“Do I?”
“Almost. It’s very charming. I like your contacts too.”
“My contacts?”
He pointed. “Yes, the blue contacts. For your eyes.” He leaned closer at her expression of confusion. “Or are those your real eyes?”
She gave a nervous laugh. “What else would they be?”
“Some people wear contacts to change their eye color. I thought... Well, I hadn’t seen anyone else here with eyes that color.”
She lowered her lids, the way she always did when people noticed her eyes. Sometimes people teased her about them, a mean kind of teasing that said you don’t really belong here. But she’d been born in Mongolia, to Mongolian parents. People whispered that she wasn’t her father’s daughter, that her blue eyes had come from someone else. She’d have to find out about these contacts, so she could make her eyes gold, or brown.
She looked back up at him and shrugged. “My mother used to say they were blue because I was born outside, and I looked up at the sky, and so my eyes stayed blue. In Ulaanbaatar, it’s dirty and polluted, but in the north and the west, the blue sky stretches as far as you can see. Do you know they call Mongolia ‘the land of eternal blue sky’?”
“No, I didn’t know, but now I do.” He squeezed her hands, then inspected her cuffless wrists. “I want to give you some money.”
“No. Absolutely no. This wasn’t a transaction.”
“Of course it wasn’t. Sara, I don’t want to cheapen what we just experienced. Because we just experienced something. Something you’re going to remember every bit as vividly as me.”
Exactly. That’s why I have to get out of here. She didn’t know if it was the kindness in his voice, or the wistfulness, or the beauty of his words, or his insistence on intimacy even as she shied away from it. Whatever it was, it brought tears to her eyes.
“Please,” she said. “I have to go.”
He hugged her again, tightening his knees around her so she felt enveloped by him. By the time he drew away, she’d mastered herself.
“If you want to give me money,” she said, “I would appreciate cab fare, so I don’t have to walk home alone.”
“I’ll take you home.”
“No. Please. I’m sorry. I’m thankful for tonight, but—”
“Let me help you.”
“I don’t need help.”
“Your job—”
“I’ll find another job. I have another job. The club was for extra money. So…I’ll be okay. I don’t want you to worry about me.”
“But you won’t take my money.”
“I don’t need it.” I don’t need you. She was trying to convince herself. And failing.
He stared at her a long time, though his expression was cloaked. She preferred that. She didn’t want to know his thoughts. It would be hard enough to let him go without knowing the real man, the sober, concerned, slightly heartbroken man looking at her right now.
“You’ll be my best memory of Mongolia,” he said at last. “My eternal girl with the eternal eyes.” It was his goodbye, a very poetic one. He released her and she went into the bathroom, cleaned up as best she could, and dressed to go.
Jason walked with her down to the lobby of the hotel and out into the smog and noise of nighttime Ulaanbaatar. He stood out among her fellow Mongolians, with his unusual height and his tousled, brown-golden hair. Even the way he hailed a cab was gorgeous…the raise of his hand, the intent expression on his face. He held the door as she climbed in, giving her money for the driver. “You better bargain the fare,” he said. “He’ll cheat me.”
I’m sorry, she wanted to cry. I’m sorry this is a dirty, corrupt city that takes advantage of foreigners. I’m sorry I’m leaving you alone. I’m sorry I have to protect myself from you.
“Thank you,” she said instead. “For making it so real.”
“You’re welcome. Please take care of yourself. My last orders,” he said, waving a finger at her. Then her beautiful Master kissed her on the forehead, closed the cab door, and stood watching from the road side as she disappeared from his life.
It was only later, when she went to pay the driver, that she realized Jason had pressed an entire month’s salary worth of money into her hand.
Chapter Three: Sara
Jason moved carefully through the second-world circus tent, stepping over rough benches and dodging unrecognizable puddles of matter on the floor. His Mongolian translator pulled her scarf more tightly around her neck and gave him an encouraging smile. He had no idea of her age. She might have been thirty or sixty, with her smooth, broad cheekbones and wide-set, smoky-rimmed eyes.
She was pretty, but nowhere near as pretty as Sara.
She’d been gone one day. Not even one whole day, but he still felt her loss like a hole inside him. He wished he’d never gone to the BDSM Fun Club. If only he’d stayed at the hotel and worked. If he hadn’t traipsed off to that damn club like some sex tourist, he wouldn’t have met her and he wouldn’t have gotten her fired. And you wouldn’t have had a night with her either. You wouldn’t have known her submission, or enjoyed that longing in her gaze. The way she’d touched him, the way she’d responded to him…
Now he was suffering. Sex hangover. He’d spent all morning and a good part of the afternoon fondling her cuffs and masturbating to the scent of her on the cane. No matter how many he rubbed out, he couldn’t stop craving her. He couldn’t get her out of his mind. Had she gotten home safely the night before? Would she find another job? A better one this time? He’d given her all the money he could while she was too upset and distracted to notice. Did she have regrets this morning? Was she missing him too?
Jason was supposed to be focused on work, focused on this act Lemaitre was so interested in. Before his promotion Jason had been an acrobatics coach, but now he scouted all kinds of acts in search of undiscovered talent. That was why he was here, not to get torn up over a cocktail waitress he’d met at a kink bar. She’d told him straight out, one night. Now he had to get over her. Jason hoped this trapeze act was good enough to warrant all the drama of this journey.
He and the translator finally settled on a bench halfway up the stands. She left an appropriate amount of space between them, causing Jason to suffer repeated bumps from the brawny man on his other side. He sucked air through his mouth rather than his nose. These folks obviously weren’t into showers. With the cool temperatures outside, Jason wasn’t sure he blamed them. Even in spring, Mongolia was chilly, sometimes snowy. The stands were soon full to bursting with an exuberant Saturday night crowd.
The show started late, without any intro or fanfare. Jason knew within minutes that he’d been sent on a wild goose chase. It might be Mongolia’s largest circus, but it had no production values, no polish. It was only a series of acts performed by people who looked every bit as rough as those in the seats. Juggling, a little tightrope, but not very high off the ground. There were muscle men lifting things like oil drums and tires, and a smiling trio of contortionists who balanced bowls on their heads. These acts were interspersed with comedic bits that his translator tittered at but didn’t bother to translate.
This ragtag revue brought to mind circuses of the past, before innovators like Michel Lemaitre arrived with glossy lights and special effects and a million-dollar infrastructure whose sole purpose was to create theatrical art. He looked around at the smiling, clapping spectators. What would they think of a Cirque du Monde show? They were so appreciative of this low-level nonsense. A show like Cirque Brillante or Cirque Vivide would probably cause a riot.
The entire program lasted a little over an hour. The crowd grew restless, and Jason worried that the trapeze act he’d been sent to scout wasn’t even going to perform. Then a great cheer went up, pounding and yelling. The children rose to their feet and bounced up and down as a beat-up trapeze dropped almost to the ground, then was ratcheted skyward in uneven tugs. Jason looked up and saw men winching the ropes to the rigging. It didn’t look safe, not by Cirque
du Monde standards. Not by any standards.
Jason took a deep breath as the trapezists, a man and a woman, took the stage. The man was compactly built, typically Mongolian, with a broad, attractive face. His partner stood with her back to the audience, her dark hair styled in a tight ponytail. She had a gymnast’s body, lithe and muscular, beautifully proportioned. Her red leotard was plain in design, but it brightened up the dreary circus tent.