Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Romeo
The second the doorbell rings, Sasha jumps to her feet. Her big brown eyes shine with evil glee.
That's why men love her. Because she can switch between Mistress of Pain and sweet, loving girlfriend in the blink of an eye. She can't help it. She loves to see men in pain. Especially me.
"Don't get too turned on, Sasha," I say.
Her fire-engine red lips curl into a wide smile. They stand out against her light skin and dark hair. She isn't in full glam today. Her choppy bob is messy. Her eye makeup is a simple black line. And she's dressed more like an ordinary Orange County woman than a Dominatrix on her day off.
Ankle boots, stretchy magenta dress, studded black purse.
Okay, more like an Orange County Dominatrix on her day off.
"Oh my god, Rome, do you really think you could ever turn me on?" Her nose scrunches in distaste.
"Me? No. My pain? Yes," I say.
"Not even if you were writhing on the floor in agony." She taps her chin. "Although…"
"See?" I say.
She smooths her dress and motions to the door. "Do I need to let her in?"
No. I can do it. I just need to believe this isn't a totally insane idea. "Don't scare her."
"Isn't she a sex therapist?"
"You're intimidating," I say.
She smiles in the way that means she knows I'm flattering her. Not that she minds. "I am going to get the door if you don't."
I nod, turn, walk the five steps across the foyer, open the door for Ivy.
She's standing on the balcony in a turquoise blouse, teal pants, and black wedges. And not the same ones she was wearing last time. A different monochrome blue-green outfit.
Her long, sandy hair is tucked into a neat bun. And she's holding a blue tote with a notebook poking from the top.
She stands tall, with posture that's somehow both proud and aloof, like she's more concerned with working out what's wrong with her latest client than impressing either of us.
Like she doesn't care what either of us thinks.
Is that her therapist face? Or is that how she really feels?
"Oh my god, she's cute!" Sasha calls from the living room. She catches herself and puts her hand over her mouth as she shrugs a sort of oops. "Sorry, but it's true."
I wouldn't describe her as cute, no. Smart, sexy, beautiful, yes. But not cute. She's not non-threatening enough.
But then who could Sasha deem as threatening?
Sasha moves through the room to meet me at the door. "Ivy, right? I'm Romeo's best friend, Sasha."
Ivy looks Sasha up and down. In her heeled boots (she's always in heels), Sasha is the same height as Ivy and me. A lot of people melt from Sasha's intensity.
Ivy doesn't. She stands tall and firm. Her mauve lips curl into a smile. "And business partner, I hear." She offers her hand.
Sasha pulls her into a tight hug. "I mean, technically, sure, but these days, we keep things separate.
Not much cross-over. Rome sees unhappily married women and widows, and I order men to lick my boots.
" She releases Ivy and holds up her foot to examine her shoes.
"Not these, of course. Not formal enough.
Although…" Again, she taps her chin, getting an idea.
"You're a Domme?" Ivy asks.
She nods. "Better money. Less wear and tear on the delicate parts. I do have a few regulars from the old days, but keep that between us." She puts her finger to her lips. "That sort of thing is frowned upon at the dungeon."
"There's a dungeon in Orange County?" Ivy asks.
"There's everything, everywhere." Sasha motions to the black leather couch. "Should we sit or grab a drink? It's a little early for me, but when pretending to date Rome…"
"That is played," I say.
"How can it be played?" Sasha asks. "You haven't pretended to date anyone before."
Ivy smiles. "Can I ask you something, Sasha?"
"If it's not about my favorite implement of torture," she says.
"She'll volunteer that," I say.
Sasha play swats me. "Don't mind him. He's jealous he doesn't have the stomach to issue orders. He'll have to keep working until his dick falls off."
I flip her off. Not that she's wrong, exactly. I'm sure there are women who will hire a silver fox, but I do have a limited lifespan in this business, and I don't have an exit plan. Well. Not one in working order. Not without my brother's help.
