I SLUNG MY duffle up higher on my shoulder while juggling two steamy Styrofoam cups of chicory coffee. The real irony lie in the fact that it was the same bag I took to teach my rope classes. However, in all actuality, I needed the same tools I used while teaching people how to tie their partners up to help build frames and do whatever Leylah needed at her studio.

Dashing to the side, I brought both hands full of coffee up, narrowly missing a couple of wobbly, but very attractive, girls stumbling down the sidewalk. From the wide dark sunglasses and rumpled clothing, it was obvious they were still up from last night, but I smiled at them regardless. Arm in arm, they giggled at me.

“Oh, sissy, he’s a ginger!” the blonde snickered out from behind her hand clasped over her mouth.

“Hmm mmm, and look at those muscles under that white t-shirt. Whatcha got in that big bag of yours?” her friend asked. “Some tricks?” They took a synchronized step toward me.

Bamboo rain chimes jingled behind me before a door swooshed closed.

“About time. Jeez, I was about to send a search party or fire you…but then again, you are free labor,” Leylah said as she looped an arm through mine and grabbed a coffee. After weaving her body through mine, she noticed my fan club on the sidewalk and her gaze turned piercing…almost predatory. A rumble started in my chest. Not the response I got when I was mad, but the kind of rumble that made me excited she was protective of me.

“Who’s your friends, Levi? I thought the street cleaning crews went through hours ago?” Ouch, Leylah…

I rushed to jump in because the gals’ jaws dropped and Leylah’s drawl was heavy. She meant business. “Just some ladies I passed on the street. Was saying good morning, that’s all. Hope you all have a fine day,” I said to the women and pressed my hand into Leylah’s hip, juggling my coffee, bag, and her into her gallery.

I didn’t give her a chance to rebut. After dropping my bag and setting my coffee on the ground, I pressed her into the whitewashed brick wall and kissed her soundly on the mouth. The action left her breathless, and effectively speechless. Mission accomplished. When I pulled away, a grin smeared across my face.

“Good morning. I missed you.” Truer words had never been spoken. The moment I was with Leylah, it was like I hadn’t ever been with Mistress. I could feel myself splitting in two, but I was at peace with it—for the moment. My hand started to shake in her hair, so I pulled back and stuck it in my jean pocket. Worry gnawed my insides and it showed on my outsides; I couldn’t lose her.

Hoping she hadn’t seen all those emotions cross my face, I pecked her nose and bent to recover my coffee. She kissed my cheek in return. “Missed you, too. Let me give you the tour. I guess you haven’t ever been down here before, huh?” Her shoulders arched up and she smiled. “I’ve always snuck you up the backway like my dirty little secret.”

As she threaded her fingers through mine, I asked, “Oh, is that all I am to you?”

“Hmm, that and more!” she laughed. Coffee in hand, she pointed to the room we were in. A smaller room, but bright with the floor-to-ceiling display windows overlooking Royal Street. “This is the shop, or the ‘storefront’, since this is a tourist district as well. I always have to have something presentable for folks to come in and browse, buy…although they rarely do.” She frowned, and I wasn’t sure whether it was because people weren’t buying prints or keeping this space set for this purpose wasted her square footage. Regardless, it still showcased her work, so I found it beautiful. A small counter in the corner housed a computer, her register for ringing in sales, I assumed, and a small red stool. A divider wall composed of white, crisp drywall with an arched doorway and a black and white geometric print curtain separated us from the rest of the space.

Most of the prints displayed were pretty PG. I knew she didn’t have a specific niche, but she liked the risqué and high art stuff. While flowers and landscapes were breathtaking, these were what the tourists liked, not her favorites.

“This way.” She tugged on my hand. “The real mess is back here.” She parted the curtain to reveal sawdust all over the floor, cords everywhere, an easel in the corner with discarded sketchpad sheets littering around, and random pieces of lumber. I think my eye twitched. Tony would have a hernia.

I rocked back on my heels. “So…”

She alternated between tucking non-existent hair behind her ears and shoving her hands in her jean pockets. “Yeah, okay…I know. I’ve been occupied…and I thrive in chaos. It’s my mess. I know where everything is,” she defended.

