True North (Compass series Book 4) (27 page)

Nerves have me
fidgeting with my cufflinks while I wait at the back corner table for India to show. She’s not late, but I was early. The place is packed and I wonder how long she’s had a reservation because it doesn’t look like a place you can waltz into. India Burke might be approaching royalty status in our political world, but to people in LA, she’s a nobody.

I feel it when she arrives. As she struts toward me, the corner of her impeccably lipsticked mouth curls up in a slightly rapacious way. I can’t help but return her expression with a cocky grin of my own.

Particularly when she slides easily into the booth and purrs my name. “Slade, so nice to see you.”

Her eyes, as she looks at me—they almost…I don’t even know, sparkle? Which I bet she’d kick me under the table for even thinking. And for good reason. That’s fucking ridiculous. But she looks happy to be here and it makes me huff a laugh. My how things have changed.

“And you.”

Her phone makes a strange noise, and she holds up a finger while a smile spreads across her face. If that’s her husband, I’m going to be irrationally annoyed.

She makes a few taps on the screen and outright giggles, types some more, and throws her phone on the table while shaking her head, a strand of hair finally escaping that perfect coif of hers.

“Rey says hello. He also requested a selfie of the two of us.”

A snort gets caught in my throat. “And what did you say?”

The very attentive waitress who’s been catering to me since I got here starts to lower a drink onto the table, but India snags it out of her hand before it even reaches the cocktail napkin and takes a healthy swig.

“I told him to go fuck himself. Or someone else.”

“Does he…” Wow. So none of my business, but I have to admit it’s an intriguing question. He and Matthew obviously have a sexual relationship, but that seems more utilitarian than romantic. Rey must have dozens, if not hundreds, of willing play partners, but I’ve never heard him talk about his own sex life. And weirdly, I’ve never wondered if he had one. But he must, right? Good-looking guy like that? And smooth as fuck? Though he’s more like Teflon and I wonder if anyone’s ever stuck. He’s also intimidating as hell. What kind of person would think they’d be worthy of more than a few hours of his time? I suspect even the people who pay for it feel lucky. I do.

India rolls her eyes as she takes another sip of the cocktail—where the hell did that come from and how did they know what to bring anyway? It’s not like she had time enough to order…

“Trust me, Rey isn’t lacking for partners. Or anything else he wants for that matter.” She hums appreciatively while eyeing her drink. “He makes good choices too.”

It all clicks into place. “He got this reservation, didn’t he?”

“Yep. And ordered this drink. Want to try it?”

She holds it out, and I’m tempted. If I thought there were a chance in hell we’d be fucking later, I would. The print of her lips left by her cherry-red gloss on one side, my mouth on the other, sharing something already, an invitation to share more because god knows that wouldn’t be enough.

“No, thanks. I’ll stick with this.” I wave the tumbler of whiskey in her direction and feel a pinprick of jealousy that Rey ordered for her and not for me. But that’s stupid, right? Of course he wouldn’t take that liberty with me, but it’s a mark of intimacy that might be…nice. Because I’m turning into the kind of dude who would play a guitar—or, worse, a ukulele—and sing fucking Kumbaya around a campfire. For fuck’s sake.

To wash the taste of those conflicting emotions out of my mouth, I take another sip and then leer at her. “So, dinner, huh?”

She rolls her eyes at my verbal air quotes, but it’s with more of an amused fondness than with disgust.

“Yes, Slade. Dinner. And that’s it. I think we’re both out of the casual hate-fuck game, aren’t we?”

I almost choke on the liquor that hasn’t quite finished its slow burn down my throat. Pounding on my chest with a fist, my sneer turns to a glare. “What makes you say that?”

“Fine,” she says, holding up a placating hand. “Maybe it’s just me. Maybe you’d rather be prowling a bar down the street for some easy hookup who you can fuck into next week, who might let you smack her around some. Or maybe you’ve got an invitation to a club where you’ll find that special sort of someone who might share your…interests.”

