Binding Agreement

Chapter 18





IT TAKES ME just over a half hour to get to the nondescript building housing this law firm in Culver City. Not knowing if he would have agreed to speak to me, I didn’t call first. But unless he’s had a complete personality transplant, he’ll see me if I show up in person, if only to prevent a scene at his work.

I announce myself to the receptionist out front; I want to keep my voice light and professional but a layer of nervousness colors my tone. Not that it matters. Most people sound nervous when they go to see a tax attorney.

In less than two minutes he comes out. The man I saw at Chipotle has been replaced by a guy who bears a much greater resemblance to my former fiancé.

He graces me with a practiced smile, shakes my hand as if I’m a client, and leads me to his private office. As soon as the door closes his smile drops and his eyes become wary, which is as much as I expected. What I didn’t expect . . . or at least was uncertain of, was the sophistication of the office itself. It’s nice, maybe even a little nicer than the one Dave had before. And it’s so very him. The walls are white, the desk is neat, not a single paper left out. The file cabinets gleam as if they’ve just been polished. There are no plants. No pictures. A Jack Nicklaus–autographed golf ball sits in a case. Dave isn’t a really big golf fan but he thinks he should be. It’s a little lie to enhance the bigger ones that he surrounds himself with.

“I guess you got a job,” I say while examining the autograph. If it wasn’t for the certificate framed directly above it, I would never know what this signature said. Writing on a golf ball with a felt-tip pen can’t be easy.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead he takes his time as he walks to the chair behind his desk, ensuring that he’s in his place of authority. “A quick glance at the company website would have answered that question,” he points out.

“Yes,” I agree. I turn, face him. “But it wouldn’t have explained why you referred one of your clients to me.”

He gives a slight nod. Clearly he had anticipated the question. “So Lynn Johns called you?” He smiles, a little maliciously. “It’s a small account but I figured you’d take what you could get. Tell me, Kasie, how does it feel to be playing in the minors again?”

I study his face. “No, you didn’t refer her just to see if I’d take a smaller account, to see if I’m desperate. So what was it? Is there a trap here I’m not seeing?”

He holds my gaze, but only for about five seconds before abruptly turning away. “She needed a consultant. Referring her to you seemed prudent.”

“Prudent?”

“Look around you,” he snaps. “I’m back where I was, different scenery, same position, same prestige. The rumors about my embezzlement disappeared within a week of our last conversation. You whispered a request into that man’s ear and suddenly my career has risen from the sewer, freshly scrubbed and smelling of lilacs.” He adjusts his position, his cheeks red with anger and embarrassment. “Guess that makes him my hero, too, huh?” he sneers. “Mr. Dade, the man who f*cked my fiancée has now, in his infinite mercy, decided not to destroy the rest of my life. I suppose you’re here to ask me to thank him? To humiliate me just a little more?”

I let the words sink in and consider what they mean about Robert and my feelings about him. “No,” I say. “I would never ask you to thank a man for not making your destruction his goal. You don’t have to thank me either. Not with words, not with clients.”

“Yeah, well I prefer to play it safe if it’s all the same to you.”

He’s still not looking at me. It’s kind of funny. Here we are in his office that is so much nicer than mine. The view spans across the city to the hills. He has the power of a well-established firm of lawyers behind him. And yet he’s the one afraid of me. I haven’t been in this position for some time now and like an ex-smoker sucking up the secondhand smoke of others, I will always take a guilty pleasure in the scent of power.

But I won’t pick up the cigarette. “You can do what you like, I’m just telling you your future doesn’t depend on your support of me.”

“I don’t support you, Kasie,” he retorts. “All I’ll ever do is send you a client or two. Try not to sleep with them, will you?”

I smile at the insult; he’s earned the right to hurl it. And I’ve earned the right to walk away. So I do, leaving Dave to his success and anger.

* * *

I’M NOT IN the mood to go home. Instead I go to a small hotel, not far from Dave’s office. I find the bar, a quiet place with dark corners. I’ve only been in my seat for a minute before the cocktail waitress approaches. “What can I get you?” she says in a voice a little too high, a tone a little too bright.

