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He studies me a beat and then says, “Then don’t.”
Just that easily, he has accepted my answer and offers me an escape. I take it. “I need air.” I slip off the stool and start walking, but as I round the table, I realize that the past is in this room, when Nick is my present, maybe my future. I don’t want to shut him out. I want to take him on the ride with me. I rotate to find him still at the table. “Come with me?”
His expression doesn’t change—it’s unreadable—but his actions are what matter. He stands, and it’s only a minute later that we stand side by side on the balcony at the railing, and for several minutes we don’t speak. We just stand there, the blue sky and ocean stretching far and wide before us, like paint perfectly inked on a canvas. The wind lifts over the balcony edge, and I can almost taste the salt water on my tongue and, with it, the words to be spoken—and not just for him. I need to face the past fully and be done with it. I inhale and let it out. “There was another artist who went to the club. Jim was his name.” I rotate to face Nick again, and he does the same with me. “He was the one who got Macom the invite.”
“They were friends then,” he assumes.
“I believe that was Jim’s intent, but he and Macom sat on a high-profile board for a charity together. They bumped heads, and Macom got kicked off. The day it happened, Macom called me at work and told me about it. I got home that night to comfort him and found him with Jim’s wife, in our bed. He invited me to join them. ‘An eye for an eye,’ he’d said. I could help pay Jim back.”
“Had you been with Jim and his wife before?”
“No. His wife was a submissive, and Jim was very possessive and protective of her. I’d actually found it enviable, until she hopped in bed with Macom. Anyway. They were still fucking when I got the call about my father. I left. Macom called the next day looking for me.”
“And you never went back.”
“No, and honestly I hated the L.A. scene. I went to college there and learned the world there, and it just made sense to stay. And it kept me from my parents’ drama.”
Nick moves then, turning me to lean against the railing, his big body trapping mine, his hands at my waist. “Faith, I need you to know some things about me. This isn’t everything I need to share, but it’s a start and an important one.”
“I know you were in that world in some way, Nick. We’ve hinted at that in conversations.”
“I was. Not now. But I’ve played in that world that you were playing in, and I did so for many years.”
“What drew you to it, and why did you leave?”
“I was drawn there for the zero-commitment guarantee. There was just sex. No one believed I wanted more. No one asked for more. I left because I met you.”
I inhale and let it out. “That was recent.”
“Because I didn’t want a woman in my life. Now. If I never see that place again, it will be too soon. I would never take you there.”
“So it was one club?”
“Yes.”
“And why wouldn’t you take me there?”
“Because we are more than the sum of what I was there. Because we are better than that place. Because I damn sure have no intention of sharing you in any capacity, and just walking into that place would make many a man and woman want you.”
“Did you have a submissive?”
“No. Never. I cannot stress this enough. Until you, I didn’t do commitment, and that is a commitment. But I liked the games, and it was fucking without complication. Bondage.Check.Ménages.Check.Voyeurism.Check. No couple play, though. I was never a couple, and I don’t need another man comparing dicks with me.”
“And you’re telling me this why?”
“I didn’t want you to find out from someone else. And I didn’t want you to think that I want to be there, not here. The past doesn’t define me or you or who we are apart or together. It simply represents the paths that we each took to get here. Toeach other.”
I digest every word he has spoken with the realization that I am not shaken by Nick’s confession, which is not so unlike my own. How can I be? He has been boldly forthright, brutally honest about his interests. And he’s just told me that while Macom needed the club despite having me, Nick only needs me. And I choose to believe him. I choose to believe that he is right. All paths have led us here, to a place where I have a paintbrush in my hand and this man in my life.
Chapter Fourteen
Nick
I once told Faith that I don’t do guilt. I make decisions. I own them. I move on. But as I leave her in her studio to paint, just beyond our talk about sex clubs and that bastard Macom, guilt is gutting me. It’s like I’m in a horror movie with some slasher sicko slicing and dicing me, then coming back for more. I fast-step down the stairs toward the living room, reminding myself that I told Faith all that I dared. I cannot risk sending her running for the hills and pushing me into the doghouse. Not when it appears that someone wants the winery, or something connected to the winery, and that they most likely killed her mother and my father to get it. And Faith is the only person standing in their way.
Clearing the last step, I cross the living room, grab my briefcase in the kitchen, and then make my way to my office. Once inside, I shut the door under the pretense of the client conference call I told Faith I’d scheduled. A lie to hide lies. Jaw clenching at that idea, I drop my briefcase on my heavy mahogany desk, then walk toward the bookshelf-enclosed sitting area at the far end of the room. Claiming a spot in the center of the brown leather couch facing the door, I mentally prioritize the gaggle of fucked-up shit in my head right now. My focus is on Faith’s safety, which means keeping her close. Which means containing any threat that could push or pull her away from me. That means dealing with Sara Merit.
I pull my phone from the pocket of my jeans, and since I don’t have Sara’s number, I dial Chris. He answers on the first ring. “You’re afraid Sara is going to tell Faith about the club. And I can tell you right now. She would not do that.”
