True North (Compass series Book 4) Page 6

  I haven’t seen so many naked or nearly naked bodies in so many shapes and sizes since… No, never. Never have I seen this. And the people who are clothed range from the stereotypical full-blown leather get-up to jeans and T-shirts to a couple other suits. And there are some people who look distinctly otherworldly. Like out of Star Wars or some other sci-fi universe. I swear to god I see a Spock on a leash being led around by an Uhura, but they disappear around a corner too fast for me to be entirely sure.

  A nudge to my elbow makes me realize my mouth is hanging open and I shut it.

  “It’s fine to look, but try not to stare. I know you don’t want to be treated like a neophyte, so don’t act like one. Come on, I’ll introduce you to some people.”

  I follow Rey as he weaves through the room, getting stopped by people as we go. Some he introduces me to, some not. I can’t quite tell how he makes the distinction. Is it me or is it them?

  Finally he ambles over to a small knot of people who are chatting in a back corner. There’s a brawny man in a black…what could only be called utility kilt and leather vest. He’s petting the head of a slim redheaded boy kneeling almost naked at his side and chatting with a woman wearing a latex bustier and spiked heels—literally, spiked heels. There are metal spikes coming out the back. There’s a flogger clipped to her belt, and god love whoever came up with fetish gear because her breasts are magnificent.

  They all turn when Rey approaches, and their faces break out into smiles. So Rey Walter is beloved here too. What does he, have a fandom?

  He kisses the woman’s cheek and shakes the man’s hand, and—after obtaining permission with a “May I?”—leans down and ruffles the boy’s hair, scratching him behind the ears and saying, “Good boy, Scooter.”

  Scooter?

  I am trying so, so hard to look as cool as Rey does, but it’s next to impossible when there is a grown man kneeling on the ground, being petted like a dog, and if I’m a judge of these things, enjoying it. Although if I picture him as a woman instead, in black satin lingerie instead of leather shorts, crowned with a pair of sweet cat ears and nuzzling at my thigh? At the very least, my dick understands the appeal.

  Rey gives Scooter a few more pets before standing and gesturing to me. “This is Hale. First-timer here.”

  Hale. What I’d picked as my scene name. When Rey had asked me, I’d stumbled. I’d wanted to pick something that sounded cool, but not like I was trying too hard. Something I wouldn’t regret in a few months, something I wouldn’t mind answering to. Something I wouldn’t forget. So I’d picked the name of my hometown. Nowhere, West Virginia, smack in the middle of Appalachia. I couldn’t wait to get out when I was a kid, and I haven’t gone back since my parents died. My father wouldn’t blame me. He never wanted to get stuck there either. But falling in love will make a person do some messed-up stuff, especially if babies are involved.

  Rey introduces me to the man and the woman. He calls them Tangent and Zelda, and I shake their hands. When he introduces me to Scooter, I’m not even sure what to do.

  “You can give him a pet if you like,” volunteers Tangent. “He won’t bite. Probably.”

  Then they laugh. All of them. At me. At my ridiculously shocked face. Including Scooter. Something inside me snaps. Not in a going-postal way, but in a tension-breaking way. This is all so crazy, and if I want to get through this night without having a nervous breakdown, I’ve got to let go. Not something I’m an expert in, but I’ll give it my best shot.

  Scooter, obliging boy that he is, takes pity on me and holds out a hand, offering a firmer shake than I might expect. “It’s true. I only bite when asked.”

  I smile because it’s all too absurd. “Good to know.”

  We talk to them for a while. It’s mostly small talk about upcoming kink events, workshops they’ve been to, new toys they have. I try to contribute, but mostly I nod. I’m distracted. There are muted cries and muffled impacts in the background din, but after an hour or so, I feel like I’m at a cocktail party. A cocktail party with no alcohol and a very strange dress code, but a surprisingly enjoyable one. I find myself actually taking pleasure in these people’s company.

  I don’t get to do that often.

