Tell Me More (14 page)

I declined the view in the mirror, but I accepted the offer to remove the nipple clamps and let out a shriek as Ivan pressed handfuls of ice to my poor, abused breasts.

After that, it was a lovely, dreamy sequence of being fussed over and caressed. Ivan applied some sort of lotion to my sore butt that made me wince when it hit the tender skin, but after that initial tingle soothed and relaxed me. His fingers trailed into my cleft and between my thighs and I could have come again quite easily from the slightest touch, but instead I looked over my shoulder and told him to knock it off.

His wicked grin told me he knew how aroused I was, still, and that he would have no compunction at all about making me come and subjecting me to further punishment. He worked his way down my legs with the lotion, and I groaned with pleasure as he started on my feet and toes.

Pete fed me grapes and praised me. “You’re a bad girl, Jo, but you did good.”

“I did? Ivan said you went easy on me.”

“Easier than he would have. He’d have made you scream much louder.”

I found it difficult to believe of Ivan, who at this moment rubbed lotion into my feet and calves with such tenderness.

Pete kissed my cheek. “He made you come, didn’t he?”

“Huh?” I think my feigned innocence fooled him. At any rate, he grinned and told Jennifer to fetch me some wine and my abandoned panties, and to find me a throw.

I dozed off for a time beneath the soft throw, warm and comfortable despite my tingling nipples and the leather bustier, which certainly wasn’t an article of clothing meant for sleep-wear. I turned onto my side and felt the tenderness on my butt and from my strained muscles, but awash with endorphins, I was miles away from the pain.

I could even regard Mr. D.’s betrayal with a little less anger. And possibly, yes possibly…wasn’t transgression and punishment a way to advance upstairs? Tonight, maybe (I was a little concerned about my sore butt—we’d have to choose positions wisely) the king would summon Scheherazade and the story would reach its conclusion.

Someone, Ivan probably, played the piano softly.

Jennifer, who had appointed herself my guardian, sat at my side and whispered to anyone who came near, telling them I had to rest and would play Scrabble or visit with them later. “Are you okay, Jo?” she whispered to me if I moved. “Can I get you anything?”

What’s in it for you?
I considered asking her to peel me some grapes, but I was too warm and comfortable to pick a fight with her. I suspected that she wanted to attach herself to me while I was in favor. Besides, she probably
would
peel me grapes if I asked her in her current subservient mood, and I didn’t want to think where her fingers had been.

“Jennifer? When they send you upstairs, what happens?”

“It means someone’s chosen you. And you get to do whatever they ask. So how did you find out the combination for the door?”

“I guessed it.”

“Wow.” She looked impressed. “I don’t think anyone’s done that before. What’s it like up there?”

“Fancy. This is a gorgeous house. It’s got to be a hundred years old at least.”

“No, I mean what were they doing?” Jennifer wasn’t interested in architecture.

“Eating dinner. Lindy was stretched out on the table like a centerpiece, covered with fruit and flowers.”

“Gross.” She wrinkled up her nose. “Were they eating stuff off her?”

“No. It was just a regular formal dinner.”

The doorbell rang and Jennifer snatched the throw from me and bundled it up. “Look sexy!” she hissed at me and arranged herself in a seductive pose.

“What difference would it make? Don’t you think they know who they’re coming for?”

“Yeah, but…it’s what we do.”

I eased myself onto my side. Whatever had been in that lotion had eased the pain considerably.

Angela strode in and kissed Pete on the cheek when he greeted her. She nodded in my direction. “That one,” she said in contempt. To me, she said, “You look a mess.”

I stood and stretched a little while she watched me, arms crossed, tapping one foot. “As though I don’t have enough to do,” she said.

“What do you do?” I asked. “Other than run errands for the big boys?”

She addressed Pete. “Next time let Ivan whip some of that cheekiness out of her. Ready, Jo?” She held the door open and I waved to the room, walking carefully and not too fast.

The first thing Angela did when we returned to the locker room was to change her boots for her pink slippers, muttering under her breath. Then she set about cleaning me up. She used a cleanser on my face and an expensive, subtly scented moisturizer, and rummaged in a plastic basket for foundation and blusher that matched my skin, expensive European brands that I wanted to ask Kimberly about. She picked out a greenish-gray eyeshadow I’d never have dreamed of wearing and added a silvery highlight on my brows, and a dark gray eyeliner at my lashes.

“Look
up!
” She waved a mascara wand at my face.

“I don’t wear mascara.”

“Tonight, honey, you do. Don’t blink.”

