Inside Out: My Hunger Part 2

I blink at the sudden change of topic. "What does her father have to do with this?"

"Just being a Master of my job, Mr. Compton. Every possible suspect other than Ava has to be wiped off the list."

"Rebecca didn't know her father." I push to my feet. "I'm done. I came back from New York early, with my mother barely out of cancer surgery, expecting this was going to be productive. So far, it hasn't been. If you want to ask about Ava or anything actually related to the case, I'm available. For nonsense, I'm not."

"Before you go," he says, pulling a red journal I know is Rebecca's from an accordion file, "I want to read you something." He flips to a marked page. "The moment that he promised there was pleasure in pain. The moment when the blade traveled along my skin with the proof he would be true to his words. And I knew then that I had been wrong. He was not dangerous. Nor was he chocolate. He was lethal, a drug, and I feared . . ." He glances up at me and shuts the journal. "Who do you think a jury would think killed Rebecca?" He leans back in his seat. "Ava? Or one, or both, of the two men mentioned in this journal entry?" He taps the desk. "Her writing is about her Master, which you've already told me was you. Who's the other man?"

I see how Rebecca's words sound d.a.m.ning and could be easily twisted against me. "I want justice, and I will do everything in my power to help you see it delivered. You have my full cooperation, but I'm smart enough to have an attorney present when I do it."

"To keep me focused."

"As we've already established." I head for the door and he follows.

"My focus, Mr. Compton, is on evidence. Confessions are given and retracted all the time. They don't hold up. If you have any influence, as one would a.s.sume a Master would, use it to get Ava to produce Rebecca's body."

A body. Rebecca's body. I feel like nails are being drilled into my skull, and though control is second nature to me, it's all but lost to me now. It is all I can do to not pull him over the desk and shake him for f.u.c.king breathing, when Rebecca isn't. "If I have to hear her tell me where the body is," I say, "you'd better have gla.s.s between us or a guard nearby."

"Understood. When?"

"I'll get my attorney to set it up with you."

"Today. Get him to set it up today."

I walk to the exit and leave without looking back. But I am looking back-at every moment I'd ever spent with Rebecca.

Thirty minutes later, my attorney has promised me a call-back after he a.s.sesses the situation, and I'm pulling into the driveway of my house in the Cow Hollow area of San Francisco. Killing the engine, I sit there. My skin is twitching and my nerve endings feel like they're standing on end. I'm drowning in emotional quicksand that spells trouble I don't need. What I do need, I cannot have. She's gone-and just the idea creates a burning sensation in my chest.

Fighting the urge to pound the d.a.m.n steering wheel, I shove open the Jaguar's door and step outside, walking the sidewalk leading to my porch. The cool early evening air washes over me but it's nothing compared to the ice in my veins. My role was protector to Rebecca, and Detective Jerkoff was right. I failed.

Had I not convinced Rebecca to return to San Francisco for me, she'd be alive today. h.e.l.l, had I not convinced her to be my sub, she'd be alive today. How am I supposed to live with that? How do I ever trust myself to be anyone's Master again? Who am I, if I'm not that person?

Opening the front door to my house, I try not to think about the first night Rebecca came to my home, the night she started on the path to being my sub. But I remember all too well the way I'd stood at the window, watching her walk the very sidewalk I just did, in a skimpy dress I'd sent her to wear. I'd opened the door and she'd gone to her knees in the entryway.

Stepping inside the foyer, I don't bother with a light. I'm feeling out of my skin, becoming a person I've not known for a decade, and don't want to know. Control is how I left that person behind. Control is how I survived h.e.l.l once before. It's the only way I'll survive now, and I have to survive. I have to do more than survive, since I'm faced with more than the monster that is Ava. I have the monster that is my mother's cancer.

"She's healing," I remind myself, and I know she'll be home soon and probably trying to work before she should.

And what do I do when her interim manager stops by my hotel room to have me sign off on a major purchase? With nothing more than a verbal agreement that it was "just a f.u.c.k," I got naked with a woman so far from the submissive type she's practically the poster child for dominant women.

Dropping my jacket on a black leather chair in my bedroom, I pull off my tie and kick off my shoes, then go to the bar in the corner that I rarely use. With a gla.s.s filled with expensive scotch and the bottle in hand, I settle onto the mattress of the four-poster bed I used to share with Rebecca. It's far more empty than it's ever been. Setting the bottle and my cell phone on the nightstand, I kick back the warm liquid, letting it roar a path down my throat. For a man who doesn't like the lack of control that comes with alcohol, I'm definitely liking the way it burns away a bit of the acid eroding my veins right now.

s.n.a.t.c.hing up my phone, I check my messages and see one from Crystal. I punch the Play b.u.t.ton, remembering her use of that word in the bathroom, then hear, "I have a problem I need to discuss. You said to call and, well, I'm calling."