I knew better than to poke the bear. “Didn’t you say something about breakfast?”

Breath huffed from her chest and her shoulders rocked back. “Oh yeah, follow me. Deidre made banana walnut cupcakes with cinnamon streusel tops and a chocolate banana filling. You know, some fancy shit like that. There’s a kitchenette back here.”

I stopped. “Cupcakes? I thought you said you’d have breakfast. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a man who appreciates his sugared confections with the wholesome affection of an Amish boy raised on made-from-scratch pies and treats…but I need something substantial.”

“Trust me, you won’t be disappointed, and there’s bananas in there—that’s got good shit in it…”

I tiptoed through the mess after Leylah and beyond the clutter, I could see it was a magnificent space. Canister lighting, exposed brick…just beyond the arched doorway we came though were two brick support pillars that would work perfectly for my demonstration, if she still wanted me to do it. Like in the front, I could see where some of her work could be displayed against the brick, but there were some panels of drywall as well. It made for an interesting contrast and helped move the eye from piece to piece. The flooring, from what I could tell, was rustic and real wood, in what was probably an original herringbone pattern with a dark walnut stain. I didn’t have to be Amish to appreciate the craftsmanship. Although the space was a long rectangle without windows, it still felt expansive and bright. In the back corners of the room was a seating area and makeshift bar, which I believe she referred to as a kitchenette. I supposed the microwave qualified it as such. I couldn’t judge. I lived out of a storage container; I didn’t even own a microwave.

Leylah arrived at the counter and opened the box of artfully baked and presented cupcakes. I could smell the cinnamon from where I stood. “Dee has a strict policy about breakfast. Hmm, let me see if I can do it right.” Leylah’s mouth twisted around, like she was warming up for something, then she spoke again with a heavy Bostonian accent, “I'm a coffee snob...the food that dilutes my coffee has never been a concern.” She clapped her hands and jumped up and down. “Ha, there, I did it!”

“That was pretty good,” I complimented, and went straight for the cupcakes. “Oh God, they’re still warm,” I mumbled around a mouthful. I took my time chewing and swallowing, savoring every taste. I swear, if I hadn’t found Leylah first, I would marry Deidre for her baking skills alone. Licking my fingers clean of escaped strudel, I turned to ask Leylah about her voice talents. “That’s a pretty good Boston accent, did your dad ever play there?”

She chewed and swallowed hard around her own large bite. “Me, um…no.” Color bloomed in her cheeks. “I, well…I’m also…well, was in the sex industry—for a brief time,” she rushed to add in.

Well, color me purple and call me a children-loving dinosaur…

I straightened and left the remainder of my cupcake on the counter. I gave Leylah an expectant look. She noticeably squirmed under my stare.

“It’s not what you think… See, Dee, she’s a sex phone operator, and I was one, too. A horrible one for a while. But, Dee, she’s like famous. Even had an article written about her in Maxim. Anyway, she can do all these voices and inflections, taught me some stuff.” She kicked at a stray sheet of sketch paper on the floor. “I wasn’t anywhere near as good at it as she is, but it helped pay the bills for a while.”

Not what I think. I had no clue what to think about that tasty morsel of information, other than I was now more at ease with my own career around her and hoped she would have some empathy and understanding when it came to dealing with it.

I picked up the remainder of my cupcake, swallowed the rest in one bite, then went after peeling the paper from another—my appetite suddenly voracious.

Leylah gave me a speculative eye. “Hmm, maybe what they say is true. Perhaps I should let Dee teach me a thing or two.”

I shoved in another bite, then licked the crumbs off my fingers. “If you…” I looked up and made a cross motion with my hand, “woman, what I would do to you… I would marr—”

“You would what?”

I swallowed down the ball of dough with hot coffee, nearly causing myself to choke again. “Don’t you have work for me to do?” I deflected.

