My Hunger

I wake to the sound of my cell phone ringing and glance at the clock. Nine in the morning. After a night of reading Rebecca’s journal and climbing the walls, I’ve slept two hours. My caller ID says it’s my father and I sit up, my legs draped over the side of the bed. “Morning, Dad.”

“You sound like shit.”

“Better than looking like shit,” I answer, but I’m pretty sure I do that, too. “How’s Mom?”

“She’s weak and not handling the pain meds—they give her a queasy stomach. They took a blood sample as a precaution. We’re waiting on the results.”

“Can she talk?”

“She’s knocked out, which is why I called now.” He hesitates. “How are you?”

I stiffen, concerned he’s heard the latest bombshell. “What do you mean, how am I?”

“I know this Mary and Ricco situation, on top of your mother’s scare, is a lot to happen at once.”

The tension in my shoulders relaxes. “Mom’s on the mend. That’s what counts.”

“The nurse is here. I’ll call you later.”

“Call me when you get the test results.”

“I will. And son, remember. Shit happens, but it only stinks as long as you keep it around.”

The line goes dead with one of my father’s many ridiculous sayings that always end up being profoundly accurate. I sit there for a moment, letting this one stir up determination, and then I dial the attorney. I can’t bring Rebecca back, but I can make sure that I don’t keep the “shit” that could hurt other people around longer than I have to. And to me, the shit is Ava, reporters, and turmoil. I’ve been down that path and it doesn’t work for me.

I have to talk to Ava and convince her to come clean. It’s the only way to end this and end it now. I hit Redial and this time I leave a message. Taking my phone with me, I head to the bathroom to shower, determination burning through my veins. I’m ready to take action. For my family. For Rebecca.

An hour after my insightful chat with my father, I pull my car into the nearly deserted back parking lot of the gallery. We’re closed and I’m not about to open the doors until I’m back here to prevent a three-ring circus.

Stepping out of the car, I am dressed in my standard finely tailored gray suit with a well pressed white shirt and a gray tie. I’m also wearing my best steely “Bossman” persona, as our accounting manager, Ralph, often calls it when he thinks I don’t hear him. My cell rings and, noting Dean’s number, I lean on the car, staying outside beyond the earshot of employees to answer.

“Did you talk to the detective?” I ask.

“Yes. And as I suspected he’s a good guy who wants justice, but he pretty much told me the district attorney just wants a conviction. He’s going to do whatever it takes to pressure you to help him, even if that means dragging you through mud.”

“He doesn’t have to pressure me. I want to help.”

“I get that and I told him that, but the bottom line here is he has to deliver a conviction—and that means someone is going down. If it’s not Ava, it’s going to be someone else. You can’t let him turn that into you.”

I curse and Dean says, “Ditto that from me. I talked to an attorney named Nick Rogers on your behalf. Many of us call him Tiger because he’ll rip your throat out if you mess with his success, which means his clients. He’s in court today, but I set up a meeting for tomorrow morning. I’m assuming under the circumstances you can make it?”

“Can we make it later tonight? I need to get back to New York to deal with the backlash this causes at Riptide before it gets to my mother. I’ll double his fees. Hell, I’ll triple them. Just get me in, and now.”

“I’ll find out and text you the answer and the address. This is going to get messy, Mark.”

“Then let me just go talk to Ava. I can get her to talk.”

“Not no, but hell no—and Tiger agreed.”

“If I can end this, then I have to do it.”

“If you go, you go with Tiger by your side. Just wait until we talk to him, Mark.”

“I have my family, my employees, Sara, and the members of the club to think about.”

“As a member of the club, you think I don’t know that? We’ll talk to Tiger. We’ll get a plan and we’ll attack. I’ll call Tiger now, but I might not hear back right away since he’s in court.”

“Right. I’ll be here.”

“Where is here?”

“At the gallery.”

“If the detective shows up or calls you, keep your mouth shut. Tell him to call me.”

“Right. Hurry the fuck up with that meeting.” I end the call and head toward the door. I’m about to enter the building when a flurry of activity occurs to my left. Turning, I find myself accosted by a female reporter with a cameraman.

