Slow Surrender (4 page)

“Karina, are you still there? Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yeah, I mean,
yes
, I’m all right.” I blew out a breath. “I still don’t know what to call you.”

“What do you want to call me?” came his rejoinder.

“I mean, even in my head, I’m just calling you Him, with a capital
H
.”

He laughed. “I rather like that. No other man but me, if I’m the only ‘him’ you think about.”

“Yes, but it doesn’t work on the phone,” I insisted as I lay back down. “Hello, is this Him? Oh, wait. That kind of does work.” I started to laugh myself. “You know what I mean, though! Like you can say my name to get my attention, but I can’t exactly say ‘Hey, you,’ can I?”

“You can’t?” he teased.

“No, it’s rude and uncouth, and you don’t like rude and uncouth things.”

“I don’t?”

“Clearly not. So I need something to call you.”

There was a beat of silence, then, “What about
sir
?”

“Because you’re my knight in shining armor? Sir Limos-a-Lot?”

His chuckle was dark and rich. “I was thinking of it in a less innocent context.”

“There’s nothing innocent about that limousine,” I said. “But really? Sir, like Daddy or something?”

He sounded a little tentative. “Would you prefer
Daddy
?”

“Hell no. Oh gosh, that would just…
yuck.
” I couldn’t even make a coherent sentence. I wasn’t sure why I found the idea so off-putting. My father had left us when I was six. Maybe I never had time to be a “daddy’s girl.” “Why can’t I call you what other people call you?”

“Because you are nothing like other people,” he said seriously. “Now, really. I want a special name, one that’s only for you to use.”

“Hmm.” I tried to think of something. “This is like trying to name a cat.”

“I reserve the right to veto any name like
Mittens
.” He sounded a bit worried.

“You’re like a British fashion model, so you need a name like Bastian or Antonio,” I said, “except you’re not really British, are you?”

“I spent some time in school there,” he said. “My mother was from there, but I was born here. You know, neither
Bastian
nor
Antonio
is particularly British.”

“Oh, hush. I’m just trying them on for size. I suppose I meant European anyway. Lars? Marco? Gideon? None of them seem like you. Maybe something British after all.”

“The most British names of all are those of kings,” he suggested helpfully.

“Aha, is it a guessing game, then? Arthur? No way, that is way too old for you.”

“Is it? How old do you think I am, Karina?”

I closed my eyes. I’d thought his age was hard to gauge in the bar. He seemed so self-possessed and refined, which made him seem older than he was, I thought. So if the oldest he physically could be was forty, then he was probably more like: “Thirty-four.”

He whistled. “That is amazing.”

“I’m right, aren’t I? Yes!” I pumped a fist in triumph. “In that case, Henry sounds too old, too.”

“You could try James.”

“You mean like the Bible? The King James Bible?”

“Well, the Bible isn’t exactly what I hope you’ll be thinking about when you’re thinking of me.”

“Okay, James what?”

“Excuse me?”

“You need a last name, too.”

“Do I?”

“If you don’t, you’re even more like a cat. Or like Cher or Prince,” I teased. “Here, I’ll give you a last name, too. Rich. James Rich. Then you can be Mr. Rich when I want to be formal about it.” I blushed and hid my face under a pillow. I don’t know where I got the nerve to be so forward with him, but it was easy somehow. It didn’t even feel like flirting, really, but more like I was letting my real self out.

He chuckled. “So it’s more of a title than a name?”

“Yes, Mr. Rich,” I said, trying on a sort of sexy secretary voice.

“Oh, I
do
like the sound of that. Are you ready to run an errand for me, Karina?”

“Most certainly, Mr. Rich.”

“Good. I want you to buy a pencil skirt, stockings, and pumps. Ones that fit you, I mean.”

“Yes, Mr. Rich.” I wondered if I should get a dictation pad as a prop, too. “Should I be wearing them when I call you on Friday?”

“Yes.”

“And the marble?”

A thrill ran through me like he’d plucked a string deep in my middle when he said, “There are more where that one came from.” His voice was low with promise before he disconnected the call.

