Slow Surrender Read online

  There I paused to catch my breath and put my shoes on. I dared a look around the corner of the building, wondering if he’d chase me with his dick hanging out. There was no sign of him.

  I leaned back against the building, my heart pounding. If I’d thought last night was unbelievable, this was in a whole different class. The nerve! I wondered how many female students had polished his knob over the years. And how many of them hated themselves for it later. I shuddered. Disgusting. He even had a pillow there like it was a regular thing!

  I should report him, I thought. Shouldn’t I? Or would he claim I came on to him? You’re being naive if you think this kind of thing doesn’t go on all the fricking time, I told myself. He’d been at the university a long time. He probably had friends in high places. For all I knew, he went to orgies with the dean. I didn’t know what to think. Hah. Wasn’t that the lesson he thought he was teaching me, to make me ready for the job market? That this was the way it was? Women have to put out sexual favors to powerful men if they want to get anywhere?

  A sudden thought struck me. Had he seen me do something at the bar last night, flirting or whatever, that made him think I was a slut? Why did he show this side of himself now? I tried to think. I hadn’t done anything. Well, except screaming at the top of my lungs as I came inside a limousine, but I was sure no one knew about that. Maybe he’d seen me drop the marble into the glass?

  I needed to talk to someone about it. Jill? No. I’d only get a lecture about how I must’ve brought it on myself somehow. Or she’d say it was his way of saying the thesis was no good. Mom? No way. She’d lecture me on how I shouldn’t have moved to the city in the first place because it was full of perverts.

  If you only knew, Mom. I forced myself to go into the grocer’s and buy a bottle of water. The clerk gave me a strange look. My face was probably all blotchy, even though I hadn’t actually cried. Some women look elegant and tragic when a tear comes to their eye. I always looked like I had a bad case of the flu.

  I stood outside and concentrated on drinking the bottle of water. My hands were shaking a little. Who could I tell?

  I held my phone in the palm of my hand. Could I call him? I was supposed to wait until Friday, but did that mean I couldn’t call before that time? Those were the rules of the game, but…

  This wasn’t a game.

  I went ahead and dialed the number, which was still in my recent call list.

  It rang, and my heart rate, which was still high from the incident with Renault, doubled.

  It rang again, and I clutched the phone close to my ear.

  Then it rang a third time and a generic voice mail message played.

  I swallowed, wondering if I should hang up. No, if he saw there was a missed call from me, he’d think…he’d think I was stalking him. I realized he was probably asleep. It wasn’t even 8:30 yet, and I knew where he’d been last night. Stupid.

  The beep sounded. “Hi, sorry to bother you, but it’s Karina. I normally wouldn’t call, but something sort of happened, and I kind of feel like I need to talk to someone about it. And you seemed like you might be one of the only people, well, okay, the only person I know who I think I could tell. That sounds weird I know, but it’s…a very private thing and…and…oh God is there a way to erase messages on this thing? I must sound like such a nut. I’m sorry, never mind, I’ll handle it. Forget I called. I’m okay. I’ll talk to you Friday.” I hit the pound key, hoping it would take me back to the menu so I could erase it, but no such luck.

  “Message sent,” the voice said.

  I let out a sigh. I’d probably torpedoed the whole whatever it was with whatever his name was, too. Great way to start the day.

  I went home and went back to bed.

  * * *

  I must have been really tired, because I fell asleep even though my mind was still turning in circles. I woke with the phone ringing under my pillow a while later.

  I answered it sleepily, without looking at who it was.

  It was Him. “Karina. Are you all right?”

  “Um.” I sat up straight in bed. “Sorry.” It took me a while to wake up enough to use full sentences. “I mean, sorry for calling so early this morning and for leaving you such a crazy message. Everything’s fine now.”

  “Is it? Or are you just saying that?”

  I blinked. Why did I say that? Because I didn’t want him to think I was some kind of basket case. “I’m not actually sure. I’m not in danger or anything like that.”

