[English] The Siren

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“Might I ask where you are going thusly attired?” J.P. asked.

“Jail. Obviously.” The elevator door opened and Zach stepped inside. He smiled at J.P. knowing full well that’s exactly what Nora would have done. “It’s just about the book.”

If it was possible, J.P.’s eyebrow seemed to arch even higher.

“It’s never just about the book, Easton.”

* * *

When he put her in the handcuffs, she knew she was in trouble. The third time they ever saw each other she was wearing handcuffs. She wore them not for reasons of kink but of law enforcement. It was raining that night when she got caught for the first and last time. When she arrived at the police station and the cop pulled her out of the squad car, he was standing there just behind her mother. What was he doing here? she asked herself and then realized her mother must have called him out of fear and desperation. What a sight she was that night—soaked to the skin, bedraggled, wearing her school uniform with her hands cuffed behind her back. She’d glared at him from behind the veil of her wet hair, and he looked back at her with ironic amusement. But that wasn’t the only look in his eyes. There was something else there, something it would take years before she fully understood.

She understood it now.

She sat on the floor gagged and handcuffed to the bedpost. In forced silence, she leaned back and watched him. A young woman with pink and blue hair was strapped spread-eagle to a St. Andrew’s cross. With a cat-o’-nine-tails he tattooed the girl’s back bright red with welts. The girl squirmed and cried out. She begged him to stop. He didn’t stop.

After a few minutes the beating ceased. He laid the cat aside and strode over to where she sat on the floor. He knelt in front of her and ordered her to meet his eyes.

“Are you ready to apologize now?” he asked her. “Or shall I continue beating Simone?”

The only thing worse than one of his beatings was being forced to watch while someone else took the punishment that was rightfully hers. She slowly nodded her head.

“Good girl,” he said. He stood up and walked over to the girl on the cross. He unbound her wrists and ankles. Simone stepped gingerly off the platform and knelt on the floor. She kissed the top of his bare feet and rose up again. He bent his head and in a voice too low to overhear, whispered something in her ear. The girl blushed and smiled. She asked for permission to kiss his hand. He granted it.

Simone kissed the center of his palm, gathered her clothes and left the room. They were alone again.

He walked back to her and squatted in front of her. He untied the gag and waited.

“You have something to say to me?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” She took a ragged breath. “I’m sorry I forgot to call, sir. I apologize for worrying you. I was so tired when I got home I went straight to bed.”

“It takes mere seconds to call and let me know you arrived home. You are my most treasured possession. Your value to me is beyond what you can conceive. It is my duty to protect you. You know my rules. And you know better than to flout them.”

She hated when she disappointed him. But it wasn’t her fault she was so tired. He’d kept her up until

3:00 a.m. beating her and f**king her over and over again. It had taken everything she had to just make it to her bed that night. She knew she’d worried him when she hadn’t called. But it was galling to be treated like a teenager with a curfew. She’d refused to apologize at first. She was twenty-six years old, for God’s sake.

“Forgive me, please. I’ll do anything.”

He raised his eyebrow and she knew she’d made a mistake.

“Anything?”

Her stomach fell through the floor.

An antique black rotary phone sat on a table in his private quarters. He only ever used it for one purpose. He used it for that purpose now.

She didn’t look up when the door opened. She knew from the shoes who it was who’d entered. Black riding boots. Men’s riding boots.

She shouldn’t have said “anything.”

He returned to her and released her from the floor. He didn’t remove the handcuffs, though. He kept her hands cuffed behind her back. He’d made her wear her old school uniform tonight in honor of the first time he’d seen her in handcuffs.

He unbuttoned her blouse and pushed it roughly off her shoulders. His mouth crashed onto hers and he kissed her until her lips were sore and swollen. He kissed his way down her neck and across her shoulders and br**sts, leaving a trail of bite marks and bruises. He pushed her onto her back on the bed and wrenched her skirt up to her hips. He yanked her white cotton panties down her legs, over her white knee socks and saddle shoes. His fingers pushed inside her and spread her wide for him. He gripped her arm and shoved her onto her stomach. She felt his hands between her legs again separating her, prying her open. She braced herself and groaned as he pushed inside her. He rode her with fierce thrusts that left her gasping. She didn’t want to moan or cry out. Not with an audience standing at the foot of the bed smiling and watching everything he did to her. But he wrenched the cries from her. She pressed her face into the bed and bit the coverlet trying to stifle the sound of her climax.

He kept thrusting and she was close to her second humiliating orgasm when he came inside her with a ferocious final thrust. She whimpered as he pulled out of her. She rolled onto her side and brought her legs up to her chest. Now they were both looking at her.

The man in the riding boots strolled toward her. He crawled onto the bed.

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“Sir, please,” she begged.

“You did say anything.”

She swallowed and nodded.

“Yes, sir.”

The man in the riding boots took her by the ankle and dragged her toward him.

“C’est à moi,” the man said as he opened his pants. He pushed inside her and she raised her hips to take him deeper.

My turn.

Nora turned her head and checked the clock. Zach would probably be here soon. She laughed to herself at the thought of Zach getting stuck in handcuffs. How or why he’d been playing with handcuffs she could only begin to imagine. But knowing that ***y stuffed shirt of an Englishman there was no way he ended up in them for any of the reasons she ever had.

She stared at the words on her screen—C’est à moi, she read again and sighed. She exited from the document without saving it then stood up and headed to the living room.

Wesley lay stretched out on the couch with a chemistry textbook balanced on his chest and a highlighter between his teeth. He looked so warm and comfortable in his battered jeans and bleached-white socks and the double layer of T-shirts that she just wanted to stretch out on top of him and fall asleep on his chest. She was deliriously relieved he was home. But as happy as she was to have him back, she worried he was going to make himself sick again. He was supposed to start giving himself his insulin shots in his stomach, but he hadn’t been able to make himself do it yet.