I glance at the drink specials: açaí mojitos, peach Bellinis, gingered pear martinis . . . alcoholic sins hidden within antioxidant blessings. I don’t want to kid myself today.

“I’d like a scotch, please,” I say quietly.

“Any particular kind?”

I shake my head. “Something expensive,” I say with a ghost of a smile.

Her face lights up, a little more eager now as she notes my request on her pad and goes off to consult the bartender.

I close my eyes, remember the moment. Robert and I, sitting in that bar with glass walls. He had offered me champagne. I had wanted something stronger. . . .

The waitress comes back with my drink. I don’t ask how much it is and she doesn’t offer the price. If I have to mortgage my house for the memory, it’ll be worth it.

I clink the ice cubes together. He had taken a scotch-drenched ice cube, dragged it slowly along the neckline of my Herve Leger, up my thigh, between my legs. . . .

And then he had tasted the scotch.

I lift the glass, stare into the golden brown liquid. What should the toast be today? Cheers? I’m not that happy. Salut? But how healthy can I be when my heart is still in fragments?

I raise my glass a little higher. “To memories,” I say quietly to myself before bringing the drink to my lips.

The taste is smoky and luxurious and, yes, it makes me think of him. It makes me think of sex.

It would have been better if Dave had told me that things had changed for him a week ago, a day ago, an hour ago. But it happened months ago; Robert had rectified things for Dave within days of our breakup. Back when he cared, before he had moved on. And now? Who knows what he feels now? Maybe he’s with someone else.

I close my eyes against the thought.

Another sip, another memory, another tear.

“This looks like a good table.”

I keep my eyes closed, unsure if the voice I heard was from my memory or from a man standing beside me. And not just any man. . . .

My grip around my glass tightens; my breathing gets just a little bit quicker.

I hear the sound of something being dropped on the table.

Keeping my eyes low I look. A deck of cards. A spade on the cover of the open box, a lone queen of hearts pulled halfway out, as if she’s trying to escape. I don’t look up but I can see his legs, see his strong hands hanging at his sides, as if waiting for something to hold.

“Care to make it interesting?”

It’s only then that I will myself to meet his eyes. Were they always that stormy? So hopeful? I want to reach for him but instead I reach for the cards.

“I thought that’s what we were doing,” I say as I pull the deck out, shuffle it with moderate skill. He sits opposite me, watches the cards dance.

“More interesting,” he says softly. “If I have a better hand, we’ll leave the table and you’ll have a drink with me.”

“And if I have the upper hand?” I ask. The words are hard to get out, the emotions too close to the surface for me to keep my voice steady.

He puts his hand over mine, over the cards, stilling them. “Then I’ll have a drink with you.”

The calluses on his palms seem a little rougher than I remember, the tension between us a little thicker.

I gently pull away. “I’ll have the drink, but I’m not ready to leave the table.” I continue to shuffle and then very carefully deal the cards. “Not yet.”

He watches my motions; there’s a flicker of confusion as he asks what we’re playing.

“Heads-up poker,” I say, the words a little clipped.

“Not blackjack?”

“No.” I pick up my hand. “It’s a different place, different time, different game.” I lift my eyes to his, hold his gaze. “And like all games this one has rules. Are you ready to play by the rules, Mr. Dade?”

His mouth curves up at one corner. Slowly he picks up his cards. “Shall we gamble with coins?”

“With secrets,” I say, “and with answers.”

“Really?” he asks. A couple enters the bar, their voices are too bright for this mood-lit room. Out of the corner of my eye I see her metal-tipped heels tapping against the floor.

“It sounds like you’re making up the rules as you go along, Kasie,” he says.

“And changing them at a whim,” I say. “But the basic structure of the game, that stays pure. Understand? We can be creative with how and what we risk but the game is poker. The rules are what they are.”

He nods, looks down at his cards. “I’m not sure I know how to gamble away a secret.”

“I’ll teach you,” I say, my focus on the cards. I put my hand on the surface of the table as if touching something invisible there. “I’m in for one secret.”

He smiles. “I’ll see your secret and raise you an answer.”

