Playing Knotty (3 page)

Chapter 3

T
he number on
the caller ID was unfamiliar, and Emma frowned at the phone for two rings before answering. If it was a collection agency, she'd be screwed, even though she didn't think her bills had reached collections yet.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Emma?”

She couldn't place the voice for a minute; it wasn't like she dealt with many men on a day-to-day basis. After a moment, she took a guess. “Ian?”

“Yeah. I hope you don't mind me calling you at home.”

“No, it's fine.” It was strange, though; they'd always had an “in-store only” kind of friendship. Out of her professional environment, she felt off-balance. She thought back to their encounter two weeks before. “How was Ohio?”

“It was Ohio.” She could hear the smile in his voice, and it put her at ease. Sinking down on the couch, she put her stockinged feet up on the coffee table. “Am I catching you at a bad time?” he asked.

“No, now's fine. Well, as fine as it can be. My cat's been throwing up all morning, so I get to spend my day off watching her. It's wonderful.” Emma looked over at Minerva, the offending tabby, currently curled up on the rug.

“I can't believe anyone lets you have a day off.”

“The benefits of highly overworked and underpaid employees. I get a whole Saturday off a week.” She played with the tassel on a throw pillow. “So what's up?”

“I have a business offer I want to run by you, but I'd rather talk about it in person.” There was a long pause. “You can't leave your cat, though?”

A business offer? Her interest piqued, Emma sat up straighter on the couch. “You want to come over here?”

“You don't mind?” He sounded hopeful.

“No, it's fine. As long as you don't freak out if the cat throws up.”

“As long as she doesn't throw up on me, we'll be fine.”

“I'll see what I can do.”

W
as this weird?
Ian hesitated outside Emma's door for nearly a full minute without knocking. He hadn't thought twice about showing up at her house, but now, as he stood at the top of the narrow stairwell, it suddenly seemed uncomfortably intimate. He didn't know Emma that well, not really. Yes, they had a history, but you could hardly call it friendship. Casual acquaintanceship, sure, but two months as lab partners and a few years of occasional book-buying hadn't engendered intimate friendship.

If she'd heard him come up the stairs and she opened the door now, he was going to look like a creep just standing there. He rapped twice and waited.

She opened the door almost immediately, and her casual demeanor made his presence seem practically normal. Her blue sweater was baggy but gave just a hint of the body she hid beneath it. Ian found himself wishing she wore something that fit her more snugly, something to show off the curves that he'd once spent whole class periods in high school imagining.

Ian realized he was staring, but she had clearly been staring, too. He looked down at his gray henley and jeans, overly aware of his informal garb. Maybe he should have shaved this morning? He rubbed the stubble on his jaw and pushed the glasses back up the bridge of his nose. Were they just going to stand there? He'd give anything to read her mind. This whole visit was probably a terrible idea. If he weren't desperate, he wouldn't have called.

“Come on in.” Emma stepped aside.

Her apartment was more spacious than he'd imagined; it seemed bigger than the bookstore below. The door opened into the kitchen/dining room, through which they passed to reach the expansive living room with its matching green velvet couch and armchair set.

“That's some couch.”

Emma grinned, tucking a long brown curl behind her ear. “Salvation Army. I couldn't pass it up. Do you want a drink?” She paused. “I've got . . . water. And orange juice.”

“No, I'm good, thanks.” He sat on the velvet couch as she took the armchair. “This place is a lot bigger than I thought.”

“Yeah, it spans both shops, Prologue and the one next door. I think it all used to be one shop, and then somebody divided it into two along the way. So what's this business offer?”

Ian rubbed his chin again, the stubble rough on his fingertips. He'd rehearsed a few dozen ways to say it during the walk over, but he couldn't predict how she'd react. Worst-case scenario, she'd throw him out, and . . . well, he didn't want that. “I want to rent the back room of your shop for a workshop. For an evening. Maybe more in the future.”

“What, like a tax thing? Isn't it late for that?” Emma glanced up at the calendar on the wall, one of the free ones they give you at the bank with pictures of chickens on it.

“No, not a tax thing. I teach classes sometimes.”

“Oh.” Emma tilted her head to the side, puzzled. She was going to ask, he knew it. “Like financial literacy classes or something?”

“Or something.” Ian adjusted his glasses and tried not to avert his eyes. This was definitely weird. He should have taken that drink of water, but to ask for it now would be stalling, and if he didn't tell her the content of his classes right then, she was going to think it was something illegal. Best to get right to it. “I teach rope bondage.”

