Push Me (To The Edge series, #1) (5 page)

The only real passion
and intimacy Ian was capable of was physical.

I wanted
true passion, raw emotion. I wanted something that was so real, so true, so honest, so deeply felt in our souls that no words would be sufficient to describe it.

I mistook
Ian’s physical passion for that in the beginning. I misinterpreted his desire to protect and provide for me as that kind of love.

Silly. I har
dly knew him then.

But I knew him
now. Or at least I knew him well enough to know that behind that mask of wealth and materialism, beneath his beautiful skin, deep down inside his nearly flawless body, there was something dark that he would never face.

I had tried to talk to him about it, practically begging him to tell me something, anything, just one little piece of his life.

“Let me in,” I would say, nearly pleading but maintaining just enough dignity that it wouldn’t get to that point.

Sometimes he wouldn’t say anything at all, but most of the time he’d deny that there was a reason he wouldn’t open up emotionally. He was lying to me, and it pissed me off. But mostly I felt badly for him because he was lying to himself.

He was intensely private. Almost obsessively so. We almost never went out, and when we did, we always ended up in a private room of a small restaurant. We never went to movies or concerts. Our lives revolved around work and sex, very little else.

Ian
had family in Utah, and the only thing he told me about them was that they were “hyper-religious” and he no longer had anything to do with them. I never pressed him for more information about them, nor did I ask why he didn’t seem to have any friends. His social circle, if you could even call it that, was comprised solely of people who did what he did for a living, and the only thing they seemed to do as a group was dine out once in a while. There were never any guys nights out, no fishing trips, no going to sporting events, nothing you’d expect a typical guy in his thirties to be doing.

Aside from
Rachel, I had very little contact with anyone other than Ian. I had a small, tight-knit group of friends back in New Jersey, but it had gotten to the point where we kept up mainly on Facebook. We’d also see each other sometimes during holidays and on the rare occasion that some of them would be in Manhattan and in the last year I’d had to turn those opportunities down twice because Ian had to do something work-related.

I had also lost almost all contact with
Steven and Ross, two of my best friends from college, but that wasn’t entirely my fault. They had moved to Boston when Massachusetts became the first state to approve same-sex marriage, and even though New York had legalized it since then, they chose to stay in Boston. That was a little over a year ago, so they were gone before I even met Ian. The only time I’d seen them since then was when I went to Boston to attend their wedding. Ian, of course, didn’t go.

No one at work knew anything about my private life. Which really isn’t a bad thing. Especially when you begin to realize that you wouldn’t want
your coworkers to know anything about your life at all, thanks to the person you were living with.

I
had come to realize that Ian struggled with a major case of paranoia. That was my layman’s diagnosis, anyway. It was as though he worried that people would take advantage of him, or steal from him if he let them get too close. It was hard to figure out.
He
was hard to figure out, and it didn’t take long before I realized he wasn’t going to wake up one day a changed man.

I’d toyed with the idea of trying to get
Ian to talk to someone, get professional help, but more than once I’d heard him make a comment about psychiatry in general. He claimed it was “feel-good nonsense,” and that therapists and doctors in the field were “selling snake oil.” So I knew that there was no point in suggesting it.

It reminded me of Tom Cruise’s
Today Show
outburst on the same subject. In fact, it was almost identical to that, the only difference being that Ian wasn’t a Scientologist. Well, at least as far as I knew he wasn’t. I’d never heard of Utah being a bastion of Scientology, but as secretive as Ian was, he could have been the leader of the Church of Scientology and I wouldn’t have known it.

.  .  .  .  .

I woke up about 4:15 the next morning, shortly before Ian’s alarm would go off. The room was completely dark. We were tangled together on the bed, the top sheet twisted through our legs. Restless sleep was the norm for us.

The room was cold, but I was warm next to
Ian’s naked body.

He stirred as I got out of the bed and went over to the dresser. Shortly after he arrived last night, he went into the
bathroom to wash his face and brush his teeth. I took the opportunity to turn my phone off. I could have simply put it on silent, but there was still the risk of the screen lighting up and it catching Ian’s attention when Sam called. I could have ignored it, sure, but in the off chance he saw it and asked if I wanted to answer it, I would have said no, and who knows what kind of questions that would have brought up.

Thinking I must have seemed like a real bitch for ignoring
Sam, I wanted to turn on my phone and check for missed calls and texts.

Before I could, though, t
he room lit up. I turned and saw Ian sitting on the edge of the bed, rubbing his eyes.

A
n empty condom package was on the nightstand on Ian’s side of the bed, a bottle of lube next to it. Scarves hung from the corners of the headboard that was attached to the wall. My leather locking hasp corset, which Ian had brought with him, was on the floor on my side of the bed, and on top of that, the red eye-mask that I wore to bed often, but never for sleep. The aftermath of our sex.

