A Smile as Sweet as Poison (9 page)

“Well, that’s good.” Hazel grinned, trying to be positive. “Since you’re getting married and all…”

“You think I’d do it if we weren’t in love?”

Taken aback by the sudden coolness in Sadie’s tone, Hazel shook her head. “No. No, of course not. I only meant…”

“Shit, I know. I’m sorry.” Sadie reached over the table to place her hand over Hazel’s. “I’m just so stressed, with work and the wedding…” Her palm was a hot, clammy pressure, trapping Hazel’s digits against the surface of the metal table.

Hazel forced a smile to her lips. “It’s cool. I get it.”

“So are you taking him or Dylan?” Sadie wanted to know.

“Taking them…to the wedding?”

“Well, that, too. I need to know for the seating chart, obviously. But I meant… To the reunion.” Sadie frowned. “Didn’t Rhonda tag you?” Chair creaking beneath her, she released Hazel’s hand and liberated her smartphone from her voluminous Louis Vuitton handbag. “I have, like, a hundred notifications—”

“You know I’m not going,” Hazel said, a little stung.
You know why.

Sadie looked up, but whatever she’d meant to say was arrested behind powder-pink lips while their waitress returned with their order. Silence loomed over the table for a few precious seconds. Then Sadie found her voice again. “I think you should.”

“Really?”

Her sister-in-law had been singing that same song for months. Five years wasn’t enough time to move on with their lives, but apparently the university had decided to do something new this year. All alumni were invited back to campus, from the class of 1989 to 2009, and every single one in between.

Had she remained in school, Hazel’s name would have been on the 2009 roster.

“It’ll be good for you,” Sadie argued. “And with Ward and Dylan—”

Hazel barked out a laugh. “Oh, because you think I should drag them along for the spectacle?” It wasn’t the humid afternoon heat that had her feeling as if she was suffocating.

“What spectacle? It’s just a stupid reunion… A few speeches, happy hour. Maybe a little dancing. We’ll take pictures and we’ll leave.”

“You’re going?” The bottom dropped out on Hazel’s insides. From the waist down, her whole body melted into a puddle of festering betrayal.

Sadie nodded. “Frank thinks we should. He wants me to be proud of my accomplishments…”

“But you
hated
college.”

“That was back then. I was a stupid kid.”

And two months ago, when you were driving up the Santa Monica mountains and you called me from the car asking where your best years had gone, was that ‘back then’, too?
Hazel pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth, throat tight.

“Then you should go.”

“Hazel—”

“I’m serious.” The latte tasted sour. Hazel licked her unrouged lips. “You should go, say hi to everyone. Show Frank how far you’ve come.” From college grad to diner waitress, the rollercoaster of her life only went up, up, up.

“That’s not fair.”

Hazel flinched. “No. It’s not. But neither is this… I’m not you, Sadie. I don’t have a ring on my finger. I’m not getting married.” She pushed her tall, milky drink aside. “And I didn’t graduate, so what’s the point? I’m not invited anyway.”

“Don’t you want Ward and Dylan to see you for who you really are?”

There was nothing more terrifying. Hazel scratched at her neck, where the collar should have been. “This
is
who I am. I’ll be thirty soon. I’ve got no time for might-have-beens.”
And neither do you.

They stared each other down over the table for a long, precious moment. Then Sadie looked away, training her inky eyes onto the stretch of gold sand and the narrow strip of blue ocean beyond it.

“I just thought it would be nice. That’s all.”

Hazel tipped back in her seat, torn between guilt and aggravation. The feeling that something had been said that couldn’t be reclaimed wouldn’t give her peace. Sadie was her sanctuary, her friend.

Now, she seemed like a complete stranger who just happened to sit at Hazel’s table, occasionally grimacing at the taste of her iced tea.

* * * *

The front door opened with a ponderous clang.

“Oh, you’re home,” Dylan gasped, surprised.

Hazel turned. All the way at the other end of the loft, she might as well have been on another planet. She held up two soapy hands. “No shift tonight.” It was the truth, but somehow it still carried the flavor of a lie.

“That’s right.” Dylan sighed. “Ward told me. Sorry, my head’s still at the office.” He rounded the kitchen island to slide both hands onto her hips.

