Playing Knotty (9 page)

“No, I understand. I do that kind of thing all the time.” Bethany's hesitation was all too familiar to Emma. How often had she chosen not to think about something with the hope that she could avoid making a decision? It never worked out in the long run; eventually, she had to choose, or the opportunity passed. “But I think you'll feel better if you take that step.”

“You're probably right.” Bethany took a long drink from her mocha. “It would be exciting, though. Going back to school. If I even get in. It's almost May; it's probably too late to apply.”

“Where do you want to go?”

“There are a bunch around here that would be good. There's BU, but sometimes they don't like for you to do both their undergrad and grad programs. There's also Emerson, and UMass Boston, and Lesley . . . and there's this low-residency program at Pine Manor in Chestnut Hill. Ever heard of it?” Emma shook her head, but that wasn't surprising; she hadn't been in academics in a while. “Anyway, no matter what school I pick, I'll have to get in. They're all wicked competitive. UMass Boston only takes, like, five poets? Something ridiculous like that.”

“You never know unless you try.” As she sipped, Emma considered her own words. Talk about practicing what you preach.

“So what about you? We came here to talk about your guy stuff, and we just spent all this time talking about me.” Bethany pointed an accusing finger at Emma as she smiled. “No more getting me off subject. What's happening with you?”

Emma considered. She wasn't ready to open up to Bethany yet. This could probably grow into a nice friendship over time, but it wasn't there yet. However, just because she couldn't tell Bethany everything didn't mean she couldn't tell her anything. Keeping her voice quiet, she looked to both sides and made sure no one was sitting too close. “I slept with this guy last night, and I don't know if it was a good idea or not.”

Bethany let out a low whistle. “Been there.” She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms. “Why do you think it might have been a bad idea?”

The truth had nothing to do with bondage. “I don't know if there's any future in it.”

“But was the sex good?” Apparently, Bethany was one of those people who didn't feel the need to lower her voice when discussing sex. Emma felt her face flush. Truthfully, the sex had been incredible, maybe the best sex she'd ever had. It was certainly better than anything in her last relationship—if you could call a half-dozen dates and three mediocre sexual encounters a relationship.

“Yeah. Really good.” Emma finished her coffee and wished she'd bought a larger size, though she could already feel the jitteriness of the caffeine in her system.

“And now he wants to do it again?” Bethany gave her a knowing look, but Emma shook her head.

“No, actually. He . . . he didn't bring it up.”

“Oh. So
you
want to do it again?”

“I'm not sure.”

Bethany shrugged. “So if it's not going to happen again, and the sex was good, does it really matter whether or not it was a good idea? It's over. It's not like you can go back and change it.”

She did have a point. “That's true.”

“So let it go. Move on.” Bethany drained her cup and set it back in its saucer. “Unless you want there to be a future in it. Do you like him and you're deciding if you want to ask him out?”

Emma blushed again. Damn her fair skin. “I don't think he wants to be with me. He didn't ask me out or anything. And even if he
did,
I'm not sure it would last.” If she didn't put herself out there, she wouldn't have to be rejected. Because the rejection would come, of course. She'd learned that much already. She didn't have the type of body that made guys want to be seen with her. She wallowed in conflicting emotions of Disney “Go for it!” and realistic “Don't risk it,” and the combination was fucking
confusing.

“You could always, you know, talk to him.” Bethany cocked her head to the side with a half-smile. “See what he wants.”

“Yeah, sure. Maybe.”

“I know that maybe. That's a maybe that means no. Well, it really doesn't matter.” Bethany reached out and patted Emma's hand. “You had some hot sex, and now it's done, and maybe neither of you wants to see the other one again.”

“Right.” Emma nodded. Perhaps her only interaction with Ian from now on would be when he came in to buy books every few weeks. She wasn't sure if the thought comforted her or depressed her. “Yeah, maybe you're right.”

Chapter 11

I
an thought about
Emma the whole T ride into work that morning. Using her as his model was supposed to have been uneventful, maybe a bit awkward, but ultimately a stopgap measure until he found a permanent replacement for Lizzy. He hadn't expected Emma to
like
it so much. But when he'd wrapped her hands and she'd sucked in those little hitching breaths, he'd known. God, he'd known, and it had been all he could do to keep their workshop on schedule.

She looked so
good
tied up. He'd found her lovely in high school, but she was so much more beautiful now, and he somehow hadn't really noticed before. With her wavy hair tumbling around her shoulders, wild like the look in her dark brown eyes, her body wrapped in soft cotton rope, she was a picture of contrasts: innocence and kink. The combination was hypnotic.

Yes, he wanted to sleep with her again. But she had seemed so freaked out afterward, uncomfortable and awkward, and he didn't want to push her. It was possible he'd ruined all his future chances with Emma by sleeping with her, and yet he couldn't bring himself to regret it. Even if she didn't want to have sex, though, he wanted her to model for him again. He needed a new model, and he wanted it to be her, even if he had to fight down an erection every damn time he put his hands on her.