Ian expected some kind of reaction. He was prepared for her to laugh, or shrug, or roll her eyes, ask him questions, or ask him to repeat himself. Instead, she stared at him without speaking, her gaze completely blank and her jaw gone somewhat slack. Had she heard him? He felt his palms start to sweat and pressed them down on his jeans. He never got uncomfortable talking about his hobbies in casual situations, with the right people, but this felt different. It felt . . . significant. Her blank expression made him want to say, “Ha! Just kidding, I teach financial management classes.”

Finally, when the silence stretched from uncomfortable to
really
uncomfortable, she nodded. “Oh.” Then she licked her lips. The gesture was probably subconscious, but its effect on Ian was instantaneous. He hadn't thought about Emma that way in years, had long since put aside his teenage crush, and all at once he was watching her pink tongue moisten the soft flesh of her lower lip and wondering what it would feel like in his mouth. Sweet, maybe.

“That's it? Oh?” He folded his arms just to have something to do with them.

“Yeah. I . . . I'm not sure what I was expecting.” She laughed, a light, breathy sound, and looked off to the right. Was she . . . nervous? Interested? He wasn't sure how to read her; they'd never been close enough that he'd know her tells. Not to say that he didn't
want
to. “And you want to do that in my shop?”

“I need a space. I used to rent one of the conference rooms at the Marriott, but they've gotten too expensive. I've been calling around, but everyone's rates are exorbitant. Then I remembered your back room, and I thought it would be perfect.” In reality, he'd agonized about the decision for days, had hemmed and hawed about bringing Emma into this side of his life in any capacity, before finally deciding it made too much financial sense not to at least ask.

“I don't know, Ian.” Emma folded her hands in her lap, fingers intertwined, and looked down at them before meeting his gaze. “I don't know how I feel about having . . .
that
in my shop. What will my customers think?”

“It's a private event, Emma. You don't have to advertise it. I'll bring in my own group.”

Emma bit her lip and looked to the side again.

“I'll pay, of course. The same as I was paying at the Marriott before they raised their price.”

At that, Emma's head jerked toward him, but she still didn't say yes.

“You don't have to be there,” he assured her. Even as the words left his mouth, though, he regretted it. It was true, of course, but he wanted her there. Wanted to wind the rope around her skin, pressing a bit into the delicate flesh, wanted to feel her shiver beneath his hands. Where had this come from? He'd gotten past it. He knew it was ridiculous to want someone who didn't want him, who wasn't into what he was into. This was just . . . chemistry. Hormones. He was only feeling this way because she was right there, all soft curves, her light floral scent on everything in the apartment. As soon as he left and got some fresh air, he would remember that they were incompatible.

“When would this be?”

“Two weeks. End of April.” Ian sat forward a bit on the couch. “Please? As a favor?”

“It's not much of a favor if you're paying me.” But she laughed and then shrugged. “All right, what the hell? Sure.”

“Great.” Relieved, Ian pulled a business card out of his wallet. “You probably don't have my number.”

Emma took the card and looked at it, then raised an eyebrow. “Ian Hawk?”

Ian shifted, pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “It's . . . my workshop name. Gives me some anonymity when I want it.”

“I see.” She continued to look down at the card, then slipped it into her pocket. When she shifted, the neckline of her sweater slid across her shoulder, and Ian was momentarily distracted by the rosy swath of revealed skin.

He brought his attention back to the present. Clearly he needed to get laid, and soon. “Thanks again, Emma. You're a lifesaver.”

She shrugged, and he wished once more that he could read her body language. Did she really not care, or had he made her uncomfortable? “As long as I don't have to be there.”

“No, you don't.” Ian looked into her eyes, unable to stop himself from adding the next part. “But you're welcome to be there, if you want.”

Emma held his gaze, and Ian wished he could interpret the expression in those eyes. “I'll think about it.”

Chapter 4

A
fter Ian left,
Emma stretched out on the couch for almost an hour, her head spinning with all of the new information she had picked up from none other than Ian Cooper. Ian Hawk, she corrected herself, and had to stifle a hysterical giggle. Minerva stayed curled up on the rug, not vomiting, her tail over her little pink nose, yellow eyes half-closed in that creepy way that cats had. Emma needed someone to talk with. She considered calling Alina but put that thought aside right away. What would Alina think of her? They didn't have those sorts of conversations. What she really wanted to do was research, but her laptop wasn't much good without Internet, which she had given up as a luxury she just couldn't afford. The Starbucks across the street had free Wi-Fi, though, and she could really go for a scone.

She budgeted one Starbucks visit per week, and she'd managed not to go at all that week, so she could afford to indulge. Of course, she would be able to go more often if her mother would get her the
one
thing she asked for every Christmas, Starbucks gift cards, but that was always met with another round of “You'll never lose the weight if you keep going to Starbucks, honey.”