“You catching up on your homework?” she asked.

Wesley spit the highlighter out.

“Yeah. I’ve got three days of make-up work. I know what I’ll be doing this weekend.”

“Don’t work too hard. I want to see nothing but decadent laziness on your part.”

“I think I can handle that. Where are you going?” he asked as she pulled her coat on.

“Across the street. Zach’s coming over. When you’re done laughing at him, just send him over. Tell him to go in and look up.”

Wesley eyed her suspiciously.

“Why would I laugh at Zach?”

She bent down and kissed him on the forehead.

“You’ll see.”

* * *

Zach hopped the train and headed north to Nora’s. But when he knocked on the door it was Wesley who answered.

“Feeling better?” Zach asked.

“Much. Puking your guts out then fainting in a library bathroom is no way to spend a Monday night.”

“Agreed. Nora seems quite pleased to have you back. You gave her quite the scare.”

“It’s only fair. She scares me half to death at least once a week.” Zach laughed but Wesley’s eyes showed no mirth.

“You’re looking mostly restored.” Zach envied the boy his youth. Three days in the hospital and Wesley still looked hearty and hale.

“Nora said I looked ‘fit to be tied up.’ I’m hoping she didn’t mean it literally.”

“Apparently someone meant it literally with me,” Zach said, pulling his hand out of his pocket and showing Wesley the handcuffs dangling from his wrist.

Wesley laughed at him and Zach couldn’t help but join in. It really was quite embarrassing and ridiculous.

“Don’t feel bad, Zach,” Wesley said when he was done laughing. “Nora made me help her with a scene once. I ended up hog-tied on the living-room floor for half an hour.”

Now it was Zach’s turn to laugh. Was there any woman in the world quite like Nora? He was so glad she existed; even more glad there was only one of her.

“Where is Nora, by the way? She’s going to try to help get these things off me.”

“If anyone can, it’s her. She wants you to meet her at church.”

“Church?”

Wesley stood on the threshold of Nora’s house with his arms crossed over his chest. He reached out and pointed to a building on the corner of the block.

“There. Go in. Look up. You’ll find her.”

Wesley shut the door and Zach crossed the street and reached the end of the block. Zach read the sign out in front of the church. St. Luke’s Catholic Church, it said with the mass schedule underneath.

With trepidation, Zach slipped through the front doors of the small neo-Renaissance church. Apart from attending the weddings of a few friends he’d rarely stepped inside a church before. And he was certain this was his first time in a Catholic sanctuary. He glanced at the dripping candles and the stained-glass scenes of violence. In this setting the imagery in Nora’s books made more sense.

Go in, look up, Wesley had instructed.

Zach strode to the center of the sanctuary and looked up.

“I’m up here, Zach.”

Zach glanced up and found Nora at the back of the church leaning over the ledge of a small balcony section.

“What are you doing up there?” he asked, trying to keep his voice low. The acoustics were so good he felt as if he shouted every word.

“Choir practice. Show me the damage.” Zach pulled his hand out of his pocket and held up his wrist to show her the dangling handcuffs.

“My, my, my…” She sighed, affecting a Southern drawl she no doubt stole from Wesley. “I see temptation has come a knockin’ and you have answered the door…”

“Hardly, Blanche DuBois. I have a rather irksome prankster at my office. This was his pathetic attempt at a joke.”

“Well, come on up. Let’s see what we can do.”

Zach found the tiny stairwell that led to the loft. In the loft he found smaller versions of the church’s pews and an ancient-looking sound system. Nora sat on the balcony ledge and pointed to the pew in front of her.

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“Come here, Kinky Easton.” She beckoned. “Amateur. You know you should always do an equipment check before you play.”

Today Nora wore jeans and a white blouse. With her hair down and loose about her shoulders, Zach was drawn to her despite himself. She reached for his hand and he felt a current go through him when her fingers touched his wrist.

“So what do you think?” he asked, trying to ignore the pleasant sensation of his hand in hers. “Some sort of wire cutters? Or can you pick the lock?”

“I can pick it. But I don’t have to.”

Nora reached into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out her keys. She flipped through a couple of them, stuck one in the lock and turned it. The cuffs popped open and fell off his wrist.

“Wonderful,” he breathed. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” She stuffed the keys back in her pocket and picked up the cuffs. “These are police issue cuffs. The key on them should have worked.”

“It didn’t. Both Mary and I tried.”

“Your prankster was really trying to cause trouble then. Handcuffs are mostly standardized in America and Canada. He wanted one or both of you to get stuck.”

“You know your stuff, don’t you?” he asked, impressed despite himself.

“I strive for authenticity in my work.”

“So that’s why you keep a handcuff key with you?”

She smiled slyly.

“Gotta be prepared. We guttersnipes are always ending up in trouble with the coppers.”

“You know, I should apologize for being so rude about you. The work is going rather well.”

The tiredness temporarily disappeared from her eyes.

“Thanks, Zach. I appreciate that.”

“Don’t thank me yet. We aren’t even close to the finish line.”

“I know. That’s why I came here. This is a good place for praying and me***ating.”

“Praying? Really?”

“I grew up in the Catholic Church, believe it or not. Cradle Catholic, they call us. I was probably born in a pew. Knowing my father I was probably conceived in one, as well. I don’t attend Mass much these days, but I do get homesick now and then.”

“They must stand in line to hear your confessions.”

Nora released a hollow, joyless laugh.

“No,” she said, not quite meeting his eyes. “I don’t go to confession anymore.”

“So what brings you here then if you’re no longer practicing? Faith or just nostalgia?”

“Maybe it’s nostalgia for my faith.” She shrugged and laughed again. “I still believe. I do. My life has been too blessed not to believe. Faith just isn’t as easy as it used to be. Not since I left Søren anyway.”