It’s odd that we can be so playful when there is so much time, pain, and ambiguity between us. But I sense this is the best way to proceed. Stay with the cards, Kasie, my angel whispers. The numbers will give you something solid to hold on to.

My angel is learning. She is beginning to understand this version of me.

And so the game goes on and as it does, the stakes are raised again; another answer is offered. His face is blank as a poker player’s should be. But his hands shake, only a little, but I see it. And I know it has nothing to do with cards.

I win this hand, beating his flush with four of a kind. The woman with the metal heels is doing shots while her date swears into his phone.

Robert leans back in his seat. “I believe I have a debt to pay.”

“Yes, I’d like your answers first.” Slowly, I gather his cards and mine, form them into a neat pile. “How did you find me here, Robert? Have you been following me?”

“Yes.”

I suck in a long breath, start to shuffle the cards. “Just today?”

“No. I’ve followed you twice before.”

I keep my head down, my heart skipping along with the shuffling cards. What he’s describing is the behavior of a stalker.

But the thing about stalkers is that they care. As Simone once explained to me, stalkers know how to commit.

Then again, commitment has never been our problem.

“I still owe you my secret.”

My hands still. I raise my eyes, waiting.

“I need you,” he says, his voice so quiet I have to lean forward to hear. “That’s my secret. I need you more than you have ever needed me.”

“That’s not true.”

He rests his fingers on top of the still deck; the woman at the bar orders another round. “I’ve been thinking about your metaphor. The ocean and the moon. The thing is, it’s not the tides that make the ocean so important. There’s so much more to it than that. But the moon? Without the ocean what’s its purpose? It’s just a barren rock. A mere reflection of the sun’s light.”

“Are you trying to tell me your life has no purpose without me?” I ask, dryly.

“No, I’m telling you that you’re the only thing on this earth that has made me feel connected to what’s here. When I’m with you, I know what’s real. I can feel it, touch it. When I’m with you, I’m something more than . . . other. When I’m not with you, my head’s in the stars.”

“But that’s how you like it,” I remind him. “It’s why we broke up. You wanted to live your dreams without leaving a footprint, without the cumbersome terrestrial rules the rest of us live by. The rules that I live by.”

“We broke up because I was afraid.”

Those last words come out quickly, impulsively.

For the first time since I’ve known him I see Robert blush.

Slowly he pulls his hands away.

“That’s two secrets,” he says. “I overpaid.”

I pause to consider before picking up the cards again. “No,” I say. “In my opinion you haven’t paid nearly enough.”

I catch his fleeting smile as I deal out another hand. This game moves faster. I find I have to bluff, a specialty of mine. But he still wins with a full house against my two pair.

I reach for my scotch. “I need your questions before I can give you my answers.”

“If I try to play by the rules,” he says slowly, “if I try to live with consequences, will you forgive me? Can we try again?”

“That’s two questions.”

“You owe me the answers to three.”

I put down my drink, reach for the cards. “Those don’t sound like real questions.”

“What—”

“Are you honestly suggesting that you can change?” I interrupt. The emotion in my voice is taut and rich, my volume loud enough to garner a glance from the garish couple at the bar.

“You have spent your life cultivating power plays and dominance. Your name might not be as well known as Koch and Gates but behind closed doors everyone knows that it’s you who can’t be crossed. You who can and will ruin a man for an insult. That’s who you are, Robert!”

“That’s the man that they know,” he corrects, softly. “I’m asking, what if I can be the man that you’ve seen? You have seen me, haven’t you, Kasie? You’ve peeked behind the curtain. You know the truth about Oz.”

I clench my teeth but my jaw still trembles. The cards fall from my hands and splay across the table in a wave of hearts and clubs.

The bartender turns on the stereo. Simon & Garfunkel sing of silence. Robert shows me his hands, palms up as if to prove that he hides nothing.

“The other day Daemon led a presentation at Maned Wolf. It didn’t go well. He didn’t understand the nuance of our needs the way you did. We won’t be using that firm again.”

“So?”

“Asha stayed behind. I saw her as I was pulling out of the garage. She said her car broke down. It was threatening to rain so I offered her a ride.”

