The Willing (7 page)

"Because that's so much better," Carrie scoffed. "How do you still have hands? Scratch that: how are you still
alive
?"

I thought of Oliver's flushed cheeks, his confusion when my open hand had connected with his cheek. Shame had caught up with me late last night; I didn't appreciate Carrie opening the wound. "I'm not," I deadpanned. "You're talking to a ghost. Congratulations, you're in a Bruce Wills movie."

"I'm going to need details."

It was precisely what I'd been afraid of. "Can I order first?"

The server had been pacing and casting us meaningful glances since I'd sat down. Plus, I was hungry. Carrie relented with a ponderous sigh. "Fine. I'm having soup," she announced with an oddly defiant glare.

"And people wonder why you're practically wasting away," I teased.

Carrie huffed a mirthless chuckle. "Nobody wanders that. Can you not get something that smells, though?"

"Sure," I shot back, "sushi it is."

"Raw fish?" Carrie made a face at me.

My brows furrowed, confusion writ as though in sharpie across my face. "You love sushi!"

"Not lately…" Carrie flagged down the waiter. "Apparently that's what happens when you're preggers."

"You're
what
?" This time I wasn't even a little bit surprised when fellow patrons glance our way. I had every right to shout, I figured. Carrie was pregnant.

All thought of Oliver and our contract fled from my thoughts. My best friend was going to be a mom. "When? How—I mean, I know
how
," I backtracked, "but how far along?"

The server appeared at our table, looking bemused. "Are you ready to order, ladies?"

"Not by a long shot."

He sighed and walked away again. I'd have to remember to leave a generous tip.

"So?" I pinched Carrie's elbow. "Spill!"

I must have looked determined because Carrie's usual dithering was nowhere to be found. "I only found out a couple of days ago."

"Were you late?"

"Yeah, but that's not what tipped me off."

"Morning sickness?" I'd never been pregnant, but Hollywood had convinced me that the signs thereof were easy to spot.

Carrie shook her head. "Honestly? I've just been feeling really, really horny."

"Duncan must be pleased," I said, grinning.

A couple of days meant she'd already known when we met up at the apartment yesterday. I wondered if I had steamrolled right over her big announcement with mine. I reassured myself that Carrie knew better than to wait for me to get a clue. I wasn't the sharpest crayon in the box, nor was I the quietest. "Dude," I enthused, "I'm so ridiculously happy for you. We should get cake."

"Thanks… Duncan's already talking about knitting baby clothes." Carrie shook her head. "He took the news a lot better than I expected."

"Why?" I wasn't confused about Duncan being a prince among men—that much I had made my peace with when we'd first met—but I couldn't understand why Carrie would expect anything less than joy from her husband.

Her shoulders sagged. "Frankly? I'm not sure we're ready for a kid." What I'd initially mistaken for restraint was a bit more than that, I realized. Carrie's eyes wouldn't meet mine. "I'd really like some soup…"

We ordered stiffly. I settled not on sushi but on a club sandwich with a side dish of French fries. The server's withering stare told me it was very likely I'd wind up with spit in my dish. I'd waited tables, I knew it was no pleasure cruise, and yet finding myself on the other side of the counter meant I was inevitably more concerned with my own problems. Or, in this case, Carrie's.

"You're thinking about—"

Carrie nodded. "I want kids, but that's more of a pipe dream right now, you know? With my job and the hours I work, with Duncan's latest episode… it's like I'm asking for an aneurysm."

It wasn't my place to judge. I told myself as much as Carrie unraveled her worries before me, laying each one on the table. She didn't need to be told she was strong: here was the proof.

"Is it," I started. "I mean, are you sure? Sometimes those tests can be tricky." I'd had a pregnancy scare when I was in college, but it had been a false positive and all I remembered of the experience was massive panic. I was careful now and religiously took my birth control pill every morning.

"I had an ob-gyn at the clinic run a few tests. I'm pregnant, alright." Yet confirmation failed to elicit so much as a smile from Carrie. "Anyway… tell me about you. Other than slapping billionaires, how did last night go?"