“Was it easier with him?”

Nora nodded. “It’s easy to believe in God when you wake up every morning knowing you are completely and uncon***ionally loved. Søren gave me that.”

“But still you left him. Why?”

“There are only two reasons why you leave someone you’re still in love with—either it’s the right thing to do, or it’s the only thing to do.”

“Which was it?”

Nora exhaled slowly. “The right thing. I think. You?”

Zach turned his head and saw an icon of the Virgin Mary holding the infant Jesus in her arms.

“The only thing. I think. Suffice it to say Grace and I never should have been together to start with.”

“Sounds like me and Søren. We definitely shouldn’t have been together.”

“Why?” Maybe if he could find out why Nora left the man she loved so deeply, he could begin to understand why Grace had pulled away from him.

“He had—” Nora paused and seemed to search for the right word “—other obligations.”

“Is he married?”

She raised her hand and touched her neck. He followed her eyes. She gazed at a small iron Jesus impaled on his cross.

“Something like that.” She shook herself from her reverie and met Zach’s eyes again. “Come on. Let’s get back to the house. You can look over my new chapters.” Nora gave Zach her hand and he let her pull him up. But she didn’t stop with up. She pulled him straight to her.

Face-to-face, their bodies were only separated by a hairbreadth. Nora looked down and back up again.

“Oh, dear. No room for the Holy Ghost.”

“You are incorrigible, Ms. Sutherlin.” Zach’s smile died as he noticed the dark circles under Nora’s eyes. “You look exhausted. Are you not sleeping?”

“I’m fine. But last night I kept waking up every hour and going in to check on Wes. You know, I got an IUD so I would never have to do the ‘is junior still breathing?’ thing. This is very unfair.”

“IUD—you are a bad Catholic, aren’t you?”

“The birth control is the least of my worries if I ever have to answer to the pope,” she said, taking a step back. “I do as Martin Luther instructed—I sin boldly.”

He followed her down the steps and along the rows of pews to a side entrance he hadn’t seen when he came in. Inside the door was a foyer where Nora had left her coat.

“Do they make the sinners use the side door?” he asked.

“We’d all have to use the side door then. ‘All have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God.’ Romans 3:23.”

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“A Bible-quoting erotica writer—you are quite the oxymoron,” Zach said.

“And a Moxie Whore-On sometimes.” Nora winked at him. “If it helps, Søren used to say Catholicism was the perfect faith for someone into SM.”

“Why?”

Nora opened her mouth and closed it again as if she started to say something and then thought better of it.

“Show, don’t tell,” she said, taking his arm.

Together they walked back into the sanctuary taking another doorway on the opposite side that opened up to a long corridor. The walls of the corridor were adorned with framed prints of biblical scenes. Scenes from the Hebrew Bible were on his right—images that he remembered from his childhood in Hebrew school; he recognized Ruth and Naomi, Jacob’s Ladder, the Crossing of the Red Sea, among others. On his left were scenes from the New Testament—images far less familiar to him. Nora brought him to the end of the hall and stopped in front of the third print from the end.

“This one’s my favorite,” she said, still holding his arm. “Antonio Ciseri’s Ecce Homo. That’s ‘Behold the Man’ if you aren’t up on your Latin.”

“A tad rusty. Is this from the Crucifixion?”

“From the Passion. This is when Christ is being presented to the angry mob.”

“Ah, yes. When we bloodthirsty Jews killed Jesus, right?”

Nora smiled and shook her head. “You kidding? Jesus died for the sins of the world. Everyone who ever lived killed Jesus.” She paused and smiled sadly. “I killed Him.”

Zach said nothing as he studied the painting, struck by the artist’s choice of bright colors to paint such a dark scene.

“Søren has this impressively twisted theology of the Trinity, you know. God the Father inflicted the suffering and humiliation, God the Son submitted to it willingly and God the Holy Spirit gave Christ the grace to endure it.”

“Your Søren sounds…interesting,” Zach said, attempting to be diplomatic.

“He was never my Søren. That’s the one thing about being a collared submissive. I was his. He never was mine. But yes, he is interesting. The most caring sadist you could ever hope to meet.”

“But you loved him?”

“And I loved him,” she corrected. “Søren said Jesus was the only man who ever made him feel humble. He makes me feel humble, too.”

“Søren or Jesus?”

But Nora didn’t answer. Instead, she released Zach’s arm and stepped toward the print.

“Just look at it. Look at Him. Isn’t He the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen, Zach?” She’d said his name but from the ethereal tone of her voice, it seemed as if she were talking to herself instead. “It’s the Praetorium. Pilate was a kind of Roman overseer of Jerusalem. He was trying to keep a very fragile peace so instead of immediately sentencing Christ to die, he orders Him to be scourged. Scourging meant a near fatal beating with a whip that had glass and bone and rocks embedded in the lashes. It was a serious punishment. He hoped that would satisfy the mob’s bloodlust. But look at the painting—no wounds. The skin of his back looks perfect. But supposedly He’s just been brutally, viciously whipped. Ciseri is emphasizing Christ’s beauty, not His beating. He’s showing Christ’s feminine side. Admittedly it’s very inaccurate, I know. Almost all depictions of the crucifixion are inaccurate. That little loincloth they always show Jesus wearing? Didn’t exist. Victims of crucifixion were stripped completely naked to add to their shame and humiliation. Artists can’t bring themselves to show just how fully human Jesus was.”

Zach said nothing, strangely spellbound by Nora’s words.

“Just imagine what this was like for Him, Zach.” Nora shook her head as if she couldn’t imagine it herself. “We talk about the Virgin Mary, but Jesus never married. He was a virgin, too. And there He was completely naked on display for the whole world to see, and right in front of Him is Mary Magdalene, who was his best friend, and His poor mother. His mother, Zach. He must have been so embarrassed, so humiliated. See these two women here. They get it.”

