The Chase Ch. 03

I wince as I sit at a small table. Cameron has left me sore. I cradle my hot mug in my hands and breathe in the scent of robust coffee. As the shop door opens and closes, I feel that the air outside is cooling down. It smells of impending rain. I close my eyes and savor the comforting scents all around me.

My brain replays the events of last night as I sip my coffee. It's funny how people talk about sex "getting in the way." Getting in the way of what, exactly? Friendship, I suppose. Or maybe just good conversation. Sex has never been in the way for me and Cameron; sex is the way. It's all we see when we look at each other. I take another gulp of coffee. It's too hot, but I sort of enjoy the burn.

"Tessa!"

The high-pitched voice jolts me from my reverie. It's Alyssa Bainbridge. I know her mostly as the woman who insists on chatting with me at every cocktail party. She and her husband have sold a staggering amount of real estate on the Upper East Side. I plaster a smile on my face and gesture to the other chair at my table. "Hi, Alyssa," I say brightly. "Do you have time to join me for coffee?"

She rolls her eyes and laughs. "God, I wish I did! I've got a showing in about 10 minutes."

I silently breathe a sigh of relief. "Is it nearby?"

"Yeah, it's actually about a block from you guys." She pauses to type out a text. "When did fucking condos start going for 30 mil?"

I gulp and peer into my coffee mug as if I can read the answer there.

She plops down while still tapping her phone screen wildly. "Anyway, where have you been? And how is Cameron?"

My stomach drops. "Where have I been?" I ask, hoping I merely sound confused by the question.

"Well, you went to visit family, right?"

I take a leisurely sip of my coffee. Cameron has trained me to be impeccably discreet. One never knows who's connected to gossip columnists. And now that social media has basically turned everyone into a gossip columnist, I have to be doubly careful. I reach for my favorite diversion tactic: I turn the question back to her. "Well, Cameron talked to Howard, right?"

She snorts. "Honey, Cameron was a hot mess. Then he just vanished. Howard and I weren't sure what to think."

"He—he was a mess?"

"We'd never seen him like that. I only saw him at a dinner, but he looked...haunted." She frowns. "What was going on?" As I bite my lip, she seems to back-pedal. "I mean, I know it's not my business—"

I decide to be succinct and vague. Liars always look like liars when they give too much information, right? I look steadily at her. "My mom was sick, and I guess Cameron missed me too much," I say, rolling my eyes as if Cameron were a naughty child. "She's better now, and now that I'm back, he's better too."

Alyssa studies my face for a breathless moment. Then she smiles brightly. "Well, that's good! And hey," she continues, "we should all be so lucky, right? I think Howard throws a party every time I leave town." She looks over my shoulder and then leans in with a smile. "Don't look now, but there's a cute guy checking you out over there."

I grip my coffee mug more tightly. "Where?"

"Well, he's waiting for his order, but he was clearly enjoying the view when I walked in. Should I go break his heart and tell him you're taken?"

I don't dare turn around. I don't want to be caught checking out some guy in a coffeeshop—especially after what happened with the guy in the dance club the night Cameron chased me down. "You're imagining things," I say, keeping my tone light.

"He's still looking," she says teasingly. "You should at least get a quick look at him. He's a little geeky but super cute. He reminds me of—" She furrows her brow and gapes at the scene before her. "What the fuck is happening?"

I don't have to turn to know what's happening. I watch Alyssa's face go from curious to baffled as she watches my admirer get escorted out of the coffee shop. "Seriously, what is happening?" she whispers before taking a drink from her to-go cup. "Look, look!"

I turn reluctantly and see some poor guy—geeky in a cute way, just as Alyssa said—being led out by Sokolov. The guy looks bemusedly at the other coffee shop patrons and finally at me; I simply smile sheepishly at him. Sokolov is too smart to make eye contact with me.

"What was that about?" Alyssa asks, tapping out another text. I breathe deeply, glad to see she's already forgetting the bizarreness of this little episode.

"Beats me," I say with a shrug, eager to move the conversation along. I take another sip as Alyssa's earlier words echo in my mind. Cameron looked haunted. I reach for a nonchalant way to pump her for more information about my husband's behavior. "Anyway, uh, it sounds like Cameron..." I let my voice trail off, hoping Alyssa will fill in some more gaps for me.

