Kick (Songs of Perdition #1)(11)

“Ah. Compton. You must have seen some bad shit.”

“Very bad shit.”

“Then why are you at the rich kids’ retreat?”

“I can do good here as well as there.” He wasn’t thrown. Not an inch. I respected that.

“I need you to do some good for me,” I said, feeling suddenly less vulnerable. “I want to go home.”

“To Maundy Street?”

Trick question? Maybe. Deacon was on that private road. Second house to the right. First house on the right, his shibari students. Only house on the left was where the parties were. Where the art was made. Where I surrendered to whomever my master allowed, and my hunger was sated for days at a time.

“I figure I’ll stay with my parents for a few weeks, then decide. I mean, unless the prosecutor decides for me.”

“Will you try to see Deacon?”

“Why?”

“It could be dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“I don’t know if it’s safe for you.”

How much longer was this session? Because it would take me that long to describe how f*cking off base he was. Despite needing to get the f*ck out of Westonwood, despite wanting to appear sane and stable, I couldn’t for the life of me let Elliot Chapman misunderstand my lover.

“I’m more afraid of you than I am of Deacon,” I said. “I’m more afraid of this chair. The sky would fall before he’d hurt me more than I could take. He is the only man, the only person in the world who has made me safe. And I mean, not safe from some boogeyman or earthquakes or random shit happening. I mean I had a place. I had things I had to do. I had rules. He was in control, and the only time things got f*cked up was when I disobeyed him because I just had to fly off the f*cking handle. And before you ask, and you will, he tied me up good. He gagged me and hit me. He made me cry a hundred times, and he wiped my tears and I thanked him for breaking me. I. Thanked. Him.”

I expected my speech to disgust him, to give him cause to judge me, call me sick and out of control. Instead, he waited, expressionless.

“Do you want to remember what happened?” he finally asked.

“Yes.”

“You might not be ready to remember.”

“I don’t feel right in my head. There are black spaces where feelings should be. Like someone came and erased stuff. I don’t know if it was the drugs or the Librium you people put me on or what. I can’t put stuff together. It’s like I have the horse and I can see the track, but she’s bucking, and the tack’s in pieces all over the barn. Does that make sense?”

He sat back, putting an ankle on a knee, elbows on the arms of the chair. He rubbed his lip with his middle finger. “Have you ever been hypnotized?”

“You’re joking.”

“Best case scenario, you recall enough to release some of the pain you’re in. Worst case scenario, you create a false memory that includes a unicorn and Jim Morrison in drag.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. That was the most ridiculous thing, and anything more ridiculous than what was actually happening deserved a laugh.

“Do I have to sit on the couch?” I indicated the long, uncomfortable divan behind me.

“Yes.”

I didn’t move.

“Come on,” he said, standing. “It’ll be fun.”

“Are you going to make me cluck like a chicken?”

“It’s just a relaxation technique. No more.”

I took three steps to cross the room and sat on the couch.

He stood over me. “Lie back.”

I looked up at him, a twisted smile on my face. I could f*ck him. It should have occurred to me sooner. I was suddenly ready for sex, all tingling skin and hyper aware. I could sense his cock, its taste, its scent, its pink skin sliding against the silk of my thigh as it found its way home. It would feel so good, and if anyone needed to feel good, it was me.

“Lie back,” he said again with a voice so devoid of desire, my own need collapsed.

I put my feet up and my head back. He sat next to me on the edge of the couch.

“I want you to recall the last time you were at the stables, okay?” He held up a pen, and I watched the angles of his fingers on the instrument. He didn’t have a wedding ring. “Now focus on the tip of the pen.” He moved the pen back and forth, and I fell into the rhythm of his breathing. His voice, a velvet mask of gentleness, said, “I’m going to count backward from five.”

***

I feel a pressure on my hand. It’s Deacon, slipping his hand into mine. The gesture, in its adolescent simplicity, creates a rush of emotions I can’t hold back. I run out to the empty patio. There are candles everywhere from the cocktail hour, still flickering their last heated breaths. I’ve been without him for a week while he was on assignment, and now that he’s back, he’s a scary jar of emotion with a poorly threaded lid.

“Are you all right?” he asks, closing the glass door behind him.

“I’m fine, it’s just…” I’m not good at expressing myself unless I’m angry, and I’m not angry. I’m just about everything else.

He takes me by the waist with his right arm. He’s so tall, so handsome. His body moves like a leopard on the African plain. “Tell me.”