Zach glanced at the painting and then at Nora.

“Look how Ciseri painted Jesus. See the curve of His back and shoulders. It is a classic feminine posture. His hands are tied behind His back and His robe is falling over His hips. And all the men are just pointing and staring and gawking. But the women—see them?—they can’t bear it. One’s looking down and she—” Nora pointed at a female figure who was turned completely away from the horrible scene unfolding behind her “—she can’t even look. She has to hold on to the other woman just to keep from collapsing. And of all of them, she’s the only one whose whole face we can see.”

Nora fell into silent contemplation again and Zach watched her eyes. They were fixed on the two women in the foreground, huddled together in palpable distress. “They know what He’s feeling. The women always know. They know it isn’t just a beating or a murder they’re being forced to witness. It wasn’t even just a crucifixion. It was a ***ual assault, Zach. It was a rape.”

Nora took a deep breath and Zach felt his own breath catch in his chest. He wanted to say something but didn’t trust himself to speak yet.

“That’s why I believe, Zach,” Nora continued. “Because of all gods, Jesus alone understands. He understands the purpose of pain and shame and humiliation.”

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“What is the purpose?” Zach asked, truly wanting to know.

Nora’s eyes returned to the two women in the foreground clinging to each other in sympathy and horror.

“For salvation, of course. For love.”

11

“You think I’m so damn obedient,” Caroline said as she pulled away from William. She stood at the window looking out on their backyard where just yesterday they had sat and talked until dusk. If only there were more yesterdays instead of so many todays.

“You’ve never given me cause for complaint.” She heard the confusion in his voice.

“It’s always ‘yes, sir’ and ‘no, sir’ and ‘as you wish, sir.’ But it’s not out of obedience.”

“Then what is it, Caroline?”

She didn’t want to answer. But she knew she couldn’t keep lying to him with her every breath.

“Fear.”

“Of what?”

“Of this…game you make us play. It isn’t a game to you, though, is it?”

He came to stand behind her. She braced herself but he didn’t touch her.

“No, it isn’t. For me this is very real.”

“I want it to be a game…so much,” Caroline admitted. “Games can be won. You win the game and the game’s over. And I want it to end.”

“It can end,” William said, his voice soft with sadness. “If you stop playing.”

“But I can’t. If I quit playing…” She didn’t finish the sentence, couldn’t bring herself to finish it.

“Then neither of us will ever win.” William said what she’d been afraid to say.

“So what’s the consolation prize?” she asked, trying and failing to find a smile for him.

William bent and rested his chin on the top of her head. He wrapped his arms around her and she sank into him and closed her eyes. This game had an hourglass for a timer and she saw the sand running out.

“I don’t think there is one.”

* * *

God, it was wrenching. Zach minimized the document and pushed back from his computer. He stood and walked around his office. Stopping at the window, he stared out at the city and the sky. Today was a gray day, cold and windy. It had been windy the day he’d left England: a sea wind, warm and fierce, and Zach recalled waiting at the airport almost hoping his flight would be canceled or even just delayed long enough for Grace to realize he really was going. But the wind had failed him that day. It had carried him aloft instead of forcing him aground. Sailors’ wives once had little balconies on their roofs. What were they called? Widow’s walks. That was it. Yes, the widow’s walk, the place where they could go alone and stare out to sea and watch and wait. He envied them their macabre station. At least they could see the ship coming in. At least they had a place to hide their grief every day it didn’t.

Zach stared at the sky and wished he could see all the way across the gray ocean. Gray was Grace’s favorite color. She joked it was “like silver only sadder,” and he’d tease her about all the gray sweaters in her closet, the dozens of gray woolen socks. Grace would have loved a morning like this. She would have opened the curtains, opened the blinds and dragged him back to bed with her to make hasty love before the sun intruded and changed the color of the day.

Tearing his eyes from the sky, he looked down at the gray streets below. Supposedly from this height everyone was supposed to look like ants. But they didn’t look like ants to him at all. They still looked like people. He leaned his head against the glass and watched their progress. He was afraid for them and didn’t know why.

Nora…was she why? When he’d made her cut the more graphic scenes of ***ual violence from her book she’d replaced them with emotional violence. Now everywhere he looked he saw people as fragile as paper.

Nora’s book had impressed him more than he wanted to admit. Most impressively she had turned the romance novel formula on its head. One of the cardinal rules of classic romance was that at no point, no matter how infuriating the heroine was and no matter how much the hero wanted to throttle her, he could never, would never raise his hand to her. But William was a sadist and used pain to prove his love. And where the romance novel began with the two characters trying to come together against forces both internal and external, Nora’s novel began with them together and then let the forces slowly, torturously tear them apart. She was writing the antiromance novel.

Zach let his eyes focus on one of the small figures below him on the street. He couldn’t tell if it was a man or a woman. He or she bustled across the street in a great hurry. He wondered if this was why Nora was drawn to religion despite herself. The Pagan gods sat on high and played with their subjects like pieces on a chessboard. Nora’s god turned Himself into a pawn and let Himself be captured. He could see the attraction. Zach wanted to run down to the street below and follow whoever it was until he was certain he or she made it on time. He wanted to know everything turned out fine for at least one person in the gray city today.

Zach pulled away from the window and faced his desk again. As he returned to his computer he remembered Nora’s original first line from the first draft of her novel—“I don’t want to write this story any more than you want to read it.” He realized it wasn’t just William speaking to Caroline. It was Nora talking to him.

He sat down and opened Nora’s revisions again. He made himself keep reading. As much as it hurt, he had to know what happened next.

