The Agreement (15 page)

I shook my head and turned away. He did exactly
that, turning to my father. They spoke for a moment and I listened, waiting to
see how clueless my father was.

"Kate said this is a special night for
her."

"Oh, yes, that's right. Katherine used to
go with her mother each year to hear this performed.
Symphony No. 3
by
Gorecki. About the Holocaust. Lost some family on her mother's side in the
camps. Isn't that right, dear?" my father said, leaning over to me, a
blank smile on his face. "Katherine and her mother used to cry like babies
when they listened to it."

I made a face at him and turned away. I wanted
to leave. I didn't want Drake Morgan sitting beside me, gloating that he'd
weaseled his way into my private life despite my attempts to keep him out. Yes,
I had warmed a bit towards him after our little dinner party and how he recited
that poem to me after. He wasn't just an empty cad, devoid of personality.

But I didn't want him there.

He sat silent for a moment so I took out my cell
phone and sent him a text message.

Drake,
please
, can you find some excuse
to leave during the first part of the performance? It has special meaning to me
and I get very emotional. It has to do with my mother. I'd rather you not be
with us. Can't you pretend to get a page about a patient and leave for half an
hour? I'm asking you this as one human to another…
please
…

I sent the text and in a moment, his cell
vibrated and he reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved it.

He read the text. I kept my face forward but I
could tell he was considering. He typed for a moment and then put his cell
away. He spoke with my father, talking about his musical influences, and how he
preferred the acoustic guitar but played the bass because his band needed one.
He spoke of his dad's guitar collection that he kept, something about his
vintage Gibson bass guitar that he played for sentimental reasons, its wood and
frets worn with use.

I checked my phone, but there was no reply. I
sat there, tense, dreading him being there when the performance started. He was
going to ruin it for me and I
hated
him and I hated my completely
clueless father for inviting Drake tonight – of all nights!

Just as the lights went down, Drake's pager went
off, the buzz audible from where I sat. He made a big performance of taking it
off the clip on his belt and checking it.

"Ah,
damn
," he said and showed
it to my father. "Gotta run out for a bit. Have a patient post-op who's
experiencing complications. I'll run back to the hospital and check on him, but
I'll come back as soon as I can."

"That's too bad, Drake. You'll miss the
first part of the performance. That's Katherine's favorite part, isn't it,
dear?" My clueless father turned to me and smiled.

"That's too bad," I said and turned to
Drake, our eyes meeting, his face unreadable. I wanted to thank him, but my
father's attention was riveted to me and so I just smiled weakly.

"I'll be back as soon as I can," Drake
said, staring into my eyes. "I'm sad I'll miss your favorite part."

He stood and patted my father on the shoulder
and then smiled at me briefly before buttoning his jacket and leaving.

I sighed in relief and relaxed back into my
chair.

Gorecki –
Symphony of Sorrowful Songs
–written about the Second World War. The second movement, which Dawn
Upshaw was performing, always made me cry. It included a prayer to the Virgin
Mary inscribed on a cell wall in Zakopane, Poland by an 18-year old girl who
was a prisoner.

I was so glad that Drake left me alone for this
moment, glad he understood the music had special significance to me. I could
tell he didn't like being excluded, but was so relieved that he was willing to
go during the performance.

Upshaw entered the concert hall to cheers, the violinists
tapping their bows against their music stands. She bowed and took her place.
The conductor finally entered after Upshaw, and then, after a brief
introduction, the music began.

The opening phrase was simple – three
notes, the melody haunting, the strings and piano starting out soft and light,
repeating a phrase that was beautiful, almost dreamy. Then the music changed. A
darker note taken up by the double bass, the cellos. It repeated, again and
again like a funeral bell tolling. Upshaw began, her voice mournful, tearful.
She sang in Polish, the lyrics included in both Polish and English in our
program.

Emotion built inside me and I tensed, holding my
breath, biting my bottom lip as Upshaw sang the lyrics, calling to the girl's
mother, asking her not to weep for her daughter. Once, when I used to listen to
this, I thought of the family my mother lost in the camps in Poland, but now, I
could only think of my own loss, my mother dying after a short battle with
aggressive breast cancer. I tried to hold back my tears, but couldn't, and when
she sang the last phrase, her voice raised as she called out to her mother,
they spilled over and dripped down my cheeks. I wiped my eyes quickly with a
hand and then pulled out a tissue from my bag.

I didn't want Drake there beside me, to witness
my tears.

My father was so completely
clueless
as
if he couldn't understand how personal and emotional this moment was for me
– his own
daughter
. This was the first time I heard this since my
mother died.

When Upshaw finished the piece, the applause was
deafening. A standing ovation followed and I glanced around, the tissue to my
mouth, trying to get hold over myself. It was then that I saw Drake. Standing
in an empty box by himself, he had his opera glasses trained on me.

I leaned back, trying to hide in the shadows,
but it was too late. He'd seen me and I wondered how long he'd been watching
me.

Bastard!

Everyone stood, clapping, shouts of "
Brava!
"
from the audience. I remained seated, wiping my eyes, struggling to regain my composure.

I could hardly listen to the rest of the music,
although it was nice and Upshaw was amazing. At intermission, my father
escorted us to the lobby for a drink but I went to the restroom immediately,
hoping to fix my makeup before I had to face Drake. When I left the restroom,
Drake was already with my father and his wife, a circle of my father's friends
surrounding them. He smiled when he saw me. I turned around and went right to
the box, refusing to join them.

Barely a moment after I'd been back, Drake
arrived and sat beside me, turning towards me, his voice soft.

