat for a minute before the cocktail waitress approaches. “What can I get you?” she says in a voice a little too high, a tone a little too bright.

I glance at the drink specials: açaí mojitos, peach Bellinis, gingered pear martinis . . . alcoholic sins hidden within antioxidant blessings. I don’t want to kid myself today.

“I’d like a scotch, please,” I say quietly.

“Any particular kind?”

I shake my head. “Something expensive,” I say with a ghost of a smile.

Her face lights up, a little more eager now as she notes my request on her pad and goes off to consult the bartender.

I close my eyes, remember the moment. Robert and I, sitting in that bar with glass walls. He had offered me champagne. I had wanted something stronger. . . .

The waitress comes back with my drink. I don’t ask how much it is and she doesn’t offer the price. If I have to mortgage my house for the memory, it’ll be worth it.

I clink the ice cubes together. He had taken a scotch-drenched ice cube, dragged it slowly along the neckline of my Herve Leger, up my thigh, between my legs. . . .

And then he had tasted the scotch.

I lift the glass, stare into the golden brown liquid. What should the toast be today? Cheers? I’m not that happy.
Salut?
But how healthy can I be when my heart is still in fragments?

I raise my glass a little higher. “To memories,” I say quietly to myself before bringing the drink to my lips.

The taste is smoky and luxurious and, yes, it makes me think of him. It makes me think of sex.

It would have been better if Dave had told me that things had changed for him a week ago, a day ago, an hour ago. But it happened months ago; Robert had rectified things for Dave within days of our breakup. Back when he cared, before he had moved on. And now? Who knows what he feels now? Maybe he’s with someone else.

I close my eyes against the thought.

Another sip, another memory, another tear.

“This looks like a good table.”

I keep my eyes closed, unsure if the voice I heard was from my memory or from a man standing beside me. And not just any man. . . .

My grip around my glass tightens; my breathing gets just a little bit quicker.

I hear the sound of something being dropped on the table.

Keeping my eyes low I look. A deck of cards. A spade on the cover of the open box, a lone queen of hearts pulled halfway out, as if she’s trying to escape. I don’t look up but I can see his legs, see his strong hands hanging at his sides, as if waiting for something to hold.

“Care to make it interesting?”

It’s only then that I will myself to meet his eyes. Were they always that stormy? So hopeful? I want to reach for him but instead I reach for the cards.

“I thought that’s what we were doing,” I say as I pull the deck out, shuffle it with moderate skill. He sits opposite me, watches the cards dance.

“More interesting,” he says softly. “If I have a better hand, we’ll leave the table and you’ll have a drink with me.”

“And if I have the upper hand?” I ask. The words are hard to get out, the emotions too close to the surface for me to keep my voice steady.

He puts his hand over mine, over the cards, stilling them. “Then I’ll have a drink with you.”

The calluses on his palms seem a little rougher than I remember, the tension between us a little thicker.

I gently pull away. “I’ll have the drink, but I’m not ready to leave the table.” I continue to shuffle and then very carefully deal the cards. “Not yet.”

He watches my motions; there’s a flicker of confusion as he asks what we’re playing.

“Heads-up poker,” I say, the words a little clipped.

“Not blackjack?”

“No.” I pick up my hand. “It’s a different place, different time, different game.” I lift my eyes to his, hold his gaze. “And like all games this one has rules. Are you ready to play by the rules, Mr. Dade?”

His mouth curves up at one corner. Slowly he picks up his cards. “Shall we gamble with coins?”

“With secrets,” I say, “and with answers.”

“Really?” he asks. A couple enters the bar, their voices are too bright for this mood-lit room. Out of the corner of my eye I see her metal-tipped heels tapping against the floor.

“It sounds like you’re making up the rules as you go along, Kasie,” he says.

“And changing them at a whim,” I say. “But the basic structure of the game, that stays pure. Understand? We can be creative with how and what we risk but the game is poker. The rules are what they are.”

He nods, looks down at his cards. “I’m not sure I know how to gamble away a secret.”

“I’ll teach you,” I say, my focus on the cards. I put my hand on the surface of the table as if touching something invisible there. “I’m in for one secret.”

He smiles. “I’ll see your secret and raise you an answer.”

It’s odd that we can be so playful when there is so much time, pain, and ambiguity between us. But I sense this is the best way to proceed.
Stay with the cards, Kasie,
my angel whispers.
The numbers will give you something solid to hold on to.

My angel is learning. She is beginning to understand this version of me.

And so the game goes on and as it does, the stakes are raised again; another answer is offered. His face is blank as a poker player’s should be. But his hands shake, only a little, but I see it. And I know it has nothing to do with cards.

I win this hand, beating his flush with four of a kind. The woman with the metal heels is doing shots while her date swears into his phone.

Robert leans back in his seat. “I believe I have a debt to pay.”

“Yes, I’d like your answers first.” Slowly, I gather his cards and mine, form them into a neat pile. “How did you find me here, Robert? Have you been following me?”

“Yes.”

I suck in a long breath, start to shuffle the cards. “Just today?”

“No. I’ve followed you twice before.”

I keep my head down, my heart skipping along with the shuffling cards. What he’s describing is the behavior of a stalker.

But the thing about stalkers is that they care. As Simone once explained to me, stalkers know how to commit.

Then again, commitment has never been our problem.

“I still owe you my secret.”

My hands still. I raise my eyes, waiting.

“I need you,” he says, his voice so quiet I have to lean forward to hear. “That’s my secret. I need you more than you have ever needed me.”

“That’s not true.”

He rests his fingers on top of the still deck; the woman at the bar orders another round. “I’ve been thinking about your metaphor. The ocean and the moon. The thing is, it’s not the tides that make the ocean so important. There’s so much more to it than that. But the moon? Without the ocean what’s its purpose? It’s just a barren rock. A mere reflection of the sun’s light.”

“Are you trying to tell me your life has no purpose without me?” I ask, dryly.

“No, I’m telling you that you’re the only thing on this earth that has made me feel connected to what’s here. When I’m with you, I know what’s real. I can feel it, touch it. When I’m with you, I’m something more than . . . other. When I’m not with you, my head’s in the stars.”

“But that’s how you like it,” I remind him. “It’s why we broke up. You wanted to live your dreams without leaving a footprint, without the cumbersome terrestrial rules the rest of us live by. The rules that
I
live by.”

“We broke up because I was afraid.”

Those last words come out quickly, impulsively.

For the first time since I’ve known him I see Robert blush.

Slowly he pulls his hands away.

“That’s two secrets,” he says. “I overpaid.”

I pause to consider before picking up the cards again. “No,” I say. “In my opinion you haven’t paid nearly enough.”

I catch his fleeting smile as I deal out another hand. This game moves faster. I find I have to bluff, a specialty of mine. But he still wins with a full house against my two pair.

I reach for my scotch. “I need your questions before I can give you my answers.”

“If I try to play by the rules,” he says slowly, “if I try to live with consequences, will you forgive me? Can we try again?”

“That’s two questions.”

“You owe me the answers to three.”

I put down my drink, reach for the cards. “Those don’t sound like real questions.”

“What—”

“Are you honestly suggesting that you can change?” I interrupt. The emotion in my voice is taut and rich, my volume loud enough to garner a glance from the garish couple at the bar.