The Agreement (36 page)

I nodded. That's why he kept it to his
submissives. No love. No romance.

"What happened in court? Lara said you got
off really lightly."

"Lara helped me. She's very rational and
saw what was happening and set me on the right path. I started training with
Lara at that point."

"You already knew her?"

He nodded. "Yes. We were old acquaintances
and took classes together during our undergrad years. When I needed a lawyer, I
called her. When I needed to be taught how to do this properly, she trained me.
Kate, I've never hurt anyone purposely except during training and that was
consensual. If anything's happened otherwise, it was an accident. Incidental to
what was happening."

"What happened?"

"A binding a bit too tight. A bruise or
abrasion on a wrist or ankle. Nothing permanent. Nothing inflicted on purpose.
I've always chosen my subs very carefully. I don't
want
anyone into
pain. If a sub needs pain, I refuse to sign. Just D/s. Just pleasure. You can
ask Lara for more details if you need them. I'll tell you anything you want to
know." He glanced at his cell. "Look, I hate to rush this. I know you
need to process this but I have a surgery in a very short time. I want you to
come with me. I don’t want to leave you alone right now."

"Come with you where?"

"To the hospital. You can sit in my office
while I take care of this procedure. It’s pretty short – only about
forty-five minutes. Then I have an hour off before my final surgeries of the
day. I want to figure this out."

"I can go back to my apartment and wait
there."

"
Come
with me. I don’t want you out
of my," he said and hesitated. "Out of my
reach
right
now."

"I'm not going to disappear…"

"Kate, for all I know, you might. Come with
me. Wait for me. Then we'll figure this all out."

I sighed. "I shouldn't go anywhere with
you. If anyone saw us."

"No one is going to see us."

I exhaled. "OK."

He still hadn’t let go of my hand. He squeezed
it, and then he leaned in and kissed me. I let him and a stab of desire filled
me at the touch of his lips on mine.

"Come," he said, standing, pulling me
up. He wouldn't let go of me as if I'd dematerialize in front of his eyes. We
walked to his car, our fingers entwined, and he opened the door for me. I got
in and we drove to NY Presbyterian, to the wing where his office was located
and parked in a spot marked "Doctors Only". He was quiet on the way
there as if he was deciding how to handle this – how to handle me.

We walked hand in hand through a maze of halls
to his office, which was very comfortable but clinical looking with a window, a
desk with two computers and a filing cabinet, and a huge flat screen television
on the wall. A small couch and two chairs on either side of a coffee table. I
imagined that's where he met with patients and family members.

"Here," he said and pointed to the
couch. "Have a seat and make yourself comfortable. I have a collection of
out of date magazines to read." He went to the huge screen, turning it on.
"There's a coffee and vending machine down the hall if you get thirsty or
hungry. You can watch the surgery on the screen if you want. We're recording all
procedures and you can watch live feed here."

"I can watch you operate?"

"Yes," he said. "I do really
specialized robotically-assisted procedures and record every case for my
clinical course in neurosurgery." He held up a remote. "You can use
this to turn the volume up or down. If you get bored, you can switch to cable
and watch television." He brought up a screen that had three views, one
with a slightly elevated view of a high-tech looking OR theatre, another
directly above a gurney, and a third staring at what resembled an open CT
scanner. A number of gowned and masked people walked around, moving equipment.

"That's your OR?"

"For the procedure this afternoon, yes.
It's a really advanced OR suite equipped for neurological procedures like I'm
doing this afternoon." He pointed to a machine that looked like a CT
scanner. "That does real-time images of the brain for really delicate
surgery."

"What are you doing?"

"Implanting electrodes in a man's brain to
stop Parkinson's tremor. That's for imaging the brain during the procedure. The
patient will be sitting with his head inside the machine so we can watch as the
electrodes are inserted to make sure we get them in the right location.
Speaking of which, I have to get ready or I'm going to be late. Gotta go scrub
in."

After he handed me the remote control, he bent
down to kiss me. I raised my head and let him.

He touched my bottom lip, my scar, and then
stared into my eyes, frowning. "Wait for me?"

I nodded.

"I'll be forty-five minutes, maybe an hour,
depending on how things go. OK?"

"I'll be here."

He went to the door and looked back at me.
"I won’t be long."

I smiled and I waved at him.

He closed the door and left me alone.

I removed my shoes and tucked my feet under me,
stretching out on the couch to watch Drake perform brain surgery.

As I watched, activity began to increase in the
OR. A couple of gowned, masked and gloved technicians moved equipment around,
positioned tables and trays, and arranging implements. I heard music start and
turned up the volume. In the background, I just made out Led Zeppelin.
Black
Dog
played over the speakers, and I remembered what Dawn said that first
night in the pub when she pointed Drake out. He played Brit Invasion music in
his ORs during surgery. I thought that was just TV surgeons, expecting that
real ones needed quiet for their very delicate procedures.

Apparently, not.

Soon, a patient was wheeled in and then several
people transferred him to a chair like structure. He already had this metal
halo-like device on his head. They leaned him back into a semi-reclining
position, his head between the arms of the CT. On the walls were monitors that
showed various perspectives on his brain.

Several people in full scrubs milled around,
moving things into place around the patient, speaking to him in low calm
voices. I imagined they were OR nurses and surgeons for they worked on the
patient, getting him into position, checking over his shaved head. Then, one of
the surgeons started to cut his skull with a drill, the high-pitched whine
audible over the music. It wasn't Drake – the man's voice was foreign
sounding – East Indian.