"How are you?"

I averted my face, looking out over the audience
as people began to return to their seats, a tissue twisted in my hands.

"Fine." I said nothing else for a
moment, keeping my focus on the audience. "Thank you for understanding and
leaving."

"You're welcome." He rested his arm on
the back of my seat and turned towards me a bit more. "I've never heard
that piece before. It was…" He paused as if thinking of the right word to
use. "
Devastating
."

I glanced at him, checking to see if he meant
it, and his face was open, honest. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled
out a handkerchief, wetting it with the tip of his tongue. He used the tip to
wipe off my cheek. I tried to pull away, but he took my chin in his hand and
stopped me, rubbing gently at a spot below my eye.

"Here, let me get this," he said, his
voice soft. "Your mascara ran a bit from your tears."

He just
had
to do that – let me
know that he was aware that I'd been crying.

I tried to avoid him, but he turned my face so
that I couldn't. Finally I met his eyes and I just stared into them, and there
was that connection again, passing between us. My emotions were still so close
to the surface, and I felt so vulnerable as if he knew exactly what I was
thinking and feeling.

Then, he leaned in and kissed me softly, his
hands on either side of my face. Just a brief kiss, lips pressed to lips, mouth
on mouth, and it felt as if some barrier between us had broken.

He pulled away, and I felt so confused, scared
to my core. We remained like that, his hands cupping my cheeks, him staring
into my eyes.

My father and Elaine returned and the moment
ended.

Drake pulled his hands away and turned to them,
standing up and welcoming them both back, his hand on my dad's shoulder. I
remained seated, looking away, trying to hide my emotions from all of them, but
I had the sense that Drake knew exactly how I felt.

I sat through the rest of the program but I
heard none of it. He spoiled it for me. All I could think was that he kissed me
– he
kissed
me! I didn't know where he got the nerve, except that
he was a Dom as he so eagerly reminded me earlier. He was a Dom and he always
tried to get his way. Get what he wanted.

I understood completely what he intended by
that.

He wanted me as his sub.

I read the literature. A good Dom pushed his
sub's limits to ensure she continued to expand her ability to respond, to
experience as much as she could, to be as fulfilled in her submission as they
could achieve together. The more she yielded to him, the more they were both
satisfied – until they found her true hard limits. Only then would she
– and he – be completely fulfilled.

I had no idea what my limits were. I knew what
scared me – pain. I knew what I couldn't accept. Humiliation. I could
never go to either place. I would never agree to either.

I
was
aroused by the idea of bondage.
Leather? Restraints? They excited me. The thought of Drake tying me up and then
doing things to me with his hands, his mouth, his cock, making me come the way
the Dom in those letters described – I could take restraints, I could
handle a blindfold. Not a gag – I had this thing about breathing because
I had asthma as a child.

Spanking? I didn't know about that.

It sounded too much like the way you treated a
bad child. I read about how pain was just another sensation that enhanced
sexual response, but there had never been once in my life when pain led to
sexual arousal so I concluded it was just not in me. Luckily, Lara assured me
that Drake was not into pain. He was more into bondage and dominance.
Mind-fucking, Lara called it.

I inhaled deeply and tried to calm myself, for
my heart was racing a bit too fast because of everything. My hands shook just a
bit, and I felt as if I couldn't catch my breath.

I had to leave. I had to get out of there.

I stood and grabbed my bag.

"Excuse me," I managed to whisper as I
crept past Drake to the aisle and out of our box seats to the hallway. I gasped
when I was finally away from them, from
him
and leaned against the wall,
trying to catch my breath.

I started walking and found a side exit. I left
the building completely, standing outside in the November chill, my arms bare,
but the cool air felt good on my skin. I leaned against the building and stared
straight up into the sky. It was clear with a few faint stars peeking through
Manhattan's light pollution.

The door opened beside me.
Drake
…

Damn
him.

"Kate, what on Earth are you doing out
here? It's freezing out, for God's sake."

He grabbed my arm, but I pulled free and stood
my ground. My knees were too shaky to try to walk away, so I just stayed where
I was, leaning against the wall, my arms wrapped around me.

"Just leave me. I need some air."

I closed my eyes, for they were starting to tear
up again and I hated myself for being so weak. For being a stupid female in
front of him. I bit my lip until it hurt and blinked rapidly, turning my face
away from him.

He removed his suit jacket, leaving him in his
crisp white shirt and black tie. Then, he manhandled me, pulling me away from
the wall, wrapping me in his jacket, which smelled of him and was so warm. He
tightened it around me, his face dark.

"There," he said and then he tipped my
face up so that I had to look in his eyes. I tried to avoid him as if he was
some kind of drug, for he was, and I was weak…

Our eyes finally met and I felt this jolt of
something go through me from my chest to my groin.

"Oh, fuck,
Kate
," he said
almost groaning. He pressed against me, his hips pinning me to the wall, his
arms on the bricks beside my head. He kissed me, and it wasn’t the kiss he gave
me earlier in the concert hall, soft and tender. It was passionate, his mouth
harsh against mine, his lips parting, his tongue finding mine, searching my
mouth. One hand slipped behind my head, the other tangled in my hair, which he
pulled out of its clip so that it fell around my shoulders.

The kiss went on and on, my heart racing, his
thigh jammed between mine. He dropped his hand to my breasts, his fingers
caressing the tops of them, his mouth moving to my neck beneath my ear, his
tongue wet against my skin. When his hand moved lower to hike up my skirt, his
hand stroking my leg up as if in search of garters, I emerged from the
lust-filled stupor.