Personal Geography (20 page)

“You heard right. I’m getting ready for another trip up to LA. Check the
Times
on Thursday.”

There’s a pause, and I regret it. I cover my eyes with my hand, although I don’t know who I’m hiding from. There’s no one else in the office, and Cris can’t see me. But when he says, “Will do,” with what I can tell is his crooked smile halfway across the Pacific, I feel the pleasant burn I get whenever he says anything that distills to
I like you
.

*

When I get
up to LA, I give the cabbie the address of a building Janis has been telling me is waiting on maintenance before we can put more families in. The guy eyes me suspiciously in the rearview mirror.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

“I wouldn’t wear those pearls in that neighborhood,” he advises, putting the cab into gear and locking the doors.

“I work for the housing authority.” Same thing, every time.

When we pull up to the complex, I’m surprised to see cars in the parking lot. This whole building is listed as unoccupied for major repairs, but these aren’t maintenance trucks. There are kids playing in the yard, music drifting from windows. I check the Post-it in my purse to make sure I haven’t gotten the wrong address, but I haven’t. I verify the property listings on my Blackberry to make triple-sure, but no. It’s there.

Anger rips through me.
How dare you misuse public funds and keep families from getting housed?
It’s followed by a pang of sheer insult.
You honestly thought you could hide this from me?
After that, I’m flooded with cold, hard satisfaction.
You’re going down, Janis. Hard.

I give the driver another address before getting on my phone.

“Jack, we’ve got a problem.”

While we’re strategizing, I go on a tour of all the buildings we’ve been told are vacant for repairs. Half of them are filled. There’s no sign of work being done on the others. I’ll have to pore over every cent on the books, but I suspect the maintenance funds are being diverted and Janis and several accomplices are collecting rent from the occupied properties under the table. Do the families living there think they’re legit housing authority tenants? This is a fucking disaster. I’m pissed it’s taken me so long to figure it out, but it could’ve taken a lot longer. Nothing in the receivership protocols indicates site visits for all properties.

After I’ve done my survey, I have a conference call with Cooper and Jack, and we make a plan. We’ll do some more digging before we confront Janis to try to figure out how far this goes and who else might be involved. Cooper’s livid, but not primarily at me. She’s done the same calculus I have—it could’ve been worse.

A few hours later, the cab drops me off at LAHA’s main offices, and I play dumb for the rest of the day. I hole up in an office left empty by one of the people who was fired when the agency first went into receivership. From there, I dive down the rabbit hole. My email outbox gets stacked with virtual reams of data, stuff I’ll need to have associates scour to work out who’s involved in this.

Janis, as friendly as she ever is, stops by on her way out and tells me not to burn the midnight oil. I tell her not to worry, even though I’ll be here through the night and possibly the next night, too. But the only thing on fire around here is going to be her. Janis is going to be a pile of ashes by the time I leave LA. Which may be never, based on what I’m finding. For seeming so dumb, Janis and her compatriots have been clever in their cover-up—but not cleverer than me.

I work through the night, my only company some stale vending machine crackers and more phone calls with Jack and Cooper. Jack announces he’ll be flying up later in the morning to deal with this. That’s why his name’s on the letterhead and not mine.

As the sun rises, I do a quick scrub-down with paper towels in the employee bathroom and change my clothes before making myself a cup of coffee. For the first time ever, I miss Lucy. This stuff is egregiously disgusting. I shrug it off and put on my bitch face. Today is going to be ugly.

*

Saturday rolls around.
I’m still in LA. I’ve had to buy new clothes; I was expecting to stay a couple of days, but it looks like I’ll be here a couple of weeks at the least. Janis has been fired, as have a dozen other people who were involved in the cover up. Some of them will be arrested for fraud. It’s a nightmare through and through, and the only bright side is that Constance has flown out to manage some of this shitshow herself, including handling the press.

My phone rings in the afternoon as I’m plowing through some numbers with half a dozen associates Jack’s sent up, and I excuse myself. I deserve to take five.

“Hello?”

“How are you holding up?”

Cris must’ve seen the coverage of this royal clusterfuck in the
Times
. And possibly called Rey. My shoulders drop three inches hearing his voice.

“Fine,” I chirp, not wanting to let him know how taxing this is. I’m exhausted, and all we’re turning up is more shit to hit the fan. It’s going to get much worse before I see a glimmer of better.

