True North (Compass series Book 4) (4 page)

The only time in recent memory I’ve come and not felt queasy about it or had the urge to down enough gin to get a horse plastered afterward was with India. I’d gotten at least some of what I’d wanted and I could live without the rest. Especially if I got to trade the lack of out-loud humiliation for a clear conscience. I’d do it. And I suspect she can help me. The question is, will she?

*

It’s almost twenty-four
hours until I can get her alone. When I see her walking down the elegant hallway of the Grant-Arthur, I quicken my steps to catch up with her and grab her by the arm.

“I need to talk to you.”

She shakes me off with a murderous glare. “That’s too bad. Because I don’t
need
to do anything.”

“You’re right. I apologize.” I let go of her and take a step back.

She cocks her head, her eyes narrowed, but she’s not running away. “What do you want, Slade?”

“I want to talk to you about—” About what?
I think you and your husband might be kinky as fuck, and I want to join you at the freak show?
Frustration tugs at the corners of my mouth because I’m so rarely at a loss for words. I hate that she’s seeing me like this.

She rolls her eyes and mutters, “First rule of Fight Club.” Then she starts down the hall, tossing words over her shoulder. “You coming or what?”

I scramble after her, marveling not for the first time how she can walk in those heels, never mind strut. But she does. She so does. I let myself admire her swinging hips because looking is allowed, and from my interactions with Cris, I don’t think he’d give a shit that I lust after his wife. In fact, I’m pretty sure he’d be more likely to sit next to me and stare, offer me a beer bottleneck to clink, and say, “
Inorite?
” Fucker.

She lets us into her room, and it’s dark, no cocky brute of a spouse in sight.

“Where’s your husband?”

I didn’t mean for it to come out as a sneer, but it does.

She sighs and grabs a bottle of water off the table, opening it to take a swig before offering me an unopened one. “You’ve got to learn how to be less of an asshole. I’m willing to talk to you, but not if you’re going to be a dick. If you must know, he’s got a meeting with one of his editors and then he was going to play tourist. He’s never been to DC before.”

I feel chastised. And embarrassed because she’s so cool whereas I’m such a mess. “Sorry.”

“I get it. It’s hard. But you can trust me. I’m not going to fuck with you. Too much. Probably. So what do you want to know?”

She sits in a chair, kicking off her shoes and tucking up her feet. It makes it easier, somehow, her looking human and vulnerable, like someone whose feet actually hurt instead of some valkyrie.

“When we…” My jaw clenches because I shouldn’t say fuck.

“Fucked, Slade. You can say it. We fucked. And it was good. Nothing to be ashamed of.” She’s so matter-of-fact about it, but then I guess she would be. She clearly enjoys sex and has had a lot of it. Some people probably have some not-so-nice names for that, but if anything, I’m jealous of her embracing her appetites, something I’m fundamentally incapable of doing. But hell if I’m going to admit it.

“That’s not what your husband seemed to think when he was strangling me.”

“He didn’t hurt you,” she says, dismissing my sullen tone. I guess he told her. “But if it makes you feel any better, I got lectured for that too. He was right to be angry, though. I did tell him it was my fault. I shouldn’t have encouraged you, told you it was okay. It wasn’t, and I know better even if you don’t. So I apologize. I hope you haven’t—”

Alarm widens her eyes. Even when I broke her down to tears, she didn’t look afraid, but she looks scared now.

“You haven’t done that to anyone else, have you? Tell me you haven’t.”

I don’t like her face contorted in panic, so I rush to reassure her. “No, I swear. I haven’t.”

I leave off the part about not having been with anyone else in any capacity because I doubt she’d understand. Let her think I fuck everything with tits in the District. God knows that’s what most people think.

“Okay. Good. Don’t.” She takes a long draught of her water and then looks at me. “But you want to?”

“Yeah. And you told me. You said there are people who are into that shit. That’s what you said. That’s what I want. Where do I find them?”

I’d wanted to. With Pressly. Hit her, hurt her. But most of all, I’d wanted to fling insults in her face until tears were streaking down her reddened cheeks. But I couldn’t because she was too gentle, too pretty, too sweet. She deserved someone who could treat her like a princess because that’s what she was. My beautiful, polished, descended-from-American-royalty wife. I couldn’t fling filth at her like the sick fuck I really am. I was lucky she never figured out exactly how disgusting and black my soul is. But the slow, painful drift had been excruciating.

I hadn’t wanted to hold her at a distance, but it had been the only way to keep her safe. Her father would’ve had me killed if he knew a fraction of the thoughts I’d had about his darling little debutante. It had been almost a relief when she’d finally asked for the divorce. But it had hurt too. Even if I hadn’t shown it. Just let her walk away.

India eyes me carefully, a calculating look on her face. Like she’s deciding if I’m a good bet. I want to tell her I am. Or, at least, I want to be. “I’m going to give you a number. You’re going to call and say I sent you. If you are anything but respectful and cooperative, I will hear about it. I’ll have your ass on a platter, your head on a stake, and I’ll feed the leftovers to a stray dog. Are we clear?”

I say yes, getting the impression that she’s not at all kidding.

