The Submissive's Last Word (The Power to Please #4) (25 page)

I thought what added most to the room was my art hanging
everywhere, filling the wall space in the apartment. Pencil, chalk and charcoal
sketches, pastel portraits and the latest addition to my arsenal of technique:
watercolors. Most of the subjects in the pictures were people from school, or
from the store. But there were street scenes, too, and winter trees in the
park, some still lifes of found items and strange products from the shop below.

I didn’t fool myself into thinking any of it was high art.
But it didn’t have to be. My life, as it was now, was displayed on those walls.
And it was a full life, as evidenced by the fact that I regularly had to cull
out older pieces to make room for the new.

Paulina strolled about and eyed my work. “You’ve improved a
great deal since last fall. I told you more practice would do you good, and
here’s the proof of it.”

“Uh, yeah, thanks.”

“Always my pleasure to support the arts and nurture budding
talent. You still need work on perspective though. It’s distinctly off in these
pictures looking down on the street. The man is too large in some, too small in
others. And —”

“That’s deliberate. But never mind it.”

“Hmph.” She stood back and stepped up to the only windows in
the place, a set of three large, floor-to-ceiling windows that jutted out
enough to have a built-in window seat at their base.

“These windows face due west,” she said. “It must be dreadful
to sit here on summer afternoons.”

“I wouldn’t know. It’s not summer yet.”

“Oh, it will be insufferable, I assure you.” She turned to
face me. “All right then. I’ve seen enough. I noticed you have a
respectable-looking bistro down on the corner. I hope they can make a decent
cup of coffee?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Then we should go there.”

And she headed off. She was already cruising down the stairs
before I even reached the door.

We settled in a comfortable booth at the rear of the cafe.
It was warm and cozy, a respite from the wind blowing outside.

Paulina stirred her coffee. “I suppose you know why I’m here
today.”

I added some cream to my coffee. “I don’t. Unless it’s just
a friendly visit?”

“It’s obvious. You’ve made your point, Nonnie. Now it’s time
for you to come home. I’m here to fetch you.”

She said it so matter-of-factly that it took me a moment to
catch up.

“Oh, well if you say so, then let’s go.”

“I’m serious,” she said. “Yes, you’ve got your little
bohemian artist thing going on. I get it. Really, I do. But it’s enough now.
When we’re done with our coffee, we’ll go and you can pack a bag. We’ll send
some staff to get the rest of your things later.”

“It’s odd. I’m torn between laughing in your face and
getting pissed. I’d say you can’t be serious, but I know how you are, so I’m
pretty sure you’re serious.”

“I’m aware that you’ll require some convincing, and I’ve
come prepared.” She sent me an even look. “Gibson needs you.”

My chest contracted. “Is something wrong? Is he sick?”

“Of course not. Are you a doctor? Why would we need you if
he’s sick? Ridiculous.”

I tried not to snap an ugly response. “Just tell me why you
think he needs me.”

“I have no idea why he does. I never have. It’s nothing
against you, of course. I like you well enough. You’re a smart girl, pretty,
genuine, occasionally humorous. But whatever makes you so special to him, I
don’t have a clue. I always thought he’d go for someone more sophisticated. We
can only chalk it up to the mystery of attraction.”

“I don’t mean in a generic sense, Paulina.”

“It’s an interesting topic, though. Not about you and Gibson
specifically, but about attraction itself. Xavier and I have discussed it many
times, why we’re drawn to one person and not another. If I were of a mystical
bent I’d say —”

I let her blather on, but I refused to pay any attention to
it. I sipped my coffee, thought about what I’d eat for dinner, tried to figure
out what questions might be on my advanced color theory test the next morning.

I tuned back in when Paulina said, “Television has destroyed
the attention span of the human race. Permanently, I fear.”

“Can we move this along?” I asked.

“And there you are. Making my point for me yet again. But
you’re right. This is about Gibson and you getting over whatever it is that made
you leave him. What was that exactly?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Of course it is. I’m the one who’s had to watch him moping
around for the past months. And that’s when he’s home, which he usually isn’t.
He’s constantly traveling on business. I’m positive he’s not eating right and
he doesn’t look his usual self. I can only chalk it up to you leaving him. The
logical conclusion is that he misses you.”