She would probably say no. He sat with the question for a few days, weighing the pros and cons of asking. In that time, she didn't call. He hadn't expected her to, not
really,
but he'd be lying if he said he hadn't hoped for it.

By Wednesday night, he'd come to a decision. He dialed her number with unsteady fingers.

When she picked up, her voice sounded uncertain, as if she wasn't sure whether she should have picked up the phone. “Hi.”

“Hi. It's Ian.”

“I know.”

Of course her cell phone would tell her who was calling. God, he was a dumbass. “I want to talk to you. Do you want to go get a drink tonight after you get off work?”

The pause at the other end of the line stretched on for so long that he checked the phone to make sure she hadn't hung up on him.

“Okay. You probably want to talk, right? About Sunday?” She sounded . . . resigned? Worried? Upset? None of those emotions boded well for this conversation.

All right, damage control. “If you want to. But I was thinking business?”

Another long pause. “Business?”

“Yeah. Business. But I'd rather talk in person. Do you have a bar you like?”

“Have you ever been to the Tunnel Bar?”

He ran through his mental map of Boston and remembered that hot spot. “Once or twice. Isn't it really overpriced and pretentious?” As soon as he said it, he winced. Shit, was that her favorite bar?

To his surprise, she laughed, a short laugh that still sounded tense. “Yeah, I guess it kind of is. I hadn't really thought about it like that. I don't go out much, but my friends like it. What about you?”

“Do you know Sulli's? It's on the Green Line, near Copley Square.”

“I think so. We can meet there if you want.”

“How about seven-thirty?”

“Okay. I'll see you.”

On a Wednesday night, Sulli's was as quiet as any other neighborhood bar. Ian easily snagged a high-top table near the bar and ordered a beer. He didn't have to wait long. She walked through the door, all curves and boot-cut jeans, and he held up a hand to direct her over.

“Did you have any trouble finding the place?”

“No. I've walked by it but never been in.” She climbed up onto her chair.

“My friend Brent runs a comic book and game store around the corner. It's called D20. Have you heard of it?” When she shook her head, he added, “We come here all the time.”

She looked off to the side, thinking. “Brent . . . Rego? From high school? You're still friends with him?”

“Yup.” He sipped his beer. “You sound surprised. Why, you aren't friends with anybody from high school?”

She shook her head. “I tried to cut ties, honestly. Started fresh in college. Joined a sorority, met some new people, tried to reinvent ‘Emma Green.' ” She put finger quotes around her name, then shrugged. “I don't know if I succeeded. Reinventing yourself is hard when you don't change much.” The waitress came over, and she ordered a gin and tonic.

“You don't think you changed much?” He couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice.

“No, not really.” Her gaze swept over him, then back up to his eyes, as if she'd just realized what she was doing. “I mean, you've changed, obviously, but I don't think I have.”

“It was, what? Nine years ago? Of course you've changed.” He couldn't believe what Emma had just said. “Everybody changes after high school.”

Emma turned a coaster over in her fingers, rubbing her thumb along the rough cardboard edge. “If you say so.”

Was she thinking about herself or about him? He shook his head and changed the subject. “So yeah, Brent and I have been coming here for years.” He looked around, trying to see the bar from fresh eyes. He supposed it could be considered a dive bar, with its dark paneling, neon signs, darts, and pool, but all he could see were memories. “I guess you might think it's kind of a dump. Especially if you're used to the Tunnel Bar.”

She looked around as well, taking in the decor, reserving judgment. “I can see why you like it. It's got a certain homey charm.”

“Did you say homey or homely?”

She smiled. “Homey. Does everybody here know your name, like Cheers?”

Ian laughed, and a bit of the tension dissolved. “A few of the bartenders know us. Brent came up with the idea for his shop right here. We were drinking pretty heavily, and it started as a laugh. You know, ‘What would you do if you could do anything?' and all that. He told me he wanted to open a comic book and game shop, and I told him he should fucking do it already. So he did.”

“And you said you wanted to be an accountant more than anything else in the whole wide world?” Emma was smiling, teasing him.

“No, actually.” He met her gaze head-on. “I said I wanted to start teaching bondage classes.”

The waitress set Emma's drink in front of her, and Emma looked down into the glass, her cheeks pink, although it could have been the red light of the bar. He immediately felt remorse. Shit, he shouldn't be trying to needle her. She was clearly nervous about being out with him, and here he was, making it worse. He never wanted her to feel uncomfortable.

“So how about you? How did you get started with your business?” He leaned forward on the table to listen.

