Personal Geography (3 page)

A good thing,
too, because the rest of my week is a fucking misery. The report gets done well and on time, but not for the lack of everyone and their mother trying to fuck me over. Tuesday went a lot like this:

“Janis, I don’t care who you have to screw to get those numbers. Hell, I don’t care who
I
have to screw to get those numbers, but I need them by close of business, or we’ll all be fucked and not in a nice way.

“Look, this is my job on the line, but it’s your life. If this doesn’t work out, they know it’s not our fault and you’re going to flat-out lose the units. They’re going to take your funding away, Janis. Every penny. Is that how you want to go down in history?

“Every single motherfucking last housing authority is watching you and I would suggest not making any more of a hash out of this than you already have. Get me the goddamn vacancy numbers by the end of the day, or I’ll make the call to Cooper myself.”

I slam the receiver down and am surprised by a slow clap coming from my door.

“Well done, Ms. Burke. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“You know I do, Jack. I just like to save it for special occasions, not wank off every day like you.”

Thankfully, he laughs like I thought he would. I’ve caught him in a good mood. His hair’s only slightly disheveled, and his tie’s still on.

“What’s up?” I ask, not bothering to take my feet off my desk.

Jack launches into concerns about some of the other projects we’re working on. I take notes on things I need to take care of and issue assurances on what I’ve already dealt with. It’s not the longest laundry list he’s ever had for me, and everything should be taken care of by the time I leave.

He says on his way out, “You sure are earning that three-day weekend you talked me into.”

“I always do.”

“Yes, you do.”

Though I technically only get two weeks of vacation per year, I’ve talked Jack into giving me three for all intents and purposes. He doesn’t seem to care as long as it doesn’t interfere with my projects. Not to mention he can see the difference when I get back. I’m more focused, more patient, work longer hours, and don’t flinch no matter how harsh he is. All in all, well worth it for him.

I check my personal cell when he’s gone, and there’s another text from Rey:

LMK when you’re home. I’ve got a messenger in a holding pattern.

Fun. This must be the dossier on Cris Ardmore. That will make for some interesting reading while I lounge in the tub with a glass of Pinot tonight. But first…

“Lucy!”

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

This budget for the City of La Jolla is a certified disaster, and it needs to be dealt with before I can go home. I don’t bother to start looking at the spreadsheets until Lucy delivers what may as well be manna from heaven. She might be incapable of anticipating my needs, but the woman makes a damn good cup of coffee. I take a sip and dive in, emerging seven hours later with my rank gym bag and my ubiquitous roller bag stuffed with my laptop, notes for tomorrow, and a draft of the LAHA report Jack will scream at me for the second he gets me on the phone.

I text Rey as soon as I get home, and ten minutes later, there’s a hipster with gauged ears and too many tats at my door. I guess Rey really did have him in a holding pattern. I give him a bottle of water and a nice tip before I send him on his way, and then slip into my waiting tub and get some more info on Mr. Ardmore.

A lot of it is redacted. Despite requiring the information, I don’t want to see it. I do like proof that it’s been collected, and I want Rey to have it as an insurance policy in case anything goes awry—or, really, to ensure nothing goes aslant in the first place. I rarely get refused, despite the invasive nature of the prerequisites I insist on, but maybe it’s too strange an opportunity to pass up.

Imagine: You get a call out of the blue from a well-respected trainer you’ve almost certainly heard of, and if you haven’t, someone you know has. He offers you a weekend of no-strings-attached play with a trained submissive provided you pass the screening process. She’ll come to you, and should you choose to spend the weekend with her somewhere other than your home, all expenses will be taken care of. If it sounds pretty alluring, it’s meant to.

I’ve never bothered to ask the men who say yes why they agree, and by definition, I don’t have the opportunity to ask the ones who say no. There’s no contact with refusals, and they don’t get a second chance.

Everything here is in order, as I expected. Rey doesn’t waste my time. And there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for the lack of
h
in Cris.
Crispin
. I like it. A lot. Not Christopher, not Christian—Crispin. I wonder giddily if he can recite the St. Crispin’s Day speech from
Henry V
. I’d best get this out of my system before embarrassing myself by asking when we meet.

I’m also pleased by the undergraduate and graduate degrees. Not that I haven’t played with some very fine men with a high school diploma or less—and a PhD by no means guarantees a guy knows his way around a woman’s body—but Rey knows I’m slutty for postgraduate degrees. He must’ve been clapping his hands like a little girl at recess when he put this together. Or really, when he read it over after Matty put it together. I tease myself by flipping through a few more mostly-blacked-out pages consisting of some references Mr. Ardmore provided, along with a couple Rey sought out before he even talked to the guy.