My chest contracted tighter. This was the most information
I’d had about Gibson since I moved out of his house. It was welcome, but
excruciating. “If that’s true, there’s nothing I can do about it.”

“Nonsense. You can come home. There’s nothing to keep you
from it. Certainly not that absurd job of yours, or that sad little room you’re
hunkered in. No one in their right mind would choose that place over home.”

“The estate isn’t my home, Paulina. Not anymore.”

“Phht! It’s yours. Whatever Gibson did that set you off,
it’s time you got over it.”

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I know you were lucky to ever have a chance with a man like
Gibson Reeves. And I know that whatever he did wrong, it couldn’t have been
much. The man is practically perfect. What did he do that was so terrible?
Nothing much, I wager.”

“Like I said, it’s not your business. None of this is.”

“I’m practically his closest relative, if I were actually
related to him. No one could have more right to know his business than I.”

“If you say so, but it’s my business, too, and you’ve got no
rights with me.”

“At least admit that you’d be better off returning to him.
No one could argue against it.”

“I do. It’s ridiculous that you order me to return and think
I’ll just willy-nilly follow after you. Who do you think I am?”

“I think the bigger question is who do you think I am?” she
asked, her voice dropping into an ominous tone. “I’m not used to being
disobeyed.”

“You can’t intimidate me. I’m not Toy. Or Elaine.”

She blew out a breath and waved her hand in the air. “It was
worth a try. I don’t know how I can be expected to solve this problem if you’re
going to be so obstinate.”

“No one expects you to solve it. Certainly not me.”

“Well you should. Tell me you don’t miss him. Tell me you
don’t want him back.”

“I’m uncomfortable talking about this with you.”

“That’s unimportant. Tell me you don’t miss him and I’ll
consider the conversation closed.”

“I don’t miss him.”

“Shameful! Lying like that.”

“Yeah, well, the conversation is closed,” I said. “You
promised.”

“I said I’d consider it.”

“Hair splitter.”

“Deceitful girl.”

I pushed my cup of coffee away. “Enough. Name calling is my
limit.”

Paulina nodded, slowly. She gave me a long, searching look.
“Just tell me one thing. Is there anything that could fix this and bring you
home?”

I didn’t want to be affected by her sincerity, but it
happened all the same. “Of course, but it would require such a basic change of
character that it’s impossible.”

“Then it’s not hopeless.”

“Impossible, hopeless. One and the same, Paulina.”

“Can’t you overlook it?”

“I tried. Didn’t work.”

“I’m put out with the both of you.” She frowned at me. “But
mostly you. You’re a woman. As women, we’re used to bending, making the
compromises because men are no good at it. Be a woman and let him be a man.”

A shot of heat blazed up my neck. “That’s a load of crap.
And you’re a fine one to be shoveling it. Like you’ve ever played the little
woman to any man.”

“This isn’t about me.”

“You’re saying I shouldn’t mind if he weakens me, because
I’m already weak to begin with.”

“When you put it like that —”

“I’m second. He’s first. Well I don’t play that way anymore.
And I suspect you never have. You’ve got a hell of a nerve telling me to give
up what you never, ever would.”

I watched in some astonishment as her dictatorial demeanor
fell away. “You’re right,” she said. “I was wrong. If that’s how it is between
you and Gibson, then you’re right. I’m wrong.”

“I’m ... yeah ... then. Exactly.”

“One thing, though,” she said. “Would you at least promise
to think about how you could make it work with him? Even though it seems
hopeless? You may have missed something.”

“I can promise to do what I think will make me happiest,
without anyone else’s approval.”

“But Gibson ...”

I blew out a breath. “Fine. I can tell you this. I’m certain
nothing will change between us, and yet, nearly every day, I pointlessly try to
think of a way back to him. Is that good enough for you? I don’t see what
difference it makes.”

“Perhaps it doesn’t. Thank you anyway.” Her lips puckered
and she glowered at her coffee cup. “I had planned to take care of this matter
today. I’m seriously displeased that my efforts have been for nothing.”

