I tell her, “You were my first domme.”
Dove’s eyes meet mine. They go a little wide, and there’s something like pride in her expression. I can tell I’ve pleased her. That feels good, at least. A sliver of serotonin in Dove’s smile. Then she cocks her head and says, “Well, that’s not much of a secret. You’re a terrible submissive.”
I can’t help it. I laugh. It bursts out of me, a little too earnest and far too honest. Dove has that effect on me. She makes me laugh even when I’d rather stew in my own self-loathing.
She’s smiling, too.
We’ve rolled into Brooklyn. The cab slows, trying to find the venue.
When we get out of this taxi, we’ll be back with her friends, and back in the chaos. If I want to say something, I’d better say it now.
I find my lips moving without consent from my brain.
“At the bookstore,” I say, “I took it too far. I’m sorry. I lost control and?—”
“Red,” she says suddenly.
I blink. Did she just…safe word? In the middle of a conversation?
“Ah…what?”
“Red,” she repeats. “Don’t you dare everapologize for what just happened. I won’t be another reason you hate yourself.Thatis my hard limit.”
My mouth goes completely dry. I’m stunned into silence.
She sees you. Even when you don’t want to be seen.
She knows you.Better than you know yourself.
I’ve never, ever been seen like this. I want to resist it. I want to pull away. I want to hole up inside my—what does my sister call it?—myDorian-shell,and yet?—
And. Yet.
There’s also a part of me that wants to follow the light at the end of the tunnel. That wants to hope. That wants to see this bizarre night through.
The cab stops. Dove gets out. “Are you coming?”
“Yes, Boss.”
I take a breath, steel myself, and pay the cab driver.
Once I’ve exited the cab, however, I wonder if we’ve made a mistake with the address. We’re in Red Hook, right by the waterfront, and the river looks black from here, the skyline across the way glittering. A redbrick warehouse looms in front of us, looking very much abandoned, with tufts of weeds and rock and trash sprouting out from the sidewalk around it.
“Are you sure this is the right place?” I ask Dove.
The taxi hasn’t left yet. I could still grab it.
She points ahead. “There’s Phantom!”
Sure enough, like a mirage in the desert—a blue light illuminates from a steel door down the street. A broad-shouldered bouncer balances on a stool and, beside him, there’s Phantom, bundled up in his thick sweater and knitted hat.
When we approach, he gives us the standard, New Yorker greeting—a curt nod. “You found us,” he says.
“They kick you out already?” Dove teases.
Phantom’s smile is pinched. “It’s a little much for me in there. I’m taking a breather.”
The bouncer has tattoos dotted all over his face and a thick beard to keep him warm. It’s a twenty-dollar fee to enter, but Phantom has apparently charmed the icicles off his heart and he waves us in for free for being “friends of a friend.”