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* * *

Nora sat at her kitchen table writing furiously in her notebook. She’d given up on her computer a few hours ago. Her wrists were aching from typing, but she still had another chapter in her head she wanted to get on paper. After her long talk with Zach yesterday at church, she’d come home newly inspired. She had made a terrible mistake with her characters in her first draft. In the original ending of her book, Caroline was no longer able to bear William’s darkness. In the original ending, Caroline left him. But Nora realized she’d done Caroline a great wrong. She was no ***ual masochist; she was an emotional masochist and never would she leave the man she loved, the man she was certain needed her help. No, in the new ending William, out of love for her, would send her away. It was beautiful and brutal and how it had to end. William had told her that and she knew better than to cross him.

Wesley had spent the past two hours with her at the kitchen table catching up on more make-up work while she wrote. She wasn’t worried about his homework. Wesley had a shockingly keen mind under that mess of blond hair and had made Dean’s List all three semesters he’d been at Yorke. She’d made Dean’s List once when she was in college. Søren had ordered her to just to annoy her. Just to annoy him, she’d done it. Wesley was a natural hard worker, however, and didn’t need anyone telling him to do his homework or study. She told him once he could never be a writer like she was. He wasn’t nearly lazy enough.

Wesley… Nora looked up and around the kitchen. Wesley had left over twenty minutes ago to check his blood sugar and take his insulin—something that usually took less than a minute—before he started cooking dinner. Nora went looking for him and found him leaning over the downstairs’ bathroom sink.

“You okay, Wes?” she asked, trying to keep the panic out of her voice.

Wesley laughed and shook his head.

“You know, I have ridden some of the biggest, meanest, scariest stallions on the planet. You wouldn’t think a little needle in my stomach would bother me this much.”

Relieved that he wasn’t sick again, Nora exhaled and entered the bathroom. Wesley stood up straight and she hopped up on the counter next to the sink.

“Still can’t do it?”

“Nope. I think I have a mental block.”

“I can help with mental blocks.”

Wesley shook his head. “I have to do it myself, or I’ll never get over this.”

“You will do it yourself. You handle the needle. I’ll handle the mental block. What’s our target?”

Wesley pointed to a spot on the center of his stomach a hand’s span beneath the bottom of his rib cage.

“Dr. Singh said I’m supposed to think of my stomach like a clock face when I rotate my injections. I start at noon for the first one and then move an inch for the second one. That way I’m not going to hit the same spot over and over again.”

Nora nodded. “Clock face, huh?” She reached out and lifted the bottom of Wesley’s T-shirt. He’d lost weight in the hospital so now his four-pack abdomen was a stark six-pack. He had nothing left on his frame but muscle. She let loose a wolf-whistle. “***iest clock I’ve ever seen.”

“Nora,” Wesley said and pulled his shirt back down. He was blushing. “Stop it.”

“Wesley, you walk around the house without a shirt on all the time. Proof that you’re a secret sadist, I think.”

Wesley grimaced and Nora laughed.

“I am not a sadist. I’m nothing like him.”

“You are a lot like him.” She thought it was cute how Wesley tried to never say Søren’s name. “You both worry about me too much.”

“Anyone who’s ever met you worries about you,” Wesley countered.

“And you’re both blonds. Except you’ve got dark blond hair and his is light blond.”

“Well, he’s Swedish or whatever.”

“Danish. His mother was Danish and his father was English. Between the two of them, he’s the least American American I’ve ever met. Another thing you two have in common—you’re both musicians.”

Wesley eyed her suspiciously. “Does he play guitar, too?”

“Piano. He could have been a concert pianist, but now he just plays for fun.”

“He’s one of those perfect guys, right?” Wesley asked, crossing his arms. “His hair’s never messed up, he never spills anything, never trips.”

Nora nodded. “If that’s your definition of perfect, he does qualify. I’ve lost track of the number of languages he speaks. And he can be very witty and charming when he wants to be. And he’s ludicrously handsome. He’s also pretentious and conceited.”

Wesley grinned at her. “Keep going.”

“And he’s never ridden a horse in his life much less some of the biggest, meanest, scariest stallions on the planet. And,” she said, reaching out for Wesley’s T-shirt again, “he doesn’t make me laugh and smile every single day like a certain someone I know.”

Wesley raised his arms and Nora pulled his T-shirt off. Just to make it fair she unbuttoned her blouse and let it join Wesley’s shirt on the floor. Wesley seemed to be trying very hard not to stare at her wearing just her jeans and bra.

“So we’re shooting for here?” she asked and touched a spot on his stomach a few inches above Wesley’s belly button.

“Yeah. That’s noon.”

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“Gotcha.” She flicked noon with her fingers hard enough Wesley flinched.

“Ouch!” He laughed. Nora flicked again.

“What are you doing?”

“In SM, if you’re about to give someone a beating, you start off soft to desensitize the skin. A little pain at first can prevent a lot of pain later.” She kept flicking until their target spot had turned bright red.

“This might be worse than the needle.”

Nora looked at him and raised her eyebrows.

“Okay, I see what you did there,” Wesley said and Nora finally stopped flicking him. “Now what?”

“Take this and turn around,” she ordered, handing him his insulin pen. “Lean back against me.”

Wesley turned his back to her and Nora wrapped her arms around him. His young skin was smooth and warm, and when the swell of her br**sts made contact with his back, she sensed him shiver. She reminded herself she was trying to help him, not seduce him.

“Okay, look down at my hands.” Her hands were on his rib cage. “Breathe in so deeply that you inflate your lungs like a balloon and my fingers spread apart.”

Wesley took a deep breath as instructed and Nora felt her hands open up.

“Now exhale slowly for five seconds and then breathe in again.”

Wesley obeyed, taking another breath in and then exhaling one more time.

“This time,” she said, “breathe in just as deeply but when you exhale, pop the air out hard and stick the needle in. I’ll count to five and then you pull it out.”