It wouldn't hurt to stop by the shop first, she thought. Her staff teased her about being unable to stay away, but Emma loved Prologue. She loved the creaky hardwood floors, the dark wood bookshelves lining the walls, the rolling ladders that always made her feel like Belle in
Beauty and the Beast
. It even smelled like bookstores were supposed to smell, like dust and old paper. Sure, it would be better with more windows, but their position nestled in a row of shops and businesses precluded more than the display windows on either side of the front door. Emma compensated with wing chairs and floor lamps for reading nooks throughout. Those had been her additions to the shop, and—with the exception of the woman who used to read entire romance novels without buying anything, until Emma had to politely direct her to the public library—people used them well.

She skirted the wall, lingering alongside one of the rolling ladders, and took in the entire scene. Late-afternoon sun slanted in through the front windows, a few rays slipping between the buildings across the street to highlight elongated strips on the hardwood floor. Two young women were poking through the romance novels, searching the monthlies for new releases. A tall man in a baseball cap thumbed through the “Gender Studies” section, while down the aisle in “Sci Fi and Fantasy,” a woman was reading the back of
Game of Thrones
. Another man and his daughter sat cross-legged in the back corner, combing through the picture books in the purple-carpeted children's section. Emma knew she was smiling as she meandered past “Social Sciences” into “General Fiction.” Prologue was her baby, her life's work, and sometimes when she walked around unnoticed, she couldn't help preening.

“Can't stay away even when you're off, huh?”

Emma turned at the sound of Bethany's voice. She hadn't noticed her shelving books down at the end of “General Fiction,” a silver cart stacked neatly with paperbacks resting by her leg. Bethany held three copies of the latest Stephen King novel in one hand while adjusting the other titles to make room.

“I got bored upstairs. I think I might go get a coffee.”

“With your laptop?” Bethany eyed the bag over Emma's shoulder.

“And maybe do some writing.” Emma shifted the bag higher. Bethany didn't need to know the real reason, that she couldn't afford the Internet in her apartment anymore.

“What do you write?” Bethany's eyes lit up with interest, and Emma stammered for something to say.

“Just . . . business reports. Monthly statements. That sort of thing.”

“Oh.” Bethany's face fell, but then she was onto a new topic. “You should get a Keurig for the shop. Then we all won't be blowing our money on Starbucks all the time.” She slid the new titles into place and turned to face Emma, resting one dark-skinned hand on the shelf, red fingernails drumming once in thought. “I'd chip in for it, and I'll bet Luis would throw in a few bucks, too, even though he's only here a few days a week.”

“I'll think about it.”

Bethany shrugged, then turned back to her cart. She moved with the kind of grace that Emma had always envied; even with her wide frame, heavier than Emma's, she floated between the bookshelves with ease, fluid as a dancer. She made shelving books look elegant.

“How has business been today?” Emma looked around at the store and the half-dozen browsers.

“Not bad. Steady. People finally started picking up that second course pack for the Religious Studies class at Emmanuel.” Bethany blew a curl out of her eyes, where it promptly fell again. She wore her hair loose, a massive black poof of curls that she was always blowing out of her large brown eyes. “About time, too. I don't know why they don't buy all their books at the beginning of the semester, like normal people. We're going to run out soon.”

“Probably can't afford it. Anyway, running out of those course packs is better than being stuck with them.” Emma took two books off the top of Bethany's cart and shelved them. “What are your plans for the rest of the weekend?”

“Not sure yet. Maybe a movie. How about you?” Bethany glanced over her shoulder at the counter to make sure no one was waiting to check out, then looked back to Emma. “Any hot dates?”

Emma smiled and picked up a book off the cart to hide a wave of shyness. “No, no dates.”

“You should get on that.” Bethany gave her a meaningful look. Maybe it would be odd for someone else, this rapport between employee and employer, but Emma couldn't imagine their friendship any other way. During the six months Bethany had worked there, their camaraderie had always been comfortable, even if it was superficial.

“Sure, whatever.” Emma looked around the store again. “You've got a customer, and I've got to get coffee. Take care.”

“Yeah, you, too.” Bethany wheeled the cart up to the counter and greeted the woman who'd been reading the back of
Game of Thrones,
now buying all the
Song of Ice and Fire
books. Zipping up her jacket, Emma stepped out the front door into the spring sunshine.

I
t wasn't until
Emma was settled at a table in the corner with her blueberry scone and a tall mocha that she thought about her upcoming Internet search. She was going to look up rope bondage . . . in Starbucks. That was weird. Wait, was it illegal? Would it be like looking at porn in a public place? Damn­it, if she could afford a decent data plan on her phone, she could look this stuff up in her apartment.

