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He maneuvers the L.A. streets and then the expressway through the thick smog and traffic. I stare out the window, lost in my thoughts, not sure if I'm overreacting about Aria or if Riggs was right to have her help train me.
As much as I'd like to think I know what I'm doing, I don't. I know nothing about what I've gotten myself into, every day seems to bring up a new issue I never contemplated, and Riggs is so hot and cold it keeps me in a constant state of confusion.
This business with the club should have been explained to me. I feel tricked. Then again, they do it for my protection, according to Riggs. Yet I don't know what to expect when I get there, nor do I know why he thinks I'm not submitting during playtime.
Haven't I?
As upset as I am with Riggs, I still can't fathom having to move somewhere else and not have access to him. No matter how much time passed, I still thought about him over the years. He never just faded away. I doubt after everything that's gone on the last few days he would now.
By the time he pulls through his Malibu gate, I'm more confused than ever. He reverses into the driveway, turns off the car, and pushes the button. The wood closes, and neither of us moves.
He finally turns and states, "There are ten days left. But I don't think anything I do with you will matter."
Panic fills me. "What do you mean?"
"You want to believe what you want to believe, pet. And that's on you, not me." He gets out and shuts his door. He walks around and opens my door but doesn't reach in for me.
I get out, and he motions for me to go inside. My gut says not to fight him. I obey, and he goes into the bedroom.
I sit down at the piano but don't play it. I'm lost in my thoughts when he comes into the room, freshly showered, wearing a suit. A new wave of anxiety fills me. I blurt out, "Why are you dressed up?"
"I'm going to work. Don't wait up," he states, moving toward the door.
I get off the bench and follow him. I grab the back of his arm. "Riggs, what does that mean?"
He shrugs me off him and doesn't look back, answering, "Just what I said."
"Riggs!"
He freezes, still not looking at me. "Work on your music, Blakely."
I step in front of him and slide my palms on his cheeks, which twitch under my touch. "Don't leave like this."
He grabs my hands and holds them away from his face. "Review the contract, pet. From now on, consider every second playtime since you want to get technical."
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
He steps to the side of me and says, "Keep your phone on in case I need to get ahold of you." He walks out the door, gets in his Porsche, and opens the gate. He pulls out, and the wood closes once more.
I shut the front door, more perplexed than ever.
And I've always been more of a loner. I normally can get lost in my music, but all day, the loneliness only grows, taking me by surprise. When darkness sets in, he's still not home.
I try calling, but he never answers. I pace until I can't anymore. I try calling again, but it goes to his voicemail.
I text.
Me: When will you be home?
I never get an answer.
Around eight o'clock, I open a bottle of red wine, fill a glass, and take both to the deck. The sound of waves crashing against the shoreline is louder than normal. Goose bumps pop out on my skin from the cold wind, but I don't go inside for extra clothes, letting the wine heat my insides.
I finish my glass and refill it, tug my knees to my chest, and start humming one of my songs. The gust of wind blows harder, and I shiver.
More time passes, but Riggs never shows up. I'm a few sips shy from finishing the bottle when Riggs's voice tears me out of my thoughts.
He booms, "What are you doing?"