I
was tempted to reach my hand into my panties right at that moment, but the door to Becky’s bedroom was open a few inches and I couldn’t tell if she was in there or not. The day had been mortifying enough without having her walk in on me touching myself in the living room. I don’t think I’d ever be able to face her again if that happened.

When I’d first rented the apartment, I’d been working three jobs, the one at Jill’s bar and two on campus, so I’d been able to afford the place by myself. Last summer one of the campus jobs got eliminated and to make up for it, I got a roommate. The problem was the place was a one bedroom, which meant I gave Becky the bedroom to convince her to move in while I moved onto the futon couch in the living room. The room was perfectly fine as a bedroom except that it had no door.

Come to think of it, I wasn’t even sure Becky had been there last night when I’d gotten home. I went and peeked through the open door. Her cat Milo (which was short for Mr. Millennium Meow) looked up sleepily from the bed and then put his head back down on his folded paws. He appeared to be sleeping on top of a pair of ripped up fishnets. There was no sign of her.

Well, good. Just because her favorite rock star was retiring was no reason to lie around wallowing in depression, was it? Lord Lightning’s masked face adorned every inch of the bedroom walls. Becky was Asian American—I was too embarrassed to ask whether she was Korean or Chinese—and I got the impression she had uptight parents and a repressed childhood. She told me when she moved in that wearing punk-glam clothes was a way of rebelling, but she was too timid to actually go out to shows or clubs. She spent a lot of time on the Internet. It was really good to see she was out of the house.

I did want her advice on clothes, though. I went into our tiny galley of a kitchen to find something to eat while I speed-dialed her.

She picked up after a few rings. “Hello?”

I could hear music in the background and people’s voices. It sounded like she was at a party. Becky, at a party? At eleven in the morning on a Thursday? “Hey, Becks, I need some advice on the best thrift store.”

“Depends on what you’re looking for.”

“A pencil skirt, stockings, and pumps,” I said.

“Holy crap, you? What for?” Becky’s disbelief was understandable. She’d probably seen me out of sweatpants or jeans all of once in the five months since she’d moved in.

Damn but she could be nosy. Fortunately it was a lot easier to lie to her over the phone than in person. “Oh, for a drama school play I’m helping out with. Secondhand and inexpensive is best.”

“If it’s just for the one time, dig around in my closet and see if you can find something first,” she said. “I think there are a couple of skirts in there, and stockings are in the top-right drawer of my dress—” She was cut off by a gale of laughter and I heard her saying, “You guyyyss!” off to the side before coming back. “What was I saying?”

“Stockings. Top-right drawer. By the way, I think Milo ate a pair of your fishnets.”

“Oh, that’s okay. They were getting too ripped to wear. Actually, most of the stockings are pre-ripped. Is that okay?”

“Um, maybe.”

“Yeah, sorry, I know, I’m soooo retro-punk. What size do you wear? In shoes, I mean.”

“Eight.”

“Dig around in the bottom of the closet for shoes, too, then. I never wear any of them and there are a ton. Crap, I hope Milo hasn’t been peeing in there or anything.”

“Me too. Thanks, Becky. That’s really nice of you.”

“No problem, Rina. Hey, would you feed Milo for me? I’m not sure when I’ll be home.”

“Where are you, anyway?”

She hesitated a bit. “Just out with some girlfriends I met last night. I’ll tell you about it when I get home. Eventually.”

“Looking forward to it!” Sounded like she was having quite the adventure. Well, good for her. I gave up looking for a real breakfast and decided to look for the clothes instead.

First I poured some kibble into Milo’s half-full bowl on the side table by her bed. The cat deigned to open one eye and then closed it again.

I decided to start with the dresser. It was an old wooden thing she’d gotten at Goodwill, so bulky we had to get help from two neighbors and the building’s super to get it in here. The top-right drawer almost wouldn’t come open it was crammed so full, but I finally pulled it loose, and several balled-up pairs of stockings sprang free.

I ended up dumping the whole drawer out on the bed, which made Milo’s whiskers twitch, but he didn’t bother opening his eyes. I wasn’t worth spending the attention on, apparently.

