And so it went. We got into a routine, Simone and I—we'd choose a recipe, do the shopping and cook together on Saturday mornings. Got where I really looked forward to it because it was one of the few things that generally went right most of the time. I may not have succeeded during the week, and matters could go sideways and downhill Monday through Friday, but Saturday morning was becoming important to me.

The fun part was that Simone sorta blossomed too. During the week she was always dressed for the job, but on the weekends her wardrobe got . . . girlier. More skirts and scarves, and that made Saturday kinda nice as well. Ever since my divorce I'd lost track of appreciating things like that, frankly. I still shaved and made sure I had clean clothes but there were some moments when I missed the simple comfort of having a woman around. Not just the physical part—although that was always nice-but just for the day to day cheer of another face over the first cup of coffee.

So bit by bit we got to know each other, and I found myself telling her about my college days and dating Linda, about Laurel's birth too. Maybe it was all the one on one time; maybe it was the fact that Simone was a great listener—whatever it was, it worked. She heard a lot more about me than I did about her, but I was workin' on bringing the woman out of her shell.

"I was married," she finally admitted to me while we practiced slicing vegetables a couple of months later. "It was . . . not particularly good."

"Sorry to hear that," I murmured while in my mind I thought back to the x-rays and what they'd showed. "Sometimes things don't work out."

Simone was quiet and I thought that might be the end of it, but she spoke up as she reached for a carrot. "It was . . . sort of an arrangement. Hugo was older, and more interested in having a hostess and housekeeper."

I worked on the tomato in front of me, trying to keep my tone light. "And what were you getting out of it?"

"Mostly in-home care for my mother, and tuition," she replied in a sort of a flat tone. "It was all very civilized."

Part of me hurt for her, hearing that. "Huh. That's . . . okay, I guess. But yeah, doesn't sound like it was a lot of fun." We kept adding the vegetables to the broth that was simmering on the burner and I added a little pepper to it.

Simone gave a dry chuckle. "It wasn't. Hugo could be . . . demanding, and impatient and . . . straight-laced."

I understood the first two descriptors but the last one piqued my interest and I shot her a sidelong look, curious now. "Straight-laced?"

She didn't meet my gaze but I watched the blush touch her cheeks. "Yes. Even though he spent his entire career studying various . . . cultural communities, he didn't approve of them, or me. Never accepted that I . . ." Simone stopped and looked guarded.

I said nothing, giving her time even though I was definitely feeling nosy. The pause stretched out and I let it until finally she sighed. "That I'm a bit . . . kinky."

Somehow this revelation didn't surprise me as much as it might have, given all the clues, but it still sent a little jolt of heat through me. Putting on my game face I gave a nod. "That could be an issue . . . for some people."

She shrugged in a helpless sort of way. "It is for a lot of people. Most people in fact. And I'm not even sure why I told you except you're fairly understanding and probably knew it to some degree."

"I . . . suspected," I admitted, reaching for the last onion and halving it before taking the papery ends off with my knife. "Doesn't bother me."

Simone turned and gave me a quick quirk of a smile. "Really?"

I was almost glib. Almost. But despite her bravado I felt she was testing me here and if I gave the wrong answer I'd be put into a box and labeled. I didn't want that, not at all, so I took my time answering.

"Really. Simone, some folks are left-handed. Most folks are right-handed. Just because I'm not left-handed myself doesn't mean I can't get along with those who are."

I scooped up the onion I'd finished dicing and added it to the soup before turning up the heat and stirring it a little, giving her time to consider what I'd said.

"Thank you," she finally murmured, bringing over the carrot coins, "I'm glad. Of course, it's a little easier because we're friends and not involved with each other. That helps."

I made a little affirmative noise even though I felt a tiny pang of disappointment. Men and women can be friends; I know that. But peel back all the layers and there's always a degree of attraction, at least on the guy's side. It's a guy thing, to be honest. Even with an old friend like Loretta there's still a spark of acknowledgement that she's a woman and I'm a man. I don't dwell on it anymore than I dwell on it with Sonja or Tammy or any other woman I see on a day-to-day basis. Hard-wired I suppose but I've come to accept it as a part of male biology and leave it at that.