  “If you’re sure…”

  “Look, I don’t want you to think it’s like I have a…a…” I tried to imagine what kind of mysterious trouble someone could get into. All I could think of was dumb stuff from movies, but okay. “…loan shark after me, or the Mafia or something. It’s nothing like that.” I especially didn’t want him to think I was after his money. I had no idea what he did, but your average, middle-class corporate drone didn’t tool around Manhattan in a private limo.

  “All right,” he said. “If you need my help, you should ask for it.”

  I almost said “Really?” in a skeptical way. We’d only shared a kinky ride in his limo. I didn’t see how that made him a knight in shining armor or why he’d feel obligated to be one. But it was nice to have his support, so I didn’t argue.

  “I think I’m okay now,” I said. “But thank you. I appreciate it.” I still didn’t know what I was going to do about Renault. Sure, there were cases in the news of sex abuse victims winning against their abusers. There were also plenty of cases of them being vilified, their lives ruined. If I wasn’t the first woman Renault had done this to, and I clearly wasn’t, then he had some way to silence his victims. I didn’t want to find out what it was. Maybe I could just go to the dean and request a new advisor for “personality conflict” or something and we would both let it drop.

  “Karina, are you still there? Are you sure you’re all right?”

  “Yeah, I mean, yes, I’m all right.” I blew out a breath. “I still don’t know what to call you.”

  “What do you want to call me?” came his rejoinder.

  “I mean, even in my head, I’m just calling you Him, with a capital H.”

  He laughed. “I rather like that. No other man but me, if I’m the only ‘him’ you think about.”

  “Yes, but it doesn’t work on the phone,” I insisted as I lay back down. “Hello, is this Him? Oh, wait. That kind of does work.” I started to laugh myself. “You know what I mean, though! Like you can say my name to get my attention, but I can’t exactly say ‘Hey, you,’ can I?”

  “You can’t?” he teased.

  “No, it’s rude and uncouth, and you don’t like rude and uncouth things.”

  “I don’t?”

  “Clearly not. So I need something to call you.”

  There was a beat of silence, then, “What about sir?”

  “Because you’re my knight in shining armor? Sir Limos-a-Lot?”

  His chuckle was dark and rich. “I was thinking of it in a less innocent context.”

  “There’s nothing innocent about that limousine,” I said. “But really? Sir, like Daddy or something?”

  He sounded a little tentative. “Would you prefer Daddy?”

  “Hell no. Oh gosh, that would just…yuck.” I couldn’t even make a coherent sentence. I wasn’t sure why I found the idea so off-putting. My father had left us when I was six. Maybe I never had time to be a “daddy’s girl.” “Why can’t I call you what other people call you?”

  “Because you are nothing like other people,” he said seriously. “Now, really. I want a special name, one that’s only for you to use.”

  “Hmm.” I tried to think of something. “This is like trying to name a cat.”

  “I reserve the right to veto any name like Mittens.” He sounded a bit worried.

  “You’re like a British fashion model, so you need a name like Bastian or Antonio,” I said, “except you’re not really British, are you?”

  “I spen
t some time in school there,” he said. “My mother was from there, but I was born here. You know, neither Bastian nor Antonio is particularly British.”

  “Oh, hush. I’m just trying them on for size. I suppose I meant European anyway. Lars? Marco? Gideon? None of them seem like you. Maybe something British after all.”

  “The most British names of all are those of kings,” he suggested helpfully.

  “Aha, is it a guessing game, then? Arthur? No way, that is way too old for you.”

  “Is it? How old do you think I am, Karina?”

  I closed my eyes. I’d thought his age was hard to gauge in the bar. He seemed so self-possessed and refined, which made him seem older than he was, I thought. So if the oldest he physically could be was forty, then he was probably more like: “Thirty-four.”

  He whistled. “That is amazing.”

  “I’m right, aren’t I? Yes!” I pumped a fist in triumph. “In that case, Henry sounds too old, too.”

  “You could try James.”

  “You mean like the Bible? The King James Bible?”