“Careful, I’m wet—”

“I don’t mind.”

The kiss he pressed to her lips was soft but by no means chaste. It was enough to have Hazel tipping into his arms, the dishes forgotten. She nearly whimpered when he pulled back.

“Okay. Now I’m home,” Dylan chuckled. He dipped his head to kiss her neck, but withdrew far too quickly for the shiver that skated down Hazel’s spine to solidify into something more. “You know you don’t have to do that, right?” He gestured to the sink. “I’m not into the service sub thing. And I could be wrong, but I don’t think Ward—”

“It’s not that.”

Leaning in to the open fridge door, Dylan flung a glance her way, bemused. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he knew something was wrong by the sound of her voice. She wouldn’t have gone on seeing him—much less allowed him to tie her up—if he was anything less than perceptive.

The fridge door swung shut with a gentle nudge, the artificially chilly breeze abruptly cut off.

Dylan straightened. “What’s up?”

Nothing.
Hazel shook her head and turned to grab a washcloth. Her fingertips were bright pink and puckered. “I’ve thought about it a lot and… I need to ask you something.”

“Shoot.”

“Hang on. It’s not that easy.”

“Okay…should I be sitting down?” Dylan smiled, but it was tentative, as though he didn’t quite trust that what she had in store for him would be painless.

“Might help,” Hazel agreed. She waited until Dylan had hooked a foot around the nearest bar stool and sat at the kitchen island before she spoke again. “So you know how the last time we did a scene, you sort of…climbed on top of me and pinned me down?”

Dylan nodded.

“I liked that.”

“I thought so,” he replied, but the sigh of relief that spilled from his lips gave away the lie of his perfect composure.

Hazel leaned her forearms against the kitchen island. “I want to do it again…but I don’t want to know when it’s coming.”

This was dangerous territory, but something Sadie had said to her over lunch stuck like a burr at the back of her mind. She couldn’t deny the truth of it—she hadn’t let Dylan and Ward see her for what she really was. Not yet. Ward probably assumed he knew because he seemed to think he was omniscient—
and
he’d seen the video—but he was wrong. Dylan was even more in the dark.

She knew of only one way to enlighten them. “I want you to blindfold and tie me up one day. And I want you to fuck me without teasing or prep or…questions.” She gripped the edge of the counter. “I want you to treat me like you don’t know me.”

“Why?” Dylan leaned forward too, his white shirt crinkling at the elbows.

Hazel shrugged. “Why do you like spanking me? It’s a fantasy, that’s all. Doesn’t mean anything.” She wished she could’ve found a way to school that defensive note out of her voice. It would’ve made her sound more credible.

“Sure, but this sounds an awful lot like…well, like a rape fantasy. I’m not,” Dylan added, raising a hand to stop her protest, “opposed to the idea. Truth is, I’d probably try anything with you. I’m just—I don’t know that I understand.”

“What’s to understand? You’ve gagged and fucked me before.”

“Yes, but—”

“And you’ve hit me, made me count the blows?” Hazel brushed his wrist with her fingertips. “It’s the same thing, just…without all the build-up and negotiation we usually do.”

Dylan looked down at their hands, pale against the granite counter top. “You’ve been thinking about this for a while, huh? You never said a word.”

Hazel made a vague, dismissive gesture. “A girl’s gotta have her secrets.”
And you’re lucky you don’t know half of mine
.

“Does Ward know?”

For a moment, she thought he was talking about her secrets—many and intricate as they were—but then Dylan went on.

“I mean, have you two tried—?”

“No.” Hazel fought the urge to drop her gaze, afraid of what it might reveal.
I don’t know if Ward and I are going to try anything at all ever again.
The way they’d left things last night seemed oddly final.

“I want him with us,” Dylan said.

That
was a curve ball Hazel hadn’t anticipated. “What if he refuses?”

“He won’t.”

Hazel pushed away from the kitchen island, suddenly agitated. “You don’t know that. You can’t read his mind.”
Why can’t you just give me this?
She tried hard not to let the words spill out, aware that there would be no taking them back. It was selfish and unfair to demand it of him, worse to try to chisel away his objections until he gave in.