“It’s not. I wouldn’t. I don’t.” The grudging admission makes its way out of my mouth as I stare into my glass. When I look at her, I’m expecting a self-righteous smirk, but what I get is a softer smile. And god help me, I like it. I want India to like me. To trust me. “There are very few places I’d rather be.”

That sentiment rocks her back, but she doesn’t tease me, doesn’t put on that saucy…what I’m coming to think might be just a part of her. Maybe India’s dark side is a little bit squishy, vulnerable. More lines drawn between us, and I feel the kinship grow. Maybe we could be…friends. It wouldn’t be bad to have more people to talk to. But this is a bit of a dance, figuring out how much we want to share. And while I’d rather tango with India, feel her hot, lithe body pressed against mine in an insanely provocative way because I know we fit together like that, this is more like those mincing social dances people used to do and I don’t know the steps. Friends? How does one do that with a person you’d like to fuck exactly?

She nods, offers me a nervous smile, the first whiff of uncertainty I’ve ever gotten from her. “It’s nice, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

I offer her my glass, and she clinks her own against it. Neither of us says the words—because what exactly would we say?—but we each take a swallow and then start to talk work, where we at least have some solid ground to stand on. At work, we’re both unfailingly competent.

When the entrees have been cleared away and coffees delivered with a plate of chocolate-dipped almond biscotti set between us, India stares at me a beat too long.

“What?”

“Nothing. I was wondering—and you don’t have to tell me, obviously—if…if things were going well.” The slight emphasis on
things
tells me she’s not talking about the bill I’m trying to get passed or anything else work-related. This is personal. Very personal.

I take a second to consider it, but I find myself wanting to tell her. Wanting to share this with someone I consider my peer on every level. “Yeah, things are going well.”

She laughs at the wag of my eyebrow. “Good. I haven’t heard as many horror stories about you since last time, and I thought…” Her features go from teasing to tightly earnest. “It’s good for you, right? You feel more like yourself? Or, at least, more like a person you hoped you could be?”

Something lances through my chest, an unfamiliar feeling that I don’t quite know how to deal with. My first instinct is cruelty: make her regret it, make that pretty face crumple into embarrassment and hot tears. But my second impulse is far more charitable. So I choose—
choose
—to go with that one. Because I think people more familiar with emotions might call what I’m feeling empathy.

“Yeah. That’s exactly what it’s like. And I think…”

She waits for me, not pressing, but simply dipping the crunchy cookie into her coffee before taking a bite. Her patience, something we both have in short supply, floods me with gratitude.

“There’s this woman.”

So I tell her. I tell her about Pressly. I tell her all about Pressly.

While I go on about Press and how great she is, India’s expression vacillates between smugly amused and like she’s going to pat me on the head and tell me how freaking adorable I am. I’d be embarrassed except it makes me sort of proud. Something about seeing someone in love makes them seem more human, and maybe that’s what my soliloquy has done—make me a flesh-and-blood person to India as opposed to a walking insult.

“Sounds like you’re quite taken with this woman.”

“That obvious, huh?”

“Does she know?”

“I think so. But it’s complicated. We have a history.”

“Can I offer some advice from a fellow malcontent?”

More people telling me what to do? Ugh. But judging how India talks about her husband—yeah,
husband
—she might not be the worst person to receive counsel from. “Bring it on.”

“For as long as I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you look as happy as you have for the past twenty minutes. You’re clearly crazy about this woman, and if you think you have a shot in hell of her returning the sentiment, you should do whatever it takes. Speaking as someone who’s lived to regret being cagey as fuck, do yourself a favor and get out of your own way.”

Once again she’s floored me with her munificence, and whereas I sometimes feel as though Rey’s guidance is being delivered from on high, India’s a flawed human like me. So if she’s saying this too, perhaps it wouldn’t be such a bad idea to listen. Maybe I could have what she managed to eke out: happiness with a partner she adores.