"Well, I don't want to get him in trouble, but he drank like a fucking fish. And picked fights." She looks rueful as she observes my shock. "Oh, I'm sorry, honey. I didn't mean to upset you. He's clearly batshit insane about you—which is good, right?" She pats my hand. "The important thing is that you're both back. And I hear you're having us all over for dinner!"

"Yeah!" I say with a touch too much faux enthusiasm. "That's on the agenda for today—planning, that is." The truth is that I'm hoping Mrs. Lindblom will handle most of the planning. She enjoys it far more than I do.

"It's going to be amazing. Your dinners always are."

I smile warmly at Alyssa. She's nosy, and I would never trust her with any secrets, but she doesn't pretend to have a perfect life the way some of Cameron's other acquaintances do. She and Howard have no children, and I imagine she has fielded her share of thoughtless questions about that. If I asked, she would probably tell me all about the awful conversations she's had at parties. Hell, I've been asked about whether, when, and how I'm going to have Cameron's children, and we haven't been married as long as Alyssa and Howard have. She seems to have more self-awareness than many in Cameron's social circle.

"I'm glad you're coming," I say with all sincerity.

"I'd better get to that showing," she says, grabbing her to-go cup and throwing her phone back in her bag. "Listen, if Howard seems quiet at dinner, it's because he's trying to avoid getting punched again."

I almost spit out my coffee. "Cameron...punched-"

"He's got a mean right hook, but Howard kinda deserved it, honestly. I'll tell you more about it later," she says with a wink. Honestly, I'm not sure what's wilder—the thought of Cameron punching Howard Bainbridge or Alyssa's casual amusement over it.

For the rest of the hour, I sit and wonder just how monstrous Cameron was while I was gone. He told me he knew my location almost immediately. Why did he wait to come after me? He could have sent Sokolov to get me instead of staying here and turning into an angry, drunk asshole.

He knew I had left him, and he tracked me from behind his desk instead of just chasing me down right away. What would have happened if my escape had actually been successful? How crazy would he have gone if he hadn't known my location?

I place my empty mug in the dish tub at the end of the counter and begin the short walk back to the townhouse. I want to pump Mrs. Lindblom for information, but I know she'll just dance around my questions. I guess I can't blame her. I'm not the one who writes her paychecks.

The rain-washed streets smell good. I'm so determined to enjoy the walk back home that when I catch sight of Sokolov half a block behind me, I just turn and wave.

****

About halfway through my honeymoon, I realized I was married. The wedding had felt quite literally like a dream. I had stood in a shamefully expensive Dior wedding dress and watched a priest with an Irish accent marry me to Cameron. I must have repeated all my lines properly, though I barely remember what I said. A New York Times reporter was among the tiny handful of guests, most of whom were Cameron's longtime friends—"business associates," as he called them. I smiled sheepishly at the reporter and hoped she didn't feel like she was watching some particularly glamorous Stockholm syndrome incident. Later I would discover that she had done a charming little write-up of our "secluded, twilit nuptials."

My mother was so caught up in the extravagance and excitement that I couldn't bring myself to tell her how the proposal had really happened. I learned that Cameron had called her a week before to ask for her blessing and to arrange for her to fly to Vermont. He had assured her that I would be totally on board and thrilled to see her at our "secret" wedding. She watched the ceremony breathlessly and wept as my new husband led me back up the aisle, through the gardens of his massive backyard. It was the oddest thing I'd ever done.

On second thought, the honeymoon was pretty damned odd, too. Cameron knew I'd always wanted to visit Florence, though I'd never told him so. "You mentioned how much you love A Room with a View," he'd said, as if that explained everything. "We'll stay at the Hotel Lungarno. It's a two-minute walk from the Ponte Vecchio." He set my big Louis Vuitton trunk, one of his many wedding gifts to me, on the bed. "Then I thought you might enjoy visiting The Hague."

I blinked at him.

"You'd like to see some Vermeer paintings, right, baby? Delft is beautiful right now." He glanced at my empty trunk. "You want some help packing?"

I narrowed my eyes at him. "How long have you been planning this?"

He pressed a button on the intercom panel. "Mrs. Lindblom, could you please help Mrs. Wainwright get packed? Bring as much backup as you need."

"Are you even going to enjoy a trip like this? There must be places you want to visit-"

"I've been everywhere." He strode over to me and grabbed my hand. "I want to show you the places you've dreamed about." He closed his eyes and kissed my palm.