She reaches into the shoulder bag she’d set at her feet and pulls out a pen and a card, scribbling on the back. When she’s done, she hands it over. I stare at the ten digits, no name.

“Who should I ask for?”

“You tell whoever answers the phone exactly what I said. And then you do as you’re told.”

The urge to argue is strong, but I swallow it down. I don’t want to make her change her mind, shut the door she’s cracked open. I sort through my thoughts and locate the words I’d like to say. They’re buried under sarcasm and cruelty, but I dig them out because India’s been more generous than I deserve. “Thank you.”

“It’s what we do,” she says cryptically. “Don’t fuck up.”

‡

T
he forum on
receiverships finishes out with no major disasters, which is as much as I could’ve hoped for. I spend the day after cleaning up messes I didn’t have time to deal with over the past few days and delegating the things I still don’t have time for. I have to head down to New Orleans tomorrow, and I’d like to have enough spare time to at least eat while I’m there. They have some of the best food on earth.

That was one of the first trips Pressly and I had taken together. She couldn’t believe I’d never been farther south than Norfolk, but her singsong drawl had been especially pronounced and incredulous when I’d denied ever having been to New Orleans.

“I went there for spring break a few years running. Maybe got in a little trouble.” Her cheeks had gone pink, and all I could think about was those blush-perfect magnolias. That might’ve been when I’d realized I was in love with her. Charming, sweet, pearl-bedecked Pressly with her cashmere twin sets and her perfect blonde ponytails. Trouble for her probably meant having a few too many and forgetting her unfailing Southern manners for a minute.

“We’ll go sometime,” she’d said, showing off those pearly-white teeth when she smiled.

“Maybe get you into more than a little trouble?”

We’d had a wonderful weekend, only leaving the bed-and-breakfast long enough to indulge in the food. Add in a few strolls through the French Quarter and the Garden District with the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen while she casually stroked my palm with her thumb and New Orleans had become one of my favorite cities on earth. Except those memories have been poisoned. The jambalaya and etouffée will crumble like dust in my mouth, and the Bananas Foster will stick in my throat. Hell.

While I’m packing, I think about the card burning a hole in my pocket. I’d resisted dialing the number while the conference was still on. I wanted India Burke and her smug-ass husband far away before I called on the off-chance India is fucking with me. I’m pretty sure not because, for however much of a smart-assed bitch she can be, she’s not a liar. Besides, she likely realizes that, though she may be above putting the screws to people for less-than-professional reasons, not everyone is. Including myself.

The clock says ten fifteen, and I debate whether to call. Phoning a stranger so late on a Sunday? Pressly would have my head for that. But Miss Manners isn’t here to scold me, so I grab a whiskey and settle into the Eames chair she hated.

After flicking on my phone, I thumb through the emails and other messages that accumulate like dust bunnies in my inbox. Nothing urgent. I’m procrastinating. But the sooner I dial the number, the sooner this will be over with and I can get on with my life. I swear to god if India’s given me some weird-ass phone sex number or something, I’m going to kill her.

I dial, nervousness stewing in my stomach. God I fucking hate that. Hate the way it feels, like acid is going to eat right through my organs and skin and spill out. And everyone will know I’m not such a hardass after all, that I’m human just like they are. And as soon as they get wind of that, my reign of terror is over.

The phone rings a couple of times and then there’s a click.

“Hello?” A man. Now what?

“Hi.”

Off to a fan-fucking-tastic start, shit for brains.

“Can I help you?” He sounds so smooth. Antipathy floods my head, the dismissive, callous words welling to the surface. But going on the attack is not advisable. It’d surely get this cracked-open gate slammed in my face, whereas I want it to be opened wide enough for me to slip through.

“I hope so.”

“I hope so too.”

It’s absurd and mortifying, but I can’t deny that my sinuses have started to swell and my throat has tightened. I have to squeeze my eyes shut because there’s no way four words from a stranger that don’t mean fuck-all are going to drive me to tears. No. Fucking. Way. I clear my throat in what I hope is a manly fashion.

“India Burke gave me your number. Said I should call you.”

“And who are you?”

I debate giving him an alias, but the fear of getting shut out makes me tell the truth.

“Slade. Slade Lewis.”

“I’ve been expecting you, Mr. Lewis.”

Jesus Christ, why is all this so cloak-and-dagger? “Who are you anyway?”

“Reyes Walter, at your service.”

“How do you know India?”

“You and I are on a need-to-know basis and that, you don’t need to know. But you should know I’ve heard all about you.”

So he already thinks I’m an asshole. Way to establish that early.

“What happens now?”

“I generally meet potential clients in person before I agree to work with them, so I’d say that’s the next step. I’m in San Francisco, but I travel frequently and I understand you do as well.”

Before I can stop myself—
Potential client? What kind of client?
—I find myself comparing travel schedules with this man. I’m supposed to be in San Francisco in a month, but that seems too far away so I email my assistant to swap it with a visit to Tennessee that’s on my schedule for next week.

“Thursday night it is. I’ll text you the address Thursday afternoon,” Rey says after we’ve hashed out the details.

“Thursday.”

“Yes. Have a good week, and I’ll see you then.”

My “Thanks, you too” is an absent mumble at best. I’ve made it through the first hoop.

*