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When the hostess finally returns with a harried nod, Chef Lasker says, “Enjoy your dinner, Mr. Prince. Ms. Key.”
This time, when we walk through the dining room guests have abandoned whispers; I hear my name and Trap’s spoken in ordinary tones. The flash of cell-phone cameras is blinding, video too, and the quick tap of manicured nails on glass screens sounds like an insect army.
But Trap and I settle into our seats in the window. Some quick worker has secured fresh glasses, clean silverware, and a constellation of sparkling china.
A young waiter appears between the curtains to our alcove, sweating almost as much as the dark green bottle in his shaking hand. “Champagne,” he says, his voice cracking as he avoids looking at our faces. “Compliments of the chef.”
Trap waits until the kid has left before he raises his glass in a toast. Touching the rim of my flute, he says, “Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.”
Startled, I laugh. All of my mortification slips away as bubbles slide down my throat.
The Herzogs’ video has turned Trap and me into animals in a zoo. At least a dozen people on the street outside the window do double-takes as they walk by. I see more flashes of phones, only slightly more surreptitious than those of the guests inside the restaurant.
But Trap will not yield to the morbid curiosity around us. He does nothing to attract attention, but he refuses to be ashamed of being seen in public with me.
He leans close to tell me a dirty joke. He passes me the olive from his Belvedere martini, knowing how much I’ll love its salty brine. He asks me my opinion about a client matter at the freeport, about the allocation of gallery space for a new and demanding customer.
We eat oysters and caviar, lobster and quail, and the most tender lamb I’ve ever imagined. There are palate cleansers of blood orange sorbet and basil granita, and tiny bites of bread so airy that buttering it would be a crime. By the time we reach dessert—chocolate mousse and pecan jam and an array of delicate cookies, each no bigger than my thumbnail—I’m enchanted and sated and more than a little drunk on the perfectly matched flight of wine that accompanied every bite.
Our car is waiting at the curb when we finish, and I wonder if Trap and Charles have some sort of telepathic link. Before I know it, we’re back in the magical elevator, soaring to our penthouse retreat. I sway a little as Trap gestures for me to lead the way into the living room, and my breath is stolen all over again by the sweeping view of Central Park at night, daisy chains of lights marking the few roads that cross the great green expanse.
Heat radiates off Trap’s chest as he comes up behind me. My need for him is a physical ache, a hunger that can never be satisfied. I close my eyes, and I picture us tangled in his bed, his arms around me, our legs entwined.
I want him. I need him. For the first time since I’ve known him, I can imagine us having sane, normal sex. No bonds around my wrists. No gag. No blindfold. No cane.
I don’t need to be punished. He doesn’t need to tame his Beast. We can just satisfy each other. Just love each other.
He brushes a kiss against the nape of my neck and says, “Good night.”
“What?” I’m so surprised, I can barely form the question.
“I have some business I need to take care of.”
I felt his body respond to mine. His cock grew hard as he pressed against my back. “Now?” I ask, because I don’t understand.
“I should have told you before, but I didn’t want to ruin our evening.”
“Ruin—”
But he’s already backing away. He brushes his hand against his breast pocket, like he’s checking for theater tickets. His other hand reaches into his pants; he’s making sure he has his money clip.
“Trap!” I say. “What the hell?”
“I’m sorry. I’m late. I have to go.”
And just like that, he’s out the door—heading back to the elevator, to the lobby, to the street.
No.
Notjust like that.
I can’t accept that he’s leaving me.
I can’t imagine where he’s going, what he’s doing.
But he wants something out there more than he wants to be with me. And I barely waste a heartbeat grabbing my phone from the kitchen counter. I keep a credit card in the case. ID, too. I can go anywhere I need to go.
I get to the lobby as Charles is closing the back door of the Mercedes. I’m hailing a cab as the sleek black car gets stopped by the red light at the end of the block. I swallow hard to catch my breath, and I say something I thought was only said in terrible movies and worse TV shows: “Follow that car.”
