Exit Strategy (2 page)

The triggers related to my father’s abuse have made this necessary. That I’ve done the unthinkable and fallen in love with Tristan doesn’t help matters, either. If I stay, I’m going to have to come clean about my past, and I don’t want to share that Beale family soap opera with him.

His voice is measured as he says, “Are you doing this because of the anxiety attacks?”

I shake my head in an attempt to strengthen the lie. “No.”

“I know how debilitating they are, believe me. I had them after my mother died.”

The admission sobers me. “You did?”

I want to throw my arms around him and comfort him, even though this happened to him two decades ago, but if I do, I’m going to be lost again. I can’t give in. I swallow my tears and take his hand.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that, and I’m sorry about calling things off so abruptly, but I need to do
me
again, Tristan. This lifestyle you love... it’s not me.”

He leans in and touches my cheek. “Are you sure this isn’t about the attacks?”

“It’s not. When I go back to my psychologist, I’ll have them in check in no time.”

“Then what is it, Keisha?” He stands to his full height and runs a hand through his hair. “I just got you back, and now that your mother’s recuperated, I wanted us to do so much more together before our arrangement came to a mutual conclusion.”

My heart is breaking, but the mention of
conclusion
strengthens my resolve. I need to get the hell out of Dodge while I still can.

“It’s been a fun ride, but it’s time to end this.”

“You can’t just arbitrarily say it’s over without us... discussing it first.”

“Actually, I can. The contract says so.”

“And you’re the contract expert now?”

I throw the duvet back and walk to the closet, ostensibly to get dressed, but even more so to hide my anguish.

“Where are you going at this hour?” He follows me inside. “You need to get some rest.”

I ignore him and hone in on the task of finding my clothes. Just as I figured, Tristan has hung them up neatly. I start pulling them on with my back firmly to him. “I’ll be fine.”

“You say we’re done. I get that, but why do you have to leave in the middle of the night?” He turns me none too gently to look at him. “Why are you doing this?”

“You know why. It’s time.”

“Then you’ve met someone else? Is that it?”

“Not yet,” I say. “But if I stay with you, when the time comes, it’ll be jacked up.” I make a gesture as if I’m shaking a hand. “Hello, new guy interested in me. I can’t go out with you this weekend because I’ve got to go play sex slave for Tristan White. Nice knowing you.”

“It doesn’t have to be like that, and you know it. I’ve told you I would step aside if that happened.”

He says it as if it will be an easy thing for him to do when the time comes. I don’t think he realizes his words are not convincing me to change my mind.  “All the more reason we should do this now and save ourselves the trouble later.”

“You’re running scared again, and I want to know why,” he says as he tightens his hand around my biceps.

“Ow,” I say, and he loosens his grip but doesn’t let go. “Why are you making such a big deal out of this? You wrote the contract, not me.”

“I know, but it goes without saying you owe me the courtesy of discussion before just... ending things without a good reason.”

“Did you give any of the previous submissives
you
dumped the courtesy of discussion?”

“They didn’t ask for it.”

“That’s what I thought.” I go in search of my shoes. They’re on the rack with all the others I keep at his place. I select a pair of black flats and slip them on.

Tristan is right on my ass, invading my personal space. “You’re not leveling with me.”

I walk out of the closet, and he follows as I get my purse and make a beeline for the stairs. I’m taking two steps to his one, trying to get out of there before I lose my composure, but his next question hobbles me.

“Why were there so many domestic calls to your parents’ home in the six years before you went to college?”

I stop in my tracks in the middle of the stairway and round on him.

“Did you do a fucking background check on me without my permission?”

“It’s standard procedure when I take on a new sub. It was in the NDA which, if you recall, you didn’t read very thoroughly.”

I don’t know what comes over me, but I almost have a Scarlett O’Hara moment and my hand is itching to slap him. I am not my father, so I nix that idea as quickly as it comes to mind. Instead, I get into his face as closely as I can, given our height differential.

“That doesn’t give you the right to go snooping around in my life.” I punctuate the last four words by pointing a rigid index finger into his chest.

“It’s a matter of public record. Did your father hurt you, too, Keisha?”

I move to pull away from him, but he traps me against the wall with his body, and pins my hands above my head. I’m pissed he’s been poking around in my background and perhaps already knows much more about my family history than I would like. I use sarcasm to downplay the severity of what went down in the Beale home all those years.

“My parents fought. Houses are close together in the hood, and the goddamned neighbors were nosy. Satisfied?”

I struggle to get away. He releases me but dogs my steps down the stairs.

“Domestic abuse has been known to cause post-traumatic stress in children. Aren’t you going to tell me what your triggers are, Keisha?”

I turn and push him so hard he falls back against the stairs, but he grabs me and brings me with him. He takes the brunt of the impact, and we lie splayed on the stairs, a jumble of arms and legs. I scramble to get up, but Tristan holds me firm. When I struggle, he throws one arm across my back and one large palm across my ass. I feel his arousal, and I’ll be damned if that doesn’t cue my arousal as well. My nipples harden, my panties become wet, and my breathing is erratic. I sag against him, betrayed again by my wanton body.

As I’m about to look into his eyes and acknowledge my defeat, I see the arrogant smirk on his face. He waggles his eyebrows. “Even now you want me, don’t you, baby?”

He laughs, and that ticks me off to the point that I seriously begin to fight him. Somehow, he maneuvers until he’s on top of me, prying my legs open with his knees and holding my arms down. He kisses me in that way he has of exploring my mouth as if it’s some mysterious, uncharted territory. I’m not going to give up that easily, so I fight him with everything in me, even as I kiss him back. Talk about conflicted in the extreme.

