The Willing (23 page)

"Wait, he brought up my name?" This, Oliver hadn't mentioned. I wanted to cling to the lifeline as if it might be an indication that the rest of his story was bogus, as well.

Hunter nodded. "He said he had requested you from the beginning, but because your nights were so full, he'd been put with someone else--"

"—someone who hurt him."

"That was kind of the point," Hunter scoffed. "Anyway, it was all bullshit. I never believed him for a second." I felt his hand on my back, fingers splayed wide as if to cover more ground. "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit."

Hunter sighed. "Shepherd's good at that."

"No, not because of him." Any attempt to pin my misfortunes on him depended on precedent. If it turned out he wasn't a Machiavellian sociopath, I had to consider the possibility that he hadn't sold Madam out to the police. That I had accused an innocent man.

"I heard something happened," Hunter said. "They were talking about a multi-million dollar prostitution ring on the news..."

"Yeah. It's pretty bad timing." Slowly, I rose from the couch and Hunter's gentle hold. "I'm fine, though. You didn't have to come all the way here to check up on me."

Hunter shrugged his bony shoulders. "I thought you might need a friend."

"You talked to Carrie?"

"She might have called when she couldn't get a hold of you," he confessed sheepishly. "She seems nice."

"She can be a bit nosy."

Hunter's footsteps padded across the naked floors, stopping just short of where I stood in the kitchen doorway. "I think she got the impression we might be, you know...
involved
."

"It's possible." I didn't know what else to say.

"Is it?" Hunter's voice had dipped low. He wasn't really debating Carrie's perceptiveness. He was asking me if we stood a chance. He'd helped me move, answered all my questions as far back as I could remember. More than a mentor, he was one of my oldest friends.

I turned to face him. "Oliver wasn't bullshitting you. Back at the club? Someone
did
hurt him. They hurt him badly, in ways he'll never mend." My shoulders hitched up into a dejected, helpless shrug. For all that we'd prided ourselves on abiding by the principles of all that was
Safe, Sane and Consensual
, this was one situation in which our better judgment had fallen pathetically short of the mission statement.

"We missed one," I told Hunter.

For me, this meant I had spent five years of my life hating a man whose forgiveness I should have been seeking instead.

Chapter fourteen

After Hunter left, I emailed back the job hunters interested in seeing me for an interview. I thanked them for contacting me and gave a few dates when I'd be able to meet. I tried to be positive and effervescent, to paint a picture of the girl I wanted to be rather than the girl I was.

The television was still playing gleeful footage of the arrests at the club when I shut it off. A part of me wanted to go to bed and do away with this whole mess altogether, but I knew that if I retreated into melancholy now, I wouldn't get out for a week. I took to unpacking boxes instead, a mindless pursuit that occupied me for two whole hours. After that, it was grocery shopping and a few futile attempts at assembling furniture.

Carrie called me from work, just to check in. I told her about Oliver and Hunter, and the night I'd had. She listened without interrupting until I finished emptying my skein.

"So it looks like I've fucked things up on every end," I sighed. "The worst thing about it is that I'm not even sure of myself anymore. Maybe I just built him up because I couldn't handle my own--"

"Jo." The sound of my name curtailed the impending self-pity. "You're not perfect. Don't kick yourself because you happen to make mistakes."

"I sure make a lot of them, don't I?" I snorted, mirthless and emotionally exhausted.

"So does Oliver."

I shook my head, though Carrie couldn't see me. "Honestly, I'm not so sure he's to blame for anything in all of this. I think I may have overreacted..."

"Maybe not about the tip-off, but honey, he could have come out and said he had a bad relationship, or whatever you want to call it, instead of expecting you to read between the lines. He's a cagey bastard and you're not a mind reader. He should have been upfront from the start and given you a clear choice. Instead, he pushed you into taking him up on an offer you were in no position to turn down."

"He didn't know that," I defended, but I had to admit she had a point. Neither of us was beyond reproach.

"Be that as it may, he didn't even try to clear the air between you, so it's no wonder you jumped to conclusions. Question is, where do you go from here?"

