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At the same time, my anger at him was growing so that I thought if and when I did get home, however temporary, the residents in that home had best be wary. There wasn't a single man around me right now I could trust. Not a single man I could think of who hadn't fucked up or lied or done something on purpose.
That thought made me sit down abruptly. Chloe had gone off into the bathroom and so I sat, thinking it through.
Mark Tomlin, soon to be ex-fiancé. Lied. Worked with my father to have me committed. Wanted to punish me after the trauma I'd just gone through by putting me through an invasive exam himself.
My father. Mr. Super Cop, who used his contacts to get me committed, who used his own values or morals or whatever it is that says My version of sex is fine. Whatever it is you're doing is deviant and needs treatment. My father. Mr. Super Judgmental.
Claude. I didn't even know his fucking last name. Claude, who put me into a stress position, who groped me and kept me naked, who treated me as one more asset, one more piece of property. Who I didn't trust. I'd liked him at the dinner parties. Sure, why not? Back then I just had to worry about St. Martin.
Vincent Geddes. No, not so much. He was dead. I'd killed him. And he'd at least been honest – he was a bad guy from start to finish. Funny how being honest about how horrible he was moved him up in ranking.
Because the last man was St. Martin.
Chloe came back out of the bathroom just in time. I took one look at her eyes and said, "Coke? Or something else?" substituting "else" at the last minute for "worse."
She blinked rapidly. "You're not going to tell on me, are you?" She sounded twelve. A very keyed-up, very sexy twelve, wearing a low cut slinky dress.
By comparison, I was practically in a bathrobe. Scoop neck, thick shoulder straps, cotton, came to my knees. It was a dress, yes. Kindergarten children could wear it.
I didn't say, Not unless you force my hand. I didn't even pretend to think about it. I had three sisters who didn't like me, a mother who didn't understand me, and a dearth of female friends.
"Don't worry about it," I said. "I won't."
She nodded, looked relieved, and then said, "Are you wearing panties?"
The question came out of nowhere and struck us both as funny. The laughter took a while to die away and then I said, "I suppose I'm not supposed to."
"What do you think?" she asked. "And heels. Four inch."
I laughed. "I've just mastered a little over two."
Chloe wasn't laughing though. She said, "Then hang on to me. But heels."
Dinner was dinner. We talked about Claude's work. Chloe talked about art, losing me frequently, and since none of these people would ever know the people who couldn't know I was undercover, I talked about my work.
Even as I did so it started to occur to me for the first time that being here, with Claude and Chloe, maybe even with St. Martin, was a type of deep cover. I had no choice but to adapt and become someone who fit into this world. It was accepted that I was new to it, but it wasn't a world that treated mistakes because of lack of knowledge kindly.
Then again, what world does?
"I'll clean up if you want to get started without me," Chloe offered at the end of dinner. When she stood her dress rode up, showing an expanse of beautifully shaved and tended skin. I looked away, uncomfortable.
With St. Martin, sex always hung over every encounter, but rarely materialized and when it did, that was one place he made certain there was consent. Except – a couple times it had been a form of punishment.
Not one I really hated. Cole St. Martin was gifted and Cole St. Martin was gifted. He was big, he got really hard, he was really talented.
I shifted in my seat. Not a good thing to be thinking, then wondered what Chloe had meant by getting started.
"Leave the dishes," Claude said. "I want both of you."
And my stomach dropped.
Normalcy was over for the day. He led us into the living room where the couch was vast, and synthetic leather. Probably not due to saving money as much as saving cleanup time, a thought I instantly wished I hadn't had.
Looking at me, he said, "It's time for Chloe's maintenance spanking and we might as well get started with yours, so you're in rotation."
My heart started to pound in my chest, fight or flight kicking in with the opinion being offered up by brain and body that both were a great idea.
Fight. Then get the hell out of here. Find a phone. Call a friend. I had to have some left who weren't PD and weren't apt to commit me.
