The Dominant (28 page)

I wished I could do it all over again.

Wished I could call Abby in on that first day and talk to her—tell her everything. If I had just been honest in the first
place . . .

But whenever I started the “if I had just” game, I started drinking again and fell into the same never-ending circle.

One day that week, who knew which one, I woke in the living room and heard Jackson on the phone.

“I don’t know, man,” he was saying. “I thought he’d be better by now. He’s just . . . not.”

Silence as the other party on the phone spoke.

“I don’t want to bring Mom over; that would just make it worse,” he said. “And he won’t talk. I don’t know what to do, Todd.
He just stares into space or drinks or sleeps.”

Silence again.

“Who?” he asked. “Hold on.” I heard him move to the table by the couch and pick up my cell phone. “Paul, you said?”

Fucking hell.

I reached for the glass I knew would be by my side and let the alcohol do its trick.

“Nathaniel Matthew West,” a fierce, strong voice said, hours, maybe days, later.

I pretended not to hear. I had been having the most wonderful dream. Abby had been there; she’d been—

“I know you heard me,” the voice said. “Wake up.”

I rolled over. I was in bed. Always good to know where you were. Bed was good. You could sleep in bed. “Go away.”

There was light when I woke up again. I didn’t like the light. The darkness was better.

“I told Jackson you’re not allowed any more alcohol.”

The voice was starting to piss me off. Why wouldn’t it leave me alone?

“Fuck off,” I told it.

“I have some nice coffee brewing downstairs—”

I pulled the sheets over my head. “Don’t want coffee.”

“Get your sorry, good-for-nothing ass out of that bed right this minute.”

Damn. He wouldn’t shut up. “You don’t tell me what to do, Paul.”

“Someone damn well better.”

“I’m not a child.”

“Then prove it,” he said. “And speaking of children, I left my newborn son and sleep-deprived wife to be here with you, so
you better get out of that fucking bed before I drag you out of it.”

I thought about my options for less than five seconds and then sat up. “I don’t remember you being this much of a pain in
the ass.”

Paul smiled. “Then you don’t remember me very well.”

Sitting in the kitchen over the next few hours, I told him everything. All about Abby and how I knew of her, had watched her,
then lied to her. I even told him about the ridiculous safe word. He knew, of course, how I’d treated her badly after her
first punishment, so I glossed over that part. I went on to tell him how I’d fallen in love with her. How she’d fallen in
love with me.

He nodded solemnly as I detailed our final night and the fateful morning I pushed her away.

“Dug yourself quite a nice hole, didn’t you?” he asked finally.

I wrapped my hands around my coffee mug and let the warmth seep into my fingers. “Yes.”

“So, what are you going to do about it?”

I looked up at him. Was he serious?

“I mean it, Nathaniel. Are you going to sit here and moan and groan about everything you did wrong, or are you going to be
a man and do something about it?”

“She’s gone. What else is there to do?”

“You’ve got bigger problems than Abby.”

“What?” What was he talking about? Abby was the center of everything.

“You’ve got to fix yourself before you can fix things with Abby.” He got up and washed his cup.

“There’s no fixing anything with Abby.” I glared at him. “I just told you she left me.”

“With good reason, too.” He turned away from the sink and faced me. “But the start of your Abby troubles wasn’t your deception.
The start of your Abby troubles was you. How you feel about yourself.”

What the hell?

“Now, I’m no expert, but I know you have a strong and wonderful family who would do anything for you. Do you even know everything
Jackson did while you were incapacitated? How scared he was for you?”

I shook my head.

“You’re a selfish little boy trapped inside the body of a frightened man.” He pointed at me. “It’s time you grew up and faced
the facts. So I ask you, Nathaniel. What are you going to do about it?”

I dropped my head and looked at the table—struck through the heart by the conviction of his words.

Knowing what I had to do, I reached for my phone and called Todd.

“Todd?” I asked when he picked up. “Can you give me some names? I need help.”