“Mr. Compton,” the pretty blonde says, “I understand you have one dead employee and one arrested for counterfeiting art. I assume the two are related?”

“You know what they say about assuming,” I comment dryly, pushing open the door. “It makes asses out of pretty reporters.”

She grimaces. “So they’re not related and you’re just, what, unlucky?”

“I’d say you’re the unlucky one, or just the unwise one. People who call and schedule interviews do better than people who sideswipe me.”

“You won’t take my calls.”

“Eventually I’ll take someone’s, and it won’t be the reporter who started my day out on the wrong side of the door.” I enter the gallery and lock the door behind me.

Bright white floors gleam beneath my feet and a memory slams into me. It was near closing and I’d heard our salesperson Mary in a conversation with a customer. Something about the unknown female’s voice had compelled me to seek her out. Rebecca. I remember the moment I first saw her, her green eyes alight with excitement, her long brown hair windblown and sexy. I couldn’t look away, and I’d known she was special, that she belonged here. That she belonged with me. Damn it, she’s supposed to be here now.

Forcefully I shove aside the thoughts and reenter the present. Somehow I’m standing still. Out of myself. Out of control. Setting my feet back in motion, I push through the entryway to the offices and my attention turns to the reception desk where our receptionist, Amanda, is taking a message on a call while the often flippant but always efficient accounting manager, Ralph, is kneeling at a drawer to remove a file.

I lean on the wall and watch them, wondering when they’ll notice me. Amanda groans as she finishes the call and three more lines begin to ring, shoving her hands through her long brunette hair. “This is insanity,” she wails. “They won’t stop ringing. The press and the questions are driving me nuts.”

Ralph grabs the lines one after another and quickly takes inquiries, then puts them all on hold. “All press,” he says. “Focus on putting them on hold and getting to customers and the talent who support this place.”

“Ralph, you’re not hearing me. They won’t stop calling.”

“There’s an ancient Chinese saying about the press,” he tells her, referencing his heritage.

“What is it?” she asks. “And it better be good.”

“I don’t remember. I’ll ask my grandmother.”

Amanda growls at him, “Ralph, this is serious.”

“It says,” I interject, “that if you put the press on hold, leave them on hold.”

They both whirl around to face me, all but jumping out of their skins, a feeling I understand too well right now.

“Mr. Compton,” Ralph says, straightening fully. “We weren’t sure if we’d see you today or not.”

“I’m hoping to get a plan of action in place here and return to New York in the next few days.”

Amanda answers another call and puts it on hold. “Another reporter.”

“I wasn’t joking,” I reply. “Put them on hold and leave them on hold.” Considering Mary was arrested for trying to pass off counterfeit art and Sara resigned from her job to pretend fairy tales come true with one of the richest artists on the planet, I add, “Put the phones on the answering service and just check them for important calls once an hour. I don’t want an intern in here who could say the wrong thing. I assume I have a stack of messages?”

“All on your desk,” she says, giving me a concerned look I really don’t need right now. “How is your mother?”

“Recovering and hopefully going home on Thursday.” I glance at the two of them. “We’re going to keep the gallery shut for the next two weeks except for private showings, and that includes all scheduled events.”

“Oh, good,” Amanda breathes out. “I was afraid we’d have to deal with reporters in person.”

“We will, but not until I’m here to do it myself.” I glance at Ralph. “You’re picky and obnoxiously honest about people. Go through the sales resumes and prescreen. Send me your top ten by e-mail. I’ll look them over for the future.”

“Obnoxiously honest,” he repeats. “I’ll try to live up to that observation.”

“See that you do.”

Amanda clears her throat and surprises me with, “Speaking of Sara, can we ask her to come back when she returns from Paris with Chris Merit? She’s so good with people, and, well, the questions about Mary and Rebecca are awkward.”

I glance at Ralph expectantly and he quickly says, “I’m handling the Mary questions for Amanda.”

“How?”

“Nonanswers and more fortune cookie quotes.”

I arch a brow and he happily supplies, “Confucius says there are answers in silence. Confucius says speak not, listen not.” He shrugs. “Whatever pops into my head. It works. They ask what the saying means and what I’m trying to tell them, and forget what the question was.”

