Personal Geography (32 page)

Days pass in
a blur. I work, I try to sleep, I work out, and that’s about it. No matter what I do, I can’t escape this ache. My personal cell rings, and I don’t pick it up. He calls Rey, and Rey calls me.

“Cris called again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry. It’s not the first time I’ve screened your calls.”

“I know, but they’re not usually this persistent.”

“No, they’re not. Probably because they only wanted you for sex.”

That hardly makes me feel better. I
wish
Crispin—no, privilege revoked—
Cris
only wanted me for sex. That I can do. It’s all this other crap that messes everything up.

“He’s worried about you.”

Of course he is. When I’m the one who should be asking after him, after his dad. It’s on the tip of my tongue because, surely, Rey knows. But no matter how badly I want to hear that Mal’s fine and Cris’s life has gone back to its regularly scheduled programming of surfing, cooking, and occasionally earning a living, I can’t bring myself to ask. A clean break is what’s called for here. So I break it.

“Tell him I’m fan-fucking-tastic. Tell him whatever it takes. I don’t want to talk to him.”

There’s a pause on the other end. “Do you not?”

“Shut up, Rey. Shut the hell up. You’re not making this any easier.”

No, not easier at all. Just taking the heart that’s been ripped out of my body and shoving it down my throat. Isn’t Rey supposed to be on my side?

“Maybe it’s not supposed to be easy.”

“Do you want me to stop talking to you, too?” Tears are pricking at my eyes, choking me. Goddammit. He knows I would never, could never, but I hope he’ll take the hint to drop it.

“No, of course not. I liked you together, that’s all.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

My spring is left with nothing to crush because my internal organs have been hollowed out. I feel like I’m going to die. I haven’t felt this empty since I left Hunter and my parents disowned me.

This is why I didn’t want to get close to anyone. Because this is how it ends: me in a crumpled, jacked-up heap of pieces Rey has to fit back together like Humpty Fucking Dumpty. I should face facts and go back to the way things were. I’m allowed to have professional success and satisfaction, a stimulating and crazy-hot sex life, and the best friend a girl could ask for. I’m just not built for love. We really can’t have it all.

My ruminations are interrupted by Rey. “Hey, what are you doing Wednesday night?”

“Getting absolutely wrecked and going clubbing with you?”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you at eight.”

*

With a thunk
of the lock, Rey lets himself into my apartment and sets his overnight bag down inside the door. I’m huddled on the couch, not doing anything. I’ve been trying to read my book, but every few pages, I come across a line that would make Cris laugh his delicious, butterfly-inducing laugh and I have to stop. I think about reading my news magazines, but if I saw one of his comics, I might die. Maybe I’ll have Rey go through them for me. Let him leave kindergarten-cut, empty squares in the pages—Cris redacted.

Rey dumps himself next to me, the weight of him a familiar comfort on my couch. I lay my head in his lap and close my eyes while his fingers knead the nape of my neck.

“Still want to go?”

“Yes.”

“Want to have a good cry first?”

“Yes.”

I burst into tears, and Rey scoots me up until I’m sitting on his knees. He lets me exhaust my tears on his chest and doesn’t offer platitudes about how it’s all going to be okay. It will be, eventually, but I’m in no mood to hear it. What I am in the mood for is Rey ruffling my hair and rousing me from my heart-broken stupor.

“Picnic’s waiting. Get in the shower. I’ll pick you out something pretty to wear.”

He tips me off his lap and smacks me affectionately on the butt as I head down the hall. Fresh out of the shower, I find clothes laid out on my bed: black leather pants, barely-there crimson halter top, and spiked heels. Excellent.

When we pull up at Picnic, a cut bouncer helps me out of my car, and Rey palms my keys to a valet. There’s a line snaking halfway around the block, but we get in, no problem, with a nod from a Secret Service-looking guy with a clipboard.

“Thanks, Tony,” says Rey.

We get a wink and a nod in response, and I welcome the burst of warm air that hits us as Tony holds open the door. The club is crowded for a weeknight, and clothes have already started to come off. I admire the fit bodies of men moving effortlessly to the beat, and the balls of the less-cut who are working it like they’ve got something to prove. There aren’t many women here and even fewer men who might find me fuckable, but I like it that way. Rey’s admirers drift over after we’ve gotten our first round, but instead of turning on the charm to get laid, he focuses their attention on me.

Soon I’m being coddled by half a dozen gay men sympathetic about my break-up. I get a lot of “oh, honeys,” several brightly colored fruity cocktails, and eventually invitations to dance my cares away. On the dance floor, the pounding beats, the sweaty masculine bodies—moving skillfully, enthusiastically, but with no prurient interest against mine—and the half dozen drinks I’ve imbibed let me forget for a while. I’m asleep on my feet by the time Rey wrangles my drunk ass into my Mercedes. Presumably he takes me home because I wake the next morning with less of a hangover than I’ve earned and a note next to my bed:

ILYK. Call me.

