Personal Geography (28 page)

And that’s what I’m so afraid of showing. It’s not my submissiveness, necessarily, though I’d be rendered less than useless if anyone I deal with professionally ever caught a whiff of that. It was uncomfortable at first to admit how much I enjoyed being given direction, being taken care of after fighting—so fiercely—my parents’ efforts to sculpt me into something they might be proud of, but I came to terms with it. It’s something I like, something I need, and I have access to people who understand that.

Though I’ve occasionally wished to find satisfaction at the other end of the whip, I don’t, and giving up my own pleasure because I don’t like the form it takes seems like the very worst kind of masochism. I’m just not that big of a pain slut. It’s that core of iron Hunter couldn’t handle, that tiny little bit of me I had to keep to myself in order to feel safe. That piece is a lot bigger now.

I’m not sure if he felt threatened by my duality or if he was just so driven to possess every part of me that, if he couldn’t conquer me, no one could have any of me at all. Like a child throwing a birthday cake on the floor because they weren’t allowed to have the whole thing. Yet. I can’t say for sure that, if Hunter had given me more time, I wouldn’t have agreed at some point. It’s moot now.

“Did your parents give you the money?”

“Yeah. My dad had clearly handled the transfer. He was more than generous.” An understatement. When I checked my bank accounts a week later, I had a million dollars. I don’t know how he got it by my mother. Not my problem. “And I got a package by messenger at my internship. The title to my car, a copy of my lease, documentation for all my utilities, insurance with everything paid through graduation, a new credit card, and everything else I’d need to keep my life humming along as if nothing had changed. He sent a note, too:
You’ve always deserved better. I hope this will be the chance you need to find it. I love you, Rani
.”

Reason number two to never have children: so I don’t disappoint them as much as my father’s disappointed me.

“Why’d he call you that?”

“It means princess in Hindu.”

“That’s not in your contract.”

Not like baby and sweetheart, no. Hunter’s pet names for me weren’t particularly original. “It’s never been a problem. Don’t call me that.” I leave the “
or I will cut you
” implied.

“I wouldn’t. I’ve got my own name for you.”

“Plaything.”

“You looked it up.”

I blink at him. He knew I would. Milimili means
toy, favorite, beloved
, in Hawaiian. I choose to focus on the “toy,” so I don’t have to yell at him and tell him to stop.

“I didn’t touch the money my dad gave me.” Or the money Hunter had transferred into my account before I’d had the chance to close it out and open another one he couldn’t access. Another cool million in blood money. I’d thought about refusing it, a final foot-stomping, and sometimes I wish I had. But I can be calculating, too. So it sits there, making more money that I hoard, except to pay for my lost weekends. Every time I board a plane or slip into a rental car, it’s a metaphorical middle finger to the people who drove me to this.
How do you like me now, assholes?

I live in a relatively cheap apartment and don’t buy much—I don’t have to. What I left with is more than enough to last most people a lifetime. Three lifetimes. I kept my car, a pretty shiny graduation present from my parents when I finished law school, even though it would’ve made more sense to sell, but I like the illusion of my old life. Or, really, the life I’d been promised, one flush with enough resources I’d never have to do anything I didn’t want to do. I make pretty good bank, too, so it’s less of an illusion than I’d once feared it would be, but I don’t allow myself many luxuries. I don’t want an illusion. I want the real thing, and I don’t want anyone to be able to take that from me.

*

When I’ve finished
the saga of India Kittredge Burke, Crispin takes me in his lap and holds me. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t ask any more questions. He must understand now—why I am the way I am. Why I can’t have a normal relationship; why I’ve flown all over the west looking for people to fuck, to give me what I need in small, safe doses; why the idea of intimacy scares the living crap out of me.

Because intimacy and trust equal pain. They equal hurt and having your life ripped apart. Sharing means trailing little bits of yourself into the woods, only to get to your destination and realize there’s nothing left to tear off, no piece of yourself that’s your own, and no trail to follow back because someone’s swallowed you up. Being loved means being destroyed because you wouldn’t let them have that final morsel. Ownership was carved into my body with cuts as deep, real, and painful as the scar on my back. It means broken contracts and promises, the loss of a life. My life, in particular, one I’ve struggled to put back together. Now he knows.

Is knowing why going to make up for the fact that it’s true? It doesn’t change the way I am. It doesn’t resolve any of my issues. If anything, it makes them worse. I’ve drawn a diagram of how to fuck me over, how to twist the knife should he ever feel like shoving one in my back.

This is why I prefer to present as a submissive and nothing but a submissive. If they think I’ve given them my all, there’s nothing left to go after, so they can’t really hurt me. The bruises and the welts heal. I like to admire them in the mirror until they do. Proof that I’m resilient. But even so, there’s only so much battering I can take.

This was stupid. So fucking stupid. I don’t want to consider the danger I’ve put myself in yet again. I distract him with more sex before I’m smothered under the knowledge that I’ve shared my secrets and I’m going to be sorry. We never sign the contracts, and it’s the first time I’ve fucked someone without a piece of paper since I was in high school. It feels weird but good. I’ll never do it again.