"But how did you know about Vermeer? I never..." My voice trailed off as his stubble tickled my hand.

"I saw those art books in your apartment when we were dating."

I stared at him as he kissed the inside of my wrist. So that was his idea of "dating." It had felt more like an erotic fever dream.

While we were still in Florence, Bertie called to say that she was moving across the country. She had suddenly received a job offer that she simply couldn't turn down.

"I mean, I'm happy for you," I'd said as I watched the sky over the Arno turn pink. "I just hate that you'll probably be gone by the time I'm back. And how can you be moving that far away? Manhattan doesn't have enough jobs?"

"Oh, shut up. It'll be fine," she replied. I could hear car horns blaring in the background as she spoke. Clearly, she hadn't left New York just yet. "And you know you can visit anytime you want."

"I know," I pouted.

"I'm serious, Tessa. You've got my number." There was a pause, which was unusual for Bertie. I swallowed hard as I pictured life in the city without her. "Now go back to your honeymoon. Wait! First tell me about Florence," she said, sounding perkier.

I caught sight of Cameron stepping out of the shower. I swallowed hard and watched him towel off. As the steam evaporated off the mirror above the sink, his eyes met mine, and he smiled.

"Uh—uh, well, Santa Croce took my breath away," I said, still staring at Cameron. "I think I want to go back before we leave. Every chapel—" I bit my lip as Cameron stepped toward me, his erection bobbing lightly as he moved. "Every chapel is like its own little museum. It's like—oh my God." I stared as he wrapped one hand around his hard-on and started slowly stroking.

"So it's a religious experience?" Bertie said drily.

I closed my eyes and tried to focus. "It makes me wish I'd majored in art history," I said breathily.

"But then we wouldn't have had all those classes together."

"True." I chanced another glance at Cameron. He was pumping his fist as he looked at me. "That's...that's true." I sat on the bed, leaned back, and let my legs fall open as I watched him watch me. A muscle in his jaw twitched as his hand moved more quickly.

"You're having sex, aren't you?"

I could hear the smirk in Bertie's voice. "No," I replied with a shaky laugh, "but I think I might need to call you back—"

"Bye, Bertie!" Cameron exclaimed as he grabbed the phone from me. He ended the call and flung the phone into a chair; then he hooked his hands under my knees and yanked me to the edge of the bed. "We've got an hour before dinner," he said silkily, "but I'd like an amuse-bouche right now."

****

In the movies, obsessed men always become violent. They chase their women, suffocate them with love, and finally lose it and get all murderous, and all you can do is hope that the women get away. I used to love watching those made-for-TV movies with my college friends; we'd laugh at the ridiculous plot twists between spoonfuls of ice cream.

Cameron isn't exactly like the men in those movies. He gets rough in the bedroom, and I like it more than I should, but he reserves all his violence for men who show interest in me. Half the time I don't even know they're interested. I was never great at reading flirtatious undertones and body language, and even now, when a man chats me up at a party, I assume it's because he has no one more interesting to talk to.

I've noticed that fewer men dare to socialize with me these days.

There was the man at the jewelry store in Florence whose fingers lingered on my arm as I tried on a bracelet. I didn't know Cameron could speak Italian until I heard him whisper threats that made the man's eyes go wide. There was the lawyer who was fired the moment Cameron finished buying a small company because he looked at me too often. There was the business partner who got Cameron's fist in his face for trying to kiss me at a New Year's Eve party.

And now there was Howard Bainbridge, whom Cameron had given a black eye. Honestly, I'd always figured Howard was a closeted gay man. Certainly not a threat to Cameron.

I glance behind me as I open the door to the townhouse. No sign of Sokolov or anyone else. No one can say they're not discreet. As I step into the house, Mrs. Lindblom appears and takes my coat. "Will you join me in the kitchen, honey? I can't make the seating chart without you."

"Of course. I'm sorry for not being here earlier. I just needed to get out for a bit."

She waves away my apologies and smiles. "Don't give it another thought. We've got plenty of time to throw this thing together."

As I follow her to the kitchen, we chit-chat about the weather. She has just placed her draft of the seating chart in front of me when the question tumbles out of my mouth. "Was Cameron a psycho while I was gone?"

Mrs. Lindblom just stares.

"I mean," I falter, "he didn't make your life completely miserable, did he?" I lean in and lower my voice. "I heard he got violent."