She dusted my face with a powder that had sparkles in it and finished everything off with a bright red lipstick. I was appalled and thrilled when she finally allowed me to see my reflection. I looked pretty. And I didn’t often look pretty, or at least, not like that. I also looked sluttier than I’d ever looked in my life.

“I suppose that will do,” she said in disgust.

“Wow. You’re really good,” I said. “How did you learn to do all that?”

She shrugged. “I was a model. A long time ago. You learn these things. You need to change your panties.”

“I like these ones.”

She looked down her nose at me. “They’ve got to be pretty ripe by now, after what you’ve been up to. Besides, he specifically asked for these.”

“Who?”

She ignored me and fished a pair of white panties from a laundry basket that stood in the corner. Someone had gone to the trouble of ironing them. They weren’t quite schoolgirl-fantasy briefs, but they were modest and much like the sort of underwear I favored when I wasn’t being a sex slave or Mr. D.’s fantasy. I thought they looked bizarre with the leather bustier, but who was I to judge.

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“It’s not my place to say.” She rearranged my breasts over the bustier.

“You have such a tough job,” I said with fake sincerity, which raised a half smile from her.

She led me out into the kitchen, where a few staff still worked, scrubbing the work surfaces, and to the elevator. We traveled to the second floor of the house, where she led me down another dim corridor—soft carpet underfoot, dark red walls with the occasional piece of art or ornate mirror, and then tapped on a door.

Angela opened the door and pushed me forward. “She’s here.”

I walked into the room and stopped dead when I saw the man on the bed.

Behind me the door clicked closed.

THE LIMO CAME TO A STOP AT MY HOUSE AND
I eased myself out of the door into the cold night air. Everything hurt now. The limo eased away with a quiet purr and I watched its taillights disappear.

An image came into my mind of my house keys, lying on the kitchen counter.

Oh, shit. I burrowed into the small purse I’d brought and confirmed my suspicion. No keys.

Upstairs over the garage a light burned. I pulled out my cell and punched in his number—still listed under “Apartment,” something I should change. I hoped he was still awake, and alone, because all I wanted to do was shower and fall into bed and not have to make conversation.

He answered on the third ring. When I spoke my voice sounded scratchy. He didn’t sound overjoyed to hear from me but he didn’t sound pissed, either.

I breathed a sigh of relief as I saw lights go on, marking his passage through the house. The front door swung open. He wore sweats and a T-shirt, his hair ruffled.

“God in heaven, woman, what happened to you?”

I pushed past him. “I’m okay. Thanks. Sorry to disturb you.”

“Should I call the cops?”

“What?” My legs were weak and heavy. I lowered myself onto the stairs.

She looked like hell. Her eyes were rimmed with black—at first he’d thought the black was bruising, but to his relief it was smeared mascara—and she moved with difficulty, as though her whole body hurt, her hands jammed into her jacket pockets. Her voice was exhausted and hoarse.

He was angry as hell, frightened for her.

“I’ll call the cops,” he said again.

“No. No, I’m fine. I…” She pushed herself up from the staircase and clutched the rail. Her jacket swung open and he caught a brief glimpse of her nipples above some sort of black leather corset, incongruous with her jeans, and that explained a lot.

He looked away until she had a chance to cover up. “I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

It was the sort of offer his gran or sisters would make and seemed ludicrous for someone who’d overdone a night of rough sex, but to his surprise she nodded with a faint smile. “Thanks.”

They went into her kitchen, where she sat while he set the kettle on the range and found her canister of tea bags.

She shuffled over to the refrigerator. “Want some eggs?”

“Sure. I’ll do it. Sit.”

As he busied himself making scrambled eggs she left the room and he heard water running. She returned, her face scrubbed clean, wearing a bulky gray sweater he suspected was left behind by a boyfriend. She sat at the table and wrapped her hands around the mug of tea while he spooned scrambled eggs onto toast and pushed a plateful toward her.

She picked up her fork with a sigh and stared at the food before shoveling it in, clearing her plate entirely. By then a little color had returned to her face.

“Thanks, that was great. Hit the spot.”

“You’re welcome. Sorry I overreacted.”

“No problem. I looked a wreck.” She swirled the tea at the bottom of her mug. “I’m fine. I’m sorry I scared you. And thanks for this, the food and the company.”

He shrugged and gathered their plates to put them in the dishwasher. “You’re welcome.”

She came up beside him as he stood at the sink. “I’ll do the dishes. How’s your eye?”

He almost stopped breathing as she touched his cheek and temple with her cool fingers. Her face was so close to his he could see a speck of black she’d missed below one eye, smell her perfume and sweat. “Does it hurt?”

“Hardly at all. Don’t worry.” A knife slid from his fingers and clattered into the sink.

