I didn't find it in Brody, but I did find a friend, and he's been a steadfast one for over ten years now.
"Your problem is that it pisses you off that two seconds after he tells you he wants you but knows he can't have you, he's on another woman's arm, looking like he couldn't care less that it's her and not you."
That is exactly my problem, and I scowl at him for stating it so succinctly. "You're sounding a lot like a shrink this morning," I say. "Trust me, I know. Over the last seventeen years, I think I've had a session with every therapist in the city."
He laughs as we push against the flow of Sunday morning pedestrians flooding out of the Seventy-second Street subway station and heading into the park.
"That why you moved to LA?" he asks as we cross Central Park West, then turn left toward my block. "Fresh blood?"
"And a comedian, too. Who knew?"
"Yeah, well, I may not have a couch, but I'm pretty damn therapeutic for some of my clients."
"That, I believe." Brody's a professional dom, and, yes, I've played the sub on a couple of occasions, thinking it would help. That it would soothe whatever it is inside me that has shifted off kilter.
The truth is, kink has never satisfied me. It's not that I didn't like it--I actually did, although we never really pushed any boundaries. And we certainly never did bondage. I'd had my fill of being tied up in captivity, and I really, really couldn't go there. Just the thought of it brought on a major panic attack.
But even doing the safe stuff, I could never manage to let myself go. Brody said it was because I have control issues, and suggested I top, at least until I felt more comfortable, but that wasn't what I needed, either. It hadn't felt wrong. Just off. As if I was trying out kink for all the wrong reasons, and with the wrong man.
But that was a long time ago in college. Before Bill. Before I started writing.
Now, I'm working out my issues through my words. Or, at least, I'm trying to.
We've reached Seventy-first Street, and as we turn toward my granite and brick townhouse, he eyes me sideways. "You know my door's always open. Best friend discount."
I give him a hug. "I know. Right now I'm good. Or, at least I'm doing okay." The truth is, doing a scene with Brody really wouldn't be torture. The guy is positively gorgeous with his olive complexion, dark eyes, and just a hint of beard at the cleft of his chin. He reminds me of a pirate, and when his shirt is off, I remember why he was Mr. November in a charity calendar some of the city's sexiest bartenders put together back in the day.
Even so, I still wouldn't ever go there again. Brody's married now. And even though his wife is cool with what he does--which, honestly, impresses the hell out of me--that's a line I just can't cross.
I start to head up the stairs to my door, then pause when I realize he's not following. "No coffee? I was going to make egg white omelets, too."
"Can't. Got a client coming in two hours. I need to get things ready. But you're still coming over tonight, right?"
Brody's wife, Stacey, started a book club about a year ago when she was going crazy after quitting her job as a specialty travel agent. The chemo had made her too sick to work, but despite the nausea and exhaustion, she'd been going stir crazy.
She's in remission now and back at work part-time. Book club, however, still goes on. And although most everyone does the reading, the real purpose is to get together, eat, and gossip. Honestly, it's fun.
"I'll be there. And I'm bringing champagne instead of wine. I landed a spot on Evening Edge to talk about Code Name: Deliverance."
"No shit? You're not even done writing it."
"I know." I grin. "That's what makes this appearance so amazing." Evening Edge is a television news magazine with a huge viewership, and I could kiss my publicist for landing this gig. I'd told her I wanted to do as much media as possible. I may not have the kind of job Bill does, but I think I can make a difference. More than that, I need to. Because I know only too well what kind of damage vigilante involvement can do.
"And they just plucked you up?"
"Not exactly. Apparently Evening Edge is doing a segment with Bill. He's coming to talk about WORR and how one of its objectives is to put an end to vigilante involvement in kidnappings. And one of the producers had read The Price of Ransom and saw a blurb about Code Name: Deliverance on my website." I shrug. "Pretty cool, huh?"
"Cool? It's amazing. When do I set the DVR?"
"The Saturday after Poppy's party. At seven." I do a little jig on my stairs. "I'm so totally psyched."
"You should be. And you do not need to bring any champagne. We will provide all sparkling wine products. Cake may even be involved."
"Sounds perfect. Now go get ready for your client. I'll see you at five." I toss him an air kiss, then head to my door as he starts the Harley he's left parked in front of my building.
I love my house. I didn't grow up here--my mom preferred the quieter life of the Hamptons--and so coming to the townhouse for weekends and holidays in the city felt like going on vacation. The place was built in the late 1800s for my great-great-grandfather. And over the course of the years, the family has seen it through two sets of museum-grade renovations. Truly, the place is as luxurious as any of the fancy hotels I've stayed in throughout my life.
It's a huge house, honestly too much for me. But I couldn't sell it, even if I wanted to, which I absolutely don't. For that matter, Dallas can't sell his Hamptons house, either. Both of the properties are ours to live in for our entire lives, but ultimately, they belong to a family trust.