  Maybe it’s because no one’s talking about work, but I find my own thoughts of everything waiting on my desk slipping away. It’s hard to concentrate on spreadsheets and reports and bills and votes when the person next to you is talking about picking out a violet wand attachment the same way someone at the grocery store might talk about their preferred brand of cereal. I find it strangely soothing. Because if the sky’s suddenly orange and water flows up, what the fuck am I supposed to do about that? Nothing. I should sit back, relax, and enjoy the show.

  Rey excuses us after about an hour, saying he’s going to show me around. Outside the two main rooms, the club isn’t that big, but there’s a hallway in the back that extends for quite a ways, lined with doors. A few open, most closed.

  “I heard Spider’s here. The man is a genius with rope, maybe the best rigger I know. You’ve never shown a particular interest in rope, but this is worth seeing regardless. He’s half the reason I stop in DC.”

  The sounds have gotten louder, sounds I want to stop and decipher, see if I can’t tell what’s going on behind those closed doors. Although I’m sure that’s frowned upon. If people want an audience, they leave the doors open.

  There are doors open.

  We’re nearing the end of the hallway when something catches my eye. Something shiny and fiery and bouncing like a rubber ball.

  “Rey!”

  A blonde woman dressed in a red patent leather corset, skirt, and matching heels bounds out of one of the doors and throws herself at Rey. I’m a few steps behind him and damn. How do I get Rey’s job? Because it sure as hell seems a lot more fun than mine. Scantily clad women literally throw themselves at him.

  Everyone else who’s greeted him has been received enthusiastically, but for some reason, he’s standing stock still, his eyes gone wide, and he’s staring at the opposite wall. Something has Rey Walter flustered? No way. I’ve got to be reading this wrong. But seriously, the guy looks like he’s seen a ghost.

  Slowly, his hands come up and he returns the woman’s embrace, tightening his grip until it looks like he’s crushing her, but instead of squealing, she sighs. She kicks up one of her heels, drawing attention to the seam that runs up the back of her black, thigh-high stockings. The tops hug her legs, pale skin interrupted by a garter that fastens onto the nylon with a cherry.

  Little trashy, but in a crazy-hot way.

  I would very much like an introduction to this woman. As soon as Rey’s finished fondling her at any rate. He’s loosened his hold, but tucked her head onto his shoulder. I can’t see her face, but I can see her breasts pushed against his chest as he pets her hair. And if I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looks uncertain.

  But that can’t possibly be true. He’s always got his shit together, unlike the rest of us. Finally, he releases the woman and takes her hand as they part, looking directly at me from under his heavy brows. Given the intensity of his expression, it feels like he’s trying to send a message directly to my brain. But if that were true, wouldn’t he just do it? Seriously, the guy has special powers.

  “Hale, I’d like you to meet Sprite.”

  My gaze migrates to the woman, and at first I see teased blonde hair pulled on top of her head, followed by heavy black-lined eyes with lashes so long and thick they’ve got to be fake, especially on someone as fair as she is. That’s when my heart leaps out of my chest, up through my throat, and out onto the floor where it ceases to beat.

  I know the eyes framed with black. I know the pert nose and slightly too-wide mouth underneath. I know the creamy expanse of neck that slides into delicate collarbones and, yeah, the breasts that spill out the top of her corset. Except, fuck me, I’ve never seen them like that.

  I know all of them because I’m staring straight into the face�
�okay, the cleavage—of my ex-wife.

  Chapter Seven

  ‡

  “Pressly.” As I drag my gaze up to her face, her name spills out of my mouth without my permission, the syllables drawn out over the slipslide of those double esses. Fuck. I’m not supposed to say her name. “Sorry. Sprite.”

  Sprite? Little fun fairy? I suppose that fits. She does look like fun. In that outfit. What the hell?

  Rey glares at me.

  “I said sorry. I was just surprised.”

  Pressly’s gone an unnatural shade of pale. She’s standing there in her figure-hugging clothes, her slickly bright-red mouth hanging open, showing the top row of her white teeth. Deer-in-headlights is not Pressly’s style.

  Rey grips her arm and leans down to speak in her ear, though his enunciation is better than perfect and his voice is pitched so I can hear him.

  “The extent to which you were not supposed to be here tonight cannot be overstated.”