It looked to me like Becky had never thrown away a pair of stockings. It seemed every pair of L’eggs, drugstore-brand knee-highs, or Victoria’s Secrets she’d ever bought had been packed into that drawer. Who needs four or five dozen? Black ones, patterned ones, nude ones, opaque ones…some seemed new, while others had runs in them. I guess if you wore them under torn jeans runs were okay. I had never been much of a fashion plate myself.

I sorted them out as I looked through the pile. Among them were some that were separate, more like thigh-high socks than stockings. I suddenly had a thought.

I speed-dialed Becky again. “Is there a difference between stockings and pantyhose? I mean, aren’t they all considered stockings? Or are stockings only the ones without the panty built in?”

“Why don’t you ask the director?”

“I couldn’t get him,” I lied.

“Well, is this a period piece? A retro thing?”

“Maybe? I think I’m playing the part of sexy secretary.”

“Then you better go with real stockings and not pantyhose,” she said.

“Uh, sure.”

“There should be garter belts in there somewhere, too.”

“Okay, thanks.”

Indeed, digging through the mass a bit more, I found a black elastic thing that had to be a garter belt and some individual stockings that had a faint pattern to them with a thick, black seam up the back. Bonus, these didn’t have any holes.

Next I tried the bedroom closet. There was so much crammed in there, the door wouldn’t shut. The rod was completely full of hangers and then more hangers hung crosswise on those. Thankfully, there was a skirt that looked like it might do. I almost missed it, because it was hidden inside a jacket on the same hanger.

I went back to the kitchen to get the flashlight to spelunk the bottom of the closet. What I found was a graveyard of old shoes, all flung together. A lot of them looked like they must have been bought to go with bridesmaid dresses or something. I eventually pulled out one slim, black pump that looked like it might work, but to find the match I had to excavate forty or fifty other shoes until I came to it.

I spent more time putting everything back than I did digging it out.

I didn’t try the whole outfit on until Friday. I figured since I had to call him at seven, I’d start getting dressed around six-thirty. What I hadn’t counted on was getting into a discussion with Becky.

I had the skirt, stockings, and garter belt sitting in a little pile on the corner of the futon. It only occurred to me as I looked at the pile that it didn’t include a top. Maybe he wanted me topless…? He probably thought I had a bedroom to myself like a normal person. He hadn’t said whether this was just phone sex or if we were going out. He wanted me to wear shoes—that probably meant going out, didn’t it? Oh, how could he have specified some things and not others? He had said figuring out the rules of the game was part of the game itself, though.

I could hear Becky’s voice in the hall as she came toward our door from the elevator, singing one of her favorite songs. I picked up the clothes, went into the bathroom, and stripped down to a T-shirt and my white cotton underwear and started putting the stockings on. This turned out to be more complicated than I expected.

“Becks?” I called into the hall, holding the bathroom door open a crack.

“I’m home!” she yelled back from where she was still getting her coat off. “Rina, the most amazing thing happened!” She came running up to the door and held up a white square of cloth, slightly smeared and stained-looking. “Look at this!”

“A handkerchief?”

“It’s
his
!” She rubbed it on her cheek. When she said
his
like that, I knew she meant her rock-star idol. She had her mystery man and I had mine.

“How do you know it’s his?”

“At the Madison Square Garden show, you know how he always wears a mask, right? He kept wiping his forehead and then throwing the handkerchiefs into the crowd!”

“But you weren’t at that show.”

“No, no, I wasn’t. But one of the other girls was, and she got two, and she put one into a raffle for charity that the Lord’s Ladies were running, and I won it! I won it! I never win anything!” She positively bounced.

“That is awesome!” Her glee was infectious and I found myself grinning. “But, hey, can you help me with this?”

“Of course. What do you need, Rina?”

“Um…” I opened the door all the way so she could see the disaster I was making. Among other things, one of the stockings was twisting around my leg like a barber-pole stripe.

“Here. Sit.” She dropped the lid down on the toilet and I sat. She took the stocking off and bunched it as she went, then handed it back to me. “Just let a little of it out at a time as you go up your leg.”

“Aha! I knew there had to be a trick to it.”

“You’ve really never put on stockings before?”