She gave me a dicey look as she picked off a piece of her own cupcake. “Right.” Leylah turned on a heel back into the mess of the main gallery floor and began explaining her vision for the show. She still wanted me to do my demonstrations, and turns out, our minds think alike. She was envisioning my setup in the same place I had when I walked in: the two pillars just outside the arched entry. Something to “wow” people when they first walk in. I asked if she was sure it wouldn’t take away from her work, but she assured me it wouldn’t.

I then went right to work, sweeping up the floor. If she was getting out her prints, dust and dirt wouldn’t be conducive for framing—more like damaging. It was nice to work in companionable silence. At some point, some original jazz music streamed from the hidden speakers in the corner rafters of the open ceilings.

I’d just gotten out my drill and changed out the battery pack for a charged one when I heard Leylah cussing under her breath. I left the power tool and walked over to her. She had prints strung out all over the floor. Large, 16x20 prints. I took note since I’d be building frames for them later. Most were from my rope class she’d attended, and they were beautiful. They were so artfully taken and zoomed in with great depth of field, someone in the class might not even have noticed it was them, but I did. In my lifestyle, in my life in general…I knew when to focus and what to focus on when it mattered.

Leylah was in a crouch, her hair falling haphazardly out of her ponytail. She’d been absentmindedly running her hands through it, lost in thought. “It’s not enough,” she mumbled to no one in particular.

Rubbing my thumbs up the corded muscles at the base of her skull, I began to massage. “Hey…you need some help? I got my drill charged, ready to go, and my wood in order.”

She snorted and sprang up, turning to face me. Her palms landed flat on my chest. “You have no idea how dirty that sounds, Levi.”

“Ha,” I said and leaned in for a chaste kiss. I pulled back. “Seriously, lady, what’s the matter?”

Her gorgeous greens rolled to the ceiling. “Ugh, so much for distracting me then, huh?”

She had no idea how much I wanted to distract her. In fact, I should concede to her. I was using helping her with her gallery as a giant diversion from laying my cards on the table.

Her fist nicked lightly at my chin. “So serious, Levi. Oh, all right…I need another piece—a few more, actually. These are great—amazing. You like them?” she asked, looking down at the prints again.

“They are perfect. I invited the class to your opening. I hope you don’t mind. They will be very excited to see them and honored to be represented so beautifully and tastefully. It’s quite artful, Leylah. Truthfully.” I meant it, she was beyond talented. The way she presented the negative space between rope and skin, it was like she captured how I saw the beauty of Shibari in my head. “What else do you need?”

She backed out of my grasp a fraction and my hand fell. She appeared shy, her lip drawing into her mouth and hands wrestling with one another. “Well, I really wanted a shot focusing better on hands…and I wasn’t able to get that. Since it’s hands that do the binding, to show hands being bound, the juxtaposition of that, the power of surrendering your weapons to the same…” she kicked at the floor, “I’m sorry, that probably doesn’t make sen—”

I grasped her chin again, cutting her off. “It makes perfect sense, Leylah.”

Silence expanded the room, the soft jazz no longer played; the only sound was our breathing. The moment was heavy. I wanted to speak again, I should have, there wasn’t a more perfect opening, foray into what I wanted to ask—offer her—but I was…chicken shit, as my Pa would say. Well, without anyone listening—he wasn’t supposed to cuss.

“So, you’ll help me?”

“Absolutely, of course, with anything.” I knew I sounded eager, but I was just happy she’d spoken first. I’d put on a clown suit and sing happy birthday in Spanish right now if she asked.

She gave my arm a squeeze—more of a “good game, kid” squeeze—and said, “Great, let’s go upstairs. The light is much better up there. Besides, my camera and all my stuff is up there.” She turned to march off to the wrought-iron stairwell at the back of the room. “Oh wait, I don’t have any rope!” She paused, leg poised over a step.

I smiled wider than I should have, then cleared my throat. “I have some,” I responded quickly. Her quick frown had me recovering fast. “Well, you know, all those tools are needed for my rope class…it’s all in the same bag…I wasn’t coming here today with intentions to tie you up, Leylah.” Well shit, maybe I had. Fock. Still, my head went down. I couldn’t look at her.

“Well, grab your bag then,” she called from afar, her steps pinging up the metal staircase.