Amanda interjects, sounding distressed again. “All the regular customers want to know if Rebecca’s really dead. I keep telling them she left the country and this could all be a mistake. She could be alive.”

Anger spirals through me and my gaze lands hard on her, and I speak from the gnawing ball of emotion in my gut. “She’s dead, Amanda.”

She pales. “But—”

“Her passport shows her return. Ava got to Rebecca before she got to me. So I repeat. She’s dead. We can’t bring her back by pretending otherwise.”

Amanda sobs and Ralph makes some kind of choking sound. “Denial only drags the hurt out. I’ll be in my office.” I turn and head down the hallway, refusing to look at the office that was once Rebecca’s.

Reaching my office I enter and shut the door, then lean against it facing my desk. I stare at the damnable mural behind my desk that Chris painted that reminds me of him and his warning that I was pushing Rebecca too hard and too far.

“Damn it to hell,” I murmur, running my hand over my face. I tell myself I was doing Amanda a favor. She has to deal with the truth.

No. Fuck. That back there wasn’t about Amanda.

It was about me. I have to deal with it.

Shoving off the door, I pull out my cell and dial Crystal, far more concerned about the New York press where she is than I am by the press I am dealing with here, and wait as her phone begins to ring.

She answers, “Mr. Compton.”

Mr. Compton, not Mark—and I somehow know that means she’s with employees, just as Rebecca had addressed me formally at work and as Master elsewhere. “The press is all over me here,” I say. “What’s the story there?”

“Knock on wood, we’re without incident.”

“And Mac Reynolds?”

“He made my cranky seller in L.A. look like The Good Witch of the North, he’s such a jerk. He wanted us to pay for expert reappraisals on every piece he’s bought through us, under threat of him going public.”

“And you told him what?”

“Turns out his company does business with my father’s company, and while I don’t like to use those connections, I talked to my father, who gave me a free ticket to use him on Riptide’s behalf. So I dropped my father’s name and made it clear I’m influential with his business choices. I then offered to pay for the reappraisals Mac wanted and buy back the items if they were found to be counterfeit, but since I knew they wouldn’t be, it would end up being at his expense. He’s going to keep his mouth shut.”

“Well done, Ms. Smith. I’m impressed.”

“Thank you, Mr. Compton. I do aim to please.”

“That could be debated.”

“Not successfully.”

I’m surprised to find my lips curving and my body relaxing into my leather chair. “You can convince me another time.”

“I will,” she assures me. “In the meantime, is there anything else I can do for you?”

There’s a softness to her voice, real concern I don’t want to notice, but I do. “Just be you, Ms. Smith. It seems to be working.”

“One day you’ll say that and mean it.” Her phone beeps. “Before I go . . . I’m going to see your mother tonight. I’ll call you afterwards.”

She hangs up before I can reply and I turn in my chair and stare at the mural again, remembering Chris’s warning. You’re pushing her too hard, taking her places she doesn’t want to go. I kept telling myself Rebecca was just another sub, when she was never just a sub. She always wanted what I wasn’t willing to give. What I’m not sure I have to give.

She wanted love, a façade of happiness that rips out a person’s heart and leaves them bleeding. Exactly why I told her I don’t do love. And yet my heart is on the ground, and it’s damn sure bleeding.

I need Sara back. It’s the conclusion I come to after hours of picking apart the gallery’s books and analyzing the impact of closing for the next few weeks. She won’t be influenced by the media, and she knows how to handle customers for private showings. She’d also be able to help me plan a grand reopening. Chris’s attending that opening wouldn’t hurt, either. Getting him to agree to Sara’s return or his own participation, though, is another story, due to Ava throwing accusations of an affair at us.

Moving on with other options, I decide I’ll have to bring in someone from Riptide. Once I’m there, I’ll decide who. In the meantime, I start Amanda and Ralph on making plans. We set a date, and begin the guest lists. By the evening I have calls out to several high-profile artists, and I’ve sent Amanda and Ralph home. By eight thirty I’ve left my father two messages: to check on my mother, and one for Crystal, who I know will stop by the hospital.