I lift my glass to her and grit out a smile. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

‡

T
he next time
I see Press, it’s at the Black House. Because damn straight I’m showing up. I’ll miss next week because I’ve got to be in Seattle, which I’ll tell her. I don’t want her thinking I don’t care, that I wouldn’t take every opportunity I’m allowed to spend time with her. But in case she doesn’t give a shit and she’s been rolling her eyes behind my back and sighing to her friends at the club that she wishes I would get over it already, I’ll drop it casually. Which’ll be easy because I’m seeing Rey.

We won’t be meeting for a session, though. It’ll be just two dudes, hanging out. Grabbing dinner because we both happen to be in the same town at the same time. I hadn’t liked the way my stomach curdled when I’d asked him. I’d felt almost as nervous as I had when I asked Polly Sue Minor to junior prom. She’d said no, and in the end, I hadn’t ended up going at all. But Rey’d said yes. Didn’t even make a big deal out of it. Like I have friends I go out with all the time and it wasn’t a big thing for me to be asking if he’d maybe, if he had the time, and would be in the neighborhood, might like to…grab a drink. Or whatever. Or not. Because he’s busy.

But he’d said yes and even made me feel like a bit of an insider by confiding he had a client there who he should check in with. “Kind of a mess, that one.”

As if he doesn’t say the same thing about me. But maybe he’s trying to get me to think about myself that way less. That Rey, he works in mysterious ways. But damn if those ways don’t work.

That’s not for another week, though. At the moment, I’m strolling into the Black House as a full member, thankyouverymuch. Nothing’s really changed, but it makes me feel good anyway. Like another lesson accomplished in Rey’s How-Not-to-be-an-Asshole curriculum. How has he managed to turn me into a kid who wants a gold star on their fucking chore chart? But he has.

The security guard at the door only gives me a nod as I step through, and I hand off my coat. Once it’s off, I take a deep breath, feeling like I’m filling my lungs for the first time all day.

It’s nice to be able to be myself somewhere. Where the only reputation that precedes me is the one Rey gave me. It’s kinda great that people don’t look at me like they’re waiting for me to be an asshole.

I don’t have anything in particular in mind for tonight, and it’s not like I’ve planned a scene with anyone. I’ve played with other people a couple of times since my initiation. It’s been…fine. But nothing I crave, nothing I lose sleep over.

Nope, my dreams are still the province of one Pressly Allwyn. And on occasion, India Burke. But those are few and far between. It’s like my subconscious is trying to bury India because she’s not a possibility. Not with the way she gets all starry-eyed over that Muppet-haired husband of hers. Who knew? And besides, India was a fantastic one-night stand, but that’s all it was. Even if I’ve charmed her into believing I’m not a terrible person, we’re not meant for each other. Cut perhaps of too-similar cloth, we need people who balance us out. Softer. With more give. Like Cris. Like Pressly.

I stroll through the main room, relatively quiet with small groups clustered around tables since it’s not a talent show or a demo night. I wave to a few people as I pass through to the long hallway at the back.

What doors will be open, if any at all? Sometimes it’s stuff I don’t particularly want to observe, but even when I don’t wish I were a participant, there’s always something to learn. And who knows when I might stumble upon something that makes me think
Holy shit. I didn’t know people could
do
that
.

Tonight there are only a few doors open. One on the right’s got some pony play going on. I appreciate the effort and the protocol, and it’s almost painfully…beautiful? Is it weird to say that? Despite that, it’s not something that calls to me so I move on after taking in the scene. Next is a flogging scene, and I recognize the spike-heeled boots of the person wielding a heavy leather-and-rubber flogger. It’s Zelda. She’s giving her sub hell, and oh, is he ever enjoying it.

I take it in, appreciating her technique, the way she talks to him to keep in the zone while she selects another flogger to beat on him with, and the way she leaves him hanging when she wants to up the tension, get him straining against his bonds to hear any word or sound she might grace him with. She’s masterful, and it’s with an eye to study that I watch her.