As diversions went, I couldn't deny this one had merit. I sighed, wondering if there was anything I could tell Carrie that wouldn't make me liable before the law. "He wants me to work for him," I said.

"Seriously?" Carrie seemed taken aback. "I thought he hated you."

"I thought he didn't know who I was. Yours sounds better."

Carrie paid no attention to my half-hearted attempt at modesty. "Work for him in what capacity? He knows you're not exactly arm candy material, right?"

"He knows," I temporized. My nails were suddenly very fascinating, the red polish flaking off at the corners the more I worried at it.

I could have pinpointed the exact moment when the penny dropped for Carrie. Her whole expression changed. "Oh.
Oh
. You mean he wants you to be his… person?"

I had to admire Carrie's effort to make it sound clean and conspicuous. If anyone was eavesdropping, they might even think I was Oliver Shepherd's very own assassin.  

"I can't confirm or deny that," I answered, crooking a smile.

"But you said no, right?"

My lips pressed together tightly. "Technically, I can't confirm or—"

Carrie brushed aside the vague non-answer. "You're not serious. Jo, the guy's practically a mobster. What are you doing, getting mixed up with people like that?"

Trying to keep my house
, I thought. Oliver had me by the balls, in a manner of speaking, but I didn't want Carrie knowing that. "We found common ground," I lied. "I know what I'm doing."

"Yeah? Because from where I'm sitting, this whole thing sounds slightly... crazy-insane."

"I know that, too."

Carrie fixed me with a long, level stare. I imagined her with a kid in her arms, exasperated for all the right reasons. It was a pretty picture. I kept my thoughts to myself. 

"Look," I said, trying to inject much needed levity into the proceedings. "Do you want to know about his frankly humongous penthouse or not?"

She mulled over the not-so-covert change of topic with lips pursed and fingers drumming soundlessly against the table. "Does it have a pool?"

I could've leaped over the table and hugged her right there. Instead, I settled for spilling all the details of Oliver's less than humble abode.

After our tardy lunch, I made a short stop by my new apartment, mostly to reacquaint myself with my reasons for agreeing to become Oliver's domina. The view was high on that list, obviously, but so too was the fully-fitted kitchen and the freshly installed heaters. I lay on the floor, uncaring that my purple wig was gathering dust, and stared up at the ceiling until the sun no longer painted it amber and gold.

Despite the specter of Oliver Shepherd hovering at the forefront of my mind, I couldn't help think about Carrie and Duncan, and the baby they had on the way. Carrie had offered to lend me cash when she knew full well she'd need the money now more than ever. She was a good friend, one of just two who really knew me.

I liberated my phone from the confines of my purse without looking and checked the time. I still had a couple of hours before I needed to be at Oliver's. I could either hang out here some more, gathering dust bunnies on my clothes and moping, or I could try to fill the time with good company.

Getting back on my feet again took a little effort, but I managed it. The subway dropped me off right outside
Malachi's
. It had been a while since I'd come around here, but even if buildings came up and down on either side of the bar, my once favorite hangout never changed. Foggy windows gave only a vague suggestion of movement within. The crooked sign on the façade never failed to make me think of a Damocles sword waiting to fall on someone's head.

I knew it was too early for the front door to be open, so I went directly around back. Pungent fumes of rancid filth billowed around me like something out of a movie. Unpleasant as that was, I was more worried about the glass crunching under my shoes. Used needles lined the damp cement, as effective a shield against adventurous teenagers trying to sneak in as the
No Trespassing
signs I remembered from way back when the bar as still a club.

The back door was open and I could just barely make out a shape moving within. I hoped it wasn't a junkie breaking in.

"Hunter? Hello?" I called out. "I come in peace."

The figure drew to itself up to a full six feet and wheeled around slowly to face me. Straightaway I recognized the grin and the squint of inky black eyes. "Look what the cat dragged in," bellowed the deep tenor of Hunter's voice. "Thought you'd moved on to greener pastures?"

"Maybe you should get your head examined," I shot back. Hunter had been a colleague and friend from my very first few days at the club. When Oliver's appetite for ruin shut us down, he went on to take over the lease and open a bar on the premises. So
Malachi's
was born.

