Personal Geography (25 page)

He brushes it off with a “no big thing,” but I know it was. And I really am sorry. What makes it worse is that I’d do the same thing all over again and we both know it, so I’m going to make him an offer he can’t refuse.

It’s been on my mind since Crispin dropped me off at the airport with barely a goodbye the time before last. Introspection’s not my strong suit, and if I’ve been stroking this thought for weeks, even after having done some penance during the visit in between, it might be a good idea for me to do something about it. And who am I kidding? Atonement through sex is easy for me. I want to give him more than that, even if I can’t hand over exactly what he wants.

Somehow Crispin’s respect for my boundaries about Hunter, though it bothered him, made me more inclined to share. Like a newly sovereign nation accepting an ambassador from their former rulers. Doesn’t mean I’m not going to have snipers stationed on every rooftop primed to shoot if the foray goes sour, but I’ll let him in.

“I can’t… I can’t be with you that way. But I wanted…”
Jesus, India, fucking say it.
“I wanted to give you something else.”

His expression is pure interest.

“You can ask me a question. Anything you want to know. I won’t say no.”

Not that I’ve vetoed a lot, only a few times when he’d asked too many questions about my family, but that’s more than he’s been allowed and I’m still being Scrooge McSlut. One question after everything he’s given me isn’t much, but the look on his face tells me he couldn’t be happier. My brain knows I’m doing a good thing—I
should
give Crispin something in recompense for all the ridiculous crap I put him through—but my blood is shrieking through my veins, pumped by a heart that’s begging,
Why did you put me on the chopping block again?

The gears are cranking in Crispin’s head, but I know what he’s going to ask if he’s just got the one shot, possibly ever.

“Will you tell me your story, India? Why this is so damn hard for you?”

*

“Did you know
I was a trust fund baby?”

“Like you literally have a trust fund?”

I smile. He’s usually so attentive, but he missed my use of the past tense. He’ll get it soon enough. “There was an awful lot of money twiddling its interest-bearing thumbs, waiting for me to turn twenty-five. I was in my second-to-last year of grad school, and I was really looking forward to some independence.”

“I’ll bet.” Crispin doesn’t know a lot about my parents. I’ve been careful to keep him in the dark, but the barest scraps are enough to paint an unflattering picture of Preston and Samantha Burke.

“A few days before I was supposed to get access, my mom called. Said she and my dad wanted to take me out to dinner. I didn’t think much of it. I usually saw them around my birthday. But instead of meeting at a restaurant, the car dropped me off in front of an office building. My mother had this obnoxious habit of dragging me to plastic surgeons—”

“What the hell for?”

I tap the side of my nose.

“You had a nose job?”

“No.” I shake my head and laugh. No, I never did. That tiny little bump on the bridge of my nose must haunt her to this day. I hope it keeps her up at night, knowing I’m walking around the world like this, a flawed expression of her genetic code.

“I don’t—”

I lay a finger over my lips, feeling them curve with amusement. He falls silent, arms crossed over his chest. “If you’re going to interrupt every time someone behaves irrationally, this story is going to take all night.”

His jaw clenches, and I want to pet him, protect him from the shitstorm that’s looming. I forget that some people come from functional families. I bet Crispin’s family was happy. He won’t have the vocabulary, the capacity, to understand what happened to me, but I’ll tell him, because he’s asked and I’ve made a promise.

“Anyway, I thought she’d sprung another involuntary rhinoplasty consultation on me. It took me a while to realize I wasn’t in a plastic surgeon’s office but a psychiatrist’s. Dr. Arnold Glazer, shrink to the rich and famous.”

Crispin opens his mouth again, but I silence him with a glare.

“He told me my parents were concerned about me. They’d received some photographs that morning by messenger.”

The color drains from Crispin’s face and from his fingers where they’re digging into his biceps. All I feel is blankness. There’s no rage anymore, no terror, no autonomic reaction at all. Just the impression that I’m reciting this story as if from a script, though only one other person has heard it. Rey got every single painful detail. Crispin will get the
Reader’s Digest
version.