Shifting slightly, she angled her computer screen to face the corner, into which she tucked herself as much as possible. No one would be able to see her screen unless they were heading to the bathroom and also really nosy. Maybe this was all right. She looked around at the other patrons. It felt like they all knew what she was up to, even though that was ridiculous. It was unlikely that anyone cared about her at all. Even so, she slid further into the corner, her shoulder pressing into the wall.

Ian's business card was in her purse; aside from the ridiculous pseudonym, it had a phone number, email address, and website. After another glance around the restaurant, she pulled up his site.

Actually, the website seemed innocuous enough, advertising direct instruction on bondage for couples of all sexual orientations. The home page didn't have any nudity, just a scrolling slide show of photographs from his workshops. Emma watched the photos change, each one an image of Ian talking to some couple or single person, sometimes demonstrating a tie, his participants all fully clothed. Ian looked totally comfortable in his role.

Feeling more confident about her public Web browsing, she clicked the “About Ian Hawk” page, wondering what other mysteries about him she could uncover. She wouldn't have guessed that he was the type of person to lead bondage workshops, though it wasn't like she knew him that well.

The first paragraph was basic biographical information that balanced between interesting and nondescript: His job wasn't mentioned, for instance, nor where he lived (aside from “the Boston area”). The second paragraph, though, delved into the new territory.

Ian has loved knot-tying since his days as a Boy Scout, but it wasn't until college that he learned the possibilities of this talent. After attending a fetish workshop with a friend, he became intrigued by bondage and its many facets. He spent three years studying the art under several experts, including classes in Kinbaku and Shibari, before becoming a teacher himself. Now Ian offers workshops on a variety of bondage topics. Ian has been a featured guest at KinkFest and
the Geeky Kink Event. For more information, including how to book Ian, click the “Contact Us” page.

Emma sat back to eat her scone, which she'd almost forgotten next to the laptop. A few crumbs tumbled onto the touchpad, and she brushed them away. She never would have guessed any of this about Ian. All those times he came into her shop to pick up a book, he was off teaching bondage workshops by night. It was jarring to reconcile Ian as he was with Ian as she'd guessed him to be.

Pointer hovering over the “Photo Gallery” tab, Emma looked around again and sipped her mocha. No one was paying her any attention. She exhaled and clicked through.

At least everyone on the first page was fully clothed, so she could be eased in. Some participants had the anonymity box over their eyes. Others were looking toward the camera; they had clearly given permission for photography. The positions ranged from rather tame—a woman with her hands bound in front of her, looking demurely up at the camera—to incredibly intricate, with a full weaving of ropes crisscrossing another woman's body. Something inside Emma tightened in response, her fingers clenching on her mug out of reflex. God, what would that feel like? She scanned the other patrons of the restaurant, her face warm, before she pressed her shoulder more firmly into the corner and clicked on the next page.

Page two seemed to be all one photo shoot. The female model was naked, lovely, with beautiful pale skin and sleek black hair that hung in a long braid down her back. Her back was tattooed with a pattern of flowers that wound up her spine, a flash of color against her pale skin and the smooth black ropes. In the first set, she knelt with her head bowed, her arms behind her in a reverse prayer position, knees apart. The next few pictures depicted this same pose from a variety of other photographic angles.

In subsequent pictures, her breasts were bound, swollen and purplish, the nipples distended. Her head was pulled back, hair bound into the ropes, eyes closed and lips parted. Ropes between her legs bisected her sex and held her open for viewing. Emma felt her own body respond with a speed that surprised her, heartbeat quickening, breath catching as a thrill raced through her. Unable to look away from the lurid scene, she licked her lips and continued to scroll. In the final set on that page, the same woman was bound on her back with her knees bent to her chest, wrists tied to ankles, blindfolded. Emma couldn't look away. She reached for her mocha, hand scrabbling across the table, nearly tipping the drink on her laptop as she continued to scroll.

The next page was a different photo shoot with a different woman, curvy and soft like Emma, but with caramel-colored skin. The range of positions made Emma's head swim. In several photos, the woman was bound facedown, faceup in others, kneeling, spread-eagled, her body bent backward like a bow, all combinations. Who knew there were so many ways to bind someone? And how were those women so flexible? Maybe her body would bend like that if coaxed, Ian's hands warm against her skin, forcing her back to arch. She shivered, skin hot and tight. If only she were at home and not in the middle of Starbucks.

The next page contained a set of photos on suspension bondage. Based on the backgrounds, these photos seemed to have been taken at various locations. Audience members were gathered around in several photos, studying the model as if at a museum or workshop.