Mardi Gras

odd—since he couldn’t see her face anyway.
“What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It can’t be any more than that. I can’t explain why, but it simply can’t.”
Ty sat up. His heart physically hurt in his chest, but he told himself he was still just recovering from so much kinky sex. He had not gotten emotionally involved with his masked dominatrix. He refused to even consider that as a possibility. Even as much as he wished she hadn’t closed back up on him emotionally just now, even as much as 83
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he’d liked finding out she had a soft side when she’d agreed to submit to him a little.
Taking a deep breath, he rose from the couch and went to retrieve his clothes across the room.
“You’re leaving?”
He glanced over his shoulder to see her sitting up, as well. “Yeah. I mean, if it can only be sex, well…the sex is over for tonight, right?” She nodded. And he got dressed, realizing he wanted to leave now. Even if he sort of hated leaving, too. But the damnable truth was—if it couldn’t be anymore than just this, just the fucking part, he didn’t want it.
He couldn’t believe he didn’t want it, could barely fathom that the great sex she’d shared with him wasn’t enough for him, but he also couldn’t fight whatever was going on inside him—and the fact was, it wasn’t enough. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, but he had gotten emotionally involved.
He walked to the door without looking back, feeling angry, even if a part of him knew that was stupid. God knew they’d never made each other any promises, and they’d never even had any reason to—it had been two nights of hot sex, plain and simple. Maybe he was angry at himself—for wanting more. Wanting to see her face so damn badly. His chest felt tight, achy.
Her clicking heels approached hurriedly behind him, but he didn’t look back until she grabbed onto his wrist.
“Not even a goodbye?” she asked.
Their gazes met, held. Then he placed his hand on the back of her head amid all those wild red curls and kissed her lush lips, one last time. “Goodbye, Mina.” He walked out the door, hailed the first taxi he saw, and headed for home, feeling empty inside for reasons he couldn’t quite understand.
* * * * *
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Mia sat alone in her apartment the next day, flipping through channels, watching nothing, hating everything about Mardi Gras and wishing it would end. Wishing lots of things. Like that she’d never concocted the insane idea to put on a mask and seduce Ty.
Although tears rose behind her eyes at the thought, because how could she regret the wild intimacy they’d shared, at once so new and yet so comfortable? She didn’t think she could have done those things with anyone else.
God, she’d thought she could do this—take this for what it was, hot sex. She’d thought it would fill a physical need, bring the fantasy to life, and maybe then she could move on, get Ty out of her mind.
Instead, though, just the opposite had happened.
She had no choice but to recognize the devastating truth—she was in love with him.
* * * * *
“Morning, sweet thing,” Ty said on Monday as he walked into the messenger service, the plate glass door falling shut behind him.
“Morning, Ty,” she said without looking up, pretending she was immersed in paperwork.
“Any messages?” he called from his office.
“Bobby’s going to be—”
“Fired,” he said before she could finish. “When he gets here, send him in to see me.
And start looking through applications for a replacement.” Wow, he sounded like he was in a bad mood. Was it because of Mistress Mina? Was it possible he’d taken their time together that seriously?
Against her better judgment, she got up and walked to his doorway. “Listen,” she said softly, “I know it’s none of my business who you fire, but…Bobby’s actually sick today. Really sick. He threw up while we were on the phone and I’m ninety-nine percent sure he couldn’t fake that.”
Ty shrugged. “A hangover during Mardi Gras isn’t a good excuse.” 85
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Oh. Stupidly, perhaps, she hadn’t thought of that—given that she was trying to forget Mardi Gras existed.
“Besides, even if he had the Russian flu, it’s one time too many. I’ve got a business to run and I need dependable employees—like you.”
She swallowed nervously, thinking her usual— If you only knew.
“Um, how was your weekend?” she dared ask.
“Shitty, thanks.”
“Why? I…I thought you had a date with your hot chick from last week.”
“I did. It didn’t end well. End of story.”
She nodded, still a little amazed that the things he’d indulged in with Mistress Mina had mattered to him so much.
“How was your weekend? Better than mine, I hope. Did you see your new tattoo-free guy?”
She nodded.
“And?”
“And…that didn’t go so well, either. I…don’t think I’ll be seeing him again.” She hurried to add, “I mean, at least not…romantically.” He tilted his head, his expression softening. “Sorry it didn’t work out, sweet thing.” Her heart wilted a little in her chest. “Yeah, I’m sorry yours didn’t go better, too.”
* * * * *
Fat Tuesday. The last day of Mardi Gras. The night of the biggest blowouts, the most wild debauchery, the most hedonistic revelry. Ty sat in his apartment, the first floor of a grand old house on Esplanade, at the edge of the Quarter, watching the daily Mardi Gras report on the evening news. Picking up his fork, he dug into the reheated red beans and rice Liz had sent home with him after he’d had dinner at their place over the weekend.
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I should go out and take part in that, he told himself, watching a bunch of beaded and masked people screaming for the TV camera.
I should go down to Club Venus and get a lap dance or five and see if Mina turns up straddling my crotch at any point. But he doubted she would.
No, I should just get drunk, hang out on