I haul my ass to the gym, where Adam busts my chops for having been gone for so long.

“You’ve gone soft like a cheesecake, princess,” he berates me as I do my zillionth crunch. It’s true I’m a little out of shape, but no one else would notice. I’m glad Adam does and uses it as an excuse to work me like a draft horse. Another way for me to silence the longing and muffle the ache.

But as soon as Adam’s no longer barking in my ear, it comes back, and every song on the radio on my sticky, sweat-drenched drive to work reminds me of what I’ve lost.

*

A few more
days pass. Cris stops trying to contact me. I’m half-grateful and half-gutted. I think about calling, emailing, texting, even writing him a letter—which I think he’d like. A lot. And the waiting would be good penance for me.

I draw little stick figure Indias with speech bubbles:
I’m sorry. I miss you. I—
before I crumple them up and throw them away. I think about getting on a plane, but I don’t. Instead I repeat to myself, “It’s easier this way.” But it doesn’t feel easier. It feels like a slow, painful suicide.

I talk to Rey a lot. I think about asking him to get me someone new, but I can’t afford the time away from work. Besides, Cris has me so tied up in knots, I’d feel like I was cheating on him. I’ve never cheated on anyone in my life, and it wouldn’t count as that now. There’s no contract, and no contract means no cheating. But I feel queasy when I think about being with anyone else, so work it is.

And work I do. I landed the contract with Phoenix, and it’s my baby, the only kind of baby I’ll ever have. Jack is going to have minimal supervision and input. I’m going to run the show. Greg Wu is going to be my new best friend for the next three years. I like him, I understand him, and though he’s tough as nails and ridiculously demanding, I think he’ll be happy with me. They usually are.

I set myself to developing our work plan, scheduling and assigning tasks and due dates, making notes about information I’m going to need. It’s soothing to be the puppet master, to be doing something I understand, that makes sense to me, that I’m good at. I schedule a metric crapton of travel for myself. I don’t care for Phoenix, but the desert won’t remind me of Cris so damn much.

I’m two-thirds of the way through compiling our list of deliverables when Lucy’s voice comes over the speaker.

“Ms. Burke?”

“Lucy, how many ways do I have to say I’m not to be interrupted?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that you have a phone call.”

“I told you to hold all of my fucking calls. Do I need to write you a memo?”

“No, Ms. Burke. It just… It sounded important.”

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. If I ripped Lucy a new one every time she deserved it, she’d be Swiss cheese.

“Who is it?”

“A Mrs. Mary Ardmore? She sounds upset.”

Shit. Why the fuck is Cris’s mother calling me? No scenario I come up with is good. I’ve never even met the woman. How does she know who I am and where to find me? Hasn’t he violated my privacy and broken the rules enough? When is he going to get it through his thick skull? I don’t want to talk to him. We’re over, and even—no,
especially
—a phone call from his mother—
his mother!
—is not going to change that.
For fuck’s sake, Cris, give it up
. This is excruciating as it is.

But I can’t have her making a scene with Lucy. “Put her through.”

“Yes, Ms. Burke.”

I steel myself before I pick up the phone and do a fair impersonation of collected when I bring the handset to my ear. “Mrs. Ardmore, this is India Burke. What can I do for you?”

“Ms. Burke, I’m sorry to bother you—”

“It’s no bother. What can I do for you?” Despite my words to the contrary, my icy and clipped tone clearly conveys this
is
a bother and she’d best get to the point. The sooner I can get Cris out of my head and move on with my life, the better.

“I’m sorry, it’s only…”

Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t be so mean. She does sound upset.

“Do you know my son?”

Her voice cracks, and a chill of alarm runs down my spine. “Yes… Did something happen to him? Is Cris okay?”

“No,” she chokes, tears in her voice. “He’s been in an accident.”

Thanks for reading
Personal Geography
. I hope you enjoyed it!

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•    You’ve just read the first book in the Compass Series.
Intimate Geography
, the second half of Cris and India’s story, will be coming out in Early 2015. Turn the page for a peek.

Coming Early 2015

Fiercely protective of her heart, India Burke let down her defenses when Cris Ardmore went from another notch on her D/s playdate belt to everything she could never admit she wanted.

But being disowned by your family and betrayed by your lover aren’t easy to get over, and India’s old fears of intimacy creep in against a backdrop of professional drama that forces her return to a place that never really felt like home.

Though she proved her loyalty when it mattered most, love is about more than grand gestures and Cris wants all of her—which may be more than India is able to give. Can Cris and India navigate to a shared future or will they forever be off course?