Todd worked his magic and set up an appointment for me with a highly regarded psychiatrist for the next day. I returned home
from the consultation feeling better than I had in a long time. The hole in my heart was still there and it still ached, but
just the freedom of talking with someone felt good.

I walked into my foyer, eyes avoiding the plush bench—there were some things I wasn’t ready for yet. While I might have been
feeling better about myself, I knew there was much to do where my actions toward Abby were concerned.

I threw my keys on the kitchen counter. Paul sat at the table, talking on the phone. “I have a flight scheduled for the day
after tomorrow,” he said. He must have been talking with Christine.

He looked up as I walked in and winked at me. I went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. I hadn’t had a
drop of alcohol in almost twenty-four hours, and even though my head still hurt like the devil, my vision and mind were sharper.

Paul probably wanted privacy, I thought, so I started to leave the room, but he waved for me to stop.

“When I get home, I have diaper and nighttime duty for a week?” he asked.

Damn it. I hated that my behavior had taken Paul away from his son.

“Of course, love,” he said, laughing. “As soon as I learn how to lactate.”

The intimate tone of his voice made me uncomfortable. I thought about leaving and waiting for him in the living room, but
I could tell the conversation was almost over.

“Give my boy a kiss from Daddy.” His lips curved into a smile. “I love you, too,” he said, and hung up with a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” I said, leaning against the countertop. “Christine must hate me.”

“She did say to fear for my life if I didn’t make it home soon.”

I sat down at the table. “Is that weird?”

“Is what weird?”

I thought the question obvious. “For your submissive to talk to you that way.”

“She’s not my submissive twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

I shrugged. “I just think it would feel strange.”

“Because you haven’t done it.”

“Maybe.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you ready for this? We can have this talk if you think you are.”

“What talk?”

“I’m an eternal optimist and I’m thinking positively. Even if you and Abby never work out, maybe one day you’ll find someone
else.”

“Damn it, Paul.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “I can’t think about that right now.”

“Maybe not. But if you’d been prepared, you might have done things differently with Abby.”

“I can’t imagine being with anyone other than Abby, and I don’t think she’ll ever take me back.”

“You said she loved you. If that’s true, maybe she’ll give you a second chance.”

It hurt too much to hope. To allow myself to think that one day I might be at a place to work things out with Abby. That she
might be at a place to talk to me. Hell, at this point, I’d be happy if she’d just look at me one day. Of course, we’d have
to be in the same room for that to happen, and that wasn’t looking likely.

“Tell me how you two do it,” I said. “How it works for you.”

“We tried the twenty-four-hour, seven-days-a-week thing in the beginning, and I won’t lie—it was hard.” He looked at me as
if gauging my reaction. “It was hard for me because I never felt like she could be completely open and honest, and it was
hard for her, because she never felt like she could be completely open and honest.”

I thought back to the times I’d desperately wanted Abby to talk to me. I remembered the night of the black-tie benefit, how
difficult it had been for her to tell me what kind of wine she wanted. “I can see that.”

“So we went to weekend play.” He smiled. “That worked out better for us. The trick is finding what works for you. What works
for your submissive. It has to work for you both, if it’s going to work at all. I know people who play only once every few
weeks.” He shrugged. “Again, it’s what works for you.”

“And it’s never interfered with your marriage?”

“I’m not saying it’s perfect, but what marriage is? We still fight. We still make up. Is it work? Yes, but that’s life. And
it’s always changing. We had to regroup when Christine became pregnant. I’m sure it’ll be weeks, if not months, before we
can get back into the playroom, but that’s okay. It’s what works for us. And we love each other. We want what the other person
wants.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. There are a lot of people who think it isn’t BDSM if romantic feelings are involved.”