“Okay. You can tell me if you’re not.”

I wish that were true, but even the fact he’s offering makes me feel better.

“Tell me what to do to help, and I’ll do it. We don’t technically have a contract, but I’m responsible for you, Kit.”

My lips part, and I have to take a few deep breaths before I can answer him. “You’re doing it. Thank you.”

“Can you still come on Friday?”

“Oh yes.” I told Jack I’d work every minute between now and then, but if he wanted me to keep being a functional human being, he needed to give me the weekend—and he’d agreed.

“Good. I’ll pick you up at eleven?”

“Ten thirty, if that’s okay. I’m coming from LA.”

“Even better. I’ll see you then.”

We say our goodbyes, and after I’ve pressed the end call button, I hold my phone to my chest. That two-minute conversation has fortified me to walk back into the office and give more orders. It’s going to be a long six days.

‡

“W
ould you be
offended if I didn’t want to talk?”

It’s ten thirty-five on Friday, and we’re in Cris’s car on the way out of the airport.

“Are you asking to break our contract?”

“We’ll have the ride there?” Desperation makes my throat tight, and my plea comes out as a squeak.

“I’m teasing, Kit.” His hand lifts from the steering wheel. I think he might put his arm around me or run a hand through my hair. Instead, he fiddles with the volume dial without actually changing the volume. He was going to touch me. I wish he had. I’m aching for his hands on me. “We’ll do whatever you want.”

“I need to shut my brain off. I need you to be strict with me. More than usual. Please.”

Please have this in you, Cris, please.
Not that he hasn’t shown himself capable, but it’s alternated with periods of sweetness—and sweetness leaves too much room for my mind to wander. No, sustained and harsh control will be required to wipe my mind of what’s churning there. These are the only times I miss Hunter. He could keep my head in the dark for days at a time, make me forget about anything for as long as he wanted me to, for as long as I needed him to. But those weren’t always the same. Not knowing the difference…that was the unfortunate thing about Hunter.

*

We race through
the formalities, and ten minutes after we’ve arrived, I’m on my knees in the studio, waiting for Cris to join me.

When the door finally opens and he strides through, he doesn’t acknowledge me. He heads over to the chest of drawers and rummages about, plucking things from the drawers and stowing them under the table. “Bathroom.”

He hasn’t told me to stand, so I crawl across the hardwood floor until I reach the tile, then sit back on my heels. Cris isn’t big on crawling—or anything dehumanizing, really. I’ve always liked that about him, but to be a little less than human right now would be welcome. I don’t have to be smarter than everyone else. I don’t have to fix everything. I don’t have to be responsible even for myself because he’s going to do it for me.

As if he’s read my mind, he snaps out another command. “Shower.”

Still on my knees, I make my way to the other side of the door. The tile is harder on my joints than the wood, and I welcome the coarseness of the grout against my skin. This is going to hurt in a long, drawn-out way.

He washes me, more thorough than ever, and has me put my elbows and forehead to the floor as well, driving my mind into darkness with roaming, slick fingers, pressing, probing, pinching, teasing. He doesn’t talk to me while he does it. I’m not a person to be chatted with; I’m an object to be prepared and then enjoyed. My elbows and knees are aching, but I don’t complain. If he wants me to suffer, I’ll suffer because it’s not for me to say otherwise. I’ve handed myself over to him, and I’m his to do with as he pleases. Knowing I’m hurting, hurting for him, will please him.

By the time he’s finished, I’m so wet from his attentions I don’t think he’ll be able to dry me off no matter how many fluffy towels he throws at the problem, but he only bothers with a cursory dry before ordering me to crawl back into the studio and stand facing the table. I’ve been on my hands and knees for so long that the ache has settled into an almost comfortable numbness. With the movement, the hurt comes alive again, and pain radiates up my limbs, turning into a less painful but no less intense sensation in my breasts, my pelvis.
Yes.
This is what I wanted.

He wraps cuffs around my wrists and ankles before draping a towel over the short end of the wood surface. Urging me forward until my hipbones press against the edge, he bends me over and clips my wrists to anchor points at the far side before nudging my ankles apart and tethering them to the legs of the table.

“Better, but not good enough. Head up, eyes closed.”

A blindfold is slipped over my eyes, a serious one of high quality that does a thorough job of blocking my sight. When it’s fastened snugly, I’m about to lay my head back down on the table when he scolds me.