Page 18 of Salt Kiss
“—startingto think it’s a myth at this point, not a fucking word from the wedding planner. Oh, hey, new kid, come on in.”
Four days after my boss kissed me on his roof, I walk into the security office to start my first full, real week as Mark’s bodyguard. Goran and his assistant head of security—Nat, a tall woman with medium-brown skin, short twists, and a Semper Fi tattoo on the inside of her forearm—are sitting at the table in the office, laptops open in front of them.
“Club schedule for the week,” Goran says, sliding a paper across the table to me as I sit down. For the main security team, the weeks start on Tuesdays, our weekends consisting of the club’s slow days, Sundays and Mondays. A smaller relief team can more easily cover the club then, and can cover Mark’s movements too.
Not that I much enjoyed my weekend. The day after the kiss was taken up with my suit fittings downtown, and by the time I could get back to Mark, he was eating dinner with some visiting guests. Then came his usual hours in the hall, continuing to entertain said visitors. There’d been a shibari demonstration, and two club submissives had come and made themselves yieldingly available until his guests happily took them to private rooms to continue the night.
And then we were walking back to the elevators, Andrea with us the entire way, deep in conversation with Mark about some budgetary problem—and by the time it was just him and me alone in the elevator, we only had a single floor together before I had to get off.
“Sir,” I said, not sure what I wanted to tell him. That I’d thought of nothing but the kiss since the moment he left the roof, that I hadn’t been able to sleep? That for the first time in months, I didn’t dream of war when I did sleep, but of sunsets and warm mouths?
That I spent the entire evening trying not to stare at him, trying not to trace the harshly handsome features of his face, or follow the sharp, cool flicks of his gaze?
That I was worried that the curse of mine, the obsession, thegetting attached, was quickening?
That I was so scared—so fucking scared—that it was already too late?
My doors had opened before I could speak anyway. Mark regarded me with a gaze that was far too level for the amount of gin I’d seen him drink.
“The kiss was a gift, freely given,” he told me. His voice was still that lazy, cool drawl he used in the hall. “If you’re worried that I’ll expect more, please don’t be.”
I had to step off, and so I’d said, “Yes, sir,” but the minute I got inside my apartment, I wanted to fling myself headfirst into the river, because...because I didn’t know.
I just knew that his dismissiveplease don’t behad stung, along with the implication that he wouldn’t expect more—wouldn’twantmore.
Even though that was for the best.
Yes.
I had to spend the next few days reminding myself of that. That I shouldn’t want more kisses from my step-uncle slash boss.
But the opening had been cut, the rift torn, between the curse and the rigid control I forced over my life.
I had to admit that I noticed him, his mouth and hands, the long lines of his body.
I had to admit that when I closed my eyes, I thought of his fingers curled in my jacket and his mouth on mine.
I tried not to think of anyone in particular as I gave myself release, but even with my phone playing porn in front of me, my mind was pulled back to him. To Mark Trevena, who didn’t want more from me.
Hold still, he’d said.
It was a long weekend.
But I’m nothing if not a believer in the cleansing power of routine, so here I am, ready for work to make everything right.
Nat and Goran discuss the planned kink demonstrations happening in the hall and all the notable guests who have rooms booked this week. Two of the guests have their own security teams that will liaise with Goran; one of the demonstrators will need our narrow electric truck to get their vacuum bed across the bridge; there’s a costume party on Friday that Nat wants better staffed because costumes generally equal more jackassery in her experience.
Sedge has already emailed Mark’s itinerary for the day, as well as a look ahead at his calendar—I see trips to Bishop’s Landing, Singapore, and England coming up—and after Goran and Nat finish with the weekly meeting, I sit at the table and use my new laptop to review everything Sedge sent over.
“It looks like there are already safety plans made for his upcoming trips,” I say aloud to Nat and Goran, who’ve started clicking and typing on their laptops after the conclusion of their costume party argument.
“Yeah, that would be Strassburg,” Nat says without looking up from her screen.
“Strassburg?”
Goran also doesn’t look up from his laptop but points a finger at the far wall. I get up and walk over to the corkboard, pinned with the weekly schedule, mandatory workplace safety notices, and several pictures. One of them is the whole security team with a very famous movie star, another is Goran beaming over a birthday cake in the shape of a unicorn, and the next one I see is a Polaroid of the team, this time with a husky man with bright red hair and a beard. He stands behind Mark, shoulder harness visible under his open jacket as he wraps an arm around Goran next to him. Mark has the small indent at the corner of his mouth that sometimes passes for a smile, and everyone else in the picture is grinning. The white part of the instant photo is labeledclub anniversary.
“The one behind Mark?” I ask, even though I don’t think I need to. He’s the only person in the picture I don’t recognize.
