Tight (21 page)

“It’s beautiful.” And it was. The city, the neighborhood, his home. Everything the best money could buy. I didn’t voice the issues. That it didn’t feel like home. That, suddenly, in this zip code, we felt out of sync. I couldn’t put my finger on it, just felt, for the first time in our relationship, like I was out of the loop on something. “Who were those guys? In your office? They left before I could meet them.”

“Some guys I work with. Friends. I’m sorry… I should have introduced you. I just felt bad about working while you were here.”

“It’s okay—”

“No. I should have introduced you. I didn’t even think … I’m sorry Riley.”

“It’s not that big of a deal.” But it had felt like a big deal to me. Why? What had felt so… suspicious about the whole thing? And, in that moment, my finger found what it had been trying to land on. I felt suspicious.

Of Brett.

The man I’d already given my heart to.

“Why don’t we have a cookout tomorrow? I’ll invite the guys over, have them bring the girls.” Brett was still talking, his voice unnaturally bright.

“The girls?”

“Their girlfriends. You’d love them.”

I tried to imagine the girlfriends of those hard men, and the combination we’d make on Brett’s pool deck. “It’s okay.” I ran my hand down his flat stomach, dipping my hand under the silk of his boxer briefs. “I’d rather spend the day with you.”

“You sure?” His voice caught when I slid my hand lower, running my fingers over the length of his cock. He tightened his arm around me, pulling me on top of him. “I want to make you happy, Riley.”

“You do.” I whispered, lowering my mouth to his neck and kissing the scruff there.

He raised his hips and moaned my name as I tightened my hand around his shaft. And, for the next half hour, I lost any thoughts of suspicion.

tight (tīt)

(adj.)
well-sealed against intrusion

Somehow, despite my assurances to the contrary, Brett felt the need to invite his friends back over. This time, they brought their girlfriends; all eight individuals apparently had no other plans on a Sunday afternoon. I sat in the shade of an umbrella, nursing a Corona and glanced at the group behind the privacy of my sunglasses.

The men’s names were a fog: a Justin, Frank and… I couldn’t remember the others. Names had never been my forte. With the women, I made more of an effort. Amy, the brunette by the grill, was dating Justin. She seemed nice, if not a little quiet. Kelly sat next to me, quietly sipping on a margarita, and was married to the man flipping steaks. They had two kids and had been together for four years. I had asked about her children, but she had, with a quiet glance at her husband, stated that they were ‘with friends.’ Margo and Stacy were in the pool and hadn’t said five words to their partners, their main focus on tan development. Now they floated, eyes closed, on recliners in the pool.

“How long have you guys been friends with Brett?” I turned to Kelly with a friendly smile. Her eyes darted from my face to her drink, a shuttered look crossing her face, like I had just asked a deeply personal question.

“A few years,” she finally said, her eyes flipping to the outdoor kitchen, where Brett raised his beer to us, a wide smile crossing his face.

I smiled and waved *we’re happy over here* and turned back to Kelly, curiosity winning any competition with tact. “Have you met any of Brett’s other girlfriends?”

“He hasn’t had any,” she said quickly, tipping back her glass.

I watched Brett, his eyes skipping between the two of us, his smile dropping slightly. Then he leaned into the man next to him, a telephone-like game occurring, one whisper passing to another, Amy receiving the secret message and heading toward us, her strides quick and confident, her smile breezy when she flopped down in the chair across from me. “What’d I miss?” she asked. “Anything exciting?”

Kelly looked away, and I leaned forward. “I was just asking about Brett’s exes. How much I had to compete with.” I grinned as if I didn’t care about the answer, as if I wasn’t pumping strangers for intel like a crazy, insecure woman.

Her smile fell, then rose again, as if it was programmed to reset. “Well, that’s easy,” she recovered. “He hasn’t had any. At least not as long as I’ve known him. What do you do in Quincy, Riley?”

I ignored the question, intent on knowing
something
more. “Why’d the guys come over yesterday? It looked like they were working on something.”

Dead silence. Suddenly, Breezy Amy had nothing to say. I looked from one to the other, Kelly’s neck twisting even further away, Amy’s jaw working open and closed with no words coming out. I felt like I had just stepped on a landmine and had no idea why. Finally, Amy’s voice box worked. “The guys are always getting together.”

“Guy stuff,” Kelly said dully.

“Yeah!” Amy said brightly. “Guy stuff. I stay out of it.”

“Me too.” Kelly looked up, a false smile pasted in my direction. “Sports stuff bores me.”

“Are your guys also in sales?” God, I can’t believe I forgot their names.

Another uncomfortable pause.

“Sort of,” Amy finally managed while Kelly just held her smile.

I out-faked her in the smile department, then tipped back my Corona, my seed of suspicion growing roots.

tight (tīt)

(adj.)
disciplined or professional, well coordinated

“a tight ship”

After we gave Marcia a clean bed and nursed her back to life, after I watched her trembling hand hold my phone and call her parents, I became a man obsessed. With saving these women, with diving into the guts of this beast and ripping every entrail out. I thought it would be easy, thought that I could hire a few Navy SEALS and clean up the issue in the course of weeks. Envisioned, with the few rays of optimism that remained in my heart, that we’d find or avenge Elyse. I rolled up my cufflinks and waded in next to the men. Became, my large fortune in hand, one of the largest purchasers of women in the business. I became notorious, whispers of my cruelty and insatiable need for more flowed through the underground, fed by carefully planted stories and rumors. Plus, there were my buying habits. I bought anything - every age, race, and size. Our first year we bought 62 women. The second, 104. The third, 129. I opened a house in Miami for rehabilitation and staffed it with a medical team, psychologists, and six caregivers. I saved as many as I could, my weekends spent in the air, the Caribbean and Central America my feeding ground, the thousand miles surrounding where Elyse disappeared canvassed as thoroughly as possible.

Every saved soul was a pebble into the stream that was my broken heart. I threw every pebble in and hoped the water would dam, hoped the hurt would fade, hoped the memories would fade. But the stream never dried, the hurt never ceased, and my pain never healed.

Until I met Riley. I watched her blush and take the slippers. Felt the brush of her hand as we walked. Heard the gasp of her inhale as I thrust. Became lost in her face when she orgasmed around my cock, felt the warmth of her smile when we shared a joke. Felt alive from her enthusiasm for life and living. Enjoyed peace as I watched the sigh of her chest as she slept. I met Riley and - for the first time since Elyse’s disappearance—felt the first hint of something more, of a life outside of my rabid search for a woman who was already dead.

“Why do you ask me so many questions?”

“I’m gathering information.” He uncrossed and recrossed his legs, this time at the ankle, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms on his chest.

I sat on my bed, the handcuffs and bindings removed some time ago. I had, in ways, lost my fight. Could be trusted to sit without attacking, to sleep without destroying my room or myself. There was only so much trouble I could get into in the room, the reason for the cuffs more about domination than anything. Thinking about and remembering the long hours, I rubbed my wrists.

“Let’s play a game, Kitten.”

“I don’t like your games.”

“Well, this one is different. It has a prize.” He grinned widely, like he had just granted me my freedom.

He wanted me to ask. I could feel the words
what prize
shoving my tongue down, lips apart but I stayed mute. Sat on my bed and examined my toenails. Punished him in the way that hurt him the most, silence - a withholding of reaction, of information, of content to write down in his fucking notebook. I clamped my lips shut and picked at a spot on my big toe.