She grinned, breaking the moment. “We could stand here all night reassuring each other we’re both okay. Leave the dishes, Patrick, I’ll get them tomorrow. I’m sorry I disturbed you tonight.”

“I was awake. No problem.”

She nodded. “I’m going to bed now.”

He followed her up the stairs, which was unnervingly erotic even though that was the way back into his apartment. He didn’t want to think of Jo peeling off that black leather corset but he couldn’t help speculating whether it had marked her skin. Neither did he want to think of the one quick glimpse he’d had of her nipples, as dark as the leather in the dim light. He didn’t want to think of her at all in those terms; they had a business relationship, for Christ’s sake. He was her tenant. She was Kimberly’s best friend.

At the top of the stairs she hesitated. “Tonight I made a mistake. That’s all. It’s bad, but not in the way you’re probably thinking.”

And she turned toward her bedroom, leaving him to ponder her cryptic remark.

I couldn’t remember the last time someone had cooked for me, or when I’d had a stranger in the kitchen who had found their way around without my help, instinctively knowing where the spatula was kept and the plates, and what to do with the broken eggshells. With anyone else I might have felt invaded; with Patrick, it felt like a blessing. I didn’t have to give directions or do anything but watch and feel safe.

Yes, safe. I didn’t realize how bad I looked until I saw the expression on his face and his insistence we call the cops. Yet he accepted my assurance that I was okay without demanding further explanation. I think I’d flashed him, too, and he was quite the gentleman about it, although of course it wasn’t the first time.

I’d left the Association very fast after rushing downstairs to the locker room, my hands shaking so badly I could barely operate the combination lock (and for one panicked moment I thought I’d forgotten the sequence). Jeans on, jacket on, T-shirt balled and stuffed into my pocket, and then I’d called for the limo and waited at the side door, terrified of pursuit and discovery.

Neither came. Twenty minutes, they’d told me to wait for a car, and it was the longest twenty minutes of my life before I heard the limo pull up. I sank into the leather seat and cried all the way back into town, frustrated, angry, betrayed, sad beyond words.

No wonder I looked like shit. I took a long shower and by the time I crawled into bed, it was almost dawn.

“Kimberly?” Balancing one latte atop the other I tapped at her office door. I knew she didn’t have any appointments this morning and I was curious as to why she had the door closed.

Cautiously I opened the door. She jumped up and relieved me of the top latte.

“You’ll never get a job in a circus.”

“Damn. And I was planning to run away with one.” I eased the top off my latte. “You busy?”

“Not for a few minutes.” She smiled, almost. “You’re in early for a Monday.”

I sat. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine. Busy. And you?”

“Oh, okay. Busy.” I took a deep breath. “Kimberly, I’m sorry I’ve been…distant. I was trying to sort out some stuff.”

“And did you sort it out? Ready to come back to the real world?”

“Yes.”

She frowned. “Patrick called me yesterday. He was worried about you.”

“Oh.”

“It was eight in the morning on a Sunday.” She took a sip of latte. “I had company. It was sorta awkward.”

“Sorry about that.” A week ago she would have told me who the man was but I wasn’t going to push this fragile truce. “What did he say?”

“Patrick? He thought you’d got in over your head on something, that you looked kind of beaten-up, and he thought you might need help.” She looked at her watch. “I need to get to this meeting. Don’t be a stranger, Jo. Let me know when you’re free this week and we’ll do something. And thanks for the coffee.”

She strutted toward the door in her cowboy boots, balancing purse and briefcase and coffee, a fringed suede jacket hung over one arm.

“Is this new?” I stroked the suede. “It’s gorgeous.”

“Thanks. And do you need help?”

I hesitated for one moment, hoping she didn’t notice. “No, I’m fine. I came home late and tired, that’s all, and I think it scared Patrick.”

She nodded, delving into her purse for her car keys. “See you, babes.”

I watched her stride down the hall, stopping to exchange a few words with Bill the station manager, before she went into the reception area and left.

I wandered into my cubicle and sorted through some mail and new recordings we’d been sent, restless and dissatisfied. I wished I’d been able to tell Kimberly the whole story, because if I’d restricted the story to only what had happened that Saturday night it wouldn’t have made sense. I wasn’t ready to tell her, or anyone, the whole story: how I’d been duped and fooled.

It was only ten in the morning. There was a time I might have wanted to stay at the station the whole day and well into the night. There were always things to do, projects to work on.

But now I couldn’t stay. I left the station by the back door and walked along the bike trail I rode to work. I turned over the events of Saturday night in my mind, of what had happened when I’d entered that room, Angela’s hand pushing gently against my back.