I freeze; my stomach does a little nauseating flip. I’m the woman Mr. Dade wants you to be.

“Her car didn’t break down,” I say quietly.

“I know that.”

“You know that now.”

“And I knew it then.” He sighs, casts a wistful glance at my scotch. “I wanted to understand what you see in them. Dave, Tom, Asha—they all treated you like you were a prostitute. A whore paid to put up with their leers and abuse. A slut who didn’t deserve their respect let alone their civility. And yet you asked me to spare them all. I wanted to understand why.”

He’s Robert Dade and I’d be a willing and eager player in his bedroom games. Not because I want his assistance but because I’d like to see if I could break him.

I reach for the scotch then push it in his direction, urging him to take a sip. “Did she . . . help you understand?”

Robert takes the drink but doesn’t raise it to his mouth. “In a way.”

I close my eyes against the images those words bring up. Robert with Asha in his arms, she underneath him, wrapping her legs around him the way I used to do. Digging her nails into his skin. Asha turning sex into a knife.

“She’s a sociopath,” he says.

The words jar me. Cautiously I open my eyes.

“She’s only interested in herself,” he continues, “has no consideration for others, enjoys revenge more than she enjoys love. And you don’t want to be her. You asked me to spare her, Tom, and Dave because you’re better than all of them. You’re better than me, too.”

“Robert, did you—”

“Sleep with her?” he shakes his head. “No. It’s obviously what she wanted. She left her coat in my car in hopes of giving me an excuse to return it to her.”

“Which coat?” I ask. It doesn’t really matter but I’m trying to visualize this.

“It has a fox-fur trim.”

I nod. I remember it. “Did you return it?”

He shakes his head. “It didn’t seem right that I see her again. Not because I’d be tempted to sleep with her but because I know how she treated you and seeing her would tempt me to destroy her the way I almost destroyed your fiancé. I’m trying to be decent, Kasie. To be better.” He pauses, takes a drink. “So I decided I’d tone it down a bit and instead of ruining her career I just took the coat to Goodwill.”

I break out laughing. It’s easily a $700 coat. Not small change for someone in Asha’s position. The idea of some unemployed club-going teenager wearing it fills me with a certain kind of glee.

I look down at the cards covering the table. “Thank you, for letting up on Dave.”

He nods, his mood serious again. “Tom Love isn’t being blackballed anymore either. He deserves to be, but I let him off the hook.”

I look up, take the scotch back from him. “Why?” I ask.

He shrugs, suddenly seeming almost shy. “Like I said, I’m trying to be better. I think maybe . . . maybe it’s time to stop running.”

I meet his eyes, take a drink. “I’m building a life for myself,” I say quietly. “One that I can be proud of. If I just jump back in where we left off . . . I’m just not sure that’s a good idea, Robert. I don’t know that I really want it.”

I see the hurt but this time he doesn’t pull away or grow cold. “What do you want, Kasie?”

“I want to stand on my own two feet. I want to know what independence is. I want to . . . to pace myself. I only get one life, I want to savor it and make it count for something.”

“So we can’t pick up where we left off,” he says in a whisper, “because then your life wouldn’t count for something?”

“No, because we started it all wrong. If Dave and I tried to build a relationship based on conformity, you and I . . . we built a romance based on betrayal.”

He nods, twirls a card around on the table. “I thought you might say something like that. So I was thinking . . . what if we try for a do over?”

“Excuse me?”

“You know.” He smiles; it’s a boyish grin and endears me immediately. “We could do it right this time. Last time I met you I was in disguise in a way. I was hiding away everything that hinted at my . . . my sentimentality.”

I raise my eyebrow at that but don’t interrupt.

“I was hiding anything that could be seen as being warm or vulnerable. I was . . .”

“You were a stranger,” I finish for him.

He nods. “Yes. A stranger to you . . . and you were a stranger to yourself.”

I sigh as I relive the memory. “I let a stranger pick me up at a blackjack table.”

“Yes,” he says cautiously. “And now I’m asking if you’ll let a friend pick you up at a bar.”

I laugh. I can’t help it.

