Page 31 of The Cartographer

There’s silence on the other end, and I wonder briefly if he’s hung up on me. Then there’s a low grumble, and I think not. “I’m not looking for a fucking vocabulary lesson, you goddamn walking thesaurus.”

Even though he can’t see me, I try to limit the smile breaking over my face because surely he’d be able to hear it in my speech. “Then you called because?”

“I got a call this morning. From Loch Security.”

“Oh?”

“Fuck youroh, Walter.”

I have to pinch my nose shut so I don’t snort. He couldn’t sound more like India if he’d met her, taken lessons, and practiced an imitation for hours. Though the “Walter” piques me. I’ve told him to call me Rey.

“They offered me a job. Out of the blue. For four times as much money as I ever made in the military, plus benefits. Why did they do that?”

“A friend of mine works there.” By “works there,” I mean owns it and several other security companies. Details. “She’s always looking for good people. I thought of you.”

“I don’t need—” He huffs out a violent breath like he’s trying to control his temper. I want to tell him he doesn’t need to. He can rage at me all he likes. In fact, I’d like him to. I want to see every inch of him, every ugly, violent, crass impulse. Until I don’t. Then I’d ask him to stop and he would. I can handle him no matter what he has to throw at me. “I don’t need your help. I don’t need your charity. I don’t take handouts.”

“I’d hardly call this a handout. It’s not as though you’d be sitting in an office doing nothing all day.”

Though I’d prefer that, knowing he’s safe. Not out on the street, toting a gun, being paid to step in between some Hollywood star and danger. And they do attract the crazies—oh yes, they do.

“I don’t care. I need to do these things on my own. If the best I can get is a few weeks on a construction site, that’s what I’m going to do. I’d rather sleep in my truck by making an honest living than live like a king because some guy who wants to tie me up and all kinds of other weird shit got me a job.”

“I didn’t make those calls because I want to fuck you, Hart—”

“Calls?” he splutters. “More than one?”

“Yes. Several. I wanted…I wanted to help. It was easy for me to do something kind for you.”

“That’s why you can’t. Don’t you understand? I’ve had to rely on other people’s good opinions to live before, and I don’t want to do it again.” That catches me up. What does that mean? I suppose that’s true for all of us to some extent, but it sounds as if Hart’s been under the weight of that more than most people.

Has he been thinking more about what it would mean to submit to me? If he has… Yes, I can see how being at another person’s mercy for so much would be disconcerting. Some people find relief and comfort in it, and some, like Hart, would feel hemmed in, overwhelmed, subjugated. That’s not what I want from him at all. I’d like a chance to explain all, that but before I can get one, he bites out, “So you can take your good intentions and shove them.”

Then there’s a click. Goodbye, Allie.

Chapter Eleven

‡

“Yeah?”

“Do you always answer the phone like that?”

“Who is this?”

“It’s Rey Walter, Hart. I’ve got a proposition for you.”

“If it’s another job—”

I cut off the rest of his sentence, but I still hear it echo in my head:then you can fuck off. “It’s not. I have to travel, and I’d like you to accompany me.”

“Why?”

“I usually bring Matthew but he’s otherwise engaged, and my other choice of travelling companion is indisposed.”

“So I’m your third choice?”

“Not at all. You’re simply the person I thought least likely to say yes given how our last phone call ended. But since I’m running out of options, I thought I’d give it the old college try. What do you say?”

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