Dark Passions: Dark Romance Boxed Set, page 9
“Well, look at who came home,” his first cousin said to him. Evan was smoking a cigarette outside of the small house of Benton’s mother. “Always figured you felt you were too good to bother coming back to the mudhole you crawled out of. We thought you might at least have come back to spend the summer after graduating from that fancy-assed boys’ school Aunt Miriam sent you to. What was it called? Saint Someshit?” Evan tossed the rest of his cigarette into the darkness and Benton watched it disappear like a tiny red comet. Evan turned his back on him and his cousin walked silently into the house.
This had set the pattern for the rest of his extended family’s reaction to his return. Some were more friendly, but most kept their distance, treating him like a stranger. In his heart he felt he deserved it. He had decided to go to Yale on an early summer admissions program that would allow him to graduate more quickly. But it also meant it had been many years since he had returned. On the drive here, he passed the ramshackle reservation shacks most people lived in, little different from his mother’s. He lost count of the wrecked cars that littered almost every single front yard. It was as if everywhere he looked he saw Poverty stamped in ugly red letters.
He had to go through her possessions, helping a few of the older women to determine what needed to be given away in the old ceremonial way. They explained a few of the heirloom items he could keep as his own, but they would need to be put away for a year before they could be used again. That would be the proper time for him to raise a headstone for his mother. They spoke to him as if he was a child, and it was obvious they didn’t expect him to be there to perform the headstone ritual. They figured he’d disappear into the night like his cousin’s cigarette butt.
In one of the boxes he had pulled down from the top shelf of his mother’s closet he found that she had kept every single letter or card he had ever sent her, from his first week at the college prep school to the ones from Yale. He also saw what her reality was. As the years went by, the letters and cards became rarer and rarer. For his senior college year there had been no letters—those had stopped after his freshman year—and only two cards. One was for her birthday and the other for Mother’s day.
What better proof than this box to provide the paper trail of what a poor son he had turned out to be. He had told himself when he never left campus in order to graduate early he was doing so to make her ultimately proud. He had never been drunk. He had never done any drugs, even pot. He would become successful and wealthy and she would be proud of him. Then he would return home in glory. A great plan. But she died before he could share that success with her.
He felt so guilty--He promised himself he’d make it up to her memory by finally moving back to the reservation. He’d work to make the reservation a better place to live. He’d create decent schools so kids would not have to leave to get a quality education the way he had done. After the first year he even grew his hair out. He invested much of his own money and completely revitalized the pathetic Casino the reservation had opened years ago. He was pleased with what he had accomplished. And every night he went home to an empty house and sat alone.
Chapter Two
Shauna tried to follow Courage’s responses about her history with Benton, but it kept bringing up her own memories of her first encounter with Dr. Jacob Desmet. She had felt so alone. She remembered the fullness of his lips—the stern hazel eyes that always seemed to be judging her. His butterscotch colored hair was even straighter than hers and was always perfectly cut and combed with sharp precision. Shauna had been intimidated by him during their initial interview, but she had done her best to appear confident and strong.
“Why do you want this position, Ms. Andersen?” He had asked her. His accent was unfamiliar. Definitely European. Of course she had Googled him. She knew he was Belgian but that meant so little. Her only association with Belgium was luxury chocolate.
“I want the best training available,” she said, holding her voice steady. “That would be here.” She glanced around the office, elegant with simple lines. There were the required framed degrees and many awards in warm mahogany frames across an entire wall. Three large bookshelves took up the space of another wall. But Dr. Jacob Desmet dominated any room.
The University had done its best to lure him from Amsterdam, where he had established himself as one of the stars of the International Institute of Sex Research.
“You come with excellent recommendations,” he said with that soft, strange accent. “If Professor Pugmire believes so much in you, who am I to question your potential?” Her heart soared, but then the silence that followed almost cracked her facade of confidence.
Did he question? Suddenly she felt there was a second interview taking place. An unspoken one that was far more consequential than the formal one. She had no script. She remained silent, fearing any response would be the wrong one.
For years she had done her best to appear in charge and secure. It was the way she had survived an abusive father and a mother who seemed to fade into the woodwork. She had to grow up without bothering to pass through childhood. She had practically raised her younger brother.
She focused on her future to endure her present. This was what she had planned on. This is what she had wanted so much she had sacrificed a personal life to devote herself to her studies, mentored by Anke Pugmire at Stony Brook. She knew she was good. The painful question she had asked herself for most of her life—was she good enough?
The silence dragged on in the interview. Dr. Desmet took a sip of his tea and looked at her with unblinking eyes. For a brief moment she considered getting up and walking away from him—away from the life she had worked so hard to obtain. She was the first in her family to go to college.
She promised herself she would not be the next in a long line to walk away from her dreams. Her mother could have been a concert pianist. That was a dream that had died a long time ago.
“Let us see,” Dr. Desmet finally said to his tea, “how you fit in.”
“Our native language is a difficult one,” Victoria Desmet told Shauna when she had dinner at their home. His wife was a pale blonde. “During World War II, there was a test to see if the word for matchbook could be pronounced correctly in order to identify a German spy.” She smiled, but it was an icy one—a professional smile.