And I’m now sitting in a high-rise building at a conference table with a view of the city lights. “Tiger,” my new attorney, sits at the head of the table and is the polar opposite of Dean. Dean, like me, wears his light brown hair short and neat, his suit perfectly pressed. Tiger is in jeans and a T-shirt, his long black hair tied at his nape, his face sporting at least a two-day shadow. He reminds me of Chris Merit, who can drop that casual persona and knock someone down ten notches in sixty seconds flat with lethal precision.

“Here’s the down and dirty,” Tiger says, leaning back in his chair. “Dean filled me in fully and I know all about the club you own and his involvement. I’ll start out with the reality we face. Election years suck. Everyone has extra pressure on them, including those unfortunate enough to be caught in a mess like this one.”

“So you’re telling me they’re coming after me,” I state.

“I haven’t talked to them yet,” Tiger says, “but the bottom line here is that they don’t have a body, but they do have a young, missing girl. That’s big news, and it’s scary news to the public.”

“Ava confessed,” I argue. “And she tried to kill Sara. Ryan, Sara, Chris, and I were witnesses to that fact. We were all there that night.”

“Sara and Chris need to get back to the States,” Dean complains. “Right now it looks like they ran.”

“Chris lives half the year in Paris,” I remind him. “It’s not like it’s some random out-of-the-country location. And I’m sure their attorney has whatever their situation is under control. Chris has money and expert advice.”

“It would look better if they were here,” Tiger agrees. “And a good attorney will use the public’s lack of information about BDSM to paint you as some sort of fetish monster who commanded Ava to take the fall for you.”

“What about the attempted murder?”

“If they discredit you and the other witnesses,” Tiger replies, “it’ll be a hard case to make.”

I press my fingers to my forehead and curse.

“This sounds bad,” Dean comments,“but it’s all smoke and mirrors to get Ava off. They have no evidence.”

Dropping my hands, I say, “We hope. And what stops this from ruining me and my family in the process, not to mention the privacy of the members of the club?”

“Me,” Dean says. “They know me and my reputation. I’ll sue the stink out of their shit if they so much as blow the wrong air your direction. One of the first things I’m going to do is make sure the club records are safe. Get them off site, if you have them there, and bring them to me. They’ll go after the gallery and your home first. And anyone else they can connect to you and Rebecca.

“Like Ryan,” Tiger indicates. “And I’d guess Chris, if they find out he’s a member of the club, and they’ll get to Sara through Chris since she lives with him. Fortunately for Ryan, Ava seems to be pointing her anger elsewhere.”

I scrub my jaw. “I haven’t even warned him about all of this.”

“I’ll call him,” Dean offers.

“Back to the club,” Tiger interjects. “If things heat up, it’s a good idea to have someone in mind to sign the club over to. I don’t anticipate it being necessary, but it’s better to have a plan. We can do some paperwork to protect your rights. It will give me an argument, if we need it, that the only records of relevance are yours, Ava’s, and Rebecca’s.”

“What about Riptide?” I ask. “Can they touch it?”

Tiger straightens, resting his hands on the table, and I hope he’s as good as Dean claims. “That would be a very difficult stretch for them to make,” he replies.

“But they could try to make it,” I say, and it’s not a question.

“They can and will try about anything. That’s why I’ll be street-brawl ready if need be.”

“I don’t want you to need to be. I want this over quietly and quickly, and it seems the only way to do that is for me to talk to Ava and get her to tell the truth.”

“No.” Tiger’s voice is absolute steel. “Even if you get her to give up the body and it’s covered in her DNA evidence, you run the risk of her claiming you were involved or even the one who plotted it all out. They’ll use the Master-and-submissive relationship you favor against you.”

“Ava wasn’t my submissive.”

“Did she want to be?” Tiger asks.

Tension crawls up my spine. “Yes.”

“How did she pay for her membership at the club?”

“On her own. I didn’t sponsor her.”

Tiger glances at the paper in front of him and arches a brow. “How did a coffee bar manager get that kind of money?”

“She owns the coffee bar, but according to her she also had a family inheritance.”