“Well, only a few times. I always just kind of tugged at them until I got them on all the way, like you do with dance tights.” I started pulling it up my leg and she put a hand on mine to slow me down a little.

“I didn’t know you danced,” she said.

“I used to, just for fun, when I was in high school and a little in college. I wasn’t very good at it, though.” I shifted as I got the stocking most of the way up my thigh. “And dancing was something feminine, so my mother approved.” That was before I’d figured out that I’d never be feminine enough to please my mother.

“You’ve got the garter belt on backwards,” Becky pointed out.

“How can you tell?”

“There’s a little bow that goes in front.”

I shimmied the belt around while she bunched up the other stocking.

“I had ballet and violin lessons,” Becky said, “but so did every girl I knew. I started both when I was five and quit ballet when I was ten.”

“Why?”

“So I could spend more time on the violin. Ugh,” she said. “That was my mother’s idea, too.” She fastened the stockings to the dangling bits of the belt and then made a face.

“Rina, those panties totally don’t go.”

“Well, I wasn’t gonna borrow
those
from you,” I said. Then I blushed furiously as I realized panties hadn’t been on his list of things to wear. Maybe he intended for me to go without. I felt a deep thrill between my legs thinking about it.

Becky was still sitting on the bathroom floor. She looked up at me seriously. “What’s this all about, Karina?”

“What do you mean?”

“You getting dolled up like this.”

I tried for indignant. “I’m not allowed to get dressed up?”

“You told me it was for a play,” she said. “So why are you getting dressed here and not at the theater?”

Oh, I was so busted.

“Look, I know you’re having money troubles,” she went on.

“What does getting dressed up have to do with…? Oh.” I was already blushing like crazy between thinking dirty thoughts about James and being caught lying to her, so I doubted it could get worse. She was implying that I would only be getting dressed like this for one reason. “You think I’m hooking. Is that it?”

“Can you seriously tell me you’re not?”

“Jeez, Becky, I’m just trying to—”

“Karina. I know we haven’t known each other that long, but when a woman who doesn’t even own a skirt suddenly wants to put on a whore-y outfit, you gotta wonder.” She was giving me a look over the top of her glasses a lot like a disapproving librarian. “Right? I know there were those girls in Palladium Hall caught last year. I read that Manhattan call girl book. What’s the real explanation, if that’s not it?”

I sighed. “I met a guy, that’s all.” Her expression didn’t change. “Just for fun.” Argh, even worse. “It was his idea.” Oh, fuck. Could Becky be right? I admit I thought he was probably filthy rich, and he’d told me to ask him for help if I needed it. Just what kind of “help” did he mean? Was he going to pay me to be his whore?

Becky nodded. “I don’t know what’s worse—if he hasn’t offered to pay you and thinks he’s going to get away with it, or if he’s going to stuff a couple hundred in your bra when you’re done.”

“I really don’t think that’s what it’s going to be like,” I said. But what if she was right? What if I was being as oblivious to the way things were with James as I was with Renault? I had no idea what I was getting myself into.

Wasn’t that the point, though? I didn’t know what to expect, and that was part of the fun. I was tremendously attracted to him; my whole body felt alive for him in a way it hadn’t for Brad or anyone else. So far, I hadn’t felt scared or weirded out by him at all. He felt more like a prince than a pimp. I had to go with my feelings.

“He’s really very nice,” I said, which came out sounding lame and a bit like a lie since I had no idea if he was nice or not. “It’s okay, Becks. We’re just having a little fun. Experimenting.” Jeez, now I made it sound like we were doing drugs.

She sighed and got up. “Well, when will you be home?”

“I’m not sure. I don’t even know where we’re going. I’m supposed to call him at seven.”

“Okay, say he takes you out or to his place or whatever. Tell him you have to call me at eleven p.m. sharp or I’m calling the police.”

“What? I can’t tell him that!”

“Lie and say I’m your mother. Come on, Rina, you’re good at little white lies. He’ll fall for it. It’ll keep him on his toes knowing you’ve got someone waiting up for you.”

“You’re not actually going to wait up for me, though, are you?”

“Well, I’m going out, but I’ll have my phone.”