  “Well, the Bible isn’t exactly what I hope you’ll be thinking about when you’re thinking of me.”

  “Okay, James what?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You need a last name, too.”

  “Do I?”

  “If you don’t, you’re even more like a cat. Or like Cher or Prince,” I teased. “Here, I’ll give you a last name, too. Rich. James Rich. Then you can be Mr. Rich when I want to be formal about it.” I blushed and hid my face under a pillow. I don’t know where I got the nerve to be so forward with him, but it was easy somehow. It didn’t even feel like flirting, really, but more like I was letting my real self out.

  He chuckled. “So it’s more of a title than a name?”

  “Yes, Mr. Rich,” I said, trying on a sort of sexy secretary voice.

  “Oh, I do like the sound of that. Are you ready to run an errand for me, Karina?”

  “Most certainly, Mr. Rich.”

  “Good. I want you to buy a pencil skirt, stockings, and pumps. Ones that fit you, I mean.”

  “Yes, Mr. Rich.” I wondered if I should get a dictation pad as a prop, too. “Should I be wearing them when I call you on Friday?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the marble?”

  A thrill ran through me like he’d plucked a string deep in my middle when he said, “There are more where that one came from.” His voice was low with promise before he disconnected the call.

  Four: Innocence in Your Arms

  I was tempted to reach my hand into my panties right at that moment, but the door to Becky’s bedroom was open a few inches and I couldn’t tell if she was in there or not. The day had been mortifying enough without having her walk in on me touching myself in the living room. I don’t think I’d ever be able to face her again if that happened.

  When I’d first rented the apartment, I’d been working three jobs, the one at Jill’s bar and two on campus, so I’d been able to afford the place by myself. Last summer one of the campus jobs got eliminated and to make up for it, I got a roommate. The problem was the place was a one bedroom, which meant I gave Becky the bedroom to convince her to move in while I moved onto the futon couch in the living room. The room was perfectly fine as a bedroom except that it had no door.

  Come to think of it, I wasn’t even sure Becky had been there last night when I’d gotten home. I went and peeked through the open door. Her cat Milo (which was short for Mr. Millennium Meow) looked up sleepily from the bed and then put his head back down on his folded paws. He appeared to be sleeping on top of a pair of ripped up fishnets. There was no sign of her.

  Well, good. Just because her favorite rock star was retiring was no reason to lie around wallowing in depression, was it? Lord Lightning’s masked face adorned every inch of the bedroom walls. Becky was Asian American—I was too embarrassed to ask whether she was Korean or Chinese—and I got the impression she had uptight parents and a repressed childhood. She told me when she moved in that wearing punk-glam clothes was a way of rebelling, but she was too timid to actually go out to shows or clubs. She spent a lot of time on the Internet. It was really good to see she was out of the house.

  I did want her advice on clothes, though. I went into our tiny galley of a kitchen to find something to eat while I speed-dialed her.

  She picked up after a few rings. “Hello?”

  I could hear music in the background and people’s voices. It sounded like she was at a party. Becky, at a party? At eleven in the morning on a Thursday? “Hey, Becks, I need some advice on the best thrift store.”

  “Depends on what you’re looking for.”

  “A pencil skirt, stockings, and pumps,” I said.

  “Holy crap, you? What for?” Becky’s disbelief was understandable. She’d probably seen me out of sweatpants or jeans all of once in the five months since she’d moved in.

  Damn but she could be nosy. Fortunately it was a lot easier to lie to her over the phone than in person. “Oh, for a drama school play I’m helping out with. Secondhand and inexpensive is best.”

  “If it’s just for the one time, dig around in my closet and see if you can find something first,” she said. “I think there are a couple of skirts in there, and stockings are in the top-right drawer of my dress—” She was cut off by a gale of laughter and I heard her saying, “You guyyyss!” off to the side before coming back. “What was I saying?”

  “Stockings. Top-right drawer. By the way, I think Milo ate a pair of your fishnets.”

  “Oh, that’s okay. They were getting too ripped to wear. Actually, most of the stockings are pre-ripped. Is that okay?”

