Personal Geography (16 page)

At the time I’d thought,
From now until the day I die, I won’t be afraid anymore. Instead of feeling six years old, hurt, sick, and terrified, I’ll hear Hunter saying in his rich, silky voice that I’ve beguiled him. No, I won’t be afraid anymore.

And for the most part, that’s been true. It takes more than a big bad wolf to rattle my brick house. But I need him now, laid bare as I’ve been by Cris’s inquisition.

“Kit, I—” He shaken by the impact of the blast. He was probably expecting a toy cap, and what he got was a landmine. But he’s recovering from the emotional concussion, and he’s gathered himself enough to offer apologies I don’t want to hear.

“Told you it wasn’t pretty.”

“I know, but I—”

“Leave it. It was a long time ago. I’m over it.” The furrow of his brow and his clenched fist tell me he doesn’t buy it, not entirely, but I don’t want to talk about it anymore. “I don’t do sharps. End of story.” I cut off his burgeoning protest with a question of my own. “What does a girl have to do to get a drink around here?”

Turns out a girl has to drive over an hour round trip to the nearest liquor store. Cris doesn’t drink or keep alcohol in the house. The extent of his stash is a half-empty bottle of marsala. I might be craving a cocktail, but I’m not desperate. But it begs another question.

“Are you an alcoholic?”

It’s out of my mouth before I can shut myself up. I’m not subtle, but that was a bit much, even for me.

He shakes his head, shifting the curls that fall over his forehead. “No. And I don’t want to be.”

Intriguing, and it makes me like him all the more. I don’t think I’d have the same fortitude if I were in his position. Liquor was my father’s numbing agent of choice for when he had to deal with the psychic howitzers that were my mother and sister. I chose something a little different to silence the voices, and Cris’s last sentence has me wondering if he hasn’t done the same thing.

“But I’ve got something better than a glass of pinot for taking the edge off, if that’s what you’re after.”

“What’s that?”

An easy smile spreads over his face. “Indulging in a different kind of vice?”

Yes, kink as the cure for what ails you. I’m eager to put that particular remedy into full effect, instead of rehashing more of my less-than-enchanted childhood. He’s tucked my suffering in his back pocket, no doubt to be examined and worried over later. Let him, as long as I don’t have to be there for it.

I raise an eyebrow. “Think that’ll do the trick?”

“Only one way to find out.”

As he clears our places, I dig the contracts out of my bag and start signing.

‡

A
nother day, another
dream about Hunter. I’ve been having them since Cris asked me about my aversion to sharps. It’s been two months with two more visits between, and fortunately, he hasn’t brought it up again. Unfortunately, it’s like calling on Hunter’s ghost in my time of need opened the door for other memories of him, welcome or not.

I try to stealthily stifle a yawn in my elbow while I heft the kettlebell overhead, but Adam catches me and yaps his admonishment.

“It’s not naptime, Sleeping Beauty.”

Goddamn goldendoodle of a morning person. He’s lucky I don’t heave this torture device into his model-perfect face. I get in a few more reps, but another yawn overtakes me. Fuck all am I tired, and on today of all days.

The dreams have been all over the map, ranging from the most achingly sweet memories to recollections easily categorized as nightmares. They come without warning, and the only time I can guarantee I won’t have them is while I’m in Kona or when Rey sleeps in my bed. Apparently, Hunter’s ghost doesn’t suffer masculine competition. Other than that, there’s a better than even chance Hunter will make an appearance sometime during the night.

My brain is clearly trying to tell me something:
Stay away from Cris Ardmore. He’s dangerous. You’ve been down this road before, and you know how it ends. Do you really want to put yourself in that position again?

My rational mind wants to fight back. Cris isn’t Hunter. There’s no way he’s as calculating and ruthless. No one is. But the warrior princess part of me wants to batten down the hatches and not let Cris in any further. Better yet, drive him back from the borders he’s encroached upon already. I get the message, Xena, and I’ll be careful, but can’t you let me enjoy this a little longer? I haven’t had sex this good in…

Shut it down, India. You might not be able to help Hunter haunting your dreams, but you can sure as hell keep him out of your head while you’re wide awake
.

It’s bad enough my subconscious has gone into overdrive since my last call with Rey. We’d decided after my last visit that maybe Matty didn’t need to join me on my trips to see Cris anymore. I’d still check in and he’d be on stand-by to fly out if I needed him, but his physical presence and “don’t fuck with me” glare were no longer required.

I’d waited with my heart in my throat to hear back from Rey. I wasn’t sure if Cris would realize how major this is. I wasn’t sure I wanted him to. Strike that. I
don’t
want him to. But he’d said yes and offered to pick me up from the airport if I didn’t want to rent a car. More than not wanting to handle an unfamiliar vehicle while effectively off-roading, I was eager to have more time with him.

What the hell, India? Why don’t you just invite him over for a fucking tea party while you’re at it?

Though I’d never admit it, my head’s been a little fuzzy with nervous anticipation since then. Cris is distracting, and I need to shove that back in a box until this weekend. So instead, I focus on hefting the kettlebell into the air and on Adam’s big hands correcting my form. His clinical touch grounds me and lets me focus on the strain of my muscles working to move and bear the weight. The sensation isn’t intense enough to completely hold back the encroaching waters, but sandbags are better than nothing. They’ll get me to my first cup of coffee before I drown.

