Page 21 of Mister St. James

I shake my head. “She’s dead. Overdose, late nineties. I was fifteen. Taught myself everything else after that.”

Cat nods, fingers curled around her glass, knuckles white. “Makes sense.”

I reach for the decanter, top off her glass. “Why the lounge? Why the stage?”

She shrugs. “I like the power. The attention. I like knowing that everyone is watching and that I can make them want me, even if they can’t have me.” A pause, then, “Except you did.”

The silence stretches, but it isn’t uncomfortable. It’s loaded.

Eventually, she sighs, “I’m not actually sure really. Maybe it’s because I have two sisters and four brothers and was starved of individual attention. Or maybe I have Daddy issues. I just like what I like.” She sips her whiskey, and the ice in her voice melts a little. “But this? No masks, no anonymity? This is scarier than anything I’ve ever done on that stage.”

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

She knocks back the rest of her drink and places the glass down between us, before she breaks the tension with a smirk. “So, what happens now?”

I stand, extend my hand. “Now, I give you the grand tour.”

She takes it, lets me pull her to her feet. Her hand is warm, steady. I lead her through the apartment, bedroom, office, the empty guest room. She touches nothing, but she leaves an imprint everywhere she goes. By the time we circle back to the living room, the tension between us is a livewire, ready to snap.

She looks at me, eyes searching. “You’re not going to tie me up tonight, are you?”

“Only if you ask.”

She grins. “What if I beg?”

“Then you’d better not stop.”

She takes a step closer, the space between us shrinking to a breath. “I won’t,” she says, voice barely above a whisper.

The air changes when Cat leans into me, her chin lifted in challenge, lips parted as if she’s about to bite. For a second, neither of us moves, like animals uncertain whether to fuck or fight. I count three breaths, then step away.

“Wait here,” I tell her, as if the next step is as simple as fetching a file from another room. It’s a lie, or at least an evasion. What I really need is a minute to recode myself, to switch from the risk calculus of exclusivity to something even more dangerous—trust.

I vanish down the hall to my bedroom, bypass the walk-in closet, and enter the sanctum: my private studio. The room is as organized as a server rack, spools of cord lined up by length, color, and fiber; reference books stacked by topic; practice mannequins, naked and inert, posed in the corners like shamed witnesses. I scan the racks, select a portable wooden case, and head back out before I can second-guess myself.

When I return, Cat is perched on the arm of the sofa, glass balanced on her knee. She sees the case and her eyes go sharp, the way they do when she spots a margin error in a six-figure contract.

She sits up straighter. “Is this the part where you show me your toys?”

“Do you want to see them?”

“Depends,” she says, voice half a dare. “Are you going to use them?”

“Only if you want,” I say, setting the box on the table and flicking the latches open. The lid lifts, and inside is my collection, red silk on the left, jute and hemp in the center, a trio of black bamboo blends for special effects and a set of precision scissors, for safety.

Her eyes widen, just for a second. She leans forward, fingers dancing over the coils, feeling the difference between hemp, jute, and silk. “These are gorgeous.”

“They’re functional, but also decorative,” I say.

“This one’s heavier,” she notes, holding up a coil of jute.

“For suspension. Has more bite, and more memory. But it leaves marks.” I tap the red silk. “This is mostly for show. It’s softer, leaves less trace, unless you want it to.”

She threads a length through her fingers, then pulls a coil of midnight blue, thinner than the rest. “And this?”

“Decorative. Used for hair, or to accent a main tie.”

She grins, taking the red silk from my hand and uncoils it. “This is your signature,” she says. “I remember the way it looked on me.”