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Far more concerning to her was the memorial notice. The mail beneath it was absent, but it remained on the corner of his desk, the obit still pulled partially from the envelope with the sticky note on top. Like an explosive he was pointedly leaving untouched.
Retrieving a container of stew from a cooler bag he’d left in his chair, he took her across the hall to a tiny break room that had probably once been a supply closet. It had room for a counter, microwave and fridge, one table and two chairs. When he propped open a back exit door, it drew air into the stuffy space. She saw a patio beyond the exit, with some seating made from cinder blocks and planks, plus a table made of wood and a stack of tires.
While the stew heated in the microwave, he plucked two fast food packs of plastic utensils out of a large tomato sauce can overflowing with them on the laminate counter.
He hadn’t asked her why she was here. But after their time at Dale and Athena’s, perhaps there didn’t have to be a reason, other than wanting to see one another.
Like a couple in a relationship.
Was that as much of a startling thought for him as it was for her? Or was he following the unspoken rules of relationship growth? In those first tentative stages, a man didn’t ask “why are you here?” because that suggested the woman had to have a specific reason for visiting, and he didn’t want to make her feel like she had to have that.
Oh hell. She’d rather cut her throat than navigate the insipid mind games of relationships.
She didn’t have to. She could conduct this relationship outside Progeny with the same structure, purpose and clear communication she did within it. Stay away from the nebulous crazy-town area.
He invited her to sit at the break table and put the container of stew between them with two spoons. The small fridge had beer, bottled water and a six pack of grape soda.
“Red’s favorite,” he told her. “Has enough sugar in it to give you instant cavities.”
She chose the water. As they settled at the table, she put her phone between them. She inhaled the stew’s fragrant aroma and typed two words, then signed them, turning her hand over in the palm of the other hand, then back again.
“You cook?”
He studied the gesture, the typed words. “I do.”
“Self-taught?”
“Mostly. Self-preservation.” What flitted through his expression suggested she leave it there, unless he volunteered to say more. He obviously didn’t.
He waited for her to take the first bite. It was things like that which made an impression on her. Certain submissives saw even the smallest gesture of deference as a way to serve. To show care. Dominants often had the same mentality. Though it came from a different angle, the motives were similar.
She chewed, swallowed. It was good. Really good. Flavorful, rich in taste.
As they ate, she asked him about the garage clean up, where they were at in paying the claim for the damage, how soon he could get things up and running. How the deaf resource classes were going. Not to be nosy, not exactly. She was noting what things brought frustrations to the surface.
He was making good steps, like reading the material the doctor had given him. But he was still stalled on attending the Total Communication class, which as described would help him use multiple ways to communicate. The class would also offer the chance to connect with others going through what he was. They could offer him insights into what he was experiencing, especially for the parts of the path they might have already walked ahead of him.
She gave that some thought as she nudged the bowl toward him, telling him the rest was his. Then she made her decision. Typed. Held up the screen.
“Are you going to the memorial service?”
Instant face shuttering. “What?”
She didn’t repeat herself. It was right there for him to read, after all. She typed a follow up question. “Who’s Aubrey?”
Putting down his spoon, he scowled. When he was pissed, he really did look intimidating. That didn’t concern her as much aswhat it represented—how quickly he would raise a wall between them. “Reading someone’s mail is rude.”
The obit and note were on his desk, in plain sight. Not talking like everyone else could had taught her not to waste time or energy on what wasn’t necessary, what didn’t need to be pointed out or repeated. A prolonged silence, an attentiveness, often brought her what she wanted. As a Mistress and in business. In most interactions, really. It didn’t work on Ros and Vera, because they both knew the tactic. They used it themselves.
She had no idea if it would work on Tiger. Her intent wasn’t to manipulate him. It was to help. She hoped whatever was going through his head would land on that truth. After several moments, he sighed, propping his elbows on the table. “She’s my niece. Nicole’s daughter. She’s six, she calls the elephant in my tattoo Hermione, and likes to pet it. She was there…that day.”
He stood up abruptly. “I should get back to work. I’ve got an adjuster coming for a follow up on the lift and electrical work needed in the damaged bays. Maryshka’s going to come translate for me, be the go-between.”
She knew that; she was still an hour ahead of the appointment time Maryshka had told her about. It had gone into her spontaneous calculation of whether they had time to do what they’d done in his garage.
However, with a short nod, Skye rose. As he accompanied her back out into the hallway, thoughts rippled through her head. Earlier, she’d told herself not to take steps that could manufacture a false sense of intimacy, put their relationship down a path neither had intended for it to go.
Whether foolish or not, she was re-evaluating. And about to take a big damn step over that line.