“Oh, it’s not such a difficult language,” Jacob responded. “Consider the language of Tierra del Fuego. One of the hardest of human words to translate is mamihlapinatapai.” He looked at his wife as he spoke. “It is the look between two people, where both wish the other would provide something they both desire, but they fear to suggest or offer it themselves.”
“I would say,” Victoria interrupted, “it is better translated as the special look across a table when two people who know each other far too well are engaged in an unspoken but special moment of privacy. Each knows the other fully knows and understands what is being expressed. It is a complicated silence that only those who know each other can understand.”
“Ok,” Shauna said in her mind, “I don’t need a Ph.D. in Human Sexuality to know something is going on here.” She felt it prudent to call an early end to the evening, falsely claiming she needed to prepare for a next day class. Victoria Desmet seemed like central casting had sent over an ice queen. Jacob Desmet was the strong, silent type.
Google gave tons of information on Jacob Desmet and his many contributions to the field of sex research. The Internet simply identified Victoria as his wife. That seemed so—twentieth century. Perhaps if Shauna could read Dutch, German, or French, she could find out more about Mrs. Desmet. Too bad her adviser had insisted that Spanish was the language of the future.
Shauna was good at keeping quiet in more than one language. It was another survival skill that helped her hide from her father. She kept her head buried in books as he drained yet another beer. The louder he got, the more she followed the model of her mother, withdrawing even further. By the time her brother Max was in middle school, he had learned far too well how to become his father. Max was now serving three years for dealing pot.
“So, tell me,” Jacob had said over a working lunch. “What is your opinion of BDSM?” He didn’t make eye contact with her. He rarely did.
“Do you mean the new study by Bell and Blumstein?” Shauna never felt as if she could relax around him. She felt he was always testing her. The survey the Institute had funded confirmed earlier ones like that of Connoly, which showed no differences between BDSM practitioners and the general population in terms of mental health.
“I was more interested in your personal opinion.” He pushed aside his plate. “I’m familiar with the research,” he said dryly. He actually looked at her. She felt herself blushing. Once again she felt no answer she could give was the right one. How crazy was it someone getting a doctorate in Human Sexuality was still a virgin? She was only good at what her father had dismissed as “book learning.” Jacob smiled. He looked as if he knew far too much.
“It’s not my area of expertise,” Shauna responded hesitantly.
“If you want to claim your place in this field,” he said, “you need to climb out of the rigid box in which you arrived. Patients will sense when you have no actual connection with their lives. Are you seeing a therapist?”
Shauna felt herself growing cold. If she had stayed in her Clinical Psych program, she would have been required to have direct experience with going through therapy herself. But her current major didn’t require it. Human Sexuality was still a fairly new field, and she was focused on the research aspects, rather than on treating patients. She didn’t trust herself to speak and shook her head “no.”
“One of the reasons I wanted to talk to you today is that our NIMH grant went through, and a major part of our studies will be expanding our initial work in BDSM. I want you to be involved with me on this. I think you’d bring an undeniably fresh set of eyes. Other than having read a lot of very dry papers, you really don’t have a point of reference for this, do you?” He drained the last of his tea and sat back. His hazel eyes were unreadable.
She thought of the philosophy of the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland: If you don’t know where you’re going,”Then it doesn’t matter which way you go.” She had lost her appetite for what remained on her plate. “What exactly would you like me to do?” she asked.
“Besides answering my question?” he smiled. “Specifically I’d like you to assist me in interviewing subjects who are active in the BDSM lifestyle, as well as the control group who aren’t. We’ll be doing a large on-line survey, as well as passing out short survey forms at various conferences, but we’ll also follow protocol and do face-to-face recorded interviews.” He stood up, picking up his tray. “This could help launch you in your career,” he said. He walked off, leaving her alone.
Chapter Three
“So,” Dr. Desmet began settling in and admiring the richness of their surroundings. Benton Johnny was an incredibly wealthy man and that wealth showed in every room, but not in a gaudy or overstated way. He was obviously a great collector of art. From Jacob Desmet’s perspective, the most valuable part of the man’s possessions was Courage. “Can you tell me how you first met your partner?”
The handsome man looked at an exquisite ivory carving of a polar bear set on a pedestal next to him. “She had scheduled an interview as part of a course requirement,” he began. He remembered how her beauty had taken his breath away when she walked through his door.
“I’ll be glad to answer your questions,” Benton said to the young woman,”—but Edith wrote your name down as Courage. Mind if I first ask you about that? It’s an unusual name. Were you named after someone?”
“I wasn’t very fond of it when I was a kid,” she said, and something slid across her large almond eyes that didn’t match the smile on her face. “My mom named me for a Navajo jewelry maker she knew. His name is Courage Benally. She loved the name, and felt he was an immensely talented artist and thought it would inspire me.” The Courage in front of him flicked a silver earring that was an eagle feather on a hoop. “This is his work. Mr. Benally does really impressive stuff. I only met him once, and he gifted these to me when my mom told him my name.”