Then, two gowned and masked figures entered the
OR, holding their gloved hands up and in front of their bodies. They had safety
glasses on and what looked like binocular lenses attached.

Drake must have been one of them. I watched,
wondering if I could tell which one. One of the two approached the patient and
spoke to him, and it was then I knew that was Drake.

He spoke to the camera for a moment, describing
the procedure to treat Parkinson's Disease. Mr. Graham was a sixty-two year old
man otherwise in good health who began to experience tremors on the left side
of his body. Since that time, the tremors increased, and now, he was unable to
carry out the most simple tasks of everyday life. He went on to describe the
surgery, using lingo I couldn't quite catch. Finally, he went to the patient's
side.

"How are you doing, Bob?" he said, his
voice firm but warm. "Ready?"

"Cut away, Doc. Great tunes, by the
way," Mr. Graham said. "When you asked me, I didn't really believe
you'd play Led Zeppelin in the OR."

"I find music relaxes patients. Luckily, we
have the same taste in bands."

"You're too young to like this music."

"It's my father's music. I love it,
too."

The music was loud, but not too loud so that the
audio picked up every word Drake and his team said. Drake consulted the CT
images, checking to make sure everything was in proper alignment. He described
what he was doing, his voice firm and warm, instructions given for the benefit
of his students. As I watched, he explained how he was threading an electrode
into a precise position in the brain, guided by a CT-generated image on a
screen beside the operating table.

"When I stimulate the section of the brain
where the electrode has been placed, Mr. Graham's hand should stop shaking.
Slowly at first, maybe not completely, but there will be noticeable
improvement."

I watched Mr. Graham as Drake worked. His head
was imprisoned in a metal cage. He lifted his hand at Drake's instruction and
it shook wildly. It was clear he could do nothing with it.

"We are now going to send a charge down the
electrode to the
subthalamic nucleus
and the
globus pallidus interna
,
the structures responsible for motor movement."

In a few seconds, Mr. Graham's hand stopped
shaking. Slowly at first but in about ten or fifteen seconds, it was almost
perfectly still.

"Oh, God,
oh God
," Mr. Graham
said, his voice breaking. "Oh,
God
I can't believe it."

I couldn't help but smile to myself, the emotion
in his voice bringing tears to my eyes.

"
Thank
you, Doctor," Mr. Graham
said, his voice breaking. "Thank you,
God
."

Drake bent over Mr. Graham, but he kept his
hands away from the man. I had the sense he wanted to touch Mr. Graham but of
course, he had to keep sterile.

"I
love
my job," he said, his
voice soft. "I can't believe they pay me to do it."

About twenty minutes later, after they sewed up
Mr. Graham's incisions and wheeled him out of the OR, Drake entered the office
in his scrubs, his cap still on his head. He glanced at the screen and saw the
technicians cleaning the OR. Then he turned that intense gaze to me.

"How are you?"

I went to him where he stood beside the door and
put my arms around his waist, squeezing him.

"What's this?" he said, smiling, his
arms slipping around me, a bit of a surprised look on his face.

"That was amazing."

He closed the door to his office and removed the
cap off his head, throwing it on the trashcan by the desk. Then he pressed me
against the door.

"Mmm, Ms.
Bennet
," he said, his
voice low and sexy, one of his knees between mine, his hips pressed against me,
his arms on the door beside my head. "I hope this show of affection means
you’ve reconsidered and you're planning on giving this a chance."

"I still want you," I said, running my
hands up his chest, his muscles firm under the blue scrubs. "I never
stopped. If anything, I want you even more. But if this person finds out that
we're seeing each other, they'll tell my father about your involvement in the
BDSM community and send the restraining order to your boss."

He just watched me, his gaze moving over my
face. "You won't tell me who?"

"I can't."

"If I talk to them, maybe I can assure them
I won't hurt you and…"

"I
can't
. You
don’t
understand. They're serious and completely irrational about this."

He pulled me over to the couch and we sat down.
He moved next to me, his arm around me.

"So, it's back to the secret affair? We
can't see each other in public?"

I nodded.

"Well, at least you
want
to
try."

"I do."

A look came over his face at that, like relief.
"I have a jam session tonight but I'm done at 9:00."

"I can't be seen with you, Drake. I can't
go to your apartment. You can't come to mine. I don't know where we'll meet. A
hotel?"

"No, that's too…" He brushed hair off
my cheek. "Too cliché. I have a small apartment on 8
th
Avenue near Columbia
from when I was in school. It was my dad's when he was a student. He bought the
whole building when he started to make serious money and I decided to go to
Columbia. We could use that. I spent a lot of years there and it has some of my
old junk from when I first lived away from my father. I store a lot of his
stuff there as well."

"This person works three nights a week.
Every Tuesday and Thursday for sure. One night on the weekend. On those nights,
I could probably go there. I might be able to make excuses for a night now and
then, but this person is determined to watch me. I have to make them think
we've truly broken up so they stop."

"You seem so much more positive about this.
What happened?"

I shook my head and just looked at him –
at the blue eyes, the jaw, the mouth… I thought about what my father said to me
about Drake. I thought about Drake's letters to his subs and how much they
aroused me. I wanted to feel that excitement waiting for him to show up.

"This made me face up to what it was that I
wanted. Having to say goodbye to you made me realized that I
want
this," I said and ran my hands up his chest to his shoulders. "I want
you
."