But Simone's statement was a little bit of a jolt because I guess somewhere inside I hadn't quite defined our status to myself. 'Friends' was the big general category, sure, but any other refinement was still in progress and I hadn't yet settled on how I saw us. And that was a tiny revelation in itself right there.

"That's as may be, but I just want you to know that whatever . . . handed you are, Simone, it's fine with me. No judgment."

Got a smile for that, and she tipped her head. "Not even for freaking you out over the thumb cuffs?"

That caught me a little off-guard and I gripped the soup ladle a little tighter. "I wasn't freaked out."

"Actually," Simone murmured, "You weren't."

I shot her a look as something flickered through me; some weird sense of agreement. "Being cuffed is not a new experience for me, you know. I've done a lot of things in my time and being taken into custody is one of them."

"A man with a reputation," Simone came to look into the pot. "So people have told me."

"In this case people are right," I assured her. "Hand me that hot sauce please."

So I fussed with the seasonings, partially because the soup needed it, and mostly to consider what to say next. I'm honest to a fault with other people, but I've been known to lie to myself, and I knew deep down that maybe I'd been doing that in a few aspects that Simone was picking up. I talk about darkness in people but it's not always connected to evil, or being bad. Sometimes it's just part of their nature that hasn't been looked at too often or too closely.

Simone's shoulder was almost up against mine, and I caught a little of her perfume. She gave me a sidelong look and smiled. "Almost ready."

I knew she meant the soup, but for a moment the words seemed to mean something else. I cleared my throat, and before I could think about what I was saying I asked, "Tell me: what do you mean by kinky?"

Her lips pursed a bit but it was because she was trying not to laugh. "I knew that question was coming. All right. Kinky is everything you've ever fantasized about but knew your wife wouldn't agree to do."

That took a moment to process and I fought to stay calm because not only did that cover some interesting territory, it also left me conflicted. As I've said, my marriage had been a good one, or so I believed. Linda and I had pretty compatible appetites and even though Laurel was our only it wasn't through lack of trying. But even with that, and the wild oats that came before it, and interludes after the divorce, there are some places that are strictly a man's personal thoughts.

And some of them aren't nice.

Knew I was blushing but I wasn't going to say anything as I continued to stir the soup. Simone finally gave a little sigh. "And there it is. I've shocked you, or offended you and now we have walls up again. Maybe I should just go."

"No." It came out a little stronger than I intended; I looked at her and added, "I asked and you answered, so this is all on me. Not really shocked, Simone. Just a little taken back, that's all. Still a lot of range in that definition you know."

She looked a little uncertain, but murmured, "True. And I'd like to add that not all of that is sexual. Kink covers more than that. It's . . . a frame of mind. A deliberate practice."

"A lifestyle?"

Simone winced. "I hate that particular word, Dwayne. It makes me think of photoshoots of celebrity houses and vapid fads. How and what I choose to do are deeper concepts than that."

"So why aren't you . . . wearing black and skulls, that sort of thing?" I asked.

She laughed, taking the spoon from me and stirring the pot. "That's Goth, which is another subculture. They're not the same. Goths are a sort of stylistic choice and while I have the coloring for classic Goth, it's not appealing to me. I deal with enough skulls at work as it is. Is this supposed to boil or just simmer?"

"Simmer," I replied, and we shifted away from the pot after I'd turned down the burner. Simone moved back a little, but I followed her and leaned against the fridge. "Soup will take another twenty minutes minimum. If we had the time I'd simmer it for a few hours, but I don't want to take your whole Saturday."

She nodded, and ran a hand over her arm. Her cast was off now, but Simone had developed a habit of stroking her forearm. Or maybe she had it before and I hadn't noticed. It pained me a little to see it, reminding me as it did of her injuries.

"Arm's better?"