  She nods and licks her lips, a nervous flicker of her tongue. Suddenly the hallway seems endless, like the space-time continuum has ceased to exist. Which makes as much sense as running into my ex-wife in a fetish club. On a Tuesday.

  Pressly and I can’t stop staring at each other. This is unreal. I’d thought we’d run into each other at some point, had dreaded the day for the first few years after the divorce. But when I hadn’t seen her walking down the street or at any of the events I couldn’t avoid, it had started to seem like a dread borne of pure paranoia and I had too many real things to worry about. It eventually became less of a fretful nightmare and more of an idle daydream. What if…

  But here she is, in the flesh. And flesh is accurate. All plump and creamy where she isn’t slickly red, I want to eat her up. Except…

  “What are you doing here?”

  This unmistakably caveman part of me has roared to life and wants to drag her out by the hair. Not to my cave, even, just out of here. What is she doing here?

  At my snarled question, her expression morphs from bewildered to defensive and her hand comes to her hip, resting on that damnably tight skirt.

  “I could ask you the same thing.”

  My face flushes with blood because what the hell am I doing here? And how is it fair that I want to be here, but don’t want her to be? My hands itch for her, for the feel of her skin underneath my fingertips, and I step forward, my hand out.

  Only to be rebuffed by the iron bar of Rey’s arm, his hand planted firmly on my chest, holding me back.

  “You can’t touch her. And if you ever want to come here again, you can’t make a scene. So make your choice and make it wisely.”

  I do want to come here again. I don’t want to make a scene. But the urge to touch her is overwhelming. I close my hands into fists and draw my shoulder blades together. I think I would feel better if I could touch her. Make sure she’s okay. It’s this funny urge I’ve always had where Press is concerned, and it’s back with a vengeance. If she’d been out late, if she’d been upset, or that day her phone had died and I couldn’t get ahold of her for three hours—when she’d finally arrived home, I’d taken her into my arms and didn’t let go for a good five minutes. Even if I know in my brain that she’s okay, my body won’t believe it until I can touch her, hold her, feel her heart beating and her skin warm against mine.

  Pressly huffs a sigh and lays a hand on Rey’s outstretched arm. “It’s okay. He can touch me. Not a lot,” she warns, tilting her chin up and making eye contact with me. She remembers, and she’s going to give this to me.

  Rey drops his arm warily and doesn’t move from Pressly’s side. I should be insulted—does he think I’m going to hurt her?—but if he’s been her bodyguard, I can’t complain. I’d want someone to protect her, keep her safe.

  She said not a lot so I can’t wrap my arms around her, hold her to my chest like I want to, so I rest my hands on her biceps, squeezing lightly to prove to myself that she’s real and that she’s okay. She smiles at me when I do, perhaps a little indulgently, but I don’t care. I’m just glad she’s letting me touch her.

  “I’ve got to get back,” she says, tipping her head toward the room she came out of. I reluctantly peel my fingers off her and let her go. Back into that room, back to—who is she with and what is he doing to her? The extent to which that’s not my business is not even funny. I wish it were.

  She smiles at me, her heavily made-up eyes darting to the side before she hugs Rey again, whispering something that makes him laugh before he lets her go.

  “Be good, be careful.” He taps her on the nose, and she laughs, grabbing his finger and kissing the tip.

  “Do I get to have fun too?”

  “Always.”

  She casts one last glance at me, performs this flirty half-twirl that calls attention to exactly how short her skirt is, and then flounces into the room, shutting the door after her.

  I stand there, dumbfounded, until Rey clears his throat.

  “I really do apologize about that. She’s never here on Tuesdays. Ever.”

  “But she does come here sometimes?”

  He gives me that slightly exasperated look that I hate, the one that doesn’t quite say Do the math, dumbass. But close. Too close.

  “Yeah, right. Need-to-know and I don’t need to know.”

  “How would you feel if your positions were reversed?” He’s trying to get me to think rationally, but that’s a stupid way to put it. I’d want him to help her track me down, give her access to my daily schedule so she could run into me as much as possible, give her a key to my house—our house—so she’d be there when I got home from work. Yes, it had been painful to see her, but I want to do it again and again.

