Chapter 5
five
. . .
Jordana
As we entered Uncle Charlie’s, I watched Gavin track the details.
His shoulders were slumped, but his gaze was alert. I followed it as if I were seeing the familiar diner for the first time.
The wood walls were burnished with decades of grease and crammed with framed photos of family and customers undisturbed since the last century.
Uncle Charlie himself looked down benevolently through horn-rimmed glasses from his picture above the milkshake machines, beside the old-fashioned sign that boasted “Longest-running soda fountain in New Hampshire.”
I led Gavin to a red-cushioned booth in the back, the most private spot available. Most of the chrome-trimmed tables were occupied by students — typing on laptops, engaged in intent discussions, or laughing and joking. A straw-paper fight was happening near the front door.
We sat down near the kitchen’s curtained entrance, where we were least likely to be overheard.
Under the hanging lamps, Gavin’s face was still sharply handsome, but the shadows under his eyes hinted at sleepless nights. Tantalizing scents of fresh coffee, frying potatoes, and vanilla ice cream wafted from the kitchen. I hoped the food would cheer him up.
Giant menus were deposited in front of us by a friendly middle-aged waitress. Gavin blinked when she called him “sweetie.”
I pored over the menu. My appetite had taken an all-day leave of absence, but my stomach chose this moment to growl. Loudly.
A smile flickered across Gavin’s face. “Order whatever you want.”
“Thanks, I planned to.”
“It’s my treat.” He held my gaze with a hint of sternness. “Least I can do.”
This was the first time a man had offered to buy me dinner since I’d arrived at Hawthorne. I wasn’t sure what to make of it.
I opened my mouth, on the verge of telling this almost-stranger the truth about my day. My parents’ divorce.
When his brows rose, I stopped myself.
The waitress returned with a cheery smile. “What can I get for you?”
I ordered a grilled cheese with French fries and one of Uncle Charlie’s famous black and white shakes. Screw healthy eating. It had been a long day.
Gavin asked for a large black coffee — nothing else — then leaned across the table with an expression so serious, I braced for the worst.
“Have you ever had a project that means everything to you?”
Startled, I glanced around the diner, then lowered my voice, though it was unlikely anyone would hear over the whir of the milkshake machine. “I guess so.”
“A project so important, you’d do anything to make it work? Maybe you even tried to give it up, because it upset people. It could ruin lives, but in the end, you had to accept that it’s got a hold on you.”
The way he was staring at me — it was like he could see straight into my past.
“You’re describing my entire acting career.”
“What happened?”
I recalled my father standing over me. Thirteen and huddled on our living room couch, my world ripped apart. Thankfully, the memory was dashed by the waitress bustling up with two glasses of ice water. I took a big swallow of mine, wincing at the cold.
“Never mind. We’re talking about you, Gavin.”
He picked up his cup, swirling the ice. “Fair enough. This project — it’s had a hold on me for eight years.”
Eight years.
The timing was uncanny. Eight years ago, I was thirteen.
Acting professionally for a brief time in New York.
After years of training, coaching, community theater experience, and many, many auditions, I was cast in the ensemble for Hello, Dolly!
, and I loved every minute. For the first time, I felt fully in place, as if I fit into the world. Until my father took it all away.
Eight years ago, Gavin would have been twenty-two. Probably just out of college. I tried not to think too hard about that.
The waitress returned, placing a steaming mug of coffee in front of him. He warmed his hands on it, blowing on the rising cloud of vapor, then offered it to me.
“No, thanks. I’m not a black coffee girl.”
He grinned. “You’re too sweet for that, huh?”
“I’m not sweet, either.”
“I think you are.” He sipped the coffee, nodding.
“Let’s go back to your project,” I said quickly.
Gavin sighed. “There’ve been stops. Starts. Cancellations. The project was on, then it was off. Nina, my friend, was my last hope.”
He leaned back in the booth after taking a sip. “Can you keep a secret?”
“I’m a locked vault.” I mimed turning a key at my lips.
“It’s about my photography. This can’t get back to anyone, especially Rachel. Let’s just say it’s a sore subject.”
A thick white ceramic plate was set in front of me, heaped with two enormous halves of a grilled cheese sandwich and a pile of fries. The milkshake followed in a tall, fluted glass, accompanied by a metal cup with the rest of the shake.
I bit into the grilled cheese. Crisp, salty, cheesy heaven.
“Why?” I asked when I finished chewing.
Gavin didn’t answer. His gaze moved over me.
“I’m guessing you’re not all about the weddings and cute family photo sessions,” I prompted.