“Beautiful,” he said. The earrings were as well. “I’d like to get his contact information. I’m sure they’d sell well in our gift shop.”
“Sure-I’ll ask my mom. I know they kept in touch after he moved back to Arizona.” Courage held his eyes. He was used to being in control at all times. He was used to giving orders for all his businesses and now those of the tribe. But this young woman made him feel—off balance. He felt a little bit of fear, but it was outweighed by something else he couldn’t quite identify. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t been with women before. It’s just he had always been with them in very strict settings. He kept them strict. He kept them completely apart from the rest of his life. He told them what to do and they obeyed him and then when he was finished, he ordered them away. Then he was alone again.
“You know, Courage,” he said, leaning back in his chair, “I’ve made it through a morning that’s been clogged with one hassle after another. I haven’t even had a chance for a cup of coffee. Would you mind if we use this interview as a break for me? Let me treat you to one of the best lattes in the state. We order the beans from a special supplier based in Issaquah, and she trained our staff in bringing out their entire range of flavor.”
He stood up, taking back control, because for a moment he thought he was losing it. Be in charge. It’s what he did well. What else could she do? He had learned long ago if someone started following his orders, they kept following them. He would like Courage to do what he told her to do. He headed to the door and didn’t bother to look back, because he knew she’d be behind him. “You can leave your pack here while we’re gone.”
This wasn’t going anything like the way Courage thought it would. The only interview question she had managed was, “Do you mind if I ask you some questions?” Maybe she wasn’t meant to be a communications major. The head of the modeling agency that placed her had suggested she would look good in front of a television camera. Maybe she could be the first American Indian weatherperson. She apparently wasn’t good at interviews. Maybe she would have better luck pointing at forecasts. She followed behind him, watching his ass and the song It’s Raining Men poured into her head.
He took her to an area she hadn’t been to in the Casino, and spoke briefly to a really tall—as in basketball tall--Native man who looked old enough to be her father. The man nodded and turned away to start working some sort of elaborate set of equipment. Benton walked off and she followed as if she were on a leash. She guessed they weren’t waiting for their order. Courage assumed when you’re really rich, you don’t wait for a lot of things.
He led her into a private room. She had done enough modeling to be in some fancy places, but this was on another scale entirely. The walls were covered with even more Native American art. This was better than a museum. And hopefully, there would even be coffee. They sat at a table that had been polished into a warm shine. The chair she sank into was covered in Pendleton fabric. She had some idea how much they were worth. In photo shoots she had spent a lot of time waiting for the photographer and his assistants to set things up. To pass the time she flipped through countless catalogs, including the one from Pendleton. She even knew these came in four different designs.
She put her notebook on the table when the tall guy came in with a silver tray and set down steaming mugs with the Yellow Cedar Casino design. Everything matched. She looked at Benton and suspected he was very good at details. He also obviously liked to be in charge. She had been working with photographers long enough to know how to take orders. That’s all an artistic director or a photographer does. “Move left a quarter of an inch. Look over my right shoulder. Don’t move. Move. Look thoughtful. Now smile with your eyes!” She was good at taking directions. She kept getting work. Her mother had ordered her to go to college, even though she had the chance to work in modeling full time. Her mother had her priorities.
“As for me,” Courage thought to herself, “I kinda miss being ordered around.”
The time went by so quickly he ended up calling Edith and telling her to rearrange his schedule. She didn’t seem too happy, but Edith rarely seemed happy unless she was picking up her paycheck. He would prefer someone with a better personality, but she was the best executive assistant he had ever had, and she was great at playing the part of a bulldog in terms of guarding his door. They kept talking. Courage was quick—intelligent and funny. He found himself relaxing with her, surprised to realize how much stress he had been carrying.
“I’m really having a good time,” he told her, putting his empty mug aside. “I have some things that need my attention. I tell you what,” he said, putting a tone of command in his voice, “come to my house for dinner tonight.” He got up, knowing she’d mirror him. “You can finish the interview there, where we won’t have so many…distractions.” He had no doubt she would. When she said she didn’t have a car, he let her know he would send his driver around. He got her address and took her back to his office for her to retrieve her bag. As she left, Benton pulled out his iPhone and ordered something from an Italian place he liked. Edith didn’t need to know everything.
He suspected Edith knew a little too much as it was. He reined himself in and concentrated on putting out the little fires that infected all businesses. He took the calls he needed to take and tried not to think of Courage.
“Whoa,” she said to herself, “I feel like I have been cast in some Lifetime movie without anyone bothering to hand me my script.” At precisely 7pm, a bronze Lexus pulled up in front of her dorm, and a blonde driver got out and opened the door for her. She felt she was so lucky she had worked off and on as a model since she was six, so she was used to this sort of thing. Benton’s home was about a twenty minute drive from her dorm. It was still light enough for her to confirm he had the biggest house she had ever seen—not that she had seen that many big houses in Idaho, but as a model she been to six states and also had worked in Canada and Europe.