A problem. I suspect I'm her problem, and the variety of ways that could be true bite far more than the booze. And so does hearing her voice, all sweet and s.e.xy with a hint of anxiety and vulnerability in its depths. The very fact I care that I might have put it there stirs even more guilt in me, when I'm already overflowing with the d.a.m.n stuff. Crystal might have had a taste of BDSM, but she's not a submissive, and she's inside my head and too close to my family to be an escape. I need to find my escape at the club, to trust myself as Master again, and do it the way Chris Merit used to. A different submissive every visit.

I set my phone on the nightstand by the bottle and open the drawer beneath it. Removing Rebecca's red leather journal, the one I'd found months ago between the mattresses, I open it. Having read it cover to cover several times over, I know there's nothing inside it that would help put Ava behind bars, and I'm not offering up more of Rebecca's private thoughts to anyone unless I'm forced. It's mine-like she could have been, had I let her-and somehow, I keep thinking that the answers to what I don't understand are in these written words.

I begin to read. . . .

March 2011 My father. My father . . . I can't say those words out loud without them sounding strange. I never knew the man. I wanted to, but my mother wasn't having that. I know this because she confessed it to me on her deathbed, when she told me everything I needed to know about him. As I'd suspected, he didn't know I was alive. My mother had kept her pregnancy from him. I'd been furious until she'd told me his name. Then I understood, though the anger didn't go away. Kenneth Burgendy: the notorious crime lord deeply rooted in the mob. It was a shock to digest. He was the man I'd hungered to know, who I'd been certain was the missing link in my life. The hole I could never fill.

And then I'd met . . . him-my Master. And I started to believe he was the missing link. Only he has no desire to love me. He just . . . wants me. He has his business and his private club, where he is Master of both, as he is of me. I wonder if the coldness that allows him to be with me, but not love me, makes him like my father? But my father has hurt people, and I don't believe my Master wants to hurt me. He thinks he's protecting me, but while he does, I fall more in love with him. And love is as brutal as it is sweet, when you're doing it for two people. When you're experiencing it and living it . . . alone.

I shut the journal, tormented by how badly I'd hurt her and how blind I'd been to it. Though the club would be an escape right now, I refill my gla.s.s, not able about to trust myself to be Master of anyone right now.

Maybe Crystal's real appeal is that she isn't a d.a.m.n submissive. She let me tap into the raw s.e.xuality that I funnel all the s.h.i.+t in my life into, with none of the pressure to protect and guide that I'd had with Rebecca. I didn't call her mine, and she didn't call me Master. The way Rebecca had.

My lashes lower, and I try to hear Rebecca's voice and see her face, but she's just out of reach. It's pure torture. The harder I try to bring her to life, the more it feels like a blade is slowly slicing my throat from one side to the other, and I can't breathe.

My cell phone rings, jerking me from the spell of Rebecca's words, and I see it's Crystal's number. Avoiding her isn't the answer, nor is it the action of a Master. I take the call. "Ms. Smith. What can I do for you?"

"I have a problem."

"There's always a problem."

"This one is named Mac Reynolds. He left a message on your mother's voice mail, which I'm clearing for her right now."

At the mention of Riptide's largest and most difficult customer, I drain my gla.s.s. "And what exactly did his message say?"

"More than you want your mother to know right now. I deleted it to be sure she doesn't hear it. But the jist was that you had one dead employee and another involved in counterfeit art, and he's threatening to take it to the New York papers."

"Of course he did. Have you met him?"

"Yes. Several times."

"Then you know he enjoys being sucked up to. He just needs to know you're the new resident a.s.s-kisser and that you have the power to negotiate whatever he's after."

"He's a power-play guy, Mark. That's why he went to your mother. He's going to want to talk to you."

My cell phone beeps and I say, "I have to take this call."

"But Mark-"

"I'm a power-play guy, and you do just fine with me. Handle him, Ms. Smith."

I end the call and confirm my attorney is on the line, clicking over to the other line. "Talk to me, Dean."

"What it boils down to is they have no body and no evidence, and it's an election year," he announces without preamble. "They need a fall guy."

"Are you suggesting that's me?"

"I'm suggesting it's whoever they can get their hands on. He mentioned the club."

I curse and he adds, "Yeah, right there with you on that one. I don't need my members.h.i.+p made public."

"How does he even know about the club?"

"Ava for one, and Rebecca's journals for another. How d.a.m.ning are they?"

I glance at the one on the bed. "I've only read one of them and there was nothing about the club, but a lot about the lifestyle."

"Which an attorney would demonize. I'm going to have a conflict of interest if this gets too much further along."

"You think it will?"

"It depends on what those journals say, and how convincing they are that you and the club are problems. They could get a warrant to see the club records, in which case we need another attorney on standby, to motion to have the records kept closed. I have a guy I trust. I'll talk to him."

"I need to go see Ava and get her to hand over the body."

"No f.u.c.king way. They have no case against you now, and everything will be filmed. Ava's defense team is already using you as her reasonable doubt. If she twists things on tape it could end up in court."