He meets my eyes and the way he looks at me . . . it just brings back all those old feelings. The excitement, the longing, the arousal, everything.

“You’re still my ocean,” he whispers.

I shake my head. “No,” I say.

His face falls, but again he doesn’t get angry. “All right then. I won’t try to pressure you—”

“I’m not your ocean,” I say. “But if tonight goes well, I might consider being your girlfriend.”

He stops.

And then his smile, bigger than the last one, it brightens up the whole room.

It brightens my heart.

Never taking his eyes off mine he waves the cocktail waitress over. “This scotch you just served us,” he says to her. “I’d like to buy a bottle to take up to a room.”

“Oh, we can’t do that.”

He takes out his wallet, puts $400 on the table. “I think maybe you can.”

The waitress hesitates only half a second before scooping up the money and then after a minute more, returning with a paper bag concealing a bottle of scotch.

We leave the bar quickly, head straight down a large hallway that leads to the lobby.

“I can’t believe—” I begin, but before I can finish, he pulls me to him. His arms are around me and he kisses me. His hands move gently through my hair, then up and down my back. My hands stay on his shoulders, squeezing hard, almost afraid to let go.

A couple of teenagers pass us. “Get a room!” One yells.

Robert pulls back slightly.

“That boy’s wise beyond his years.”

I giggle as he leads me the rest of the way to the front desk and hang back almost shyly as he checks us in, gets a key for a suite.

As I watch him give his information to the check-in clerk I have a moment’s pause. This is reckless . . . more reckless than that night in Vegas because now I know what I’m getting myself into. What if it all goes wrong again?

But when I turn my head, I catch my reflection in a mirror hanging on the wall. I recognize the reflection. I know who I am now.

I can’t be controlled anymore. I have the courage necessary to be my own person. The very fact that I’m even aware of this, can contemplate it and turn it over in my mind . . . it means something. It means that this time I’m not going to get lost.

And so when he turns, offers me his hand, I take it without hesitation, without trembling, and instead of letting him lead me I walk by his side. In minutes we’re in our room. This one is less grandiose than the one at the Venetian but it’s also warmer, its colors and lines are softer and compelling. He lifts me up into his arms like a princess in a fairy tale and then lays me down on the king-size bed so gently it makes me sigh.

Carefully he takes his place beside me, touches my cheek. “Kasie,” he says.

“Yes?”

“Promise me you won’t let any more strangers take you up to a hotel room, okay?”

I grab the pillow and hit him over the head with it. In a moment we’re rolling on the bed, laughing, our clothes tangling together as I kiss him again and again and again.

Finally he pins me down, pressing my arms into the mattress and smiling into my eyes before lowering himself to kiss my neck. “No perfume today.”

“Is that a problem?” I laugh.

“Not at all,” he says, his voice softer now. “I like the scent of you. Still . . .”

His voice fades and he rolls off of me. He rises and goes to the dresser where we placed the bottle of scotch and brings it back to the bed.

My eyes cloud over with the memory of the first time he had poured me a glass of scotch . . . back when he was still a stranger.

“You’re not joining me?” I had asked.

And he had smiled, his eyes filled with mystery and mischief. “Oh, I’ll be joining you.”

But now there is no glass. He simply sits on the edge of the bed, opens the bottle and dips his finger into it. When he draws it out it’s slick with the liquid. Carefully, he runs a cool finger against the tender flesh behind my ear; I lay perfectly still, knowing what’s coming, vibrating with anticipation.

He lowers his face into my hair and then I feel his tongue tickling my skin as he licks off the scotch, then nibbles on my earlobe, then tastes and teases until my breathing grows uneven and I reach for him.

But he pulls away. He’s not done marking me with this strange perfume.

“Take off your shirt,” he says quietly.

And I do.

There’s nothing stopping me this time. No guilt, no betrayal, no fear. I know what I want. I arch my back, allowing him to remove my bra. My nipples harden as he dabs them with scotch, and I groan as he flicks his tongue over them and grazes them with his teeth, his hands exploring my contours all the while.

