Owning me.
She wanted me.
Maybe I'd died and I was now in Heaven, because that's what it felt like.
I always took her hand and kissed it after she collared me.
It wasn't something she asked of me, it was something I felt I needed to do. I wanted her to know how much I loved her for this, for doing this.
I knew I was the luckiest bastard in the world.
Chapter 11
Her
My first major meltdown came four months after we took up our new "lifestyle."
What a fucking euphemistic word that's absolute meaningless bullshit.
I was on my knees late one Saturday morning in the guest bathroom, trying to fix the goddamn toilet. I couldn't get the supply line detached and yelled for my husband to bring me a pair of Channellock pliers.
Just as I was about to get up and get them myself, I heard him in the bathroom doorway. Saturdays were always play days, and he wore nothing but his locking leather collar.
I reached back, my palm open. He laid the tool in my hand.
A monkey wrench.
I bit back my sarcasm and tried again. "No. This isn't what I asked for. This is a wrench. I need a pair of Channellock pliers. They look like regular pliers, only they're larger, longer, and the business end looks offset and weird.
"Okay."
He took the wrench back and I knew from his tone of voice he felt badly.
A few minutes later, he returned. "Is this it?"
I turned to look, not really wanting to get up because it'd taken me a minute to wedge myself down there in the first freaking place.
He held up a pair of needle-nosed vice grip pliers. They looked nothing like Channellocks.
I closed my eyes and tried to count to ten. I didn't make it past five.
"Never mind," I whispered, prying myself out of the tiny fucking space between the tub and toilet.
"No, honey, I—"
"Never. Mind." I knew I growled it, because he flinched.
I snatched the vice grips from his hand and stomped out to the garage, spied the Channellocks on the bench right next to the tool bag—he'd had to take them out of the bag—and threw the locking pliers in without caring where or how they went.
He'd started to follow me and dodged out of my way as I stormed past him through the living room and down the hallway.
"Honey, I'm sorry."
I wheeled around. I had to whisper, because if I spoke any louder I'd be screaming. "Don't. Just stay. The fuck. Out of my way."
He flushed red. I felt like shit and alternately glad that I'd hurt his feelings. This wasn't his fault, not really. I thought I could handle this. On top of everything else, I thought I could do it.
I was wrong.
I didn't speak to him, didn't look at the bathroom doorway although I sensed his presence as he stood and watched while I swapped out the tank guts. Twenty minutes later it was back together and the water on. No leaks.
I left all the tools and old parts on the bathroom floor, washed my hands, and pushed past him.
"Clean that up."
He jumped to it.
I wanted to sob.
He was taking care of that while I changed clothes and quickly threw a few things into an overnight bag. He was still out in the garage putting my tools away when I walked out the front door, bag, purse, cell phone, and laptop case in hand.
I thought I'd calm down before I reached Tampa International, but I didn't.
When the captain announced we were touching down in Denver, I buckled my seat belt and wondered how many messages I'd have on my cell phone when I turned it on. It was eight hours later. My husband had to be worried.
I'd checked my overnight bag. I turned on my cell while waiting in baggage claim.
Ten messages.
Each sounded more worried than the last. The final one, three hours earlier, nearly broke my heart. I wanted to drop to my knees right there and cry.
"Please call me. I'm so sorry I disappointed you. I want to do better, I promise I'll try harder." Desperate. Pleading.
I sat in my rental car and considered my next move. I didn't know if Tony would be at work or not. I opened my laptop and used the aircard to log in to IM.
He was there.
Hey there, he greeted me.
I need to talk to you.
What's wrong?
I mean, I need to talk to you. Can I please meet you somewhere?
There was a long gap before his reply. You're in Denver?
The airport.
What happened? Do you have your cell?
I sent him the number. Seconds after I did, my phone rang from a number I didn't recognize.
The deep, smooth, soothing voice almost immediately calmed me. "What happened?"
I broke down sobbing, hating myself for doing this, imposing on someone I really didn't know that well and running from my responsibilities.
I never did get the story out. I was too busy crying. When he got me calmed down he gave me directions. I dug a notepad out of my laptop case and wrote them down.
"I'll be there as soon as I can," he promised. "I've got to finish up a couple of things, you'll probably beat me there by at least twenty minutes. Just get a table, leave your name with the hostess."
"Thanks, Tony," I sniffled.
"It's okay," he said, soothing me. "I'll see you shortly."
I found the restaurant without any trouble. There was a decent hotel across the street, so at least I wouldn't have far to go late at night.
I sat there nursing a rum and Coke when I noticed a man walk in. Dark brown hair, dressed neatly in khaki slacks and a chambray shirt. He talked to the hostess, who pointed me out.
Maybe it was knowing who and what he was. Maybe it was my nerves.
Maybe it was my second rum and Coke.
But I felt it. The secure confidence. No swagger, no strut.
Just a quiet self-assurance he wore like a cloak. He could have been a computer programmer or a graphic artist or even a lawyer.
I had to look like hell and wished I'd at least taken a shower before running away from home.
He stopped across the table from me and smiled, kind and gentle, concerned. I wanted to burst into tears right there.
"You okay?" he asked.
I nodded.
He walked around to me and leaned in, hugged me. "It's okay," he whispered in my ear. "You're not losing your mind."
He took his seat across from me as I harshly laughed.
"Sure fucking feels like it."
The waitress walked over and took his drink order. I noticed he ordered coffee.
When we were alone again he reached across the table and placed his hand over mine, gently squeezed. "What do you need from me?"
I didn't know. To be honest, I hadn't thought that far ahead. All I knew was that I had to get away for a while. I needed to get my fucking head on straight before I did something and hurt my husband, literally or figuratively.
When I looked up I realized his eyes were an incredibly deep shade of green. Combined with his quiet power, it felt impressive to me. He waited for my answer.
"Tell me how to get my head on straight."
He smiled, full of kindness. "Why don't you start from the beginning?" he suggested. "What happened?"
I took a deep breath and started from the beginning. The waitress interrupted me for our dinner order. I wasn't hungry, but I knew if I didn't eat something I'd need Tony to pour me into the check-in desk across the street. I ordered fettuccini Alfredo, hoping they couldn't screw it up and figuring it would be easy to choke down.
He listened without interrupting. When I finished about the time our food arrived, he studied me for a minute before speaking.