Soul Rest: A Knights of the Board Room Novel (18 page)

“It’ll be there when you come back. Or I’ll buy you another.”

“Just because you’re big enough to push people around, doesn’t mean you should.”

“I’ve heard that a lot. Usually from people I’m cuffing.” Grinning at her flush, he swung her onto the dance floor. Surprisingly, she picked up on the steps fast, thanks to his guidance. Before she knew it, she was doing what he called the Texas two-step, and then from there he had her doing a couple line dances. Once she was comfortable with those, he snagged his beer. Watching him out of the corner of her eye, she found herself absurdly captivated. He held the beer loosely in one hand, his thumb tucked into his belt as he did the footwork of the line dance beside her, and then in front of her as they turned. Which provided her a fine view of his backside working the denim of his jeans, the shirt pulling across his wide shoulders. As they made the turn and she gave him a similar opportunity, she felt his gaze sliding over her.

When the song came to a finish, he moved up behind her, slid an arm over her shoulder and down between her breasts, fingers hooking in the waistband of her skirt to hold her against him as they swayed together, his pelvis against her ass. The DJ mentioned a few of the drink specials, but the words blurred for her as Leland bent and pressed his mouth against the side of her throat, arm tightening over her body. She rotated her hips discreetly against him, unable to stop herself from taunting, asking for what his mouth was promising her.

“Well, well… Margie tells me our local sergeant has brought a date tonight.” The DJ, a balding middle-aged man with a great radio voice, spoke into the mic. “Since this is such a rare occurrence, seems only neighborly that we should help him out. It’s been a while since we let him show off his Barry White magic, but come on up here, Sergeant. Do us some Toby Keith. That way we’ll know you’ll get lucky tonight.”

Leland cursed against Celeste’s ear as she giggled. “I’m going to kill that woman,” he promised.

Celeste propped herself against the impressive mound of his biceps so she could drop her head back against his shoulder and bat her eyes at him. “C’mon, Sergeant. Don’t you want to get lucky tonight?”

“I already got lucky, darlin’. I went into Jai’s at just the right time.”

The look in his eyes took her breath, then he gave her a squeeze and a wink. With a wave toward the DJ and a dark look toward the smirking bartender, he headed toward the stage. As Celeste backed up to the bar, reclaiming her beer, Leland stepped straight up on the stage, no need to use the short set of steps on the side. The DJ handed him the microphone, leaning over to say something in Leland’s ear that had her date laughing and giving the man a friendly clap on the shoulder before he turned his attention to the audience.

“Now y’all remember you applauded for this,” Leland drawled. “I don’t want to hear no catcalls. I’m trying to impress the lady, after all.”

“She can’t drink enough alcohol for that to happen, Sarge,” a man called from the back.

Leland snorted. “Too true, John. But we’ll give it a try. Let’s do a fun one.” He spoke to the DJ, and the man gave him a thumbs-up, turning on the karaoke machine.

Leland had no stage fright. He started with “How Do You Like Me Now”, a fast tune that had them twirling and circling the floor in an energy-raising rhythm that rolled through the bar. As for Celeste, she stood rooted at the bar and tried not to let her jaw drop.

Holy crap.
She’d thought Margie was exaggerating, but Leland’s baritone, the resonance and depth of it, pulled off a great Toby Keith. On top of that, the man didn’t need formal dance steps to move well. He worked his hips, shoulders and hands with the song in a way that claimed her attention fully. She slid a hip onto one of the stools, one hand closed over the back of it as if she was holding on to him. His voice and the music resonated through her, a continuous vibration like a generator.

He kept glancing toward her, and she realized she had a light smile on her face, one that refused to go away. It became as much a part of her as the clothes she’d worn for him, as the breath that shortened as he shouted “how do you like me now” with the crowd, singing the chorus along with him.

When he finished, cheers, applause and affectionate catcalls showered him from the audience. He answered the catcalls good-naturedly. Then he turned and consulted the DJ once more. At his nod, Leland glanced back at his audience.

“Since you liked that one, I’m going to make you suffer through one more. This one’s for my girl there at the bar. And no, I don’t mean you, Margie. Troublemaker. No tip for you, woman.”