We were too alike, Hunter and I, to ever be a good match as anything more than friends. In him, I'd found someone who understood the problems I had and the questions I couldn't answer. We had moved on after the club went under—him into bartending and me into fawning over old misogynists—but occasionally we still met up. It must have been a couple of months since we'd last seen each other; I hadn't realized how much I missed him until now. 

His warm greeting inevitably drew me in and I put my arms around his broad shoulders without a thought for PDA. There was no one around to judge us. Hunter nearly lifted me half a foot from the floor as he hugged me back. I yelped.  

"Still short," he decreed, setting me back down on my feet. "What brings you down here, Jo? You're a bit early for business, but I can get you something on the house..."

I waved him off. "Nah, I'm good." He'd taught me never to drink before a session and to encourage my submissive partners to do the same. I didn't want to break that streak now. "Just thought we should catch up," I lied. "Got a minute?"

Hunter smiled crookedly and scratched a hand through his short-cropped hair. "Not really… unless you don't mind talking while I work?"

"Your ass looks better in motion, anyway," I teased. Okay, so Hunter and I had been to bed together before, though it wasn't something I taught about a lot. I didn't regret it so much as figure we were both scratching an itch in the absence of more suitable partners. The things that really cranked our engines, we couldn't find in each other and we both knew that.

I found a perch on a bar stool and set my purse on the counter, trying to keep out of his way. "You always here so early? Someone's angling for pay rise."

"I live in hope," Hunter said. "Plus I sort of had an epiphany the other day."

"Yeah?"

He made a low, acquiescing sound in his throat. "Realized I like the bar best when it's all empty like this. What do you think that means?"

"That you're turning antisocial in your old age?" I suggested cheerily. Hunter was only a couple of years older than I was, had only recently hit thirty. He had the build and bearing of a much younger man. Those Asian genes of his were everything a guy—or gal—could wish for. It didn't hurt that he was all about clean living, either, though sometimes I wondered how much of that was just hipster posturing.

"Yeah, yeah… How've you been, princess? Still with Madam—what's her name again?"

"Madrigal." The first time I'd told Hunter I'd signed a contract to offer my services as a high-end call girl, I thought I'd die. His opinion mattered, as any mentor's would, but Hunter had taken it like a champ. He bought me a drink and we talked about it no more. I was surprised he still remembered Madam's name.

"Right," Hunter sighed, tossing an empty beer carton into the dumpster outside.

"Still working for her," I confirmed rigidly. I couldn't help feel like I was letting him down every time my answer to that question was yes. It had occurred to me before that I dreaded his reaction so much because I myself wasn't entirely comfortable with the work I did for Madam Madrigal, but it was easier to distract myself than try to shift the knot of guilt in my belly whenever I saw Hunter.

Perhaps there lay the reason why I kept out of his way so scrupulously.

"And it's going well?" Hunter made a face. "I never know how to ask that."

"I never know how to answer," I said. "But yes, it's going well... all things considered." I didn't want to venture into details with Hunter, so I took the opportunity to change the subject. "Any new haunts I should know about?"

Hunter flicked a glance my way. "Thinking of getting back into the game?" He'd teased me for getting cold feet after the club shut down, but that wasn't it at all. I'd tried working as a dominatrix in other clubs; things just never worked out. I was too impatient for regulars and too bellicose for owners who wanted me to overcharge just because I was young and I had a nice pair of tits.

The last few times I'd dominated anyone, it had been on my own dime, mostly through one night affairs that went nowhere.

I shook my head.

"But there is someone."

"I just asked if you know about any new clubs," I protested. "Stop with the Jedi mind tricks, okay?"

"Whatever you say, young padawan." Hunter tossed another cardboard box into the dumpster, then kicked the door shut behind him. Just like that, we were suddenly cut off from the outside world. The lights behind the bar were bright enough that I could see the faint sheen of sweat on Hunter's brow as he came to sit beside me. "Non-alcoholic beer," he said, pressing a bottle into my hands. "No need to thank me."

"Didn't you tell me that these taste like shit?"