Page 26 of The Cartographer

I wave, a small gesture with a few fingers, and lean back against the tufted linen of the banquette to survey him. I’m going to enjoy the hell out of this evening.

He slides in across from me, looking vaguely uncomfortable. Perhaps because this is a nicer place than he’s used to. I’d thought of that, had tried to curb my urge to take him to the highest-end place I can because I’m an asshole that way and I like to show off. I’d thought here would be okay, but…

Or maybe he’s nervous. Let’s go with that. Like first-date nervous. Even though this isn’t technically a date. It’s sustenance before a blowjob to give it at least the appearance of being polite. I’ve already seen him inebriated, plus I’ve already had my cock down his throat. Let’s call it date three. It’ll be the first with any real talking.

And talking we’ll do. I’m drinking to make sure of it. I’m already halfway through the French Blonde in front of me, and I’m planning to have another. Perhaps a third, depending on how long it takes me to leach information out of Hart.

“How’s your week been?” I ask, lobbing a softball, hoping to ease him into the interrogation.

“Good. Got a few leads on jobs, hung out with the kids yesterday while Kendra was at the bar. You?”

“I’d have to say excellent.”

“You like traveling?”

“Mostly. I’d better not hate it. I do it a lot for my job.”

“You must be pretty fancy if you fly all over to do your coaching.”

The corner of my mouth curls up before I take another sip of my drink. Before I have to answer, our waitress comes over and takes Hart’s drink order. He grins at me after ordering a Coke, and I have to purse my lips to keep the laugh from spilling out. He’s taken his lesson to heart. Drunk Hart equals no sex, and he’s planning on getting his. Good, because I’m planning to give it.

“I have a particular skill set.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “Are you really a life coach?”

The question amuses me. “What else do you think I might be, Hart?”

“I dunno. But I feel like a lot of your clients must want to fuck you.”

This time, I can’t help it—the St. Germain, lillet, gin, and grapefruit juice come bubbling out my nose. It should sting, but really what stings is the blow to my pride. I try not to projectile snort liquor on my partners until we’re further into our relationship than a back-alley blowjob and a drunk dial.

If it were India sitting across from me, she’d cackle and clap her hands. I think it’s one of her goals in life, to get me to laugh so hard I splatter my cocktail of choice over the table linens of whatever swank eatery we’re dining at. Hart’s looking at me with a similar expression of triumph.

“That might be true,” I concede, dabbing the liquor off my upper lip with my napkin and not bothering to tell him I do, in fact, fuck a good portion of my clients. “I’m not some high-class rent boy if that’s what you’re insinuating.”

Though I’m sure a lot of people wouldn’t make the distinction.

“I wasn’t…” He fumbles, and I feel badly about it. Not that I’m insulted by the suggestion I might be a sex worker. I’d be a damn fine one. Usually I wait a bit longer to show my cards, but I like Hart and I don’t want to prolong the agony if he’s going to turn tail and run once he finds out what I am.

“I’m not insulted. Also you’re not entirely off-base. Are you familiar with kink at all? BDSM?”

His eyes widen, not unexpectedly, and his skin seems to get darker, maybe a more purple undertone to the dark brown than the usual cool blue. I’ve made Hart blush. I’d like to make him do it again.

“Not really.” His eyes skate over me, and I’m not sure what he’s looking for. Some kind of scarlet K? It’s not as if you can identify kinky people by looking at them. From talking to them for a few minutes? Depends on how good you are at talking and exactly how loudly the kinkster inside of them is begging to be let out. Some of the kinkiest fucks I know are also the most straight-laced outside of the bedroom/dungeon/club, whatever their preferred playspace.

“Well, that’s my stock and trade. Some people call me a trainer. If people want to learn about kink, I teach them. Sometimes help them find partners who would be a good fit.”

“You make money from this?”

“Quite a bit. I’m good at what I do, and I can keep my mouth shut. I have a lot of celebrity and VIP clients, but outside a pretty rarified crowd, no one’s ever heard of me.”

“You’re okay with that?”

“I’m quite happy with the way things are. My relative anonymity allows me to do my job in a way fame wouldn’t. Also, I’m not really after the flashbulbs and screaming fans.”

“Then why do you do it?”

There are so many answers I could give to that question.Because it’s the only thing I’ve ever wanted to do? Because it’s fulfilling a promise I made to my dead father in a way I’m sure he’d never thought of but I can’t imagine he’d disapprove? Because this is the only community where I’ve ever truly felt at home and I’m repaying a debt of gratitude? I don’t think Hart and I are to the soul-baring portion of this program yet, though. Truth be told, I’m not sure we ever will be. A man can dream.

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