He dips into the scotch once more, but this time he slides his finger into my mouth so I can taste the smooth, smoky liquor tinged with the salt of his skin. He draws his finger in and out as I gently suck and lick up the drops. His free hand moves between my legs, pressing up against my sex as I grab the fabric of his shirt. I writhe against the soft comforter beneath me as he strokes me.

He pulls back long enough to yank off his shirt and again I reach for him. This time he acquiesces and I pull him down. I guide him onto his back before climbing on top of him.

“My turn,” I whisper.

I pull off his belt, my eyes never leaving his. He fondles my breasts as I work on the buttons of his pants before pulling them off of him, then come the boxer briefs. I make my hand into a cup and pour in a small pool of scotch, as it drips between my fingers I coat his erection with the cooling liquid before enveloping him with the warmth of my mouth.

This is the taste I want.

He groans, slides his fingers into my hair as I devour him, sliding my lips up and down, my own hands roaming his body. I relish the feeling of my breasts pressing against his muscular thighs.

Robert once tried to make us like gods. But like the ancient Greeks, it’s the human form that I worship. He’s my Olympian and I cannot wait to possess him.

I release him, get up and slowly remove the rest of my clothes while he watches, his desire radiating across the distance that separates us. Just the intensity of his stare sends shivers of pleasure through my body. One look from this man, that’s all it takes to excite me. Is that normal? Really, will we ever be normal?

Maybe, maybe not. But maybe we don’t have to be. Now that we know how to do it, we can just be us.

I stand by the side of on the bed, now naked and oh so ready. Sitting up, again he presses his hand up between my legs, feels how wet I am. Standing, he leans forward and kisses me ever so gently before grabbing me roughly and throwing me back down on the bed. I like this, the enticing mix of tender romance and brutal passion. It’s us.

He lays on top of me, brings his face to mine, and kisses me again. I wrap my arms around him, press myself into him. His body is so familiar . . . it’s home.

Gently he turns me on my stomach and I stretch my arms over my head and open my legs for him, but only a little. I don’t say please this time, I don’t order him to perform. Instead I savor the kisses that are tracing a path across my shoulders, each one a little different, each one fueling my mounting fervor.

And when he finally does press inside of me, I gasp. No memory could ever compare to this feeling. I cross my ankles together, squeezing my walls tighter around his erection so I can feel every ridge, every pulse as we rock together creating our own quiet love song. I feel his tongue toying with my ear as his hands move back to my breasts, stroking them, making my nipples ever harder.

When he whispers my name, the world erupts.

But I want to see him; I want to see the real Robert Dade. The man so very few people have been allowed to see.

As if sensing that, he sits back on his knees, turns me on my side so I can look up at him. I’ve never seen him this open before. The way he’s looking at me . . . he loves me.

He loves me.

With one leg still extended along the bed I raise the other up in the air and rest it against his shoulder. I lift my arm and let my fingers gently touch his chest, coaxing him forward.

And there, kneeling before me on the bed, he enters me.

Looking into his eyes as he thrusts inside me, I feel dizzy with the overwhelming sensations shooting through my body. But even as the room spins I hold his gaze.

He caresses my thighs and as he continues, my happiness builds to indescribable ecstasy. I cry out as he brings me over the edge. My muscles contract around him my body trembles as he growls his approval. This feeling is so much better than any fantasy. This orgasm isn’t just intense . . .

. . . it’s beautiful.

I whisper his name as he calls out mine, coming inside me with intimate force. I feel him fill me, know that in this moment I’m connected to Robert in a way that I’ve never really been before. He throbs inside me as I slowly lower my leg.

As if unable to support himself a moment longer he collapses by my side, quiet, one arm wrapped around my waist.

For a few minutes we don’t say anything.

“If we’re starting over,” he says, quietly, “is it too early to say I love you?”

“Maybe,” I say, with an exhausted smile. “But I love you, too.”

Of course we’re moving too fast. Only this afternoon I thought Robert was my past. This is the first time I’ve seen him in months. It’s chaotic to say the least.

But maybe just a little bit of chaos is okay. It’s all about balance after all. And it’s not like I could have helped it. I got pulled into his gravity.

He’s no longer a stranger. He’s my moon.