“Morning, Sweet
. What are you doing over there? Come here.”

I went back to the bed and sat down beside him. He reached up and ran a finger along my cheek, then tucked my hair behind my left ear.

“What would I ever do without you?” he said.

I hated when he uttered things like that.
A sentence like that was supposed to be one of those romantic, heartfelt, breathtaking things a man says to the woman he loves. I used to long to hear them, but now it did nothing for me.

Sitting there next to him, I was naked and totally exposed.
Ian was naked, too, but had the top sheet covering him.
Hiding
him. A perfect metaphor for the dynamics of our relationship. And it was in those quiet few moments that morning that I knew beyond any level of doubt that it was over, if there was even a shred of doubt to begin with. I had planned on ending it when I arrived back in New York, but sitting there, I almost did it right then. Something stopped me, though. I wasn’t quite ready to do it, and decided to stick with my original plan.

When
Ian went down to the hotel gym, I turned on my phone. There were three texts and one voicemail. Two texts from Sam, one saying he left me a voicemail, the other saying he was sorry it didn’t work out. The other text was from Rachel, sent around 1 a.m., that read:
Did you meet him??? Need details!

I listened to
Sam’s message. He addressed me as Claire, of course, and I was feeling more and more guilty for misleading him. It was short and simple—“Give me a call if you’d like to meet. I’ll be up late.”

Dam
mit. I’d made things so complicated. I didn’t need any more problems, especially at this point in my life, when I was on the verge of leaving Ian.

It was early, and I knew she wouldn’t be awake yet but I texted
Rachel:
CRAZINESS down here. I’ll call you later.

.  .  .  .  .

Ian’s plan for the day was to look into a potential business acquisition in Atlanta. At least, that’s what he told me last night. I knew he had come here just to keep an eye on me.

He would
swing by the store and pick me up around six, then we’d fly back to NYC on his plane. I didn’t want to do that, but I wanted to avoid a fight more, so I let him have his way.

I called
Rachel during lunch.

“Fucking hell!” was her reaction. “Imagine if—”

“I know.”

“—
he had found the two of you together.”

I was at a deli, having a salad with grilled chicken
and a sweet tea. It was busy, a long line at the counter, all the tables crammed together, with people eating hurriedly.

“It’s not like I would have had
Sam in my room.”

“You don’t know that.”

“What? Yes, I do. And I take offense at your not-so-subtle hint that I’m a slut.”

Two older ladies were at the table right next to mine. Out of my peripheral vision, I saw their heads turn at the word “slut.” I looked back at them and smiled.

Rachel said, “Where’s Ian now?”

“Out somewhere. Who knows? He claims he’s scoping out a company here.”

“Yeah, right. The only thing he’s scoping out is you.”

I put my fork down, and took a deep breath. “As if I don’t know that.”

“So did you get in touch with Sam?”

“Not yet. I’m not sure what to tell him. I feel bad for ignoring him.”

“Tell him you fell asleep.”

“
Doing what?” I said. “Watching the boring baseball game?”

“You could. It’s not a bad icebreaker.”

I thought about it for a minute. What the hell had I been thinking when I agreed to go have a drink with him? I’d turned that over and over in my head last night as I was going to sleep after the routinely mechanical sex with Ian, and came up with this realization: I craved time with a guy who wasn’t anything like Ian and I was projecting that on Sam.

It wasn’t fair—not to me, and not to
Sam. I owed him an apology. But the whole thing was so awkward, I didn’t want to deal with it at all. I’d be leaving Atlanta later in the day and I wouldn’t have to be in the airport terminal, so there was little chance of running into Sam again. He hadn’t followed up on the texts and voicemail from last night, so he’d probably given up anyway.

“There’s no ice to break,” I said to
Rachel. “I’m not going to write him back.”

“Your call. I won’
t try to pressure you, but I think you’ll regret it.”

Chapter Five

I made it through the entire workday without hearing from Sam. I took that as confirmation that I had made the right decision in not writing him back. He was divorced, a somewhat recognizable figure if you followed baseball, good looking, and charming, so I’m sure there was no shortage of women who were more than willing to give him some attention. Why would he care so much about me not returning his messages? Obviously he didn’t.

Later that evening, on the flight home,
Ian had dinner waiting for us on his plane.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Coq au vin and pommes duchesse,” he said, affecting a heavy French accent.

Say what?

I looked up at him, then back down at the plate. “Looks like chicken and potatoes to me.”

He shook his head. “It’s rooster with Burgundy, and the potatoes are piped from a bag
with a little egg mixed in. That’s how they get that shape.”

Yep
, I thought,
chicken and potatoes.

