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“There you are,” he said, taking my fist in his hand. He observed it carefully. “Good God, Laurel. No wonder they were so quick to bail.”
I shrugged.
“You ready?”
My face twists to give the impression that what I’m about to say is harder than it is. “I’m not feeling well,” I replied. “I was thinking maybe we could head out early too.”
He sighed. “We just got here.”
“I know. But I feel a migraine coming on…I think I got overheated.”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “I think—” he begins, then pauses to open the cabinets, one by one, until he finds what he was looking for. He filled a glass with tap water. “Here,” he huffed, holding it out to me. “This will help.”
I stared at the glass before meeting his eye. “James—”
&nb
sp; His expression was so intense I had to look away. “Laurel…look…I don’t know how to say this…”
So don’t. Don’t say it. I willed him to keep his mouth shut.
“But we need this.”
“I know.”
My answer forced him to relax. “I’m going to hang out with the Bausches. You drink up,” he said, nodding toward my hand, “and get some ice on those, and then we’ll talk.”
I flipped the faucet lever and ran my knuckles under the sink. Anything to avoid looking at him.
“Jane is a fan of yours, you know. You should come.”
My gaze stays fixed on my left hand. “I’m going to ice this. And catch my breath. Maybe next time.”
He studied me for a moment. I could feel the weight of his eyes on me before giving my shoulder a slight squeeze. “Suit yourself.”
I looked up at him. A half-hearted smile lit up his face. “I’m sure you’ll be feeling better when I get back.”
He was wrong. My head throbbed. The music was loud, too loud, classical with a little jazz thrown in. The point is to make it look as though we are actually having a dinner party. While ball gags are often employed, the odd signal of pain, or pleasure, depending, does occasionally break through.
When my husband is finished with his part, he found me. His eyes were wide-eyed and excited, typical. “Mark showed me a new way to fasten a knot,” he exclaimed proudly. “I can show you when we get home, but first— Randall is looking for his favorite little submissive.”
“I’m ready to go,” I told him.
“We will,” he said. “Just as soon as we get you feeling better.”
Chapter Nineteen
Dr. Max Hastings
AFTER
Dr. Jones sits opposite me, crossed-legged, hands folded, resting on the table. “Can you tell me what a typical day was like for you? Before?”
I think about her question for several beats before offering a response. She looks tired today. It appears as though it’s taken a lot for her to get herself here.
“On a weekday or a weekend?”
“You usually met Mrs. Dunaway during the week. That would be a fair assessment, wouldn’t it?”