Dylan had learned most of what he knew of sadism and domination under Ward’s brooding tutelage. Hazel mocked their penchant for triple-checking consent all she wanted, but she couldn’t deny Ward had done a good job. Her own instruction had neglected the basics. She knew how to persuade and how to beg. She’d been taught that only cowards took no for an answer.

“I do, actually.” Dylan twisted at the waist and slowly sank onto the balls of his feet. He had such elegance, such poise, his perfectly fitted white shirt and gray wool trousers a stark contrast to Hazel’s cut-off shorts and tank top. He stood a head taller than her, too, when he came to take her shoulders in his hands. “I know he won’t refuse because it’s what he liked. Before.”

The answer was a measured, gentle reprimand. It said,
you don’t know everything about us.
But Hazel knew enough.
Before, meaning when you two were…
Hazel didn’t let herself finish the thought. Dylan and Ward avoided the subject like the plague and Hazel had taken to following their example.

She nodded, though she didn’t see how dredging up that sordid history could possibly guarantee Ward’s enthusiasm. What else was there for her to do?

Her education had also driven home the point that a good submissive never questioned her Dom.

What should’ve been an easy way to put her trust into Dylan and prove once and for all that she was over everything that happened
before
had turned into a tangled mess. She might as well have been holding Pandora’s Box, the lid already half-tipped to the side.

Chapter Seven

The evening unfolded in relative calm. Ward came home late, cell phone practically glued to his ear. He waved at Hazel and Dylan from the entryway before trudging up the spiral cast iron stairs and closing his bedroom door. The sound of his muffled ‘yes’s and ‘no’s cut off abruptly.

Hazel squirmed in her seat. “Is…everything okay?”

Beside her, Dylan shrugged. “Probably. That’s just how he is. Can’t leave work at work.”

“He seemed angry.”

“How can you tell?” Dylan helped himself to a sip of beer.

As soon as the bottle came out, Hazel had known they wouldn’t be acting on her request tonight. She tried not to feel deflated.

“That thing he does with his teeth?” Hazel gestured to her mouth in vague illustration. “He sucks his bottom lip like he’s trying to bite through. That’s how I know he’s pissed off.”

Dylan watched her gesticulate. “Huh. I never noticed that before.”

Because you don’t pay attention to subtle cues that you’re about to be cast out. Because it’s absurd to live that way.

Hazel flashed him a small smile. “I guess I’ve been trying to pay attention so I don’t, you know, set him off.” She grimaced at her own choice of language. “I don’t mean it like
that—”

“I know,” Dylan assured her. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders, the warmth of his flank seeping into her body through the thin barrier of his shirt and her tank top as he kissed the top of her head.

Hazel sighed, wriggling until she was once again comfortable. She wasn’t convinced that Dylan understood—or that he would let it drop—but when he didn’t press the point and went back to quizzing her about the reality TV show they were trying to make sense of, she breathed a little easier.

Ward didn’t come down to witness the on-camera table-flipping row over which heavily made-up wannabe was sleeping with whose husband. He remained in his room as the rowdy housewives left off on a heavily-edited preview of tomorrow night’s episode—more table-flipping, more exaggerated squabbling—and were replaced by a glut of suspiciously pretty people thrust into close quarters for the sake of entertainment.

“Do you really think that’s all unscripted?” Dylan asked. Sometime between one televised shopping spree in next door Hollywood and the dinner party from hell, he had taken to playing with Hazel’s hair.

It was more soothing than ticklish. Hazel had to make an effort to stay awake. “Hmm? Oh, I doubt it.”

“Yeah, me too. That’s a lot of drama to film by chance.”

Hazel blinked her eyes open. The lights were dim in the living room and the contrast between the inside of her eyelids and the bright light of flat screen elicited a wince. “What would you know about that?” She yawned. “You’re practically drama-free.”

“You’ve met Ward, right?”

Hazel snorted. “I have, but…you two aren’t joined at the hip.”

Dylan slid his hand down the wing of her shoulder to curl around her flank as she shifted. “Could argue that’s a matter of perspective. You may have noticed we like to share certain things.”

“And people?” Hazel guessed.

“Person. Singular.”

“I’m flattered,” she confessed, drawing herself up before the temptation to climb Dylan like a tree and let the steady rise and fall lull her to sleep right there on the couch got the better of her. “But
this
person is headed to bed.”