Rather than say that and start a debate about the food, I just ate.

Ian poured himself some more wine. “Tell me about your day.”

My day had been
routine, nothing special to report, and actually went very well, so I kept it short and sweet, and turned the conversation to his day. “What company were you looking at?”

As he a
nswered, my mind wandered. My thoughts started with the chicken and potatoes, but that episode was purely emblematic of a larger issue.

I’m sure I seem ungrateful for the nice stuff
Ian did for me, but that’s not what it’s about. I didn’t take any of it for granted. I appreciated it, and it was all very nice. For a while, anyway.

And then I began to see it as pretentious.

I get it. People like what they like, and, as the saying goes, there’s no accounting for taste. But
Ian’s lifestyle wasn’t my taste. It wasn’t me.

I probably should have taken that more seriously from the beginning
….

.  .  .  .  .

I had met Ian at an art show about a year ago. He was there with a very glamorous looking woman who, in heels, was almost as tall as he was. Later, when I learned of Ian’s need for dominance and control, I found it odd that he would deign to even stand beside a woman who nearly matched his six-foot frame.

I guess maybe that was part of the reason that he was working the room so much, glad-handing and bac
k-slapping the other invited guests, a social side of Ian I saw only that once in the entire time I knew him.

I wasn’t an invited guest. I was working.
Rachel owned a catering business and one of her servers called in sick at the last minute. She called me, just to vent, and was worried about being understaffed. It was her first job with this client and she was understandably concerned about making the right impression. It was a Saturday night and I had nothing else planned, so I volunteered to help her out.

Ian
caught my attention immediately. He’s a striking sight, and it starts with his eyes, a deep sea green with hints of blue. The color is so vivid you’d almost think he wears colored contacts, and that’s actually what I thought most of the night, but found out later that they’re all natural. They’re mesmerizing.

His dark hair is always cropped close around the sides and back, but the top is a little longer, thicker, parted to the left and
styled forward somewhat. In the coming months, I would discover that he spent a great deal of time working on his hair each morning. Sometimes more than I did.

“I’m going to need two
of those.” His first ever words to me, as he stopped to get wine off the tray I was holding. Trying to be funny, and I guess the effort was cute, even if the line wasn’t all that original.

I toyed with him: “One for you, one for your date?”

“Both for me.” But he only took one glass. He stood there, sipped, and then said, “You noticed me.” His gaze locked with mine and I don’t think I could have looked away if I had wanted to. Which I didn’t. “I’ve had my eye on you, as well,” he continued. “And she’s not really a date.”

“Not
really
a date?”

He took a drink of wine and shook his head. “She works for me, and I don’t do that sort of thing. I do what I can to avoid lawsuits, especially embarrassing ones.”

“That’s quite a bold stance, being against sexual harassment.” The sarcasm in my tone caused him to look at me and squint his eyes.

“I don’t have the same policy toward the help.”

The help!
This guy was as blunt as they come.

Someone stopped next to me and took the last two glasses of wine from my tray.

“Looks like you missed out on your second one,” I said. “If you’d like,
the help
can go get more in the kitchen.”

I wasn’t angry with him. It was entertaining,
I was enjoying the repartee, and by that time of the evening I’d become a little bored, so I thought I’d take advantage of the situation and amuse myself.

“More wine would be great,” he said, giving me an up-close look at his smile.

Making my way to the kitchen, I turned my head to look back at him and caught him staring at my ass.

I stopped.

His gaze moved up to make eye contact with me. There was something in the way he looked at me. Something that made me think of the ways the fictional alpha male characters I’d read about looked at the women they were pursuing. It wasn’t the first time I’d caught a guy looking me over, but it was the first time in my life a guy had looked at me that intently, almost possessively, as if he were claiming me with his stare.

I wasn’t sure how to react to it at first, but I liked the rush I felt as I watched him watching me. It was almost as though his gaze was touching me, literally, physically making contact with my body.

Ian introduced himself, and told me he wasn’t part of the art world, but the girl he’d brought had previously been an interior designer and they’d been checking out galleries and art openings for pieces to put in his newly renovated penthouse.

“So if you’re not part of the ‘art world’ what world are you
a part of?” I asked.

“Money.”

That’s when he explained what he did, and I found myself impressed by the ease with which he talked about his complicated business. I simply nodded along, even when he used jargon I’d never heard before.

He asked if I was a fu
lltime waitress. I said no, told him what I did for a living, and how I had ended up serving hors d’oeuvres that night.

“So,” I said, “I’m only temporarily
the help
.”

Ian
looked me in the eye for a moment—again, that aggressive stare—and said, “That really got under your skin, didn’t it?”