Sasha returns the gesture then turns it into a peace sign and brings both fingers to her lips in the universal symbol for cunnilingus. "Tell me if he isn't delivering there and I will break out the cat-of-nine-tails."
Ivy laughs. "You’re like siblings."
Sasha nods. "No one ever believes that." Without asking, she moves into the kitchen.
Ivy looks around the space carefully, noting the framed modern art prints, the sleek lines of the ivory shades, the big-for-California kitchen. "This is a nice place."
"Thank you," I say.
"Warm and clean." Ivy turns to Sasha. "Are you a tea drinker? That was my question."
"I'm afraid I'm on the dark side with Rome," Sasha says.
"Your mother called you Rome too," she says. "Is that your…"
"Non-stage name?" Sasha suggests. "Wait. Hold up. She's already met Amara?"
"On the phone," I say. "And I can speak for myself, by the way."
Sasha shakes her head can you though and turns to Ivy. "How was that? The conversation with Amara?"
"Have you met?" Ivy asks.
"A few times," Sasha says. "Rome brought me around as a friend a few times, but I'm pretty sure everyone thought we were having sex.
I don't know why. We have noooooooo chemistry.
" She tosses her dark hair behind her shoulder.
"Anyway, his mom was intense. A poet, you know? Like the way Sylvia Plath is a poet."
"I hope not exactly the way Sylvia Plath is a poet," Ivy says.
"Not quite, but she might threaten to fill the room with gas to make a point," Sasha says.
That's not completely wrong, but, hey, that's my mom. I shoot Sasha a cutting look.
Sasha shrugs. "She is sweet though. And I do know how to make tea.
I swear." She places her hand over her heart theatrically.
"One of my regulars owns some fancy shop in London.
I had to really master the art, so I knew to punish him if he made it wrong.
" She moves to the cabinets and starts rifling through the space.
"But does Rome have anything decent?" She pulls out an old box of English Breakfast and examines it carefully.
"You two sit. I'll bring something out."
"And you should always follow her orders," I say.
"Or she might punish me?" Ivy plays along.
"If you're lucky," Sasha calls. "People pay handsomely for that privilege. Now, stop talking about me. Go pretend you're in love."
That little thing.
Ivy stands, three feet away from me, her attention split between me and my best friend. With her brow furrowed and her shoulders high, she looks as awkward as I feel.
No. She hides it well. That therapist mask. Or maybe a standard poker face.
What happened to Ivy to cause her to recede into herself? To hang out on the sidelines?
We're not that different, really.
Neither of us knows how to connect when we're on even ground.
I do what I always do when I'm uncertain. I fall back on my years of practice.
I bring my hand to her lower back and apply the lightest pressure. "Should we sit?" My voice drops to a tone I recognize. One that's pure bullshit.
No. Not pure bullshit. Only partially bullshit, but, at this point, I can't really tell when I'm at one percent or ninety-nine. Only that I'm incapable of inauthenticity.
Ivy doesn't call me on it. She lets me lead her into the living room.
She takes in the space with her soft green eyes, studying every piece of art, every line of hardwood, every fold of the couch. "Did you decorate the place yourself?"
"These were gifts from my mother." I motion to the framed prints on the wall. An artist who paints with bold shapes and primary colors. "She said his lines remind her of me."
"I see it." Ivy studies the painting the way my mother does, as if she finds meaning in every brush stroke. There's a softness to her face.
When she turns to me, I feel it. The intensity of her gaze. The same desire to understand.
But she doesn't seem to know where to start either. At least not with our arrangement.
"Sasha has note cards," I say. "To quiz you on my biographical details."
"Note cards." Ivy takes a seat on the couch and crosses her legs at her ankles. "I haven't used those since grad school."
"When did you finish grad school?" I sit next to her. My knee brushes hers. The denim of my jeans against the soft material of her slacks. Some modern fabric designed to stretch as it looks professional.
I wanted to show up casual, as if I was really meeting my girlfriend, but I feel under-dressed next to her. Naked.