He looked taken aback for a second, started to say something and then stopped. Finally, he spoke. “Usually, when someone tells
me what Christine and I have isn’t real, I invite them back to
my playroom so I can show them just how real it is. But you’ve been in my playroom, so I won’t do that.” He paused. “My other
reaction is to knock the shit out of anyone who dares to call my wife a fake submissive.”

I held up my hand. “I wasn’t calling her fake. I was just repeating what I’ve heard.”

“I know, and you’ve had a rough week, so I’m going to go easy on you.” He sounded like he didn’t particularly want to go easy
on me.

“I appreciate that,” I said wearily. “But what do you say to those who think you can’t call it BDSM?”

He leaned across the table and held my gaze. “Does it fucking matter what you call it?”

“What?”

“If you and your submissive are getting what you need physically, does it matter that you’re getting it with someone you have
an emotional connection with?”

“But is it harder?”

“Was it harder when you punished Abby?” he asked, instead of answering.

“Yes.”

“Then there’s your answer. But I ask you, was it better when you held her? When it was you bringing her pleasure? When it
was her bringing you pleasure?”

“Oh hell, yes.”

“So yes, it’s harder,” he said. “But it’s also better. At least in our case. The important thing to remember, Nathaniel, is
that I don’t have all the answers; I only know what works for Christine and me. I can’t answer for everyone else, but then
again, I don’t expect them to answer for me either.”

“So it doesn’t matter to you what other people call it.”

“Not in the least,” he said. He must have noticed my confusion. “You’re not completely ready for this yet. I might have been
a bit
premature in bringing it up.” He patted my hand. “Listen, when you’re ready, you call me.”

I put my hand on top of his. “Deal.”

He stood and walked to the door, but before he left the room, he looked back over his shoulder. “And, Nathaniel,” he said.
“When you and Abby get back together—bring her to visit Christine and me.”

My mouth dropped, but he just laughed and walked out.

When he left two days later, he repeated his request. I just smiled and nodded. I mean, hell could freeze over. Who was I
to deny the possibility?

Two weeks later, I had finished seven counseling sessions and, emotionally, I felt better. I talked to Paul several times
during those two weeks and even spoke to Christine once. I’d been hesitant when Paul suggested I talk with his wife, but afterward,
I was glad I did. Christine was charming and vivacious and gave me an insight into how BDSM worked in romantic relationships—from
the submissive’s point of view.

I still couldn’t sleep in my bedroom and I’d yet to enter the library, but things were getting better.

Slightly.

There were times I walked into the kitchen and felt certain I smelled the floral scent of her body wash. Times when I took
a shower that I’d think I heard something and I’d turn to see if it was her.

I picked up my phone to call her several times. Once, I even brought her up in my contacts list, my finger hovering nervously
right above the call button.

What was she doing? Would she hang up on me?

I couldn’t bear it if she did.

Jackson still came by my house almost daily. Not long after
Paul left, I finally got around to properly congratulating him on his engagement. He was almost sheepish when he asked me
to be his best man.

I tried not to think about the fact that Abby would more than likely be Felicia’s maid of honor. The wedding was in June.
Four months. Would I be ready to see and talk to Abby in four months?

I had no choice.

I picked up the mail from where the housekeeper had set it on the foyer table and walked into the living room. I sat down
and flipped through the stack. Now, why would I get a copy of
People
magazine? I thumbed through a few pages, not understanding. My gaze fell on a picture of Jackson and Felicia.

Oh, the engagement. Jackson probably had one sent to me.

I started reading the article.

Seconds later, I threw the magazine across the room and picked up my phone.

“Jackson Clark,” I said when he answered. “Who the fuck told
People
magazine Abby and I were linked romantically?”

“That might have been me,” he admitted.

“Why? Why would you do that? She probably thinks I had something to do with it.” Or maybe, I thought, maybe, she wouldn’t
see it. Maybe she would never know. I could only hope.

“I thought you two would eventually get back together,” he said.

“You what?” I yelled.

“Okay, here’s the thing,” he said, using the same voice I remembered from the countless nights he tried to keep me away from
the brandy. “Mom’s throwing Felicia and me an engagement party.”

