Author: Tara Sue Me

What the hell?

“Now, I’m no expert, but I know you have a strong and wonderful family who would do anything for you. Do you even know everything Jackson did while you were incapacitated? How scared he was for you?”

I shook my head.

“You’re a selfish little boy trapped inside the body of a frightened man.” He pointed at me. “It’s time you grew up and faced the facts. So I ask you, Nathaniel. What are you going to do about it?”

I dropped my head and looked at the table—struck through the heart by the conviction of his words.

Knowing what I had to do, I reached for my phone and called Todd.

“Todd?” I asked when he picked up. “Can you give me some names? I need help.”

Chapter Thirty-three

Todd worked his magic and set up an appointment for me with a highly regarded psychiatrist for the next day. I returned home from the consultation feeling better than I had in a long time. The hole in my heart was still there and it still ached, but just the freedom of talking with someone felt good.

I walked into my foyer, eyes avoiding the plush bench—there were some things I wasn’t ready for yet. While I might have been feeling better about myself, I knew there was much to do where my actions toward Abby were concerned.

I threw my keys on the kitchen counter. Paul sat at the table, talking on the phone. “I have a flight scheduled for the day after tomorrow,” he said. He must have been talking with Christine.

He looked up as I walked in and winked at me. I went to the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of water. I hadn’t had a drop of alcohol in almost twenty-four hours, and even though my head still hurt like the devil, my vision and mind were sharper.

Paul probably wanted privacy, I thought, so I started to leave the room, but he waved for me to stop.

“When I get home, I have diaper and nighttime duty for a week?” he asked.

Damn it. I hated that my behavior had taken Paul away from his son.

“Of course, love,” he said, laughing. “As soon as I learn how to lactate.”

The intimate tone of his voice made me uncomfortable. I thought about leaving and waiting for him in the living room, but I could tell the conversation was almost over.

“Give my boy a kiss from Daddy.” His lips curved into a smile. “I love you, too,” he said, and hung up with a sigh.

“I’m sorry,” I said, leaning against the countertop. “Christine must hate me.”

“She did say to fear for my life if I didn’t make it home soon.”

I sat down at the table. “Is that weird?”

“Is what weird?”

I thought the question obvious. “For your submissive to talk to you that way.”

“She’s not my submissive twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.”

I shrugged. “I just think it would feel strange.”

“Because you haven’t done it.”

“Maybe.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you ready for this? We can have this talk if you think you are.”

“What talk?”

“I’m an eternal optimist and I’m thinking positively. Even if you and Abby never work out, maybe one day you’ll find someone else.”

“Damn it, Paul.” I ran my fingers through my hair. “I can’t think about that right now.”

“Maybe not. But if you’d been prepared, you might have done things differently with Abby.”

“I can’t imagine being with anyone other than Abby, and I don’t think she’ll ever take me back.”

“You said she loved you. If that’s true, maybe she’ll give you a second chance.”

It hurt too much to hope. To allow myself to think that one day I might be at a place to work things out with Abby. That she might be at a place to talk to me. Hell, at this point, I’d be happy if she’d just look at me one day. Of course, we’d have to be in the same room for that to happen, and that wasn’t looking likely.

“Tell me how you two do it,” I said. “How it works for you.”

“We tried the twenty-four-hour, seven-days-a-week thing in the beginning, and I won’t lie—it was hard.” He looked at me as if gauging my reaction. “It was hard for me because I never felt like she could be completely open and honest, and it was hard for her, because she never felt like she could be completely open and honest.”

I thought back to the times I’d desperately wanted Abby to talk to me. I remembered the night of the black-tie benefit, how difficult it had been for her to tell me what kind of wine she wanted. “I can see that.”

“So we went to weekend play.” He smiled. “That worked out better for us. The trick is finding what works for you. What works for your submissive. It has to work for you both, if it’s going to work at all. I know people who play only once every few weeks.” He shrugged. “Again, it’s what works for you.”

“And it’s never interfered with your marriage?”

“I’m not saying it’s perfect, but what marriage is? We still fight. We still make up. Is it work? Yes, but that’s life. And it’s always changing. We had to regroup when Christine became pregnant. I’m sure it’ll be weeks, if not months, before we can get back into the playroom, but that’s okay. It’s what works for us. And we love each other. We want what the other person wants.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. There are a lot of people who think it isn’t BDSM if romantic feelings are involved.”

He looked taken aback for a second, started to say something and then stopped. Finally, he spoke. “Usually, when someone tells me what Christine and I have isn’t real, I invite them back to my playroom so I can show them just how real it is. But you’ve been in my playroom, so I won’t do that.” He paused. “My other reaction is to knock the shit out of anyone who dares to call my wife a fake submissive.”