Another wave of comments came, including Margie’s exaggerated sniff and rude gesture that sent the small crowd laughing again. When they settled, Leland gave the DJ the go ahead.

Celeste knew the ballad. “You Shouldn’t Kiss Me Like This” put every couple on the floor, many of them rotating in a country waltz, holding one another close in the dim light. This time Leland’s eyes were entirely on her. As he told her if she meant that kiss the way she shouldn’t, then baby, kiss me again, she was rising, moving toward him. She wasn’t much for being center stage in any aspect of her life, let alone literally, but as she held his gaze, she was only distantly aware that he was standing on a stage. The important thing was she wanted to be with him. When she got there, he reached a hand down and she put hers in it. As he lifted her up to join him, she closed her eyes. What was it about the man holding her hand? If the only way he’d ever touched her was that, she thought she’d still feel like this about him. Her heart tipped over whenever his fingers closed over hers.

Maybe it was because his grip alone told her what he kept saying in a variety of ways. She was okay with him. She could trust him.

She was up on stage, but she didn’t feel that way. It was just the two of them. He kept singing the song, but he folded her against him, holding her close to his side as she slid her arms up under his, laid her cheek on his chest, closing her eyes again as he swayed with her. His heart beat under her cheek, his body vibrating as he sang, as the music came through the speakers. She internalized every word and, when he nudged her face up at the end of the song to put his mouth on hers, she melted into him, holding on, unaware of the crowd applauding and whistling once again.

§

After the performance, he found them a table in a back corner and ordered another couple of drinks. For a while they listened to the music, made casual conversation, and traded comments about the dancers. He kept his arm around her, their chairs pulled close together. She expected that cozy position was what kept anyone from wandering up to engage him in conversation. In some ways she was glad of that. But having him so close and thinking about her reaction to the way he’d sung to her made her wonder if being joined by some other couples might have been better, to help keep her mind out of bad places. Her hand lay on his thigh, tracing meaningless doodles when he asked her things about herself. Nothing too personal, just about her work, which should be easy for her.

“We’re different,” she said abruptly.

“How so?”

“You came from a poor background, but it wasn’t a shit background. You weren’t pulling yourself out of shit. Your mom tells you that wearing poor clothes isn’t a reflection of your soul, who you are, because she’s right. But when you are shit, you have to make up an image different from who you are, and keep at it until the past starts not to matter. You become that image and leave the crap, who you are,
were
, behind. It’s different.”

“Hmm.” He’d moved his hand to the back of her head, was cradling it in that way that she found distracting, especially when he was caressing her nape, the tension there. “What music do you like, Celeste?”

Automatically, she rattled off some popular groups and song titles. He listened, asked her about some of them and placed a few. The discussion put her more at ease, thinking that he’d overlooked the sudden outburst, the discomfiting vomit of emotion.

“What’s been your proudest moment so far, with the articles you’ve written?”

Safer ground for her, though she was less comfortable bragging on herself. She changed the focus by explaining her answer. “Every story has more than one side. Sometimes more than two. I think when you give a balanced account of a story, it’s easier for people to understand one another and work together. Doing it the other way, all you do is polarize people, create destructive factions, which is the point of most media reporting these days. Conflict generates ratings.”

She lifted a shoulder. “When I was at a New Orleans City Council meeting, one of the members pulled me aside and told me that the article I wrote on redistricting had helped her understand the motivations of everyone who had a stake in it. She told me it had helped the council figure out the best solution. Before that, they were drawing lines in the sand, seeing one another as the enemy and hedging their decision against their next election run.”

She was on a roll and couldn’t seem to stop herself. He seemed so interested in what she was saying, his attention on her in that way that made her self-conscious and unable to stop talking at once. “That really felt good to hear, because that’s what I want to do as a reporter. It’s one of those jobs that can’t be about ego, because doing it right means simply doing the job. Nothing less, nothing more. Give people all the pertinent information, not just pieces to create a slant, and let them decide what to do with it. People can be manipulated really easily, that’s true enough. But that doesn’t make it right to do it. If you don’t manipulate them, if you let them make up their own mind, things might just go the way you hope anyway. And even if it doesn’t, that’s not my judgment to make.”