"Yep," she stopped, self-consciously. "So what can I teach you in exchange for soup? Card tricks? Palm reading? Maybe all the words to La Marseilles?"

I smiled. "Nah. I'd like to learn more about kinkiness, to be honest."

Simone looked away. "That . . . requires trust. If I tell you about it, I'm opening myself up to you with no guarantee that you won't . . . use it against me. As I said, I've already told you more than I have to anyone in years, and the mainstream isn't as accepting. One word to the wrong person at the coroner's office and life there could become extremely . . . uncomfortable."

I understood that. Trust is hard-mined and valuable. I don't give it to just anyone and neither did Simone, but I wanted to prove I was worthy of hers so I fished into my back left pocket and pulled out my cuffs. Carefully I handed them to her and murmured, "Here. I'm willing to wear them if that will make you feel more comfortable while we talk."

She wasn't expecting that; no I'd surprised Simone but good. She hefted them and gave me an appraising look with those moss-colored eyes of hers, weighing them. Weighing the possibility. I forced myself to be patient and let her make the choice I hoped she'd make while the smell of spicy vegetable soup drifted around us. Finally Simone gave a little nod.

She motioned to the table and I sat down, holding out my hands, stretching them out while she clicked the cuffs onto each of my wrists. Simone had done it before; she didn't hesitate and they were loose enough to be comfortable—as these things go. After she set the leather case down between my forearms, she did a strange thing: she took my hands and rubbed them as she sat across from me.

"All right. I want you to be comfortable, so the key's right there where you can reach it at any point, Dwayne. I'm getting your circulation up so your hands don't chill while we talk. So . . . kink. I'm sure you've heard of S and M, and possibly B and D, maybe even D and S, yes?"

Sadism and Masochism; Bondage and . . . Dungeons? Dungeons and Sex?" I ventured, all too aware of the cuffs and not sure I liked the sensation. She laughed.

"Sadism and Masochism. I'm not a part of that practice. B and D stands for Bondage and Discipline, which is more my kink, and D and S are Dominant and Subservient, which I've dabbled in as well. They can and often overlap, but they're all practices on their own as well."

Her fingers never stopped stroking my hands, warm and strong. You'd think it would be distracting, but somehow it fit with what she was sayin' to me. "So you're not a woman who enjoys pain?"

Simone raised an eyebrow. "Not to the S and M degree. I fall into the 'erotic discomfort' category. I do like sensations that keep me on edge. Little things like occasional tightlacing in a corset, or being spanked."

That hit home, figuratively speaking. The mental image of taking Simone over my lap and paddling her flickered for an instant through my head and I cleared my throat to get rid of it, but I didn't fool her. She gave a chuckle. "No shame in responding, Dwayne; we're all base creatures after all and you're such an Alpha male."

"Alpha male?" I'd been called a lot of things but this wasn't one of them.

"Oh yes. LaSalle might posture and pose, but he and the others know who's the boss around here," she sweetly replied. "You have presence, Dwayne. 'King' might be a nickname but it's apt. You know it down inside too, which is partially why you work at being gentle around women and young people. You don't have anything to prove to anyone and that makes you . . . trustworthy. You don't have to flaunt your masculine leadership. Makes you all the more attractive."

Now I was blushing and fighting some responses of my own. Everyone likes a compliment and she was handing out more than I'd had in a long time. "Ahhh, thank you," I muttered, not sure what else to say.

Simone patted my hands. "So. I tend to be subservient. I like to be bossed around, although I can and do enjoy being the strong one now and again, depending on who I'm with and what we decide. That makes me, in the terminology, a switch. Double the opportunity, as it were."

This caught my attention. "So people shift around in this?"

"Yes."

"So back in the morgue . . ." I stammered, "Did that make me . . . ?"

"On the surface," Simone began slowly, "You might have thought that I was controlling you. But I was watching and waiting for your cues and clues, so even though you were . . . bound, you had complete control of the situation, Dwayne. That's the part all the shows and movies get wrong. The person being tied up—THEY are the ones in charge."