“It just seemed kind of…
”—I shrugged—“…unnecessary, a little condescending. I mean, if it weren’t for me and the others here, you’d be pouring your own drinks, smearing salmon spread on your crackers, cleaning up. You know. Helping yourself.”

Rachel
signaled that she needed me in the kitchen, so I walked away before he had a chance to respond. This time I didn’t turn around to see if he was looking at me.

“
That guy is totally ignoring his date, talking to you,” she said when I got in the kitchen.

“That’s not his date.” I explained it to her.

“Oh, well that’s a whole different story then.” She opened the refrigerator and retrieved a tray of something. “If he asks you out, say yes.”

“He’s not going to ask me out.”

“What makes you say that? Here, take this around, see if anyone wants some.”

I took the tray she put on the counter in front of me.
“I’m pretty sure he’s a player.”

“Players can be fun.”

“Not this one,” I said.

I was wrong. By the end of the night, I had become intrigued with
Ian. On the surface, he was attractive and wealthy. That part was his fault. I’ll take the blame for projecting onto him the excitement and lure of those fictional dreamboats I had come to love reading about. Here, in real life, in a chance meeting, I thought I’d found my opportunity with one of those guys.

Our relationship moved quickly, both in the bedroom and out. There were trips
to places I never thought I’d be able to visit, and to places I hadn’t even known existed.

Ian
was faithful. There was never the slightest hint of cheating. He worked a lot, but when he wasn’t working, he was with me. In fact, he practically demanded that I be available when he was, and ready for whatever he had in mind. I managed to juggle my work schedule around his, although when I began traveling more, that got more complicated.

That’s also when the sex was starting to become a little boring. Not for lack of acts I’d never experienced;
Ian often had something new for us to try. But I became bored because it was like the sex was choreographed. And that led to the realization that my dissatisfaction wasn’t really about the sex—it was an emotional issue. And, as I mentioned, Ian never opened up about anything, especially when it came to personal feelings.

Three months into our relationship,
Ian asked me to move in with him. He paid off the remaining months on my apartment lease, took me out for lunch and shopping one afternoon, and by the time we got back to his place, all my stuff had been moved into his house by some of his employees.

My parents did not approve. I was taking it too fast w
ith Ian, they said, and they repeatedly impressed upon me the fact that Ian’s lifestyle was much more lavish than my own, that I came from hard-working roots and they feared that I would forget where I came from.

They also didn’t like the fact that they’d never met him.
Ian always had an excuse for why he couldn’t accept the numerous invitations my parents extended in the beginning, and I always believed him, and defended him when my parents voiced their concerns.

These conversations
with my mother and father took place over the course of a couple of weeks after I moved in with Ian, the civility and reasonableness deteriorating with each subsequent conversation.

That was
three months ago, and I hadn’t talked to my parents since then.

.  .  .  .  .

I was exhausted by the time our flight from Atlanta landed in New York. It wasn’t too late in the evening, but I was always tired after a trip. That’s also why I didn’t eat much, despite Ian’s encouragement. I took a few bites of the potatoes, but that was all I could manage.

Later, after
taking a shower and getting ready for bed, I didn’t see Ian anywhere so I walked out of the bedroom, looking for him in the den, the kitchen, and finally finding him in his home office.

I never went in there much. It was the smallest room in the penthouse, but still larger than some apartments in New York City. Like the rest of the place, it contained modern furnishings,
Ian’s favored style. It was always as clean as the rest of the house, but Ian forbade the cleaning lady from going in there, opting instead to clean it himself.

The door was open just a sliver, which was more than it usually was.

Ian’s desk faced the window so he would have a view of the city skyline—I guess so he could sit there and dream of one day owning the entire city. Looking in from the doorway, I could only see the chair and the back of his head. He would almost always turn around, either having heard me or caught my reflection in the window.

But
that didn’t happen this time. I stopped before my hand could even touch the door.

I could hear
Ian’s voice. He sounded angry, frustrated, and anxious.

“Let these fuckers roll the dice and try it. I’ve got enough money to fight it.”

There was silence as Ian listened to the person on the other end of the line talking.

“Fuck.”

More silence.

“How long before this
gets out?”

What the hell could he be talking about? I wished he had the other person on speaker. My curiosity piqued, I was holding my breath
to stay as quiet as I could so I could hear everything.

“
How did…you know what? Let’s not talk about this on the phone. I’ll come and see you in the morning…Right…Okay, see you then…I will.”

I heard the beep as he ended the call.

I stood there for a moment, debating whether to go into his office or back to the bedroom.

“Fuck,” he said, again, and I looked into the room. He had his head in his hands, looking down at the desk.

I didn’t want him to know that I had overheard anything. I’d caught snippets of many stressful conversations coming from that office before, but there was something different in Ian’s voice this time. This wasn’t just anger. It was fear.