Bend - Bromberg K. - Страница 67

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I turn my head and take his thumb between my lips, letting it slip past my teeth and over my tongue. He smiles when I suck it on the way out.

“I’m going to be honest,” he says.

“Uh-huh.” I take his thumb again.

“I’m not looking for a sex partner.”

“Then what were you doing at Pompeii?” I take his middle and ring finger down my throat, all the way, and watch his face change. He may have just wanted to help a celebutante in distress, but his ideas of what to do with her are expanding by the second. I see it in his willing, wet fingers and the dilation of his pupils.

“Meeting the owner. We’re scheduling an event,” he says.

“What kind of event?”

“Something you might enjoy.”

And my brain, in its super-relaxed state, fell into his smiling blue eyes. At that event in the house on Maundy Street, I would be on my knees with an expert tongue in my asshole, a vibrating object in my cunt, and my mouth on a cock. So happy, content, satisfied, that when the orgasms came, I felt as if I’d transcended my own skin.

I woke with my back arched, out of breath, with Elliot pressed two fingers to the inside of my wrist.

“I’m sorry,” I said, panting.

“Don’t be.” He stared at his watch another second then put my hand down. “You’re taching at one-fourteen.”

“I wasn’t trying to make you uncomfortable.”

“You’re going to have to work harder than that to make me uncomfortable.” His smile was so relaxed, I believed him.

I wanted to work hard enough to make him uncomfortable, just to see what he looked like. “I’ll remember that.”

“Just lie back and relax.”

We didn’t say anything for a few minutes. I breathed slowly, trying to slow my racing heart.

“Was that your first encounter with Deacon?”

“Yes.”

“When did you see him again?”

“He invited me to that party through Paolo, the owner of the club. I wasn’t going to go, but Charlie heard it was at Maundy Street and went nuts. I figured I’d see Deacon again. Which I didn’t.”

“No?”

“He’s known for not showing to his own parties. But he found me, like, a week later at Lucien’s. Bought the whole table dinner from across the room then tried to slip out.”

“What did you do?”

I huffed a sarcastic little laugh. “Chased his ass. He was waiting for me in the parking lot, like he knew I’d come after him. And he wouldn’t let me touch him. Even back at his place. He said touching him was a privilege that was earned. I didn’t understand. I thought he was just being a dick.”

“Many dominants don’t like to be touched. At least not before there’s trust.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t know that. How do you know?”

“I’m treating you. I’ve stayed up late doing a lot of research.”

“‘Research,’ huh? With a box of tissues by the computer, I bet.”

He didn’t answer.

“Sorry,” I said.

“When did he let you touch him?”

“I don’t know. I keep thinking, if I stabbed him, he must have been tied down or something. But how? He’d been tied down in Congo, so he’s not turned on getting tied up. He’s anti-aroused. So maybe I ran up and jabbed him?” I shook my head slowly. “The last thing I remember is a jumble of shit.”

“What kind of shit?”

“Pills and sex. And some rope work. I think I was suspended for part of whatever it was. Which means Deacon was there, and I was the one tied up.”

“No one else ever tied you?” Elliot asked.

“I got tied up plenty, before we were exclusive, but the real rope work, the art, the shibari? That was all Deacon. He wouldn’t let anyone else do it. And that was from the beginning.”

“So in a way, you were exclusive from day one.”

“In a way.” I hadn’t thought of it that way, and I swelled with a childish pride. “Even Martin and Debbie weren’t allowed.”

“Who are they?”

“They live in number two. They’re his top trainees. Debbie’s great. She only ties men. She does beautiful things, and she’s really methodical, even for how young she is. Martin’s talented, but Deacon says he’ll never really get it.” I shrugged. “Even if I was so stoned I’d let them knot me, well, Debbie wouldn’t have disobeyed, and Martin was in New York. So I don’t know.”

Elliot shifted a pen on his desk as if it was a lever he needed to flip, then he shifted in his seat. Why was his every movement so interesting to me? Why did I watch him? It could have been because he had so much power over me, or it could have been because he expressed himself with his motions, as if a shade of what he was about to say existed in his body before it came alive verbally.

“I think we’re going to find out soon,” he said. “Mister Bruce has been found well enough to be interviewed. So if you have anything to tell me, the police, or your lawyer, you should do so.”

He was well enough to be interviewed. He was getting better. I swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “Thank God.”

“You’re not afraid of what he’s going to say?”

“No.”

“He may implicate you.”

“I’m not worried about it.”

“What are you worried about?” he asked.

“How long have you been working here?”

“That’s not relevant right now. Not as relevant as you changing the subject.”

“My point is, no matter what he says, we have lawyers. Our lawyers have lawyers. If Hitler needed to walk, Hitler would walk. What I’m worried about isn’t the law. Deacon is my law. He’s the only one I have to obey. I’m worried about what I did. How it affected him. Us.”

“You have a very strange sense of entitlement.”

“I’m told it’s affluenza.”

He smiled ruefully. “Session over. See you tomorrow.”

I could have eaten in my room, but I wasn’t good at alone time, and I’d already had a bit too much of it. So when Jack sat next to me, I was relieved by the human contact. At the same time, I didn’t know what to do with it.

“Last day is tomorrow,” he said, breaking his artisanal bread and dunking it in his sweet whipped butter. “What’s your guess?”

“I think they’re going to let me out.”

“You’ll get picked up before you’re out the door.”

I shrugged. “They’ll set bail. I’ll go home, and then we’ll see.”

Split pea soup with hand-cut bits of ham. Grilled vegetables. Marinated tri-tip. All the meals had been like that, and by “like that,” I meant the very worst of what I’d ever had in my life, unless I was deliberately slumming or in a neighborhood south of the 10.

I pushed my tray away. “This food sucks.”

I wanted something, but it wasn’t on my tray. The roil of anxiety built in my chest. I had no relief for it, at least not in the pills they were feeding me. Not in the therapy or hypnosis. I had ways to manage myself, and they had all been taken away.

“They’re going to expect me to be sober when I get out, aren’t they?” I asked.

“Probably. But whatever. Just get someone else to drive, and they’ll never know the difference. No one gives a shit what you do as long as you’re not hurting some middle-class honor student. Then you’re up shit creek.”

The way he rubbed his bread around his bowl, as if he was just flipping off some commentary, should have told me he didn’t mean it personally. He wasn’t trying to jab at me. He wasn’t trying to twist my sore places. But he did, and I decided it was careless and cruel.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I said.

He barely stopped eating. “Means we can get away with self-destruction until we hurt someone who doesn’t have anything. Then it’s off with our heads.” He drew his finger across his throat. “Seriously, I’m in here because I sold an ounce of sky gum to a teacher. The news was all about how much my dad made versus how much she made. And I’m like, seriously? I sold four grams to Rolf Wente, and I got crickets.” He stopped chewing. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

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