I held up my hand. “I wasn’t calling her fake. I was just repeating what I’ve heard.”

“I know, and you’ve had a rough week, so I’m going to go easy on you.” He sounded like he didn’t particularly want to go easy on me.

“I appreciate that,” I said wearily. “But what do you say to those who think you can’t call it BDSM?”

He leaned across the table and held my gaze. “Does it f**king matter what you call it?”

“What?”

“If you and your submissive are getting what you need physically, does it matter that you’re getting it with someone you have an emotional connection with?”

“But is it harder?”

“Was it harder when you punished Abby?” he asked, instead of answering.

“Yes.”

“Then there’s your answer. But I ask you, was it better when you held her? When it was you bringing her pleasure? When it was her bringing you pleasure?”

“Oh hell, yes.”

“So yes, it’s harder,” he said. “But it’s also better. At least in our case. The important thing to remember, Nathaniel, is that I don’t have all the answers; I only know what works for Christine and me. I can’t answer for everyone else, but then again, I don’t expect them to answer for me either.”

“So it doesn’t matter to you what other people call it.”

“Not in the least,” he said. He must have noticed my confusion. “You’re not completely ready for this yet. I might have been a bit premature in bringing it up.” He patted my hand. “Listen, when you’re ready, you call me.”

I put my hand on top of his. “Deal.”

He stood and walked to the door, but before he left the room, he looked back over his shoulder. “And, Nathaniel,” he said. “When you and Abby get back together—bring her to visit Christine and me.”

My mouth dropped, but he just laughed and walked out.

When he left two days later, he repeated his request. I just smiled and nodded. I mean, hell could freeze over. Who was I to deny the possibility?

Two weeks later, I had finished seven counseling sessions and, emotionally, I felt better. I talked to Paul several times during those two weeks and even spoke to Christine once. I’d been hesitant when Paul suggested I talk with his wife, but afterward, I was glad I did. Christine was charming and vivacious and gave me an insight into how BDSM worked in romantic relationships—from the submissive’s point of view.

I still couldn’t sleep in my bedroom and I’d yet to enter the library, but things were getting better.

Slightly.

There were times I walked into the kitchen and felt certain I smelled the floral scent of her body wash. Times when I took a shower that I’d think I heard something and I’d turn to see if it was her.

I picked up my phone to call her several times. Once, I even brought her up in my contacts list, my finger hovering nervously right above the call button.

What was she doing? Would she hang up on me?

I couldn’t bear it if she did.

Jackson still came by my house almost daily. Not long after Paul left, I finally got around to properly congratulating him on his engagement. He was almost sheepish when he asked me to be his best man.

I tried not to think about the fact that Abby would more than likely be Felicia’s maid of honor. The wedding was in June. Four months. Would I be ready to see and talk to Abby in four months?

I had no choice.

I picked up the mail from where the housekeeper had set it on the foyer table and walked into the living room. I sat down and flipped through the stack. Now, why would I get a copy of People magazine? I thumbed through a few pages, not understanding. My gaze fell on a picture of Jackson and Felicia.

Oh, the engagement. Jackson probably had one sent to me.

I started reading the article.

Seconds later, I threw the magazine across the room and picked up my phone.

“Jackson Clark,” I said when he answered. “Who the f**k told People magazine Abby and I were linked romantically?”

“That might have been me,” he admitted.

“Why? Why would you do that? She probably thinks I had something to do with it.” Or maybe, I thought, maybe, she wouldn’t see it. Maybe she would never know. I could only hope.

“I thought you two would eventually get back together,” he said.

“You what?” I yelled.

“Okay, here’s the thing,” he said, using the same voice I remembered from the countless nights he tried to keep me away from the brandy. “Mom’s throwing Felicia and me an engagement party.”

Engagement party. Okay. I could handle that. It would be when? May?

“So,” I said.

“So, we want it in March.”

“March? Like one month from now, March?”

“Yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“I thought by now Abby would have gotten her head out of her ass—”

“Stop it right there.”

“I mean, I know it was hard on her. Felicia said it was. But if she’d just call you, you know, try to work it out.”

“I never expected her to,” I said quietly.

“I sure as hell did.”

“Why?”

“She had to have known how it would hurt you when she left. I don’t get it. I know she misses you,” he said. “She should call you. Or, and I’m just throwing this out there, you call her.”

She missed me? She missed me?

My brain belatedly caught what else he had said. “I can’t call her.”

“Why not? I bet she’d listen.”

“She won’t. Our breakup was all my fault.”

“But you said she left you.”

“Because of me. Because I made her leave.”