Thousands (Dollar 4)

Would they dare take me on in the middle of the sea? Would they have the right armada to become pirates as well as slavers? Or would they wait until I reached shore again? Would the Hawk Masquerade be too dangerous to take Pim?

Tossing down my pencil, I growled. “I’m not expecting any calls.”

Oh, wait.

I was. A sneaky, low-handed secret I’d done behind Pim’s back the night she’d returned to the Phantom. “Shit, she called back.”

“She did. You’ll want to talk to her.”

“Your bossy replies aren’t wanted this morning, Selix.”

“Your argumentative, stubborn ass isn’t wanted, either.” He chuckled. “Get up here.” He hung up before I could berate him.

Leaving my touch-ups on the desk, I stormed down the corridor from suite to office. Selix looked up as I slammed the door closed. I didn’t know where Pim was, but I didn’t want her to know what I was up to.

Not yet, anyway.

He held out the phone. “I had to accept the charges, and you only have five minutes according to the terms and conditions relayed before you got your ass here.”

Shoving the phone into my hand, he practically pranced to the exit. “Oh, and Pim has been asking about you. I told her you were working, but that excuse expires in a few hours. I’ll tell the chef to expect two for dinner.”

I gave him the one finger salute as I raised the phone to my ear.

A crackly voice came down the line. “Prest? Mr. Elder Prest?”

The air in my lungs evacuated in a rush. I knew that voice. That same voice turned me mad with fantasies and wishes and needs far beyond my control. However, it was harder, older, less loving, and more accusing than Pimlico’s.

Or should I say Tasmin’s?

Would Pim kill me for this or thank me?

Sucking up the oxygen I’d just expelled, I clutched the phone tighter. “Hello, Mrs Blythe. What a pleasure to finally talk to you.”

Chapter Twenty

______________________________

Pimlico

DINNER STARTED OFF strained.

Elder acted differently.

As I reached for a helping of roasted vegetables, his eyes tracked me. Yet when I picked up my knife and fork and looked at him, he glanced away as if his own cutlery was far more interesting.

He seemed almost guilty of something.

But what?

Most of the day, I’d spent relaxing on my own and learning what it was like to be bored. I’d never known the concept before or after such an unusual fate. But now, as I hung on the Phantom wishing Elder would find me and put me out of my misery, and learning I could stare at the horizon for only so many hours before my thoughts annoyed me, I was ready for a task.

Any task.

I wanted to get back to work, and because my mind was now healthier and happier than it’d ever been, I turned to the last thing that’d stretched and formed it.

My university degree.

Psychology.

I found myself going over Elder’s body language without thinking. Finding hidden snippets of understanding in the way he touched me, looked at me, and up until now, had successfully hidden things from me.

I analysed our time in the hotel, going over sleeping with him, recalling the way he’d forced me to bind him and reading between the lines.

He wasn’t lying when he said he would’ve hurt both of us because he couldn’t stop. He wasn’t dramatizing his OCD to keep me at a distance or to earn sympathy from those who knew him.

Everything he said and did was the truth.

With one exception.

And now that I’d seen it, I couldn’t unsee it.

It was so obvious I wanted to cuff myself around the head for being so blind.

Three.

Elder might have a brain bordering on genius perfectionism, but even he had safe-guards in place. Life had rules and everything—humans, flora, fauna, and every microbe followed those specially specified rules—always staying within their species boundary, forever moving forward.

Elder just moved forward at a faster rate than most.

Tonight, he’d ladled three roast potatoes, three sprigs of asparagus, and three salmon medallions onto his plate.

Meanwhile, I had two potatoes, one piece of salmon, and no asparagus.

I was chaos.

He was uniform.

He thought he was chaos.

He was wrong.

To prove my quickly evolving theory, I watched him eat. Three sips of water followed by three taps of his fork against his plate. Three chews before swallowing followed by three cuts of his knife.

Did he know himself?

Did he feel himself doing it, or was it so ingrained, he didn’t even notice?

I became mesmerised watching him. He was no longer just Elder eating dinner. He was a musician creating a dance.

One, two, three.

One, two, three.

A waltz.

Forever moving forward, just like life intended, but in threes not ones like the rest of us.

My heart stopped.

Oh, my God.

Was that the key?

Was that all it would take?

Don’t be stupid, Pim…it can’t be that easy.

But then, in a long ago memory, my mother’s voice came back to me. About how textbooks and pharmaceuticals and so-called professionals often gave long-winded diagnoses and even more complicated treatments to hold the allure that they knew how to help when others didn’t. How paid therapy was upheld with regulations when true therapy—real therapy that worked—was sometimes the simplest of things.