“Only Adam until I punched him in the face for it.” Suzanne glanced over Patrick’s shoulder at the screen. Søren…Aabye…Kierkegaard. Why did that look so familiar to her?
She grabbed her steno pad, flipped through a few pages, and found the words Meine andere Geschenk wird nicht in einer Box passen. AABYE.
My other present will not fit in a box. AABYE.
Aabye.
Suzanne’s eyes bored into the word as if demanding it to tell her what it meant. And it did mean something. She knew it meant something. From Patrick’s computer she turned her gaze to her bookshelf and a book with a bloodred cover written by Nora Sutherlin. In an instant she left the couch and snatched the book off the shelf. There it was, right on the dedication page. The answer had been sitting on her bookshelf the entire time.
Søren’s words from their almost night together rang in her mind.
We are close. She had a nasty run-in with the law at age fifteen. The judge had me supervise her community service. Her parents had little to do with her after that. I suppose you could say I had to become her father.
“Suz?” Patrick asked, turning his face to hers.
“Goddamn you,” Suzanne said to herself. “You were her priest, her father…”
“What?”
“Do you have your car?”
“Yeah, why? What’s wrong?”
“I need it. Don’t wait up. I’ve got a priest I need to crucify.”
“Suzanne, stop right now and tell me what’s going on. It’s almost midnight.”
She grabbed her copy of Nora Sutherlin’s book The Red off the shelf and shoved her feet into her sandals. In the doorway, Suzanne paused only long enough to recite five words to Patrick.
“‘As Always, Beloved, Your Eleanor.’”
17
Michael stared down at the note in his hand and wished somehow he hadn’t found it. Nora had a habit of leaving notes for him in funny places; notes that contained his orders for the day.
Angel, come to my bedroom at ten o’clock…on your knees. Bring your favorite flogger.
He’d found that note in the shower.
Angel, high noon, the swimming pool. Be prepared to skinny-dip.
That note she’d taped to his watch while he was napping.
All her notes so far amused him and aroused him. But this latest note flat-out terrified him.
Angel, you aren’t a real kinkster until you have a threesome. Meet me and Griffin in his bedroom at midnight.
Threesome? With Nora and Griffin? Michael came dangerously close to puking as he walked at a sloth’s pace down the hall. For six weeks now he’d been unable to think of anything or anyone other than Griffin. That night at Sin Tax…it hadn’t been real, he kept telling himself. Griffin didn’t really mean Michael was his property. He’d just said that to scare Jackal off. But then the sketchbook…and the way Griffin looked at him while he held his leather belt taut in his hands…and Michael had wanted to tell him something, had tried to tell him something. He had the words. He wanted to say, “Griffin, I’m falling in love with you, and it’s the scariest f**king thing ever. My dad will kill me dead if he finds out, but right now, I couldn’t care less, because being in bed with you even for one night would be worth dying for.”
But Michael hadn’t said that. All he’d managed to say was, “Thanks for the sketchbook. Good night.”
Thanks again.
Good night.
Good thing he was over his suicidal tendencies. Otherwise he might have slit his wrists again for blowing maybe his only chance with the most amazing person he’d ever met in his life. Because ever since that night, Griffin had pulled back and stopped flirting with him. They’d been buddies since that night. Nothing but friends.
Michael wanted a lot of stuff from Griffin—his heart, his body… His friendship wasn’t even in the top five.
And now Michael had to watch Griffin have sex with Nora, which right now sounded about as sadistic as inviting a starving kid to a buffet and not letting him eat.
He came to the end of the hall and slowly pushed the bedroom door open. At least this thing would happen in Nora’s room, not Griffin’s. It would be fine, he told himself. They’d probably just take turns with Nora. That’s all. No big deal. In the past six weeks he’d done kinky shit he’d barely even let himself dream about. Having sex while someone watched would be a breeze.
All thoughts of breezes evaporated when he saw Nora lounging on her bed in black panties, a black push-up bra and black thigh-high boots. A dozen black candles burned on the bedside tables. And Griffin was nowhere to be seen.
“Come here, Angel.” Nora crooked her finger, beckoning him to the bed. Michael stifled a whimper, took a deep breath and nervously crawled across the sheets to her. Swinging her booted leg out, she hooked it around his waist and playfully kicked him toward her. She wrapped both legs around his back as she held him to her.
“My Angel. Can’t fly away now,” she teased as she took him in her arms. “My scared, shaking Angel.”
Her voice dropped to a whisper and Michael buried his head in the crook of her neck.
“Terrified,” he confessed.
“Want to tell me why?” Nora kissed him on the cheek, the forehead, and he sighed from the simple gesture of affection.
Michael gave a low, rueful laugh.
“Not really.”
Nora nodded as if she understood everything he wasn’t telling her. Knowing Nora, she probably did.