Emma looked up from her drink, clearly relieved at the shift in focus. “Well, after I graduated from UMass, I wanted to go on to business school, so I stayed here in Boston getting my MBA. I knew I wanted to start my own business, and when Prologue went up for sale a few months before I graduated—the whole building, actually, even the shop next door and the apartment upstairs—it seemed like a dream come true. I practically lived in bookstores growing up, and I always used to shop there, so I figured it was a sign. I used the money my dad left me for a down payment, did all the paperwork, and jumped in with both feet. Took the plunge. Whatever metaphor you want to use.” She took a sip of her drink, closing her lips around the rim of the glass, and Ian remembered the feeling of her lips against his. He put the sense memory aside.

She affected casual confidence, leaning back in her chair and folding her arms, but her body was too stiff, her movements forced. “So did you really ask me here for a business arrangement, or are you trying to get into my pants again?” She may have been trying to make the question sound like a throwaway remark, but her discomfort was written in the tightness around her lips and eyes.

“You say that like it's a bad thing.” He studied her response. Was she uncomfortable with him in general, or only with the idea of having sex with him again? Or with bondage? If that was the case, this conversation was already doomed. Her shrug revealed little except an unwillingness to talk further. He pushed on. Hopefully he wasn't being a douche. “All right, all right. Here's what I wanted to ask. Would you consider modeling for me again?”

Emma looked up, her drink held halfway between the table and her lips. She slowly set it down on its coaster. “Like Sunday night? Like that?”

He wasn't sure what part of “Sunday night” she meant. “Well, sex isn't usually part of the gig. I'm not talking about sleeping together again.”

She seemed relieved, and her relief let him know he was on the right track with the real reason for her discomfort. “What would this entail?” She swirled the black stirrer around in her glass, making the ice clink.

She hadn't said no. That was a good step. “Workshops, for one. Beginner ones, like the one last night, and . . . also more advanced ones.” He looked down at his beer, then back up. “And, maybe somewhere down the line, conventions.”

Emma licked her lips. She might not have realized she was doing it, but her pink tongue brushed across the soft skin, and Ian felt his cock twitch. Most surprisingly, she still didn't say no. He pressed on. “For pay. Just like on Sunday. Twenty-five dollars an hour, no strings attached, no contracts. You ever want out, you tell me, and I'll find someone else.”

Emma drank from her gin and tonic. If only she'd
say
something rather than sitting there thinking. After two more long swigs, she set the glass back down and met his eyes. “Why me?”

It wasn't the question he'd been expecting, but it was a fair question to ask. He considered his options. He could tell her that he needed a new bondage model, since Lizzy was quitting, but that didn't answer the actual question she was asking. Better just tell her the truth.

“Because I think you're beautiful and you look great in bondage.”

Their eyes locked and held. He could see disbelief there, an unwillingness to accept what he was saying. Was that her hesitation? She didn't think she was beautiful? Or was she unsure about his actual intentions? He fought the impulse to overexplain and instead let the silence linger between them. She broke eye contact and looked down, opening and closing her mouth a few times to speak, with nothing coming out. He'd rendered her speechless.

When she did speak, her voice sounded small and young. “I don't know how I feel about being . . . on display like that. People might . . .” She swallowed, then took another swig of her drink, her hand trembling so slightly that he might not have noticed if he hadn't been looking so closely. She set the glass back down with a bit more force than was necessary and finished her sentence as if it were physically painful to do so. “People might laugh at me.”

“Why?” He couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice.

In response, she gestured to herself, a sort of up-and-down sweep of her arm to indicate her body.

Oh. Now Ian was lost for words. He tried to compose his thoughts. After a moment, he asked, “Emma, do you trust me?”

She gave a sort of half shrug, her shoulders curling in on herself. He wanted to hold her, comfort her, wrap her in his embrace, but his touch would probably be unwanted. Instead, he wrapped his hands around the beer glass. “Look at me.” Lifting her head, Emma met his eyes, her own bright with unshed tears, and something twisted in his chest. “Emma, I've been doing this for years. A dozen conventions or so, more workshops than I can count, and I've never seen anyone get made fun of for how they looked or what they were into. I meant it when I said you were beautiful, and I think you would make a beautiful bondage model. If you don't believe it yourself, you could always believe me.”

Emma took a deep, steadying breath, composing herself, and drank the last of her gin and tonic in two long gulps. “Don't you get worried about what other people think of you?”

Ian answered without even thinking. “Fuck 'em.”

Emma laughed once, shocked.

“Emma, people have been judging me my whole life. At some point, I realized that by obsessing over it, I was giving them power over me. So I just said ‘fuck it' and started doing what I wanted.”

“Just like that? You just decided to stop caring, and it happened?” Emma raised an eyebrow, disbelief on her face.

“Well, it was a process. You do little things every now and then, take baby steps, and it gets easier every time.”

Emma studied the wet ring left on the coaster, turning the glass back and forth to wear the ring down into the cardboard. “I could keep my clothes on?”

It took Ian a moment to realize she'd gone back to their previous topic. “Absolutely. We wouldn't do anything you weren't comfortable with.” He tried to keep his voice neutral; she hadn't said yes yet.

“I have a pretty busy work schedule.” She bit her bottom lip, still studying the table.