Engagement party. Okay. I could handle that. It would be when? May?

“So,” I said.

“So, we want it in March.”

“March? Like one month from now, March?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“I thought by now Abby would have gotten her head out of her ass—”

“Stop it right there.”

“I mean, I know it was hard on her. Felicia said it was. But if she’d just call you, you know, try to work it out.”

“I never expected her to,” I said quietly.

“I sure as hell did.”

“Why?”

“She had to have known how it would hurt you when she left. I don’t get it. I know she misses you,” he said. “She should call
you. Or, and I’m just throwing this out there, you call her.”

She missed me? She missed me?

My brain belatedly caught what else he had said. “I can’t call her.”

“Why not? I bet she’d listen.”

“She won’t. Our breakup was all my fault.”

“But you said she left you.”

“Because of me. Because I made her leave.”

“What? On purpose?”

I nodded, even though he couldn’t see me. “On purpose.”

“Man, you were more fucked up than I realized.”

“I know.”

“Guess it’s you that needs to get your head out of your ass,” he said with a little laugh, but he was timid, as if he didn’t
want to push me too far.

“Guess it is.”

“Are you?” he asked, all seriousness again.

“I’ve been trying,” I said. “I thought I had until June. Then you tell me Linda’s throwing a party a month from now.” But
that could be good. Maybe it would force me to face my demons
sooner rather than later. All my demons. “It’s okay, really. I’ll be fine. It’s a good thing.”

I hoped it was a good thing. If I told myself it was a good thing often enough, maybe I’d eventually believe it.

Jackson let out a sigh of relief.

“You still coming by this afternoon?” I asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

We hung up and I walked over to the desk in the living room. One month. One month before I saw Abby again. My heart pounded
and I closed my eyes to calm down.

I took a seat and started working, immersing myself in schedules and e-mails to keep from thinking about the party. I replied
to Yang Cai and started planning a trip to China for July. Now that the entire spring and summer stretched out empty and alone,
I saw no reason to put off the visit. I’d probably need a distraction after the wedding anyway. Another e-mail asked me to
present at a conference in Florida in October. Why the hell not? I’d fill up my fall schedule as well.

One week before the party, I sat down and wrote out everything I wanted to say to Abby. Every lie explained. Every deception
brought to light. I laid out every penalty against me. Not because I had any hope of getting her back; I simply wanted to
explain, to own up to my mistakes. I was still in therapy and it was helping. I was stronger emotionally, but talking to Abby
would test my progress.

Once, I actually stood in front of my mirror and practiced what I would say, but I looked stupid, so I stopped. Instead, I
transferred everything I wanted to say onto index cards and kept them in my pocket. Every once in a while, I reached down
to touch the cards. I brushed my fingers over them and whispered my apology to Abby.

A few days before the party, Elaina called while I stood in my closet, trying to decide what to wear. I’d talked to Elaina
a few
times since the split. She had always been short—she knew, even without me saying anything, that it was all my fault.

“Hey, dipshit,” she said.

I smiled. Elaina never changed. “Elaina.”

“You ready for this weekend?”

No, but I might as well be. There was no stopping it.

“I spoke to her,” she said, not waiting for me to answer.

My heart pounded. “You did?” I asked. “When?”

“Last time was yesterday, but I’d spoken to her a few times before then.”

The question danced on my tongue. Did I want to know? Yes. I absolutely had to know. “How . . . How is she?”

She sighed. “How do you think she is?”

Angry. Upset. Pissed. Sad. Confused.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I want . . .”

What did I want? I wanted her to be happy. I knew in that second, though, no matter how much I’d avoided saying it, or even
thinking it, I wanted her back.

I blinked back the tears that sprang to my eyes. Counseling had made me so emotional lately. Emotional or not, there was the
truth—I wanted her back.

“She wants to kick you in the balls,” she finished.