  I grunt because I can’t say that. “But you knew—”

  “Yes. And I didn’t mention you to her. At some point I would’ve because I wanted to avoid this.” His elegant hand flails between us, the only indication left that he’s flustered by what happened. “But, yes, I know her. And I know you’re her ex-husband.”

  An insecure, desperate part of me claws at my throat. What else did she say? How does she think of me? If she thinks of me at all? But I know that’s not allowed. I’ll make myself look bad, like someone who can’t be trusted, if I pursue it. So I let it drop, for now.

  “Wasn’t there some rope thing you wanted me to see?”

  Not that I care, but I need a distraction and this will be as good as any. Rey nods and gestures down the hall. “Follow me.”

  *

  Becky’s done a bang-up job and gotten me in to see Senator Johnson before he goes back to Texas at the end of this week. At least if this fails, I won’t have to see his smug-ass face around in the depressing aftermath. If the world were a perfect place, Johnson would give me a big ol’ yes in the here and now, but I know that’s unlikely. Even if he’s going to agree in the end, he likes to torture people. Or, as he puts it, consider his options.

  Well, he can consider my face because I made the trip to his offices when I didn’t have to. Give a little, get a little. I can play that game if it’ll get me his goddamn vote. To be sickeningly honest, I’d do anything for it, but to let him know that would be to hand over all my leverage and that, I’m not prepared to do. So I sit at the conference table, my own staffers flanking me, and wait for Johnson to arrive.

  I can hear his booming voice when he’s outside the thick wood door, but honestly it sounds like he’s right next to my ear. I know he’s from Texas, but does the man have to be big and blustery about everything?

  When he walks in, though, I can tell the answer is yes. He’s wearing a Stetson for god’s sake, with heeled leather boots and a bolo tie. I try not to prejudge, but come on. Could the guy be any more Texas? All he needs is a gun tucked in a holster, but thankfully those aren’t allowed in the Senate office buildings. We’d probably have way more duels if they were.

  He settles his bulk on the other side of the conference table, a young guy coming in and planting himself beside h
im. Unlike his boss, Junior’s wearing a Washington uniform, and I wonder if he’s from Texas at all. But when Johnson introduces him as Rusty Winston, it’s clear he’s from back home but dresses the part of a DC staffer.

  “If you don’t mind, we’ll wait another minute. Jose’s whizbang with this policy stuff, and he’s running a little behind. You know how it is.”

  I do—staffers are constantly on the move—but that doesn’t curb my annoyance much. “Look, Senator. You may be my first stop, but you’re not my last. We’ve got half an hour to make this conversation happen and then—”

  My scolding’s cut off mid-sentence by a commotion out in the hallway and then a slamming open of the conference room door. No embarrassed sneaking in for this staffer. Guy’s got balls, I’ll give him that much.

  But it’s not Jose; it’s not even a dude. Nope, it’s really not. A minty green kick-pleated skirt and a fluster of blonde hair rushes through the door, a pile of notebooks and a laptop clutched to her chest and—

  No way. Freaking no way. I’ve managed to not run into my ex-wife for six years in this city that feels sometimes like a very small town, and here she is, twice within the space of a week. Once at a fetish club and once in the venerated halls of law-making. One guess where I’d rather see her.

  She dumps her things on the table in a way that softens me. She busted her ass to get here. It’s not fair and it’s not rational, but for her I have sympathy whereas for anyone else, I’d want to rip their disrespectful heads off. But Pressly? Makes me want to pull out her chair and give her a glass of water, ask if she’s okay.

  I don’t have to, though, because Rusty’s doing it for me and I find myself more than a little jealous. Especially when she gives him one of those patented Pressly Allwyn smiles, one that infects the whole room.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late. Jose got food poisoning and asked me to fill in. I told him those yogurt parfaits looked suspect, but he didn’t listen. I—”

  She turns a freshly apologetic smile on me, and it suddenly vanishes, as do her words. I can see the ones she wants to say springing from the top of her head as if they were in a cartoon bubble: “What in the fresh hell are you doing here?”