Page 3 of Salt Kiss
But also...what did it matter now?
I knew from my father that Mark had been out of the CIA for years; I knew from online gossip that Lyonesse was a BDSM club of sorts. He’d moved from death to sex, and Lyonesse was his. If he was going to be loyal to anything, it would be this world of his own making, and I could understand that. Maybe even trust that.
Still undecided, I walk through the door of his office, which is nestled proudly at the building’s prow. Sunlight lights the space—glass; concrete; pale, pale wood—along with two chairs and a large glass desk. The chair behind the desk is empty, the entire office is empty, and I hesitate for a moment, unsure if I should wait here or go find Ms. Lim again.
But upon a closer inspection of the room, I see a cracked door in the wall behind me and a hallway beyond. Deciding that I have little to lose by walking through it, I push it all the way open and step inside.
If I expected another, more interior office, I’m quickly enlightened—the doorways I pass seem to lead to suites of rooms. I get glimpses of wood floors and low-slung sofas, bookshelves. Maybe Mark lives here. Or wants people to think he lives here.
But it’s the door at the end of the hall that catches my attention. It’s held open without a prop, like it’s designed to stay open when needed. Stairs lead up to a glowing well of early spring sunshine. I take them and emerge onto the roof. There’s a shimmering pool at one end, and at another, there’s a large sunshade stretched over a table with two chairs. Underneath it sits Mark Trevena, my new uncle-in-law and my potential employer.
He stands up as I approach and extends a hand for me to shake.
“Tristan, good to see you again,” he greets me, his voice cool.
“Likewise, sir,” I say as I take his hand. His grip is strong enough that my nerve endings spark, and a strange heat lingers after he lets go. The breeze moves over the roof just then, and I can smell—
Clean skin and—
Rain, maybe. Fresh rain with thunder in the air.
The scent hits me harder even than Ms. Lim’s latex and silk, than the cake at the wedding. It’s so subtle...and yet...
I try to shake it off as Mark gestures for me to sit and then returns to his chair with an easy, muscular grace, but it becomes harder, not easier, to keep my mind on business as I’m able to get a good look at him.
He is everything that I missed while deployed.
His suit, a casual blue, is tailored so perfectly that I can see the suggestion of powerful shoulders and biceps, the narrow taper of his waist. His tie is a silk that gleams softly, expensively, while his shirt is a creamy white that begs for someone to touch it. A large watch, the kind that would reflect light and get you killed on a mission, glints from underneath his jacket sleeve. Even the way he picks up a rocks glass of something cold and clear—it speaks of time. Luxury. Sensuous enjoyment.
And his face...
I look down for a moment, at the table setting laid out and waiting for me on this rooftop, almost incredulous with myself. I’ve seen him before, at the wedding; I already knew about the dark blond hair and the jaw dusted with the same tarnished gold. The blue eyes and straight, thick brows and strong nose with a subtle bump, like it’s been broken before.
His mouth is shockingly full but also geometrically drawn. Hypnotic.
I’m grateful when someone approaches us, a slim young man in black trousers and a corset, his red hair pulled into a ponytail. He sets down salads before us both, leaves us with goblets of water, and asks if I’d like anything stronger. I refuse. Mark gestures for another of whatever he’s drinking, and the young man gives a graceful nod.
I pick up a fork on instinct—a soldier eats when he can—and pause. The salad is like nothing I’ve ever seen before, a green-and-purple-and-yellow creation designed to look like a butterfly’s wings. The dressing is painted in delicate lines to make antennae along the top. Chopped chives are scattered in arcs, as if emulating the wafts of air coming from beating wings.
There’s no need to have a salad this beautiful, this eerily lifelike, and when I look up, I have a moment when reality feels subtlyunreal.
This is a job interview at a sex club, with a man known to be a killer. Everything about this should have been tawdry, cheap, and gritty. Instead, I’m sitting atop a glass bower, the low-slung view of the Capitol in front of me, the river all around, with a salad that is more finely worked than a piece of jewelry. And the man in front of me...
It’s a mistake to look at him again. At the wedding, he’d been a figure in the shadows, only in the light once, to walk his older sister down the aisle to my father. I’d been my father’s best man, watching his new bride with whatever hope I was capable of mustering these days. It had been a good thing, that wedding. But I’d no longer felt good things the way I should anymore, and the moment I caught sight of Mark in his tux, his strong, tan neck above the crisp lines of his collar and bow tie, his long lashes framing eyes the color of night, I’d looked away until Blanche was in front of my father and Mark was gone.
I can’t look away now. This is an interview, and I need to focus.
I just—wish I couldn’t smell that rain scent of him. I wish the salad weren’t so beautiful. I wish my impression of this place weren’t now tied to light and water and air. It will make it harder to say no later if I want.
“I promise it’s not too pretty to eat,” says Mark.
I finally drag my eyes to his. The sunlight makes no secret of his strong features or the small things that mar them. The barely there gold stubble, the broken flare at the bridge of his nose. A thin scar disappearing into his hair.
“I didn’t realize there’d be food,” I say, trying to claw back a sense of normalcy. It’s strange that I should be unsettled by a man, a pretty salad, a far view.
It’s the years in scratchy canvas and cold mud that have ruined me.
“I thought this was an interview. Sir.”