"I wish I knew."

Carrie didn't let me get away with self-pity, so why should she have suffered a vague reply like that? "What do you
want
to have happen now, Jo? Do you want to be with Oliver?"

"I don't want to work for him," I said. That much I was sure I couldn't do anymore. We had slept together and broken every rule in the book. I couldn't just go back to being his domina as if nothing had happened.

"Okay," Carrie drawled, "but that's not what I asked."

I knew it wasn't. Every time my thoughts drifted back to this morning's romp, I felt my insides ache. It had been good with him. It had always been good with him, even when he couldn't stand to let me see the effect our play had on him. Was it wrong to want more?

My mind was no clearer once I'd hung up with Carrie. I tried to focus on household chores and other trifles, but nothing worked. I could find no distraction from my roiling thoughts. I hated myself for the things I'd said to Oliver even as I wanted to shake him for letting me say them.

Mostly, I wanted to apologize. I was reasonably sure he didn't want my excuses, but if he hadn't left so soon I would've offered them anyway. Someone needed to take responsibility for what had been done.

I glanced at my watch. It was eight PM already. I could still make it to the penthouse before Oliver left for the gala if I hurried.

For a moment, I stood paralyzed in front of the silent television. Would I make things worse by running after a man who was obviously well shot of me?

To hell with it
, I thought and practically lunged at my wardrobe.

I had never dressed faster. The little black dress I'd thought of wearing tonight turned out to be too revealing when I put it on; it reminded me of the miniskirts I'd worn for so long as part of my so-called uniform, so I threw it aside and went for a pair of slacks and a tailored black vest with just enough sequins to look like it was made for evening wear. I chose a silver blouse and black pumps to complete the ensemble. In the bathroom, I considered the row of wigs I'd donned for so many parties and so many, many men.

Did I still think he was going to take me to the fundraiser as his plus one? No, not really. Even if we mended fences, I was still toxic to his reputation. Especially now. It was in his best interest not to be seen with me.

So what did I care if I wouldn't be as palatable to the silver-spoon fed elites without my wig? Oliver had all about said he preferred me without. I wanted him to see me as I was: me, not some plastic approximation. A dab of cherry-red lipstick on my mouth and I was done, grabbing keys and phone and wallet and the same hideous bear paw purse I'd worn yesterday. The door clanged as it shut behind me.

Urgency burned in my veins, to the extent that I couldn't even wait for the elevator and clomped down to the ground floor in spite of my high heels.

I practically lunged into the first taxicab I saw on my way out of the building. The driver looked a little taken aback by my verve, but he took off quickly as I rattled the address to Oliver's penthouse.

"Feel free to speed," I said. "Run over pedestrians. Whatever."

The cab driver glanced at me in the rear view mirror. "You're kidding, right?"

"Mostly." The clock was ticking and if I missed Oliver before he left for the fundraiser, I wasn't sure I'd find the guts to see him again.

Trees and houses whipped past my window, an endless succession of pedestrians and other cars: a whole world minding its business while I felt every thump and heartbeat in my chest. The scenery changed quickly, from bad to worse, first, and then to much, much better. Industrial storefronts that harkened to glory days of old surrendered their graffiti-streaked façades to fancy shop windows. Mannequins dressed up in the latest fashions promised status and success if only I bought a new pair of jeans, of shoes; if only my body was whittled down to fit a whole new mold.

I was glad when we reached the uptown cafés I had walked past on my way to the subway. It meant we were close.

"Hot date?" My driver asked.

"Don't know yet." I didn't wait for change or small talk. As soon as the cab had stopped, I was already scrabbling out with wallet in one hand and hideous purse in the other.

George smiled when he saw me. "Good evening, Ms. Torres--"

"Please tell me he's upstairs," I interjected. "I really need to see him, George." I was already on my way to the elevator when I glimpsed the digital clock behind the concierge's desk. It read eight twenty.

My wrist watch still read eight o'clock, I realized with sudden dismay. The damn batteries must have died. And judging by the apologetic smile that hovered on George's lips, the really bad news was still coming.