“Maybe another cup of coffee will take the sting out of it?”

“It won’t make it worse.” She craned her long neck, seeking
our waitress. “It’s after five. We’ll order decaf.”

“I don’t like decaf.”

“That’s beside the point. It’s not about what you like. It’s
about what’s good for you. I’ve read multiple studies about ...”

And away she went, again. Short-lived displeasure, indeed. I
wished mine could be as brief.

Chapter 21

That night, and the next morning at school, I couldn’t get
Gibson out of my thoughts. I wanted to call Paulina and damn her for telling me
about him. Her description of how he was still depressed after all this time,
how he wasn’t eating right, etc., replayed on a mental loop that became
increasingly annoying as the day progressed.

I got out of school in early afternoon and slogged my way
home battling against the March headwind. It was times like these when I
regretted selling my car. It was the smart thing to do, since I had little use
for it and upkeep and insurance were costing more than the car provided in
return, but it was a lovely convenience in lousy weather.

I kept my head low and trudged onward. Someone bumped into
me and I looked up to say excuse me. When I saw who it was, I put on my best
dismissive look and blew past him without further comment.

I didn’t know his name, but I knew his face well. He was the
only person, so far, who had recognized me from Michael’s video.

Months ago when I obsessed over being recognized, when it
was still torturous to risk being out in public, I ran scenarios of what it
would be like if someone approached me and said something along the lines of,
“Hey, aren’t you that porno slut from the internet?” I had a million
variations.

The only consolation of all that brooding was that I figured
when I finally was recognized, I’d be fairly well-prepared with a pre-planned
response.

The day it happened, I was at school, hanging out in the
common area. A young man, barely old enough to legally view pornography, took
an interest in me, kept staring from across the room. I ignored him, but when
he stood and approached my table, I couldn’t ignore him anymore. He had the
gall to pull out a chair and sit beside me without invitation.

He said hello. I scarcely acknowledged him, continued
leafing through my textbook.

“You look familiar,” he said, in a way that instantly put me
on guard, warning me this wasn’t a normal pickup line.

“I have a common face,” I told him.

“No you don’t. You’re the disobedient sub.” He leered when
he said it, enjoyed flinging it out there.

It took everything I had to keep hold of myself. My hands
began to shake so I clamped down hard on my textbook. I tried to look passive.
“Who?” I asked.

“You know who.”

“You must be high. Go home and sleep it off.”

He pulled out a piece of paper from his pack and leaned in
closer to me. I jerked backward, not knowing his intentions.

“Can I have your autograph?” he asked.

I stared at him. In my million variations of potential
confrontations, being asked for an autograph didn’t number among them.

I told him he was being ridiculous. He should get lost, I
said, then I gathered up my things to leave.

He talked while I shoved books into my bag. “I only got to
see your video once, and not all the way through. I tried to find it again, but
it disappeared off the net. What happened? Did you piss somebody off? You
should get a different agent, somebody who won’t let that sort of thing go on.
I mean, it was kind of a hokey film, and the production quality was pathetic.
But you were awesome.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said, then
turned to leave.

“You sure you’re not the disobedient sub?”

I didn’t answer.

Within a few days, I couldn’t ignore that small groups of
people started whispering whenever I walked by. I heard, “That’s her,” and
“Oh-my-God. She’s the one I told you about.” I had moments of panic when I
imagined being brought up before the dean and her grilling me before she
expelled me.

Then the talk died away, and nothing ever came of it. People
found new things to gossip about and they lost interest in an older woman who
might or might not have once been in a bad web porno.

And that, I learned, was the difference between my new life
and my old one. In my old life, values were indelible, backlash vicious and
eternal. In the new one, values were more open to interpretation, and backlash
was fleeting.

I asked myself if these differences were actually true, or
if they were birthed and nurtured by me, by my insecurities and preconceptions.
Perhaps.

Regardless, I never let my accuser off the hook, and that
day on the street, in the wind and cold, was no exception. He would always get
snubbed, if for no other reason than he was a blabbermouth and deserved no
better.

