Page 158 of Deep Cover

37

Annie

February 15, the day after the disastrous dinner party, I waited for Cole to punish me. By the end of the day, I'd had what he called a maintenance spanking, and I had in no way convinced him to stop humiliating me and let me go back to an oral regimen of the opioid cure. But there had been no punishment.

By the end of the week, the lack of being punished was almost punishment in itself. I kept waiting for the shoe to drop and it kept not happening. When he came into the holding cell midway through the 20th and told me to pack for a couple days away, I was on pins and needles, waiting to see what he had in mind. My worst fear was this was the time he was finally going to honor Vincent's winning "bid" of 5.5 million dollars.

When we arrived at the airport two hours later, I was confused. I didn't ask, though. He was teaching me well. One of the things I was learning – along with don't ask because it's probably none of your business, even if it concerns you – was that private jets are faster than commercial.

So it was only a matter of hours later that we stepped off the plane in Seattle.

There's a feeling sometimes when I've been away, for vacation or, more likely, undercover, and I return home. When it's for the job, obviously I miss my own home. I miss my own hours, and I miss being easy about what I tell people about myself. There's no relaxing undercover. I miss my sweats, my bed, my own clutter and mess or my own clean apartment if it happens to magically be clean.

But there's still a feeling when going home that everything is stale. Old, too familiar. Those things I've waited to see again, books or comfy clothes or my own bed or whatever, all of it now looked like leftovers from a life I was finished with.

This time being back in Seattle just felt wrong and strange and potentially dangerous. As long as I was in the Nevada desert with Cole, I had a feeling of impatient strength. That of course I could survive when I went back home, of course I could go back to my life and carry on.

Yes, I'd had some setbacks and yes, I'd fallen in the first place. But I was strong and I'd had my time out. Several months of it now as the seasons were starting to change toward spring.

Maybe that was the impatience. Just the feeling of everything being about to bloom, everything about to surge forward into fecundity.

But now that I was here, it felt dangerous. More than just the idea that if Cole said, "Well, okay, good to know you, I release you from the absurdity of the year and a day contract, clearly no one ever bought you, that was a fantasy to allow you to explore your dark side while we helped you heal, have a great life," I'd probably run screaming after the rental car and after the jet. I'd probably find myself wandering around the Southern Nevada desert within a week, hoping desperately he hadn't taken on another submissive and I could return.

That was a scary thought.

As was the thought that I couldn't return here.

Cole was watching me as he drove the rental out of the airport. "Look different?" he asked. "Not quite what you were so desperate to get back to?"

I was looking down the side streets we were passing and answered obliquely. "Have you ever seen the film Warriors?"

"Ye-es," Cole said doubtfully in that tone of voice that either means he's humoring me, he's convinced I've gone mad, or I'm taking liberties by acting like we're on an equal footing and I can just chat.

I chose to interpret it this time as meaning Please explain. Or maybe WTF.

"Remember how the guy from Xanadu – "

Cole coughed.

"Well, I can't remember the actor's name and he was in both. He was the main gangsta in Warriors. Anyway, he and his guys fight all night after the guy who theoretically was bringing all the gangs together for something – I don't know, overthrow actual government? It's been a while since I saw it. But what I remember is the Warriors are accused of killing the charismatic leader and they have to fight all the other gangs to get home."

"Coney Island," Cole said. There was humor in his voice.

"Right! That's where their turf was and they get there as dawn's coming up and it's all closed amusement park rides and litter from the night before and sandy beach and – just, nothing. And Swan – that was his name – Swan says, 'We fought all night to get back to this?'"

And then I was just quiet for a few blocks, wondering what we were doing here, what Cole had up his sleeve and how it will hurt or help. Or hurt and help. Like it or not, a lot of his methods of madness seemed to be working. I was clean and sober. But seeing my town, I wasn’t sure I would be if turned loose.

Cole was quiet for so long I was convinced I could have saved that little bit of reminiscing or complaining or whatever I was doing, when he said, "Does that mean you're going to stay with me?"

If there'd been anything remotely wistful in his voice I might have been undone. I might even have made stupid decisions and agreed to stupid things.

But he sounded mocking, like himself, and I was free to say, "No, sir, I just meant." I stopped and thought and then said, "I'm sure you know what I meant."

He breathed in through his nose, as if considering whether or not what I just said was actionable, then apparently decided not. "We've talked about what you're going to do when you're released. I have low friends in high places who can expunge your record until you're cleaner than you’ve ever been in your life. You could go DEA. You could go FBI."

"I'd need a degree for that, sir," I said thoughtfully, before remembering that was exactly what I was studying for.

Cole's response was to lean over and slap my thigh with the flat of his hand. It stung, and I instantly moved both hands on top of the place he'd hit.

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