She shakes her head. "He was never violent here, though he did drink more than usual, and he seemed...well, a bit undone." She immediately turns her attention to the seating chart, and I know that's the only information I'll get from her.

We work on the dinner party arrangements for the next twenty minutes or so, and I feel myself relax. Mrs. Lindblom's nurturing energy generally has that effect on me.

My phone buzzes noisily against the granite countertop; I glimpse Cameron's name on the screen and ask Mrs. Lindblom to hang on as I scoop up the phone and read his text: BABY, HOW WAS YOUR COFFEE BREAK?

I roll my eyes as I tap out my response: WHY DON'T YOU ASK SOKOLOV?

I mute the phone and tuck it into my purse. Mrs. Lindblom doesn't need me to stand around and text like a sulky teenager. I smile at her and clap my hands. "Let's finalize the menu, and by that, I mean please tell me what should be on the menu. You always know what to serve."

"You're such a sweetheart," she beams. For the next several minutes, I listen to her debate the menu options and nod occasionally. I know better than to derail things with my opinion. Mrs. Lindblom's taste is impeccable, and she always seems to know what the latest food trends are. Looking at her embroidered cardigans and grandmotherly hairstyle, one would never expect her to whip up an edgy fusion of Javanese and Brazilian cuisine, but that's exactly what she did at our last dinner party, and it was all anyone could talk about.

By the time Mrs. Lindblom has finished making her lists and assuring me that the whole thing will go off without a hitch, a pile of unread texts has collected on my phone.

I check the most recent one: DO I HAVE TO TAKE YOU OVER MY KNEE?

My cheeks heat as I scroll through the messages too quickly to read them properly. I see the word "fuck" and look around to make sure my phone screen isn't visible to Mrs. Lindblom.

Before I can read any further, the screen lights up. Incoming call.

"Cameron?"

"You aren't answering my texts."

I roll my eyes. "I was talking with Mrs. Lindblom." I can hear traffic in the background; he's not at the office. "We were planning the menu and stuff."

"And you couldn't answer me because..."

"Because that would have been rude to Mrs. Lindblom."

He sighs, and I hear a car door close. It's quiet on the other line now. "Mrs. Lindblom is your employee."

"Speaking of employees, where is Thatcher driving you right now?"

I hear the smile in his voice as he answers. "I'll give you one guess."

I plop down in a dining chair and wince; I'm still not fully recovered from last night, but the incident at the coffee shop has clearly got him in a mood. "Don't you have an empire to run?"

His voice is quieter as he answers. "I have a beautiful woman to fuck."

I shift uncomfortably in my chair. "Okay, well, give her my best."

He chuckles. "You really do want to be taken over my knee."

I squeeze my legs together as I remember the last time Cameron spanked me. I had only thought of spanking as a weird kink until the day he "punished" me for appearing at his office with too much cleavage showing. He had locked his office door, wrenched my panties down to my knees, and pulled me across his lap. The first smack made me squeal, but then he started finger-fucking me between spankings. "Your tits," he said as his fingers slid wetly in and out, "are for my eyes only. Is that clear?" When I didn't answer quickly enough, he withdrew his fingers and smacked my ass hard. When I finally walked out of his office, I was freshly fucked and wearing his Burberry trench coat over my dress. It was too large and made me look like a flasher, but it smelled like Cameron. The scent kept me aroused as Thatcher drove me back to the townhouse.

The memory makes my pussy quiver, but it doesn't make me forget how sore I am. "Cameron, I—I need more time to recover," I mutter, making sure Mrs. Lindblom is out of earshot.

There's such a long pause that I briefly wonder whether the call got dropped. "Baby, I'm just—I missed you too much."

"If that's an apology for making me sore—"

"I'll never apologize for fucking you," he replies, and I wonder what poor Thatcher is thinking as he overhears this phone conversation. "But I am sorry you're hurting, baby." He sighs. "At least let me hold you."

"Of course," I say, fighting a smile, "but you know you'll try to get further with me."

"And you know you'll come hard."

"Jesus, Cameron, don't make Thatcher listen to your filthy talk!"

He chuckles again. "I've got the partition up. I don't need him thinking about you like that."

"Cameron, I doubt he ever thinks about me like that."

"He's a man, isn't he?"

"You think everyone's as obsessed as you are."

"I see the way men look at you." The humor is gone from his voice.