I fight him like Maria Bello fought Viggo Mortensen on the stairwell in the movie
A History of Violence
. Tristan anchors me with his mouth and holds me down with his body while he takes a leisurely stroll over my flesh with his hands. He tweaks both my breasts until my nipples are hard enough to cut through my top before he moves a hand over my torso then down to the apex of my legs where he finds my drenched underwear. He pulls his lips away for a moment, and his stare bores into me.

“Your body hasn’t decided it’s ready to leave me yet,” he says and slips two fingers under the seat of my underwear and buries them in me to his knuckles.

“You—Ugh! Let me go.” I struggle in earnest again.

Tristan silences me with another kiss until I give in and kiss him back with an urgency that’s ridiculous, given how hard I was fighting him just moments before. He rips my underwear down my legs, tearing them in the process, undoes his pants, and he’s inside me. All I can do is pull him down and take all of him because that’s what I want more than anything. I’m going to leave him later today, and I won’t be back. This will be our good-bye fuck. Right here on his stairs, half-dressed, rutting like we didn’t just do this the night before.

Our breathing is ragged, almost savage as we strain into one another. The carpet burns into my exposed flesh, but I don’t want him to stop. There’s a dull ache inside me from the previous night’s activities. I don’t mention it, so Tristan shows no mercy. He gives it to me like he never has before, and I take it likewise. I’ll probably feel this for a couple of days, but that’s okay because afterward, all I’ll have will be memories. I’m going to miss the way he takes command of my body and makes me feel like my bones are liquefying. I give myself over to him, and it isn’t until after he’s orgasmed that I gasp in panic. If his housekeeper is home, certainly she’s heard our early morning rough-housing, and will be coming to investigate.

“Mrs. Naven—”

“Is visiting... family in Evanston ....” He pants and continues to thrust into me. “How ... can you leave this ... Keisha?”

“Watch me,” I say and hold his gaze as long as I can until he exacts an orgasm from me, and his kiss steals the scream that rips from my throat.

Tristan rolls us, so he isn’t pinning me to the stairs, but he doesn’t let me go. He holds me so fast and so close that I lose it and cry. I wrench away before he sees my tears and stumble Maria Bello-style up the stairs to clean myself up.

“Please wait until morning,” he says through labored breaths. “I’ll have Mrs. Naven pack your things, and Moses will deliver you home safely.”

When I hit the landing, I look back to see him still sprawled on the stairs, his eyes closed, practicing what looks to be the same breathing exercise my psychologist taught me. It takes everything in me to leave him there.

I enter his guest room, lock the door, strip, and walk directly into the shower. I hope the roar of the spray cascading down over my head masks my sobs as the water, trained on my face and sluicing over my skin, mingles with tears I can no longer control. It will be daylight in a few hours, and when I leave, I want to be able to do so without allowing him to see me break down.

~*~

My Fairy Hoochie Mama boycotts the hell out of me come daylight when she realizes I’m not bluffing about leaving Tristan. She’s carrying her “Down with Keisha” sign, pacing back and forth through my subconscious like we’re back in the sixties and I’ve been violating her civil rights. I know I’m in a whole mess of trouble when my Ghetto Good Girl, or Triple-G, joins her, wearing a more contemporary “Team Tristan” T-shirt. Their melodrama doesn’t sway me from my course. Self-preservation trumps their theatrics, so I tune them out and commence packing.

I don’t see Tristan again until Mrs. Naven and I have packed up all my things. He comes out of the sitting room into the foyer when we descend the stairs. Mrs. Naven disappears in the direction of the kitchen, and I stop in front of him, clutching a canvas bag stuffed with items that wouldn’t fit elsewhere.

He’s all Dom and proud; so he won’t let me see him sweat. His demeanor doesn’t give me the slightest hint of how he feels, but I know how I feel. If I don’t get the hell out of here, the lump in my throat is going to get big enough to choke another round of tears out of me.

“Is this what you really want, Keisha?”

I nod because I know if I utter one word, I’ll bawl like a fucking baby.

“Very well,” he whispers. “Moses will drive you home then deliver the rest of your things this afternoon.”

He turns on his heel and walks out of the room and into the bowels of his cavernous condo. Mrs. Naven and Moses bring everything downstairs. As they load the car, I assist them, even though they tell me I shouldn’t. I need something to keep me busy.

Before I leave, I go back upstairs to look for Tristan to return his keys, but he’s nowhere to be found. Then it dawns on me—he doesn’t want to be found. He’s said all he intends to say on the matter.

I make one last sweep through the kitchen, and Mrs. Naven pulls me into an awkward hug. “You’ll be missed, Ms. Beale. You made him seem so much less ... lonely.” She looks as if she wants to say more but doesn’t. I rescue her from the uncomfortable silence.

“I’m not leaving the city, and Mr. White and I will still be in business together.” I say that, not altogether sure he isn’t already looking for a replacement backer. “Oh, before I forget.” I hand her the keys. “Please give these to him, will you?”

I drop them into her palm, and she squeezes my hand one final time. “You bet.”

When I get outside, Moses opens the door of the limo, and he also squeezes my hand gently as he hands me into the car. The lump in my throat finally disintegrates, and tears stream from my eyes. I wipe them away with the back of my hand before Moses slides into the driver’s seat.

“Ready, Ms. Beale?”

“As I’ll ever be,” I say brightly, trying to raise my voice an octave higher so as not to alert him to my distressed state. Another stream of tears comes anyway, and he discreetly closes the partition to give me some privacy as the car eases onto the quiet residential street toward the exit of the gated community.

Fairy Hoochie Mama has a conniption fit.
Tristan! Tristan!
She screams, jumps off my shoulder, and dives into the window with a splat. Triple-G retrieves her cohort’s flattened body from the window and they retreat to wherever it is they go when they aren’t harassing me.