“Dr. Glazer handed me this file—this innocuous, standard manila folder—and when I opened it, there they were. An even half-dozen.”

God knows Hunter loved his symmetry. If he was going to ruin someone’s life, he was going to at least do it properly, with style. And the photographs? They weren’t exactly Robert Mapplethorpes, but the lighting and composition were impeccable. They could’ve been in some high-end, glossy, coffee table book.

“It was me, kneeling on the floor of Hunter’s playroom, wearing nothing but some of the obscenely expensive lingerie he liked me in. That’s not entirely true. I also had on a blindfold, my collar, and a bit gag. And some cuffs. You know, elbows bound behind my back, wrists tethered at the base of my spine and hooked to ankle cuffs.”

He knows. He’s had me in similar positions. And lots of others that wouldn’t look out of place in the photo collection, with a few caveats. Crispin’s not big on lingerie, he prefers brown leather to black, and his wood-and-light studio is more rustic than Hunter’s luxe playroom with its Persian rugs and mahogany furniture.

“They weren’t all that scandalous. To me. Or to you. It could’ve been much worse.” That’s what I kept trying to tell myself amidst all the rage and the panic while I tried to keep my head on straight. “But they were bad enough. My parents wanted to check me into an institution. A really swank one with an excellent reputation. I had classmates who’d ended up there for rehab, eating disorders, a half-assed suicide attempt… Rich kid problems. I tried to explain, but my mother wouldn’t listen.

“She was worried whoever sent the pictures was going to go to the press. I think the humiliation would’ve killed her. But what she failed to see, what she always failed to see, was that it wasn’t about her. They weren’t meant for public consumption. You couldn’t see my eyes or my scar in any of the photos—nothing that could definitively identify it as me.”

No. Hunter, as ruthless as he’d been, had designed them for a very specific purpose: to force my hand. The guy may have been Machiavelli incarnate, but even the devil has a code of ethics. He wanted me destitute and dependent on him, not the laughingstock of New York.

“I told my parents there wasn’t anything wrong with me, that they weren’t going to check me into an institution because of their own fucked-up worldview. That’s when they threatened my trust fund. They had been holding that money over my head my whole life, and when they threatened me with it, it was usually a good indication I’d won the argument.

“They’re so concerned with appearances they’d never want me out on the street—or worse, middle-class—but somehow, I didn’t think they were bluffing this time.

“My mother said if I refused to enter treatment, the money would be gone. Every cent. So I said fine, I wasn’t going to sell myself. My dad tried to talk me out of it, telling me I’d have nothing. When I wouldn’t back down, he asked if there was anything I wanted. I asked for them to pay the rest of my tuition and give me a year’s worth of my expenses. My mom said no, but my dad said yes. For the first time in my life, he stood up to her.”

Too little, way too fucking late.

“I asked if they wanted anything from me, and my mother demanded I change my name. I told her I wouldn’t, but I’d leave New York, go where ‘the Park Avenue Burkes’ didn’t mean anything. I’d go to the West Coast and never come east of the Mississippi ever again.”

Crispin raises his eyebrows. No doubt it sounds like a crackpot promise. I guess it was, but at the time, it had seemed like a good idea. He also knows how seriously I take my word. I haven’t breached that arbitrary border since I finished grad school. The idea of going back makes my stomach churn.

“And then I left. I slung my bag over my shoulder, walked out of there, and kept walking. And walking. And walking. I walked until my feet bled. I wasn’t anywhere near home, of course, so I sat on a bench, pulled out my phone, and called Rey.”

“And he came. Like he always does. He pulled up and opened the passenger-side door. When I didn’t get up, he got out of the car, picked me up, put me inside, and drove me back to his apartment. Then he gave me a bath and put me to bed. When I woke up in the morning, he was holding me, and that’s when I started to cry.