“Just do the job.” Leland nodded. “That’s what I tell my guys. Don’t get caught up in the end game, the politics or bullshit, people’s bad attitudes about the police. Or even the good ones, the overinflated kind.”

“All police are either saints or sinners.”

“Exactly. We’re just guys doing a job 100 percent. Protect and serve. From rookies to retirement.”

“Speaking of which, that was a good idea, putting Mike and Billy together.”

“Yeah. Billy’s already got a good head on his shoulders. Mike will help him keep it there. Mike's not only a good cop, but one with a good attitude about being on the job, despite being a veteran of the bullshit politics and red tape. No need to squash a rookie’s enthusiasm or burn him out too fast by sticking him with a grumpy complainer.”

Leland touched his beer to hers. “That’s damn impressive about the city council, Celeste. Most times, I just want to line up all of those election-fixated, image-obsessed, special interest assholes and use them for target practice. Not that I’d say that out loud. Especially not to a nosy reporter.”

She sniffed. “I’ll be sure to post it on my blog tonight. Let me see. That was ‘election-fixated, image-obsessed…’ what was that last thing, Sergeant Keller? Keller with two l’s?”

He snorted. “So what kind of music do you really like, darlin’? What’s on the playlist you pull up when no one’s around and you aren’t worried about denting your Celly Lewis persona?”

She looked up at him. He was leaning back against the wall, one booted foot propped against the slat of an empty chair pulled up to their table. His pose was relaxed, but his gaze speared right to her heart. When she started to move, his grip on her neck increased, keeping her in place. “I asked you a question, Celeste. Answer me.”

Two of his fingers were stroking the juncture between neck and shoulder. Their presence reminded her of that centering pinch, which closed down her mind in a way that made it easier to speak her true feelings. But he wasn’t doing that right now.

“That wasn’t fair,” she accused. “You caught me off guard. And I don’t appreciate being compared to those kind of politicians. I’m not like them.”

“No, you’re not. You just gave me the opening, and I won’t let you bullshit me on anything. So tell me.”

“I can’t. I don’t want to.” She set her jaw stubbornly.

“Three songs. First three that come to mind.”

“It’s dumb.” When his fingers began to tighten again, she drew in a breath. “‘Simple Love.’ Alison Krauss.”

“Another.”

“‘Heaven.’ Bryan Adams.”

“One more.” This time he did shift his grip and compress the muscle in that way that hurt and pleasured at once. She gripped his leg. His other hand covered hers, tangled with her fingers. He kept his eyes locked on hers, his mouth firm.

“‘Angel of the Morning.’ Juice Newton.”

“Good.” He eased his touch, both a relief and a disappointment. He guided her legs over his so she was half on his lap, her butt on her chair but the rest of her leaned into him, held by him. He slid his lips over her brow. “You know, Alison Krauss does bluegrass. Not far from country. And Juice Newton has done some country, I’m sure. You may be a closet country fan, struggling to break free.”

“The same way you’ll embrace rap music tomorrow, Cowboy Troy.” She curled her fingers against his shirt, played with one of the pearl snaps and flattened her palm to feel the man beneath the cloth. He’d said she’d have to wait for their next session another couple of days. She didn't want to go home alone, and she wanted to be with him, as a sub. Tonight.

Staring at the wall, she wondered if she had the courage to do what she wanted to do. She gripped his collar, leaned in closer so she didn’t have to talk over the noise. “I know you said Friday. But is there anything that would make you reconsider that…sir?”

“Sincerity,” he said after a long pause. He’d dipped his head to hear her low words, his eyes trained on her thighs until he shifted his attention to her face. “What will be different if I take you home tonight, Celeste?”

He’d left his hat on the table, and her nervous hand had wandered over to it, was playing with the felt brim. “I'll tell you…if I'm scared. I won't use my safe word unless I want to be done…”

“For two weeks. Second strike.”

“For two weeks.” She took a breath. “Leland, I…”

“If you're talking to me as your Master right now, address me properly.” Tracing a line up her arm to her collarbone, he skimmed his knuckles along her sternum and the rise of her breasts over the vee neckline of the angel wing shirt.