  “Um, maybe.”

  “Yeah, sorry, I know, I’m soooo retro-punk. What size do you wear? In shoes, I mean.”

  “Eight.”

  “Dig around in the bottom of the closet for shoes, too, then. I never wear any of them and there are a ton. Crap, I hope Milo hasn’t been peeing in there or anything.”

  “Me too. Thanks, Becky. That’s really nice of you.”

  “No problem, Rina. Hey, would you feed Milo for me? I’m not sure when I’ll be home.”

  “Where are you, anyway?”

  She hesitated a bit. “Just out with some girlfriends I met last night. I’ll tell you about it when I get home. Eventually.”

  “Looking forward to it!” Sounded like she was having quite the adventure. Well, good for her. I gave up looking for a real breakfast and decided to look for the clothes instead.

  First I poured some kibble into Milo’s half-full bowl on the side table by her bed. The cat deigned to open one eye and then closed it again.

  I decided to start with the dresser. It was an old wooden thing she’d gotten at Goodwill, so bulky we had to get help from two neighbors and the building’s super to get it in here. The top-right drawer almost wouldn’t come open it was crammed so full, but I finally pulled it loose, and several balled-up pairs of stockings sprang free.

  I ended up dumping the whole drawer out on the bed, which made Milo’s whiskers twitch, but he didn’t bother opening his eyes. I wasn’t worth spending the attention on, apparently.

  It looked to me like Becky had never thrown away a pair of stockings. It seemed every pair of L’eggs, drugstore-brand knee-highs, or Victoria’s Secrets she’d ever bought had been packed into that drawer. Who needs four or five dozen? Black ones, patterned ones, nude ones, opaque ones…some seemed new, while others had runs in them. I guess if you wore them under torn jeans runs were okay. I had never been much of a fashion plate myself.

  I sorted them out as I looked through the pile. Among them were some that were separate, more like thigh-high socks than stockings. I suddenly had a thought.

  I speed-dialed Becky again. “Is there a difference between stockings and pantyhose? I mean, aren’t they all considered stockings? Or are stockings only the ones without the panty built in?”

  “Why don’t you ask the director?�
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  “I couldn’t get him,” I lied.

  “Well, is this a period piece? A retro thing?”

  “Maybe? I think I’m playing the part of sexy secretary.”

  “Then you better go with real stockings and not pantyhose,” she said.

  “Uh, sure.”

  “There should be garter belts in there somewhere, too.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  Indeed, digging through the mass a bit more, I found a black elastic thing that had to be a garter belt and some individual stockings that had a faint pattern to them with a thick, black seam up the back. Bonus, these didn’t have any holes.

  Next I tried the bedroom closet. There was so much crammed in there, the door wouldn’t shut. The rod was completely full of hangers and then more hangers hung crosswise on those. Thankfully, there was a skirt that looked like it might do. I almost missed it, because it was hidden inside a jacket on the same hanger.

  I went back to the kitchen to get the flashlight to spelunk the bottom of the closet. What I found was a graveyard of old shoes, all flung together. A lot of them looked like they must have been bought to go with bridesmaid dresses or something. I eventually pulled out one slim, black pump that looked like it might work, but to find the match I had to excavate forty or fifty other shoes until I came to it.

  I spent more time putting everything back than I did digging it out.

  * * *

  I didn’t try the whole outfit on until Friday. I figured since I had to call him at seven, I’d start getting dressed around six-thirty. What I hadn’t counted on was getting into a discussion with Becky.

  I had the skirt, stockings, and garter belt sitting in a little pile on the corner of the futon. It only occurred to me as I looked at the pile that it didn’t include a top. Maybe he wanted me topless…? He probably thought I had a bedroom to myself like a normal person. He hadn’t said whether this was just phone sex or if we were going out. He wanted me to wear shoes—that probably meant going out, didn’t it? Oh, how could he have specified some things and not others? He had said figuring out the rules of the game was part of the game itself, though.