One more time Wesley pulled in air. “Now blow it out hard,” Nora said.

Wesley pushed the air from his lungs and from the tiny flinch she felt she knew he’d stuck himself.

She counted to five slowly and dropped a small kiss on his back between each number. At five he pulled the needle out.

He turned around and beamed at her.

“That’s my boy,” she said, and Wesley hugged her.

“That wasn’t as horrible as I thought it would be.”

“It’s a good trick,” Nora said as Wesley released her. “Works if you get a body piercing, too. I speak from experience.” Wesley had never seen where she was pierced.

“No, thanks. The tattoo was enough for me.”

Nora’s eyes widened with shock.

“What? You have a tattoo?”

Wesley groaned.

“Yes, I have a tattoo. A little one.”

“Wesley—you’re telling me that you had a mental block over injecting insulin in your stomach but you got a tattoo?”

“I didn’t have to give myself the tattoo. And believe me, I didn’t watch.”

Nora pursed her lips and looked him up and down.

“Well, I’ve seen you shirtless and I’ve seen you in boxers so it’s got be somewhere in this area.” She pointed at his pelvic region and Wesley blushed again. Caught. “I knew it. Show me, show me.”

“I am not going to show you. It’s stupid.”

“I’ll show you my piercing.”

“How about I show you my tattoo and you don’t show me your piercing. Deal?”

“My idea was better but whatever. Show me.”

Wesley exhaled loudly through his nose and started unbuttoning his jeans. Nora applauded. Rolling his eyes at her, Wesley pulled down his jeans and boxers just enough to reveal a small tattoo on his right hip. Nora leaned over and looked at it.

“It’s a trumpet,” she said, surprised by the strange image.

“It’s the bugle from the call to post at Churchill Downs for the Kentucky Derby. One of the horses Dad worked with did really well at the Derby a couple of years ago. He got the horse’s name tattooed on his shoulder. When I turned eighteen, I got the bugle. I only got it on my hip so Mom wouldn’t see it.”

“It’s very ***y.” Nora reached out and traced the tattoo with the tip of her finger. Wesley inhaled as her finger touched the sensitive skin. He was so responsive to everything she did that she couldn’t help but wonder what he’d be like in bed. But she didn’t kid herself. She knew his responsiveness had very little to do with her and a lot to do with his being nineteen and still a virgin.

“It’s not supposed to be ***y. It’s a tribute to the most important horse race in the world.”

Wesley pulled his boxers back up and buttoned his jeans.

“So the Kentucky Derby’s a big deal?” Nora asked. “Must be if I’ve heard of it.”

“It’s the most exciting two minutes in sports.”

“Two minutes?” she scoffed. “I better get a dozen roses and a big apology if all I get is two minutes.”

“It’s a very long two minutes if you have a horse in the race. It’s not just that race, though. The whole thing lasts all day. There are races before and then all the people watching and the women in their crazy hats and everybody’s drunk on mint juleps, which are disgusting if you ask me, but don’t tell anyone I said that.” Wesley looked at her and took a quick little breath. “You should come with me this year.”

Nora raised her chin and studied Wesley. He didn’t quite meet her gaze.

“Did you just ask me out on a date, Wes Railey?”

“Nora, we live together. Asking you on a date would kind of be a step backward.”

“Yes, but we’re roommates. We don’t live together. And don’t you think it’ll be a little hard to keep the erotica-writer-roommate thing a secret if I show up with you wearing a sombrero at the Kentucky Derby?”

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Wesley reached down and picked up their shirts off the floor. He pulled his T-shirt on, but Nora was in no hurry to get dressed. She enjoyed watching Wesley trying not to watch her too much.

“I sort of told Dad about you.”

“You’re kidding. Did he freak out?”

“I didn’t go into detail. I just sort of let him think I had a girlfriend so he’d really back me up about not moving home. He was starting to get worried his son was, you know—”

“A stallion not interested in mares?”

Wesley laughed. “Right. He was thrilled.”

“I never figured you for a liar. I’m impressed.”

“I didn’t lie. You’re a girl who’s a friend ergo—”

“Girlfriend. Well, if I’m going to be your girlfriend, this virginity thing has got to go. But after dinner,” she said and finally pulled her blouse back on.

She started to leave the bathroom but Wesley grabbed her hand.

“You didn’t say if you’d go with me or not.”

Nora smiled up at him. She couldn’t believe how serious Wesley was being.

“Yes, Wes. I will go with you to the most exciting two minutes in sports. When is it?”

“First Saturday in May.”

“I’ll book the flight. You get the tickets.”

“I already have the tickets. I go every year. My family would cancel Christmas before they missed the Derby. I only missed last year because of finals. No school in Central Kentucky would ever hold a final on Derby Day.”

“We’re all damned Yankees up here, aren’t we?”

“I like you Yankees. Y’all talk funny.”

Nora twined her fingers in his and studied him. Since getting out of the hospital, he’d seemed older, calmer, more sure of himself. And he also seemed more intent on spending time with her. He read in her office while she wrote. When she moved from her office to the kitchen, he went with her. She liked having him as a shadow. Since getting him back home she’d wished more than a few times that they were lovers so they could sleep in the same bed. As much as he shadowed her by day, she shadowed him at night. Ever since he came home from the hospital, she found herself waking up several times a night to make sure he was okay. She’d half considered getting a baby monitor and hiding it under his bed.

Nora took a step toward him and heard the devil on her shoulder telling her to kiss him, really kiss him for the first time. She tried to hear the angel on her shoulder but she remembered her angel had long ago turned in his letter of resignation. She wrapped an arm around Wesley’s neck and rose on tiptoes.

From the kitchen came the unmistakable sound of her hotline phone blaring its Klaxon ringtone at her. Wesley sighed and rested his chin on top of her head.

