Page 20 of Redemption Island

“And you like doing those things?” she questioned, interrupting my thoughts of the latest acquisition. I’d come to Baltimore and decided to hang with Rick. I’d heard of his club and wanted exclusive rights. He’d told me I could have what was his, but I knew Rick. I had to prove myself to him. Enter Juliet.

“I can be a bad man when I go into business mode. I tend to dominate until I get what I want. I want what I want, and that means taking companies, making them mine, and stripping them of what I need. My father always believed in survival of the fittest. He demands Corbin Industries be at the top.”

“Have you ever considered doing something different? Building something up instead of tearing those companies down? Making something that’s for the good of others?”

“No,” I replied too sharply.

She smiled weakly, and I didn’t like the turn of our conversation. My father was a ruthless man and I wouldn’t have all that I had if he hadn’t been. I wouldn’t be who I was, ruthless myself, without his instruction. But then again, I wouldn’t have done what I did, without thinking I could get away with it, because of who I was—Terrence Jackson Corbin the fourth.

“So why anthropology?” I questioned, deflecting the conversation from my father and the company.

“I’ve always been curious about people. People who are different from me. People who think like me but outside of my upbringing.” She shrugged. “It’s hard to explain.”

“So why aren’t you a shrink?” I chuckled, but her violet eyes pinned me.

“Because I don’t want to dissect one person; I want to understand a whole culture.” The comment made me pause.

“What culture?” The question caused her to open her mouth and then pause. Somehow, I felt we’d circled back to The Front Door, and my curiosity was piqued.

“Did you want to know more about what happened on the third floor?” I asked, hesitantly.

“Not so much that particular floor but a culture of people, a lifestyle. I didn’t understand the desire to be dominated or submissive, for that fact. I want to be in control of my own life and decisions, but in some ways, I’m intrigued. Are submissives really subservient or do they have the dominating power? Aren’t they in control after all—safe words and that sort of thing?”

“Uh…” Fuck. How did this conversation get to this? “Did you want to be a part of that?”

“I want to understand the mentality behind it.” I stared at her. This waif of a woman, who had more strength than I’d witnessed in some men, and she was curious about this.

“Why?”

“Because I—” She stopped.

“Tell me. I want to understand.” I’d set down my plate and leaned back against the stump at my back. I’d chosen the sand for a seat. Feeling satisfied with my feast and her company, this conversation was the most stimulating I’d had in months, even before the isolation of the island.

“I’m curious if the woman really is satisfied. Does the dominant actually care for her, or does he care about her? And how can he keep his emotions separate? How does she? I don’t see how it’s possible. I want to be in control of my life at all times but I’d love for someone to—” She stopped again, her eyes opening wide as she realized she was about to reveal too much. I sat on the edge of my proverbial seat, anxiously awaiting more. My palms dampened, and my mouth dried. Did she want to be controlled?

“You’d love what?” My voice harshly barked.

“I’d love someone to care for me. About me.” She sighed as she shrugged, letting her eyes drop to her plate. My heart did a strange flip of relief. I didn’t want her to be dominated by another. I wanted her to feel safe, confident, capable. She could do these things for herself, but I sensed her hesitation. She didn’t believe in herself, and somehow, I felt I was to fault.

I noticed she hadn’t eaten all of her steak, and I was concerned I’d burnt it too much. But more than the taste of the food, I worried we’d crossed a line that took her too deep into sharing with me. The air felt heavy between us, and I needed to change the subject.

“There’s something I’d like to ask you.”

Her head shot up in surprise, and as much as I wanted to beg her to submit to me so I could show her all the ways she could be cared for, I had other plans.

“Could you give me a haircut and shave?”

“What?” She laughed.

“I can’t stand all this.” I grabbed the hair on the top of my head. “And I’m certain I look like I have mange.” I didn’t own a mirror but tried to use the water to reflect my image. I had splotchy pieces of hair here and there that I could feel but never quite cut.

“I guess,” she giggled again. I stood, went to my tent, and returned with a sharp, straight-edged razor and a shaving mug with soap. She eyed the razor held out to her, aware of the pain she could inflict with it. She’d wanted to kill me one night. I jostled the blade to break her attention.

“I trust you.”

19

Day 33 – Juliet