My studio was a welcome haven when I finally arrived and
warmed up. I had a rare afternoon and evening off work, and I was at loose ends
as to how to fill the rest of the day. I made some hot chocolate and went over
to the window seat, settled there with my sketchpad nearby and looked down on
the few pedestrians brave enough to venture onto the city sidewalks.

Even if it weren’t ideal, this was a good life, my cozy
apartment, undemanding job and challenging courses in the field I loved. I had
my friends, and answered only to myself, was responsible only for myself.

Yes, a good life. But not ideal, since that would be
impossible thanks to the one nasty hiccup in my routine: missing Gibson Reeves.

There had yet to be a day when I didn’t, at some point, wish
him there with me. I’d think of what he might say about a silly customer, or
how he’d worry over the safety of the stairs leading to my apartment, or how
he’d smile at me when I woke in the morning, his sexy-rumpled hair and his
new-day masculine scent. Then my heart would miss a beat, a bodily exclamation
point that emphasized my longing.

In those first weeks after I left him, I sat in the window
seat every day, for hours sometimes, looking down the street and wishing every
man walking by was Gibson. Regularly, I’d spot a man in the distance, a man in
a suit, walking with a crisp stride. I’d get excited. It was him, I’d think. It
was Gibson. Coming for me at last.

It never was him. And the crushing disappointment of it
should have forced me, for self-preservation’s sake if nothing else, to stop
looking out that window and searching for him. But it didn’t. I sat. I watched.
Waited. For someone who never came.

Of late, I’d been staking out the street less often, though
I never stopped completely. I couldn’t abandon that remaining sliver of hope.

I gazed down the street on this windy and cold March day.
Where was Gibson today? Was he traveling, as Paulina said he often did?
Negotiating a deal in Russia? How cold was it in Russia in March? Perhaps he
was somewhere warm, opening a new office in Dubai. Was it warm in Dubai in
March?

It was chilly in the window so I pulled a blanket around my
shoulders, tucked my legs up and wrapped both hands around my warm mug. A man
in dark pants and overcoat, far down the street and headed my way, caught my
eye. I couldn’t see details but something about him was familiar, something
about the proud way he carried himself.

What if Gibson weren’t traveling at all?

I sat up straighter, in spite of knowing it was foolish,
that the man in the distance never turned out to be who I wanted him to be. I
leaned forward, as if those few inches closer would make all the difference. I
squinted.

The man seemed tall, the long lines of his body promised it.
And his hair was dark, his head lowered against the wind driving into his face.
His hands were in his coat pockets and he walked upright with a purposeful
pace.

Like Gibson.

My heart beat faster and my breath grew shallow. I told
myself to stop getting excited.

But what if it really were him? Coming to tell me he
couldn’t live without me anymore, that he’d made a terrible mistake letting me
go. So he’d come to reclaim me. To make everything right. To tell me he, what?

That he loved me? He’d never said it to me. But I hadn’t
said it to him, either, though it was true. Perhaps it was that way for him,
too.

The man in the overcoat grew larger the closer he got. Now I
could make out his shiny shoes, the crease in his pants and the way his hair
blew in the wind. I couldn’t clearly identify his face yet. Bad angle, the way
his head was lowered, and I was on the second floor looking down.

I was more convinced than ever that the man was Gibson. In
less than twenty steps, he’d be crossing the street, to come to me. I sat my
mug aside, combed my hair with my fingers and wondered how terrible I looked.
There was no time to fix it. He’d be here in a moment. My God. Finally. I
stood.

Ten steps. Five. One.

Then he didn’t turn to cross the street. He passed by.

And I got a clear view of his profile.

Not Gibson.

Overwhelming disappointment pushed me back down into the
window seat. Why did I do this to myself? This was torture of the worst kind,
an evil, teasing devil that never got its fill.

Once again, I wanted to blame Paulina, and I might have, but
I recognized I was the one to blame. I was the one who sat in the seat, who let
herself believe in something that never had a chance of being true.