“I enjoy those too. But what I really love?” A slight smile flickered across his face. “That’s different.”
“How bad can it be? Just show me.” I crossed my legs under the table. My foot brushed his ankle, making me shiver. “I feel like I’ve heard something about a picture being worth a thousand words.”
That grin sneaked in again. How could it hold so much power? I’d met this man a few hours ago; now, I’d do anything to make him smile.
He pulled out his phone. As he tapped and scrolled, I sipped my milkshake. Uncle Charlie’s shakes were heart-stoppingly rich. I usually treated myself to one only when a show wrapped up. A treat to ease the very real loss of a character, of living inside the play and someone else’s life.
But damn, this was good. My eyes closed in ecstasy. When they opened, Gavin was staring at me, causing me to squirm in the booth.
“I should warn you.” His whisper was gravelly. “The pictures I’m going to show you are…adult.”
“Are they porn? You won’t shock me.”
“Sshhhh,” he hissed, though no one was nearby. The clatter of dishes and conversation drowned out anything we said at this table, anyway. “Not porn.”
“Last time I checked, I was over eighteen. We’re both grownups, Gavin. Drink this while I look at your pictures.” I pushed my shake toward him. “You’re not a Hawthorne resident until you’ve had an Uncle Charlie’s milkshake.”
Gavin eyed the tall glass. “You’re a bossy little minx.”
I lifted my head. Did he just call me a minx?
“You bring it out in me.” I held out my hand for his phone.
Shaking his head, he passed it over. “Don’t get too hot and bothered now.”
My breath stuttered at the sight of the screen.
Women.
Beautiful women.
Naked women.
Tied up.
That was what shocked me: the bondage. Nudity, I’d been prepared for. But the ropes, cuffs, and chains were stark and intense. These women were helpless, powerless, on display.
This was the modeling I’d been about to volunteer myself for?
“Jordana?” Gavin sounded concerned. “You okay?”
“These photos…the bondage—” I tried to push the phone back to him, but my grip tightened around it. “Why?”
“Hey, I didn’t mean to upset you.” He leaned forward, his face reddening. “This isn’t for everyone.”
“No, it’s okay. I’m not upset, exactly. I’m…” How did I feel? “Surprised and a little scared.”
“Why scared?” He glanced at my death grip on his phone.
“I’ve tried being tied up. To — to make other people happy.
Not like this.” I traced patterns on the tabletop, unable to look at Gavin or the elaborate designs of ropes on flesh.
“It was very basic. But it was too scary, even though I like being scared sometimes. I had no power. A person can do anything to you when you’re all tied up.
They can hurt you. You have no control.”
“Trust,” Gavin said softly.
“What?”
“Trust. That’s what’s been missing.”
“…Oh.”
A cheer sounded from the front of the diner. A tall guy with a fedora walked through the door and was greeted by a round of applause. “It’s the birthday boy!” a girl yelled from the biggest table, waving a balloon.
But Gavin’s whiskey-colored gaze didn’t waver. His voice dropped even lower, carrying beneath the commotion.
“If you’re doing this with someone you trust, it’s very different. Giving someone permission to tie you up is all about trust.”
I glanced at the bobbing balloon. So full of promise, so easily punctured. “I’m not the most trusting person.”
“I gathered that.”
“Are you?”
He laughed a little. “Yes and no.”
“I bet you have a hard shell and a soft center. Like candy.”
His tongue caught between his teeth. Jesus, at that moment I could read his thoughts. He wanted my soft center. He quickly looked away.
Releasing my grip on the phone, I stared at the photo.
It was beautiful. The model was beautiful.
“Do you think she’s scared?”
I studied her face. “No. She looks happy. She must’ve trusted you.”
The sounds of the birthday celebration, the Saturday night conversations, and the milkshake machine faded away as I swiped from one photo to the next.
Models, naked and bound, the ropes creating beautiful, intricate designs over their skin.
I’d never associated bondage with happiness, but the women in the photos looked calm, proud, even blissful.
If a model had a hand free, she either cupped her breast or touched herself between closed thighs, more of a suggestion than anything graphic.
As I viewed the photos at my own pace, I began to feel warm. My belly fluttered. The red booth felt like our own world, just big enough for Gavin, me, and his sexy pictures.
Finally, I reached the last photo. A fully-trussed model turned her ecstatic face upward.
I stared at Gavin. “Still scary, but hot. You took all of these?”
He nodded, a hint of pride lighting his face.
“Are those women you’ve been involved with, or models?”
“Models.”
His response came so quickly, I wondered what was behind it.
“Did you tie them up?”