“I cried for hours, but he never let me go. He canceled appointments for me, but he never said anything about it. He just let me sob until I cried myself out and fell asleep again. When I woke, I told him what’d happened.

“He apologized for ever introducing me to Hunter, even though it wasn’t his fault. How was he supposed to know what would happen? I heard Hunter has a twenty-four-seven, TPE slave now. I’m sure they’re very happy together.”

Who knows? Maybe if I’d given in and agreed on one of the many occasions he’d brought it up,
we’d
still be very happy together. We’d essentially had a Master/slave dynamic when I was on his time, if not quite a Total Power Exchange arrangement. For the most part, I enjoyed it. After all, it wasn’t Hunter
wanting
a full-time slave that had been the problem. It was the thermonuclear tantrum he threw when he didn’t get it.

But honestly, I don’t think happily ever after was in the cards for us. I’ve known people who were involved in these all-encompassing, all-consuming, Master/slave relationships, and though I didn’t—still don’t—doubt their happiness, I did have reservations about my own capacity to be satisfied with that kind of arrangement. At least all the time. I certainly wouldn’t be able to do it now.

“Anyway, I stayed with Rey for two weeks before I went back to my apartment. It was the oddest thing. I couldn’t remember what I was supposed to do, aside from my schoolwork. For a while, I would find myself sitting on my couch for hours, doing nothing. I asked for more hours at my internship, started working out at the campus gym. And I read books. Lots of books. Things I’d wanted to read but never had time for.”

“But you were still in school.”

Oh, Crispin, you’re sweet.

“It wasn’t because of school. I read lots of things that weren’t for my classes. They were…” I shift in my chair. “Hunter always made sure I did my homework and read whatever was popular so I could talk about it with guests.”

Crispin’s face has gone grey. I knew he wouldn’t like that, Hunter treating me like a pet trained for the entertainment of his friends, but at the time, I didn’t mind. It was another way to please him, and I desperately wanted to meet his exacting standards, make him happy, gain his elusive approval.

I don’t think Crispin would blink an eye if this involved someone else. He must’ve seen this a thousand times, knowing the people he does. It’s possible he’s even done this with one or all of his other subs. But the idea of me—she of the excessive number of degrees who constantly devours and recommends books—being told what I could or could not fill my head with… I get why that would make him a little queasy. I don’t think I’d be able to relinquish control of that anymore either, so it’s a good thing it doesn’t appeal.

But if one of the sweeter aspects of my relationship with Hunter makes him nauseated, I’m definitely not going to mention the caning I got for my first and only B+. Hunter had been furious and lectured me for what seemed like hours—though I knew the sick feeling in my stomach from having disappointed him was stretching out the time like some vile flavor of saltwater taffy. It was probably more like fifteen minutes, maybe twenty. After that little incident, I got straight As.

I’d stop talking or give Crispin a break, but I need the momentum to keep spilling this godforsaken tale of woe. “He wanted me to keep up with current events, too. Out of spite, I stopped reading the paper, even though he didn’t cancel my subscription. After about a month, I was craving some news, but I couldn’t bring myself to pick up the
Times
or
The Economist
. So I bought a TV and started watching
The Daily Show
. Ever watch
The Daily Show
? Yeah. I keep meaning to sit down and write Jon Stewart a thank you note—and I will someday. The man made me laugh when I thought I’d forgotten how.

“I sleepwalked through my last year of school. I mean, I worked hard, I was top of my class, but I felt like the walking dead. I didn’t talk to anyone I didn’t absolutely have to. Except Rey, of course. Rey was my lifeline. I somehow managed to land my job, and I planned to move the day after commencement.

“Rey was the only one who came to my graduation. I don’t think he could’ve been prouder. I thought I might’ve seen my dad at the back, but when I blinked, the guy was gone and I couldn’t be sure. Rey blocked out my calendar for the week after graduation, and I was still so out of it I didn’t bother to ask why. He’d been acting like my Dom for the year and a half since the fallout—without any of the fun stuff. Would you do that for someone?”