Chapter 44

Past
I stood up from the table. When I grabbed the business card, I noticed my hand was shaking. Picking up my cell phone, I dialed the number.
The voice from my memory answered on the second ring.
"Hello, Zachery."
"Hello... Nathanial."
"I'm sure you're wondering why I've contacted you."
Hell yes I was. "That's a mild understatement," I replied.
"I would like you to be my guest for a week here at my estate. I have need of a man like you, and I was hoping we could discuss a proposition."
"A proposition?" My voice suddenly bordered on insolence. What did this fucker mean by a "man like you" anyway?
Deep, rich laughter sounded over the phone. The voice was no less arresting than it had been when Monroe had placed a knife in my hand. "I assure you that you will be safe and my intentions are entirely aboveboard."
"Why now?" I asked. And why do you talk like you've got a stick up your ass, I think to myself.
"You will be going to the police academy in three months but at the moment, you find yourself at loose ends." Hard steel crept into his voice. "I would like some of your time."
"How do you know what's going on in my life?" This was beyond fucking weird.
"I have kept track of you. And now I wish for a small amount of your time."
I wanted to deny the voice but it was compelling. More than that, I owed this man my life.
"There's no address," I said as if that would stop me from going.
He gave me the address and directions. I would be on the road for six hours.
***
I left my apartment the following day and almost turned back several times. The prison-like iron gates that opened when I pulled up made me wish I had. They were creepy as fuck. I followed the long drive up to the "estate." The term fit the mansion as well as any other-white columns, red brick, and at least three stories tall. The building was the size of my entire forty-unit apartment complex.
Nathanial Monroe, dressed impeccably in a white dress shirt and tie, came down the steps followed by the man who delivered the invitation. Monroe's hair was shortly cropped, just as I remembered it. He shook my hand. "It is good to see you again, Zachery. You look fit and healthy, unlike the last time we met." He was more relaxed now but the deadly vibe he gave off was still present.
"Yes," I answered and rotated my shoulder self-consciously. "No extensive damage." I had no idea what to expect by going there, but I found myself mesmerized by the man I owed my life too. Every nuance, every small movement of Monroe's tall frame showed lethal strength.
"Stephens will take your bag," Monroe said with a smile. "I would like you to tell me about your car." He waved in the direction of my baby. I also noticed his diction when he spoke was that of someone who learned English as a second language. It was so weird because each word was precise without accent.
I turned to my car. The Mustang was a high school graduation gift from my parents, though I spent my own money on restoration. As I explained the painstaking work involved-from finding the parts to painting it in model- and year-specific colors-I began to relax a little.
"You have kept the integrity of the original. I like that," Monroe said when I was done with the rundown. "This is a real work of art and, Zachery... I know my art." His eyes showed true appreciation for the painstaking work I had put into the car.
"That's what I read," I said with a grin.
His lips tipped up slightly at the corners. "Did you now? Then I am sure you saw my picture as well. It has caused endless problems in my other line of work. You would think with my connections the picture would disappear, but the powers that be thought it would cause more of a red flag if it did. It hit a few newspapers too. Unfortunately, the beautiful woman on my arm was edited out of most of the news releases. It is shameful that my ordinary mug would draw more attention than Nessia's. She was not happy either."
"Nessia?" I questioned while practically hanging on each word.
"Yes, she is one of my models and also an occasional partner when I have a function to attend. She will be here tomorrow with two other models. But enough of that. Let us go inside and get you situated. I will admire the engine later. You may leave her parked here during your visit or Stephens can put her in the garage."
I followed my host up the steps, through the white columns, and inside the front door. I tried not to stare but it was nearly impossible. The large circular room had marble floors, ornately framed art on the walls, and antique furniture discreetly displaying African pottery and statues. It reeked of money and I hated to admit it, class. I was completely out of my league, though I've known that since I watched Monroe kill four men in less than a minute.
"Come into my den and have a drink with me, Zach. You need to loosen up a bit. You are my guest and I have thought about you often over the past year. I want to hear what made you decide on the Atlanta police department."
Again as if a moth drawn to flame, I followed. This entire scenario was like stepping into Oz. The den had a mahogany desk and bookcases lining the walls. One entire case was taken up with erotic art books some turned out on display, the large coffee-table variety with provocative yet beautiful covers.