I need the suit. It's a suit of armor. It keeps me anonymous. No one notices a man in a suit. Not even when he’s a twenty-one-year-old brown kid from Garden Grove, who's far too young, and broke, to drink at a hotel bar in Laguna Beach with a woman in her 50s.
Sure, I was broke, not poor—Mama would have helped if I asked—but I wanted to make it on my own. I did. Even if I used the suit she bought me for my high school graduation.
It worked on my first call.
It works now. Though, now, I have a different suit. One built for broader shoulders.
I'm too used to deception. But this isn't about me. It's about forming a real fake bond with Ivy.
"About four years ago," she says. "But it all blurs together. I saw patients as part of my training. Then I tried to establish a private practice for a while."
"Tried?" Does that mean she failed?
"I suppose I did," she says. "I had, um, have enough regular clients to make a living. I try to avoid couples, so I see a lot of solo women. Mostly straight cis-women, though not entirely."
There’s something deeper here, but I don’t ask. Because it’s not the time. Or maybe because I’m afraid to ask. “How do you help those women?”
"Say I have a client, Jenny, who can’t come.
I start with basic education. A lot of women feel insecure because they have inaccurate perceptions.
Because they've watched too many movies or TV shows where couples come simultaneously.
Or they've grown up with mainstream porn.
Or guys who learned about sex from mainstream porn. "
It's a familiar problem. "I've seen the same thing."
"You would know better than I would, I guess.
" Her cheeks flush. "Say I have a client, Jenny, who can't come.
I create space for her to share her experience.
To examine her expectations. Because, even when I tell her, that's normal, that a lot of women can't come from penetration, she won't quite believe me.
She'll agree. She'll understand. But she won't understand. "
"I know what you mean," I say.
"Some of it is that. Just taking time to get used to this new idea.
Just having someone you can trust tell you, 'hey, you're normal.
' And sometimes it is that easy. She lets go of her expectation, she comes from a good dickin', and she's able to touch herself or use toys or ask her partner to go down on her. "
"A happy ending," I say.
"Yes." She laughs. "The happy ending. But it's usually more complicated if Jenny is ready to see me. No one wants to see a sex therapist. It's usually a last resort. A sign of failure. For some reason, we all think we're supposed to be fantastic lovers without any training or practice."
That is true. I’ve seen it over and over with clients.
"I have to make room for her to integrate all that. That's usually a few sessions. Then there's the shame. She feels like something is wrong with her. Like she's a failure. And she gets in her head. That anxiety makes it hard to relax, which makes it impossible to come."
Sasha steps into the living room with a tray of tea. A pot, three cups, honey, almond milk. She looks to me and raises a brow in a sort of positive inquiry. She can tell it's going well.
I guess it is.
This is where I excel. Listening. Work.
But we can work with that.
"We're talking about Ivy's work as a sex therapist," I say. "She's explaining what she'd do with a client who can't come."
"She's like Gillian Anderson on Sex Education," Sasha says.
Ivy laughs. "I get that a lot, yes."
"You have the same demeanor as her. The same sexy older woman vibe too," Sasha says. "Only younger. Like she did on the X-files. She projects authority."
"Are you hitting on my fake girlfriend?" I ask.
"She's your fake girlfriend," Sasha says. "Not your real girlfriend. And maybe." She smiles, the complete opposite of demure. She brings the mug to her mouth and blows away the hot air. "So, Ivy, I hate to get right to business, but I do have to protect my friend."
Ivy doesn't shrink from the change in tone.
"Does Daniel know you're a sex therapist?" she asks.
”I haven’t told him, but I’m sure he vetted Ivy thoroughly once we had her name.” He said he needed it for the wedding, but I’m sure spying was a relatively high priority too.
Sasha shoots me a please look. "He won't approve."
"But he'll understand it." And he'll believe I'm having great sex with her. And thus, not be interested in Cynthia. Not that I've ever been interested in Cynthia. It's ridiculous. But sometimes logic just doesn't work.
"And what would you do if one of your friends found out about Romeo's job?" she asks. "Would you tell them the truth? Or make up a lie?"