“It’s okay,” Nora said and kissed him quick on the cheek. She still had a lot of writing to do for Zach, and it would take a whole team of stallions to drag her away from Wesley tonight. She leaned into Wesley’s chest, and he wrapped his arms around her. “Just let it ring.”

12

Four weeks left…

What the hell was he doing?

Zach wondered how many times since meeting Nora he’d asked himself that question. He was getting into double digits at least. He paid his cabdriver and faced Wordsworth’s Bookshelf, the venue for Nora’s book-signing today. He shouldn’t be here. Saturnalia wasn’t even a Royal House title. The previous books didn’t matter, but for some reason Nora was starting to.

Zach entered through the grand double doors and found the signing area at the back of the store. It was a small sort of stage with a table and a chair roped off on three sides. Wesley stood on the platform talking to a man in his fifties with a kind face and absolutely no hair on his head. Zach stepped inside the roped off area. A table sat in front of a wall and was stacked high with copies of Nora’s most recent bestseller. The bald man excused himself to fetch a pitcher of water and a glass.

“Nice tie,” Zach said to Wesley. “Quite natty.”

“Natty—British compliment, right?”

“Right.”

“Nora’s orders. Not really a tie guy.”

“Her orders? Where is our autocrat anyway?”

“Hiding somewhere. Her last book with Libretto came out two months ago. This is her last event for them. She loathes these things.”

“As extroverted as she is, I would have thought signings would be her forte.”

“She’s all bark, Zach.” Wesley’s eyes scanned the crowd that was beginning to form behind the red ropes. “Being around a lot of people bothers her when she’s not in total control of the situation.”

“Control freak, is she?”

Wesley pointed to his chest.

“Note the tie.”

Zach laughed at Wesley’s disgusted, but amused face. It still seemed strange and uncomfortable that Wesley was so devoted to a woman so much older than he. He knew how dangerous romantic hero-worship could be.

“Looks like it’s about to start,” Zach said as the bald man put the pitcher and glass on the signing table. Zach counted about forty or fifty people already in the queue and more joining by the minute. “Should I go fetch our elusive author?”

“Would you mind? I want to stay here and keep an eye on things.”

Zach noticed Wesley paying close attention to the people waiting for Nora. Wesley’s eyes studied every man in line. There were more men than Zach would have expected. Erotica was usually marketed as a subgenre of romance and yet there were at least a half a dozen adult men and a few teenage boys in the line holding shiny new copies of Nora’s latest release.

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“Worried about the fans?” Zach asked.

“You would be, too, if you had to open the fan mail.”

“Point taken. I’ll go find Nora. Any suggestions?”

Wesley met the eyes of one young man in the crowd. Zach noted nothing particularly menacing about him although he did seem nervous and impatient and was casting envious glances at him and Wesley standing inside the ropes. He wore an army-green jacket and heavy combat boots. Not the typical romance fan. But then again, nothing about Nora or her books was particularly typical.

“Try upstairs,” Wesley suggested. “The kids’ section.”

Zach had trouble accepting the idea that Nora would be hiding with Winnie the Pooh and Harry Potter. Of course, he would never have imagined her hiding in a church, either. He took the escalator to the second level and followed dinosaur footprints painted on the carpet that led him to a brightly colored alcove. He turned a corner at the picture books and heard a familiar raucous laugh.

On a tiny stage Nora sat with a book in her hand, her coat laid across her lap to cover her too short red leather skirt. Three small children—one boy about five or six years old and two tiny girls sat wide-eyed and spellbound listening to Nora.

“‘Beware the Jub-Jub bird,’” Nora recited as she held the book open so the children could see the pictures, “‘and shun the frumious Bandersnatch.’”

“What’s a Bandersnatch?” the smallest girl asked, tripping over the awkward word.

“It’s like a bird-dolphin-hippo-snake thing,” Nora explained matter-of-factly. “But more frumious. Got it?”

The kids nodded and giggled as Nora turned the page. Zach coughed to get Nora’s attention.

“Oh, what do you want?” Nora closed the book and glowered at him.

“Your presence, madam,” Zach said, putting on his most posh Oxford accent, “is required on the main floor.”

Nora groaned and stood up.

“Sorry, kiddles. I have to go.”

The older girl tugged on Nora’s sleeve.

“Miss Ellie,” she said, “is that your boyfriend?” she asked in a whisper everyone could hear.

“No,” Nora said in a stage whisper of her own. “He’s my babysitter.”

Nora left the children with obvious reluctance.

“I’m your e***or. Not your babysitter. And who is Ellie?”

“The question is ‘Who was Ellie?’ And better question—what the hell are you doing here?”

“Wesley invited me. He said book-signings made you nervous.”

“Book-signings make him more nervous than they make me. They just annoy me. You sit there like some queen on a dais with all of seven people out there and four of them are related to you.”

“Well, there’s eight people counting me,” Zach said. “If you hate signings then why are you doing one at such a large bookshop?”

“Because Lex asked me and I couldn’t say no.” Nora sighed. “Saying no has never been my strongest suit.”

“Lex?”

“Bald guy—Lex Luthor. Owns the place. I used to work here so we keep in touch.”

They reached the down escalator and Zach noticed a man with shoulder-length dark hair pulled back in a ponytail standing at the railing and staring at Nora. He wore a Victorian-cut gray suit and riding boots and next to him stood the most exotically beautiful black woman he’d ever seen in his life. The man said something in French to the woman and the woman smiled. The man leaned against the railing and winked at Nora. Nora stepped onto the escalator, looked calmly up at the man, raised her hand and flipped him off. The man’s stunning companion only laughed.

“Who is that?” Zach asked once they were out of earshot.

Nora shrugged as they reached the first floor. “No idea.”