I needed to face it, to stop tormenting myself with false
hopes. Gibson was never going to come get me. He was never going to walk down
that sidewalk, up the stairs, scoop me up and tell me he couldn’t live without
me.

Never.

Like a gut shot, that realization.

All these months I told myself I was moving on, but in all
actuality, I was just waiting for Gibson. I’d gone through the motions, settled
in and nested, devoted my time to art and school. I proclaimed I’d created a
good life for myself, a fulfilling life with purpose and meaning.

It was all a sham. I’d scammed myself. I hadn’t been
building anything, I’d simply been making the best of the waiting period, until
Gibson came to his senses and reclaimed me.

I warmed up then, let the anger get me good and revved. What
the hell was wrong with me? I tossed off the blanket and twisted away from the
damned window.

I was appalled. I’d turned myself into a self-exiled
Rapunzel, staring forlornly out her tower every day, passively waiting for her
prince to come rescue her.

What new weakness was this? Or, more like, what old one?
Every time I forged a new path I eventually meandered back onto the old one.
Damn.

It had to be enough. At some point. It had to be.

And it didn’t matter how much I wanted to deny it, I needed
to end the waiting and truly get over Gibson or I needed ... what?

To try again? To find a way to make it work?

I had no evidence, nothing to suggest that anything had
changed. The situation today was as irreparable as it ever was, perhaps even
more so, since I didn’t actually know if he still wanted me.

What had Paulina said about reconsidering the hopelessness
of my situation? She said that I may have missed something. I didn’t know how
that could be possible. I’d been over and over it, countless times.

What if the answer didn’t lie in something I’d missed? Maybe
I’d mishandled it.

I told myself to be honest and asked if I’d been patient
enough. I couldn’t confidently answer that I had. I was upset at the time,
hurt, itching for a resolution. If I had waited longer, nudged him gently, been
less insistent, might it have made a difference?

I realized, too, that part of my impatience may have stemmed
from the fact that I was intimidated by the new lifestyle of privilege. The
mansion, the cars, the money and servants. I didn’t know how to deal with it
then any better than I did today. Now, however, I could be on the alert, look
out for the insecurities to reveal themselves, minimize their impact.

I also wondered if I could have proven myself to Gibson
better. I knew now that I’d been pretty ignorant of the intricacies of D/s and
BDSM. Gibson once said I hadn’t done my homework. He was right. I hadn’t. I’d
hardly glanced at the title page of the textbook.

Well, I’d done it now. I read book after book, scoured web
sites and internet forums, even made some online friendships. I’d asked
questions, sought answers, quizzed Elaine and Ron in particular until they
probably wanted to plug their ears. I discovered how truly little I knew.

The only thing I hadn’t done in my quest for knowledge was
gain real world experience with a dominant. I couldn’t do it. I tried a few
times, made it as far as agreeing to a date, but never followed through, always
cancelled. I wanted no one, no one except Gibson.

So I gained knowledge second hand. I understood now why
Gibson had concerns regarding my reticence to use safe words. For one thing, I
learned that I had been slipping into subspace fairly easily. I knew now that a
dominant had to take special care when a sub was in that impressionable state.
It was a revelation, reading about subspace, the marvelousness of it, and the
serious dangers, recognizing the time I’d spent there without knowing what it
was.

I realized that I couldn’t trust my judgment when I was in
subspace. No wonder, then, that Gibson couldn’t.

However, I wasn’t always in subspace when I was with him. It
was the exception more than the rule and he would have understood this. So why
the uncalled-for overall lack of trust, rather than applying it to the specific
situation?

Even more puzzling, was why he didn’t talk to me about it.
He mentioned it once or twice, that I could recall, but we never discussed it
at any length. Why not? If his concerns sprung from my ability to enter
subspace, then that should have been a logical topic to explore together. It
made no sense that he ignored it.

Nonetheless, in the months since our split, I had gained
knowledge and a fresh perspective. Perhaps it could facilitate a
reconciliation, or at least reopen the conversation with him, offer up a
potential meeting ground.

I knew from Paulina that he was unhappy, and perhaps that
came from missing me — if Paulina were correct. I wanted her to be right,
wanted him to miss me.