When Rey calls on Monday, I ought to tell him no. No more Kona, no more Crispin. Too dangerous, I’m out. I can’t do it anymore. But because I’m not very bright, the rest of my world is still turned upside down and I need Crispin’s help to unwind, when Rey calls, I tell him “a month” and desperately wish it could be sooner.

‡

A
fter a long,
super-shitty day of unraveling more tangled webs of where the LAHA money’s gone, I head to the apartment Lucy found for me in LA and take a bath. A decent bathtub was the one request I made when she was scouring Craigslist for my crash pad, and she managed not to fuck up. I’ve been here for two months and will probably be here for one more. I thought I couldn’t loathe California more, but having to live in LA has changed my mind. I’ve never been so homesick for Manhattan.

I towel off, slip on a camisole and sleep shorts, and click on my Blackberry. A voicemail from Jack.

“Call me.”

This does not bode well. Raging Jack I can handle. Almost-silent seething Jack is another matter. He’s unpredictable when he’s like this, and I hate surprises. I much prefer the devil I know. I pour myself a glass of wine, grab my omnipresent tablet, and settle myself on the dorm room couch that came as part of my “furnished” apartment.

There’s half a ring before Jack is demanding, “You need to work your Cooper magic.”

“Whoa, slow down. What’s going on?”

“You know who Slade Lewis is?”

“Of course.” Slade Lewis is the Assistant Secretary for Public Housing at HUD—i.e., Cooper’s boss and the only person I’ve ever heard her speak of with a quaver in her voice. Slade Lewis has a reputation for being brilliant, driven, capricious, and nasty. He’s also devastatingly handsome.

I’ve never laid eyes on him in person, but I’ve seen pictures. His strong jaw, hazel eyes, and dark hair greying at the temples are enough to make my little subbie heart flush. Yes, I am fully aware of who Slade Lewis is.

“He’s coming, and he’s on the warpath.”

“Why?”

“Because shit’s been hitting the fan all over the place. Philadelphia, New York, Chicago, Houston, even fucking Missoula. Can’t lumberjacks build their own goddamn housing? Public housing’s getting reamed in the press, and even though I don’t think we could’ve handled this mess better, he’s got to make an example out of someone and he’s got his sights set on LAHA. I need you to call Cooper. Do whatever it is you do to her and direct his attention elsewhere.”

“I’ll call her, but I don’t know—”

I’m interrupted by the click of Jack hanging up on me.

*

“Cooper.”

It’s seven o’clock EST, and I’d guess by her tone that Constance hasn’t had her coffee yet.

“Constance, lovely lady,” I coo. “Something you wanted to tell me?”

“I was going to call you today. I didn’t think you’d be awake yet.”

“I wish I weren’t, but I heard Slade’s on the warpath. Any way you can keep us out of the line of fire?”

“I wish I could. Honestly, I already tried, and it backfired. Don’t get all freaked out, but I think he’s got an interest in you personally.”

“Me? Why?”

“He’s been following you in the press.”

Goddammit. I’m going to skin Brad Lennox alive with a pair of safety scissors and make a parasol out of his hide.

“Get him to unfollow me. You know we’re doing good work here. What else does he want from us?”

“I don’t know. He’s playing cagey on this for reasons beyond my understanding or pay grade. I’ve even tried throwing Bakersfield at him in hopes it would get him off your back, but no such luck. He’s gunning for you. We’re coming for a site visit, with auditors. Them, you shouldn’t be worried about. I’ve seen your books. They’re spotless. I’ll be there Wednesday, and Hurricane Slade makes landfall Friday morning.”

Friday? No, no, no!
I’m supposed to be in Kona for a much-needed break. I haven’t seen Crispin for a month, and our last phone conversation was so hot I wouldn’t have been surprised if the windows in my apartment had fogged up.
I already don’t like you, Mr. Lewis, and fucking with my lost weekend is not the way to win a place in my heart.

“Staying long?” I venture.

“No, we’re driving out to Bakersfield for an afternoon meeting. We’ll be out of your hair by eleven. Are we ruining a long weekend for you?”

“Not ruining. Delaying. Sounds like I’m going to need it even more after your visit.”

“I hate to say this because you’re tough as they come, but I know Slade. If he feels like raking you over the coals, you’re going to burn.”

This is not good, but for now, I’ll keep my chin up.

“I’ll see if Rey can join us for dinner Thursday. It’s usually a good night for him. Is Glory coming?”

“Not this time. She’s jealous I’ll get to see you, but I set her up on a surprise playdate.”

“Ooo, with who?”

“Ananke.”

My eyes widen. “Lucky Glory.” Ananke’s a Domme who has a fondness for hot wax and edge play. The trifecta doesn’t appeal to me and Constance isn’t into the heaviest stuff. This is a nice gift to her beloved little sub, who occasionally likes her sex very, very dark.

“I think so.” Constance is smug, and not-quite-jealousy tweaks my stomach. I’m not jealous of Glory playing with Ananke. I
am
envious Constance has done this for her. Has sat down and thought,
What would make my Glory happy
? That kind of relationship-y stuff usually sounds like a whole lot of work and not at all worth the trade-off—reason number thirty-two not to get married—but I can’t help but wonder what Crispin would dream up for me if he had the chance.