"Do you appreciate art?" Monroe asked when he saw where my gaze was stuck.
"Art was forced on me by my mother," I replied. "I don't think there's a museum in the country I wasn't dragged to as a child." My parents had modest incomes but my mother believed all children should have access to art, and she looked for museum discounts constantly.
Monroe's voice lowered a notch. "Have you ever been captivated by Shibari?"
I shook my head. "No, looking you up online was my first introduction."
His slight grin came back. "Have a seat. What would you like to drink?"
"Beer in a bottle, if you have it."
Monroe actually laughed. "You can take the boy out of the Marines, but you cannot take the Marines out of the boy. A bottle of beer it is. Will Budweiser work for you?"
"Yes, sir, it will."
Monroe's eyes met mine and I swear he was looking deep into my soul with such intensity a shiver ran through me. He finally glanced away and it was only when he turned toward the door that I realized Stephens had returned and was waiting for orders. With a slight nod of Monroe's head, Stephens left the room without a word spoken between them.
Monroe was quiet while I looked around and admired more of the artwork. My mom would have a field day right now with endless questions. Another strange quandary was that each piece of art seemed to tell a story. This was the life of a man through the art he had collected. I had no idea what the stories were, but there was a sense of serene wonder in being there. "Serene," that's a good word for this man. He appeared unflappable.
Stephens returned a few minutes later and placed two ice-cold beers on the side table between us. Without a word, he retreated from the room once more, leaving us alone.
Monroe opened a bottle and handed it to me before opening his own. We both took a long pull. "I tend to forget how satisfying a cold beer is," Monroe said. "Thank you for reminding me."
I didn't reply. I wasn't altogether sure Monroe wasn't making fun of me somehow.
As if reading my thoughts again, Monroe changed the subject. "Let's talk about Shibari, shall we?" he asked, settling back into his deep leather chair.
"Okay," I said with touch of confusion. I was still unsure what Shibari had to do with me or why the hell I was there to begin with.
"Shibari originated in Japan," Monroe began. "In Japanese, 'Shibari' simply means 'to tie' or 'to bind.' It actually grew out of something called Hojojutsu, the martial art of restraining captives, from around 1400 to 1700." The look on Monroe's face grew tranquil as he continued giving me a history lesson. "Samurai used Hojojutsu as a form of torture and imprisonment. These ancient warriors used different techniques to bind their prisoners to show the honor and status of their captives." Monroe took another swallow of beer. "Slowly, Hojojutsu evolved into something more spiritual and artistic, what we now call contemporary Shibari. In its simplest form, it is bondage, but the art itself is quite complex." Monroe looked down at his hands and then back at me. "I began tying knots in Cub Scouts as a child. Ropes and intricate knots fascinated me. My mother thought I would be a sailing rigger on the high seas." He offered a tight smile as if the memory brought pain. It was gone instantly.
"In my teenage years I saved my money and bought magazines with sexual bondage pictures." He shrugged. "For the ropes of course." He gave me a self-depreciating grin and then continued. "Back then, the magazines were filled with violence, which I found distasteful. It was not until I was older that I learned about the relaxing qualities and the sexual gratification found in artistic bondage. For me, Shibari and sex go hand in hand. It has been many years since I have had unbound vanilla sex."
I had no idea what to say at that point and figured silence was best.
"You are also aware on some level what I do outside of our country. I continue to abhor violence, but it is a necessary evil in today's world. My art calms me and re-adjusts my soul from dark to light. The feel of rope around a beautiful female body is relaxing in its intensity."
I couldn't believe how fast the conversation had turned. My hand tightened on my beer bottle but fuck, my cock stiffened. I kept my gaze level with my host and hoped he truly couldn't see into my soul.
Monroe noticed everything. "I have made you uncomfortable and I did not mean to. My world is not for everyone but I would like to give you a demonstration tomorrow and we will talk more then. Let us finish these beers and grab another round. I want to get under the hood of your car. Next to sex and Shibari, vintage cars are a passion of mine. I have a garage with several classics I think you will like. They do not get driven enough and we can take one out for a spin."
He stood and once more, I followed.