"I'm not going to let her twist things."

"They'll find a way if they want to-not to mention how it could drag Sara further into this."

"Sara didn't even know Rebecca."

"That won't stop them from saying she did. It's about reasonable doubt."

"It's only a matter of time before the press gets hold of this. They already ran an article about my gallery being wrapped up in counterfeit, scandal, and murder. It won't be long before they pull the club into it. If I can talk to her-"

"It's insanity, and you aren't crazy. Just wait. I'm meeting with the detective tomorrow. Let me feel him out in person. Maybe we can get them to sign a waiver that nothing in the conversation with Ava is admissible in court. But that works two ways. If she confesses again, it'll be off the record."

"Put me on the hot seat, and get everyone else but Ava out of it. I don't care how you do it, but do it. This isn't about me. It's about Rebecca, and it's about no one else getting hurt."

There's a moment of silence. "I'll call you after the meeting with the detective."

"Whatever we're doing, I need to get back to New York for my family."

"Understood."

We end the call and I push to my feet. I need to clear my head and take control, and I'm not going to get it in this room. My cell phone starts ringing again and I cross to the nightstand and grab it, leaving the scotch I want no more of. When I see the caller ID that reads "Ms. Smith," I hit the Ignore b.u.t.ton.

And that's a compliment she'll never understand. I'm offering her the reins and with them, the control I never give away-except to her, it seems.

Part Three.

Accused.

I wake to the sound of my cell phone ringing and glance at the clock. Nine in the morning. After a night of reading Rebecca's journal and climbing the walls, I've slept two hours. My caller ID says it's my father and I sit up, my legs draped over the side of the bed. "Morning, Dad."

"You sound like s.h.i.+t."

"Better than looking like s.h.i.+t," I answer, but I'm pretty sure I do that, too. "How's Mom?"

"She's weak and not handling the pain meds-they give her a queasy stomach. They took a blood sample as a precaution. We're waiting on the results."

"Can she talk?"

"She's knocked out, which is why I called now." He hesitates. "How are you?"

I stiffen, concerned he's heard the latest bombsh.e.l.l. "What do you mean, how am I?"

"I know this Mary and Ricco situation, on top of your mother's scare, is a lot to happen at once."

The tension in my shoulders relaxes. "Mom's on the mend. That's what counts."

"The nurse is here. I'll call you later."

"Call me when you get the test results."

"I will. And son, remember. s.h.i.+t happens, but it only stinks as long as you keep it around."

The line goes dead with one of my father's many ridiculous sayings that always end up being profoundly accurate. I sit there for a moment, letting this one stir up determination, and then I dial the attorney. I can't bring Rebecca back, but I can make sure that I don't keep the "s.h.i.+t" that could hurt other people around longer than I have to. And to me, the s.h.i.+t is Ava, reporters, and turmoil. I've been down that path and it doesn't work for me.

I have to talk to Ava and convince her to come clean. It's the only way to end this and end it now. I hit Redial and this time I leave a message. Taking my phone with me, I head to the bathroom to shower, determination burning through my veins. I'm ready to take action. For my family. For Rebecca.

An hour after my insightful chat with my father, I pull my car into the nearly deserted back parking lot of the gallery. We're closed and I'm not about to open the doors until I'm back here to prevent a three-ring circus.

Stepping out of the car, I am dressed in my standard finely tailored gray suit with a well pressed white s.h.i.+rt and a gray tie. I'm also wearing my best steely "Bossman" persona, as our accounting manager, Ralph, often calls it when he thinks I don't hear him. My cell rings and, noting Dean's number, I lean on the car, staying outside beyond the earshot of employees to answer.

"Did you talk to the detective?" I ask.

"Yes. And as I suspected he's a good guy who wants justice, but he pretty much told me the district attorney just wants a conviction. He's going to do whatever it takes to pressure you to help him, even if that means dragging you through mud."

"He doesn't have to pressure me. I want to help."

"I get that and I told him that, but the bottom line here is he has to deliver a conviction-and that means someone is going down. If it's not Ava, it's going to be someone else. You can't let him turn that into you."

I curse and Dean says, "Ditto that from me. I talked to an attorney named Nick Rogers on your behalf. Many of us call him Tiger because he'll rip your throat out if you mess with his success, which means his clients. He's in court today, but I set up a meeting for tomorrow morning. I'm a.s.suming under the circ.u.mstances you can make it?"

"Can we make it later tonight? I need to get back to New York to deal with the backlash this causes at Riptide before it gets to my mother. I'll double his fees. h.e.l.l, I'll triple them. Just get me in, and now."

"I'll find out and text you the answer and the address. This is going to get messy, Mark."

"Then let me just go talk to Ava. I can get her to talk."

"Not no, but h.e.l.l no-and Tiger agreed."

"If I can end this, then I have to do it."

"If you go, you go with Tiger by your side. Just wait until we talk to him, Mark."

"I have my family, my employees, Sara, and the members of the club to think about."