"I'm afraid Mr. Shepherd has already left."

"No," I murmured, feeling as if all the air had been punched out of me.

I was too late.

George came out from behind the desk when I staggered, his hand steadying me at the elbow. "I can give Mr. Shepherd a call," he offered, "let him know you're here?"

"That's—no, that won't be necessary." I could have called Oliver myself. I had his number. If I hadn't done it yet, it was because I was afraid he would hang up the second he heard my voice. "I just need to, um..."

"Here," George said, guiding me to his chair. "Sit, sit. I'm sure it's alright. You only missed him by a handful of minutes. The limousine was late." George's lips curled mirthlessly. "If you call, they could still return to pick you up."

I couldn't do that

George was a good man. He waited with me until a cab arrived to take me home.

There was no small talk to be had this time. As I neared my destination, I asked the driver to stop the car. The last two blocks I could cover on foot. It would do me good to walk off the gremlins in my head.

I didn't register the limo double-parked at the top of the street until I heard the honking of disgruntled commuters. It was in the spirit of the city to flip the bird and shout, but for my part, I couldn't even muster indignation. Rich people, I thought and commenced digging for my house keys inside the bear-paw purse.

"Jo."

At first I thought I imagined the sound of my name being spoken, but it came again and this time, I looked up.

Oliver was dressed to the nines, tux and tails, but no bowtie. He was standing on the sidewalk only a few feet away, oblivious to pedestrian traffic or the virulent horns blaring from the road.

"What are you doing here?" I heard myself ask. "Shouldn't you be..."

"I didn't go," Oliver said, cutting me off.

That much was obvious, but: "Why?" The way we'd left things, I couldn't have imagined him showing up outside my door again.

Oliver's shoulders hitched up into a shrug. "You weren't with me." He didn't seem sure of the answer. I wasn't, either, truth be told, but then I was still trying to catch up to the fact that he had come here. To see me. "I thought you'd be home," Oliver said, clearing his throat. "I may have made a bit of a ruckus."

"I was at the penthouse."

"You were?" His brows shot up. "I didn't see you."

"Talked to George, but he said you had already gone." I found myself stepping closer and aborted the movement quickly. I didn't know what I was doing, what it meant that Oliver hadn't gone to the gala as planned. Nothing seemed to compute.

My heart was pounding zealously in my chest: it was pointless agitation. For all I knew, he only wanted to formalize the end of our arrangement once and for all.

I steeled myself against doubt and said. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry about what happened and the things I said—I didn't know. If I'd known, I wouldn't have--"

"It's okay," Oliver interjected. A hand came up, out of his pockets, to scratch at the back of his neck.

"It's not," I insisted stubbornly. "We should've done a better job of listening.
I
shouldn't have assumed you were a bad person just because..." Oliver shook his head as if to stop me, but I needed to get this out. "You have every right to hate me. And I know it doesn't mean much to say I'm sorry, but I really, really--"

Hands seized mine. Suddenly Oliver was standing right in front of me, kissing my knuckles. My breath failed me.

"I remember the first time I saw you," he murmured. "All short hair and these hideous combat boots. You were the youngest person in the club, I think, but you weren't afraid of anything. I've never seen anyone so in their element before." His eyes met mine. "I've never wanted anyone to notice me more."

"I don't..."
Remember you
, I wanted to say, but held back. There had been many men back then who thought I was too green to be anyone's domina. Proving them wrong had been a pleasure and a challenge both. I'd had no need to seduce submissives because they came to me of their own accord: to test me or because they were curious. The ones who judged me for my youth didn't interest me.

It seemed all too likely I'd believed Oliver—or Shep, as he'd styled himself back then—to be among the skeptics. But Hunter did mention Oliver had asked for me by name. Maybe I had it all wrong. I should've been used to it by now.

"I don't blame you for what happened," Oliver said. "I'm just trying to say that... you're not the only one who got in a little too deep." He looked so earnest, but I still didn't understand.