*

My phone has
been ringing off the goddamn hook. Is this what Lucy does all day? Answer my fucking phone? Lucy is in Iowa, visiting her corn-fed family on their literal dairy farm. Maybe she’ll find some blond beefcake to take her for a much-needed roll in the hay and won’t be so god-awful perky when she gets back. The temp who was supposed to be here never showed, and the agency didn’t have anyone else. All the associates are out of town, and so for the first time in two years, I am answering my own goddamn phone.

“India Burke.”

“What are you doing answering your own phone? That’s a little below your pay grade, isn’t it?”

“My assistant is on vacation, and my temp didn’t show.”

“Oh, India,” Constance drawls. Southern compassion is so nice. It’s almost as welcome as a SoCo cocktail. “Then I won’t bother you. I just wanted to check in about next week’s site visit.”

“I’ll send you the itinerary by close of business tomorrow. I was hoping today, but—”

“Don’t trouble your pretty little head. Tomorrow’s fine by me.”

“Thanks, Constance. I appreciate it. Is Glory coming with you next week?”

“Yes, poor little thing could use some sun.”

I love Glory. She and Constance have been together for eight years; they met in grad school. When I was back east, she was my favorite sub to hang out with. I can’t count the number of evenings we sat giggling at Constance and Hunter’s feet or cuddled up after they were through with us. We could talk for hours, if we were allowed. She’s fun and sexy and brilliant, and I miss her.

“Tell her I can’t wait to see her. I’ll get Rey down to LA for dinner one night.”

“Sounds perfect. I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Good luck.”

I take another sip of my cooled coffee before my phone rings yet again. This is turning into a lost day. I’m tempted to let it go to voicemail and deal with it later, but the specter of an enraged Jack stops me.

“India Burke.”

“India?”

Fingers of unease claw at my intestines. The voice is familiar, but…

“Yes, this is India. Who is this?”

There’s the briefest pause on the other end of the line. My brain makes the connection at the same time his voice comes through the line again. “It’s Cris.”

Hands of panic grip my throat. I can’t breathe. My eyelids are fluttering like a debutante’s, and I wish there were someone here to wave smelling salts under my nose because I’m about to pass out. I swallow hard to get a grip, but my heart is racing out of control.

“India?”

The sound of him saying my name brings me back. I’m overwhelmed by the incongruous sheer terror and pleasure pooling in my belly. The terror wins.

“How did you get this number?”

“India, I—”

“Stop! Stop saying my name. How do you know who I am? How did you get this number?”

“Settle down, Kit. I didn’t mean to upset you.”

The voice that can soothe me with a word has no power here. Not without his body to back it up.

“Answer me, Cris.”

“I saw your picture in the
Times
.”

Shit. I knew doing press would be the death of me, but I didn’t expect it to come so soon. And in the guise of Cris of all people. God
damn
you, Brad Lennox.

“Why were you reading the
Times
?”

“It’s part of my job.”

Cris’s job? My rage is momentarily suspended by confusion. I don’t know what Cris does for a living. I’ve steered clear of questions about it in the hopes he’d do the same, and for the most part, he has. Until now. Now he’s showing up on my metaphorical doorstep. Calling me at work.
Saying my name.
Vomit rises in my throat.

“You’re in violation of our contract.”

“I didn’t think—”

“Fucking right you didn’t think. I’m hanging up. Don’t call me again.”

The handset’s on its way to the cradle when he begs, “Jesus, Kit, please!”

He sounds as hurt as I feel, and despite how livid I am, it tugs at some heartstring I haven’t yet severed. I like Cris. If I’m brutally honest, I more than like Cris. I don’t want to make him feel that way. I don’t want to be the reason he sounds heartbroken and terrified. I clutch the receiver to my surging chest and wrestle it back to my ear.

“You have one minute to explain yourself. The clock starts now.”

A small noise of relief rolls across the Pacific. “I’m a political cartoonist. My work’s been in
The New Yorker
,
The Economist
,
Time
. You can look it up.”

“No. I would’ve recognized your name.”

“I publish under a different name. You aren’t the only one who values their privacy. Does the name Malcolm Bennett mean anything to you?”

I can’t help the snort of laughter that escapes. “Yeah, it does.”

He’s one of my favorites. His election coverage in particular makes me cackle. It’s never been clear to me what his political persuasion is, either, because he’s ruthless with everyone. Yes, the name Malcolm Bennett means something to me. But when I’ve pictured Malcolm Bennett—and I have—the image has been of a bespectacled guy in an Oxford shirt and pocket protector. Nothing like Cris.

“That’s me. Malcolm’s my dad’s name, Bennett’s my mom’s maiden name. I watch the news networks. I read the major papers. I don’t usually look at the local stuff, but it was a slow news day and there you were. I knew Kit wasn’t your real name, but…”

That explains how he found my photo and my name. From there, it’s not hard to get my extension at work, but to
use
that information… What else could he use it for? Screw that, I
know
what he could use it for, and it makes me want to feed myself through my shredder before he can. I like the life I have now. I worked hard to rebuild it out of the ashes of my old one, and I don’t want to do it again. Against all instinct, I try to quash the rising panic and give him a chance.

“Why’d you call me?”

“I couldn’t…not. I saw you. I wanted to hear your voice. I wanted to talk to you. I thought… I thought you’d think it was funny.”