I hold my breath before flipping to the last page where his picture awaits. When I get photos—and I don’t always since I don’t require it—they’re usually full-body shots—although, mercifully, clothed. Believe it or not, Rey has to specify this.
Dude, we’ll get there
. If it’s not a head-to-toe, it’s what looks like a professional headshot. But this… It’s a candid of a man. Laughing.

What?
Usually they do their best to look intimidating, intense. You know,
dominating
. But not this guy. You can’t even see his whole face because he’s turned to the side, and he’s
laughing
. The corner of my mouth tugs up involuntarily.

What’s your game, Cris Ardmore
?

He’s got a mop of curly dark hair, what some might call bushy eyebrows but I don’t mind, and a layer of what I’m hoping is perma-stubble. His teeth are white, straight and sharp against his tanned skin, and he’s got what I think are light blue eyes. Or maybe grey. The picture isn’t taken from close enough to say for sure.

I don’t know if he’d be considered conventionally attractive—there’s something off there—but I won’t kick him out of bed. If I have the chance. Sleeping arrangements can be sticky with what I do. I won’t fret about that now.

I grab my phone from where it’s resting next to my empty wine glass and text Rey, despite it being almost one in the morning:

Me likey.

My phone pings a minute later:

Thought you would. Now go the fuck to sleep.

I laugh, text back a kiss, and do as I’m told. I have an early morning tomorrow and don’t even have Adam’s puppy-dog face to look forward to.

Despite being wrecked and having had one—okay, three—glasses of wine, I have trouble falling asleep. I find myself wondering if I’ll get to see Cris Ardmore laugh. I think I’d like to.

‡

T
oday, I’ve got
a press conference. The only nice thing about having to drag myself up to LA on the early shuttle is that Rey surprises me with a dinner reservation so he can hand-deliver the contract he received from Cris Ardmore.

It’s good I have that to look forward to because the press conference is a total clusterfuck. Brad Lennox, that asshole from the
Times
(LA, not New York, thank god), is there, and he’s done some homework, unlike most of the clowns who show up. While I’m impressed and I wouldn’t mind discussing this over a stiff drink, he’s making my client squirm and that’s my job, so I field the rest of his questions. He backs off after realizing that he doesn’t intimidate me and he’s not going to badger me into spilling any newsworthy details.

That’s why Jack tapped me for this: my ability to stay cool in the face of pretty much anything. It’s a useful skill, but I still wish Jack didn’t make me do press. I value my privacy too damn much. Though there aren’t usually pictures and the stories are generally buried somewhere no one except industry wonks and old people with nothing better to do will see it, it’s still my name in the paper. It’s unnerving, but there’s no way I’m explaining why to Jack. Besides, I don’t want to cash in my favors for an assignment I’m good at.

After the inquisition is over, I spend the rest of the day at LAHA’s main offices. I check in and stroke Janis’s ego after she managed to do her fucking job and get me the data I asked for. It’s a long day but not as unpleasant as it could’ve been, especially when the town car pulls up out front to collect me at seven thirty.

The driver gets out and opens the door before I can make it all the way down the steps. He takes my roller bag and stows it in the trunk as I sink into the backseat. I wait until he’s closed the door before I slide under Rey’s waiting arm.

“You look great. Chanel, very nice.”

“Thanks. It’s a good thing these people wouldn’t know Chanel if it bit them in the ass. Jack would have my head for
that
making the papers. As it is, I had to leave my shoes at home.”

“I know.” He soothes me with a squeeze of my shoulder. “But I’m taking you someplace nice, and I’mma show you a good time.”

And he does. The restaurant is Latin-flavored, with a line out the door and a filled-to-crushing bar, but clearly Rey knows someone. We get shown in right away and to a private dining room on the third floor, no less. Almost the second we’re seated, a server comes in with cocktails we didn’t have to order. Goddamn it’s good to be Rey’s friend sometimes.

As I sip at my paloma, we chat about the day’s events, but by the time the sea bass ceviche arrives, I’m ready to get down to business.

“You have something for me?”

“Of course.” Rey takes a folded manila envelope from the inside of his jacket and hands it to me as I curl my fingers in a greedy, come-hither gesture. The envelope’s not thick, a good start, and when I open it and slide out the neatly clipped pages, I’m relieved to see a respectable font. I’d almost called it off once when I got a contract in Comic Sans.

“Comic Sans?” Rey’s a fucking mind reader.

“How’d you know?”

“That always makes you smile.”

“I need to start being less predictable. You’ll get bored with me, and then where will I be?”

“You couldn’t be boring if you tried, India. Now get reading before your soup gets cold.”

*