“That explains a lot,” Dean comments dryly.

“Meaning?” I prod.

“She’s got a couple of hotshot, very expensive attorneys.”

Tiger taps the table. “Back to her wanting to be your sub. I’m guessing she’ll say she was trying to earn that role by doing as you wish.”

“He’s right,” Dean agrees. “It’s too risky for you to confront Ava.”

“Talk, not confront,” I correct.

“And if you convince her to change her story, they could say it’s the way you manipulate her and mess with her head,” Dean counters. “This is one of those calls attorneys make—like not putting someone on the stand.”

I am not pleased with this answer or the way it ties my hands. “Ava claimed Sara was involved in Rebecca’s murder. None of us had even met Sara in the timeframe in question. Surely that demonstrates she’s lying and hurts her credibility.”

“Eventually the truth will win out,” Tiger assures me. “But it’s going to be a hell of a ride.”

My cell phone rings and I pull it from my pocket. It’s Kurt, the manager of the club. I answer. “The police were just here,” Kurt tells me without preamble. “I sent them away, but I’m guessing they’ll be back.”

“Did any members see them?”

“We kept them behind the gate. How do they even know we exist?”

Ava, I think, regretting the day I ever approved her membership. “I’ll be there in half an hour.” I hang up and glance from Dean to Tiger. “The police showed up at the club.”

“Predictably,” Dean replies, “Ava told them where to find it, and her people are doing everything in their power to turn this on you.”

Tiger shifts in his seat and pulls his cell from his pocket. “I’ll call the detective in charge of the case and give him a good verbal beating. In the meantime, we need to get the records out of the club to protect the membership—preferably tonight.”

“I’ll go get them now,” I confirm.

“And stay away after you’re out,” he says. “I wouldn’t put it past the police to decide to bring you in for questioning while you’re there, to get past the doors. In fact, can someone else get the records?”

I give a shake of my head. “Not with the security system I have in place. I need to open the safe.”

“Then get in and get out,” he replies.

“One final heads-up,” Dean cautions, as they both stand. “Ava’s team could decide to anonymously tip off a reporter. Who knows what creative story they might tell, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it was along the lines of ‘a dead woman and a BDSM Master.’ It’s the kind of story that will get major attention, and apply pressure on the cops and the suits.”

“I’d sure take that route if she were my client,” Tiger confirms. “But they might not be that smart or that brave.”

“Ava is,” I say. “She’s crazy, but she’s smart.” I scrub at the tension at the back of my neck. “I’ll have the records here in the morning.”

“Don’t keep them with you,” Dean warns. “I need to stay away from the club right now, too, but call me when you have them in hand and I’ll pick them up.”

I give him a nod and shake Tiger’s hand. Ready to get this trip to the club over with, I exit the conference room and, needing to burn off the emotion clawing at me, I take the stairs. I’ve just reached the garage and settled into my Jag when my cell phone rings.

Noting Crystal’s name on the ID, I answer. “Ms. Smith,” I say, punching the ignition button and hoping for at least one piece of good news. “How’s my mother doing?”

“I talked to your father and he said she’s still not feeling well. They’re running tests with no results back yet. Mark, I’m not in New York. I’m here in San Francisco. I need to see you.”

I brake at the exit to the garage. “What? Why? You’re supposed to be looking after Riptide.”

“I have my father’s private jet. I can go back tonight if you want me to.”

“If I want you to? What the hell does that mean, Crystal?”

“I’d rather explain in person. I’m at the gallery. Are you here? Can you let me in?”

A sense of foreboding fills me. “Is everyone safe?”

“Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes.”

“And Riptide?”

“Is under control.”

“What are you doing here, Ms. Smith?”

“In person,” she repeats. “I need to see you.”

I hear the stubbornness in her voice, and say, “I’m not at the gallery. Do you have a hotel?”

“Not yet.”

“Meet me at my house in an hour. I’ll text you the address.”

“Wait, Mark. The plane—”

I hit the End button, and it’s all I can do not to go to her now and find out what bombshell she has waiting for me.

And it will be a bombshell. I’m sure of it.