I was still angry and humiliated but I felt then that I could forgive Mr. D., see in his actions the complex and baroque intricacies of human behavior that he enjoyed. I was prepared, at the very least, to listen to his explanation, and for him to listen while I poured out my anger at him. In those few seconds as I entered the room, I could see there was potential for forgiveness, for possibilities to present themselves.

The room had a faint scent of something sweet and delicate, a whisper of perfume. My feet sank into a Persian rug of minute intricacies and a lamp on a massively carved chest gave off a warm, golden glow. To the side something moved and, keyed up by anxiety and the strangeness of the evening, I started before realizing it was my reflection in a huge mirror on the wall. Of course.

Ahead of me stood a bed, wide and low. And on the bed, beneath a white sheet, a man lay, his head propped on one hand, his face shadowed.

“Hey, Jo.”

“Jake?” My hands felt cold. I crossed my arms over my exposed breasts.

“Expecting someone else?”

I nodded.

“My reward for recruiting you,” he said. “You need to thank me properly.”

“Why should I thank you for rewarding yourself?”

“Good question. Let’s think of it as an apology.”

“An apology?”

“You abused my hospitality. Cathy’s, too. She was upset.”

“What do you think I did? I left early but you were, uh, busy and I realize I didn’t thank you—”

He moved a little, bringing his face into the light, and I saw his expression. “You have no idea, do you? You should have seen yourself, the way you looked at my house. I finished that basement myself!”

“It’s a great basement. I have mice in mine.”

“See? There you go again. You don’t even know you’re doing it.” He pushed the sheet down, revealing his erection as a threat. I’d never seen a guy use his dick as a weapon before and it scared me. “What the fuck makes you think you’re better than us? Looking at my house and my wife with a high-and-mighty expression, like you’re some sort of princess. Asking if we had any
books.
” He spat the word out as though it was an obscenity. “Get your ass over here.”

I looked him in the eye. “No. I don’t want to.”

“You agreed to abide by Association rules, and the rule here is that you do what I say.”

“Seems like the only rule going is that I get told what to do and I’ve had enough. Sorry, Jake. I’m leaving.”

He lay back, hands locked behind his head. “I wouldn’t recommend that.”

“Who’s Mr. D.?” I asked.

“Who?”

“The guy who should be here. The guy who really did recruit me, and I think you know who I mean.”

“I’ve no idea.” He sat and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.

I turned away from him and walked to the door. I didn’t want to turn my back on him but neither did I want to back away as though he were royalty or as though I was too scared to take my eyes off him. My hand shook as I closed my fingers on the handle and to my relief it was just a regular lock, nothing fancy.

“You’ll wish you’d stayed,” he said as I opened the door.

“I doubt it. You’re not my type.” I closed the door behind me and then I ran, back to the locker room, and escaped.

And that was why I now walked along a bike path, my fists clenched, muttering to myself, too, and still slightly stiff from the beating and tension. A bicyclist whizzed past me and I looked at the bare branches of the trees and beyond them the pristine whiteness of the mountains against a pure blue sky. I lifted my face to the dazzle of sunlight and the sharp, cold air. I needed to cleanse myself of disappointment and negativity.

I went back to my cubicle and sent emails to cover my shift for the next couple of days, got caught up on paperwork and future programming and tidied things up. I was going to take some of my unused vacation and comp time and get myself rested and relaxed. I checked snow depths and skiing conditions. Things were looking good. I thought fondly of my reserves of wax at home, the excitement of taking skis down and preparing them, pulling out favorite wool sweaters and down vests, gloves and hats.

“Can I help?”

I looked over my shoulder. Patrick stood behind me, a slight grin on his face, and I wondered how long he’d admired the sight of my butt as I knelt on the floor hauling stuff out of the hall closet.

“I’m fine.” I found my ski boots and one mitten and tossed them out onto the hall floor.

He glanced at my skis and poles on the floor. “Where are you going?”

“Not sure yet. Somewhere over the Divide.”

“Yeah, I heard they got six inches there. Snow,” he added, as though suddenly aware that a double entendre lurked in his words.

“Would you like to come?” I found another mitten—not a matching one, but it would do. “Come skiing, I mean.” Now he had me doing it, too.

“Sure. When?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll drive.”

“Great.” He laid an envelope on the hall table. “Rent.”

Our conversation became a little less stilted and monosyllabic as we agreed on a start time and discussed a suitable trail. While we talked I regretted my invitation—I’d wanted solitude and the chance to think and unwind, not an obligation to make conversation with someone I barely knew. But unless he backed out, and that could be awkward, too, I was stuck with him.