Zach heard her mumble something else but couldn’t quite make it out over the applause. They parted ways and Zach rejoined Wesley.

Nora stood on the platform and waved at the assembled crowd of nearly a hundred. Lex stood next to her and opened the books to the title page for her while Nora chatted with her fans.

“No reading?” Zach asked Wesley.

“Nora doesn’t do readings at ‘straight bookstores’ as she calls them. She doesn’t want to get arrested for public indecency. And no QA session, either.”

“For the same reason, I suppose,” Zach said and smiled.

Nora sat a few yards away but Zach could hear her bantering with her devotees. One young woman asked Nora where she got her inspiration. Nora answered, “Catholic school.”

Zach laughed to himself, enjoying the repartee, but Wesley paid no attention. He kept scanning the crowd and not once did he take his eyes off the men who waited in line. Zach let Wesley watch the crowd while Zach watched Nora. For all her protestations she seemed to be having a wonderful time. She looked radiant in her red suit even if her skirt was too short to be entirely appropriate. Another young woman brought out a riding crop and Nora attempted to sign its narrow length. An older man in a suit got Nora’s permission to kiss the tip of her shoe while the man’s wife took a picture.

“So how long have you lived with Nora?” Zach asked Wesley, hoping to distract him from his unnecessary vigilance.

“A little over a year.”

“And how long have you been in love with her?”

Wesley looked sharply at Zach before laughing ruefully.

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“A little over a year…and a few months.”

“She doesn’t know?”

“Nope. She only asked me to move in because I sort of hinted that I might have to move back to Kentucky. I thought if I told Nora I might be moving…”

“You wanted to see how she would react,” Zach said with a sad half smile. “And she called your bluff.” Zach couldn’t stop himself from recalling the day he told Grace he was moving to the States. If that’s what you want, Zachary, wasn’t the answer he’d been hoping for.

“That she did.” Wesley grinned at Nora who looked away from her fan long enough to return the smile.

“I see it worked for you. Didn’t work quite so well for me. I think I underestimated you, Wesley.”

“I hope I overestimated you,” Wesley said, and Zach felt a quick pang of guilt.

“I’m not your competition, young man. I am still married after all.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Wesley said with far too much bitterness for someone so young. “Holy vows have never stopped her before. Yours won’t, either.”

“Yours seem to have stopped her.”

Wesley said nothing for a moment, and Zach knew he’d misspoken.

“She told you I was still a virgin?”

Zach heard Wesley’s wounded pride.

“I’m sorry, Wesley. I accused her of taking advantage of you and she was simply defending herself.”

“It’s okay,” Wesley said. “I’m not ashamed of it. I’m just…waiting.”

“For her?”

“You think I’m an idiot, right?”

“Of course not. But whether you like to admit it or not, she is fourteen years older than you. These sorts of relationships rarely work out even under the best of circumstances. Not if experience is any indicator.”

“Yeah, well, whose experience?”

Zach looked from Wesley and back at Nora. He stared at her but didn’t see her. Instead, he saw a door and the door opened and standing in the doorway was Grace, and no woman in the history of the world had ever looked so brave or so scared or so beautiful standing in a doorway.

“Mine.”

Wesley didn’t answer. Zach didn’t know what to say to comfort him. If he had any words of comfort, he would have told them to himself. But there was nothing but the cold, hard truth that loving someone and being loved back was only the beginning, not the end, of all the pain.

The young man in the green jacket came to Nora with his book to sign. Zach heard Nora asking for his name and if he wanted her to write anything in particular in his book.

“How about, ‘To my number one fan, **** me,’” the young man said leaning over the table. “And then sign it in blood.”

Zach’s stomach dropped when the man pulled out a small thin, knife and started to climb onto the table. Wesley was already on his way to Nora. It was a good thing, too, because Nora had pushed back out of her chair and the man loomed only inches from her. He saw her back pressed to the wall.

It seemed to happen in slow motion. Wesley jumped up on the signing platform and dragged the man back by his jacket and threw him down hard to the floor.

“Zach, get her out of here!” Wesley shouted at him.

The urgency in Wesley’s voice jarred Zach from his state of shock. He ran to Nora and grabbed her by the arm.

“No, Zach,” she said, trying to get to Wesley. For a second time since meeting her he was shocked by how much strength was hidden in her small frame.

“This way,” Lex said and Zach finally steered Nora away from the crowd and toward the bookstore’s stockroom. As he dragged her away he glanced up to the second floor. The man in the gray suit had pulled out a cell phone and was dialing a number. Zach hoped it was 911. They reached the stockroom and Lex locked the door.

Nora was already on her way to the door when Zach stopped her, blocking the door with his body.

“Get out of my way,” she ordered with shocking ferocity. “Wes is out there with that lunatic.”

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Zach said, not sure he believed his own words. But he knew if the man was dangerous then it was Nora who he was after, not Wesley. “Stay back here until it’s safe.”

“He’s right. I’ll go check on things,” Lex said and hung up the phone. “I’m sure security’s got him by now.”

“Please,” she begged, “make sure Wes is okay.”

Lex left them in the stockroom and Zach locked the door again.

“Yet another reason why I avoid signings,” Nora said, pacing the floor. Her high heels echoed ominously against the cold concrete floor.

“I see. This happens a lot at your appearances?”

Nora shook her head. “I’ve had my fair share of crazies. But this is the first one with a knife.”

“Well, violent erotica will give the crazies ideas.”

Nora looked up at him sharply.

“Are you blaming my books for this?”

“Of course not. It’s only that stories with ***ual violence in them will attract violent people. It appeals to the baser instincts.”

“Baser instincts? Violent people? My readers are housewives and college girls and a few straight guys who are trying way too hard to find out what women want in the bedroom. I don’t write for insane people. Is it Salinger’s fault that Mark David Chapman misread Catcher in the Rye?”