Текст книги "Madame X "

Автор книги: Jasinda Wilder

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EIGHT

I need a date for an event, X.” You glance at me sideways.

“Ask a friend.” I pretend to be busy stirring milk into my tea so I don’t have to look at you.

“None of my friends are suitable.”

“Ask one of your many girlfriends, then.”

You laugh. “I don’t have any girlfriends¸ X.”

My turn to laugh. “Ha. I can smell them on you, Jonathan.”

“There are girls, but they aren’t girlfriends.”

“So you really are a quintessential playboy.” It is said with a hint of humor, and an edge of truth.

“Guilty as charged. But again, none of them are suitable. They aren’t classy enough for this event.”

“What is the event?” I shouldn’t ask, because I know where you are going with this, and it isn’t possible.

“It’s a fund-raiser, a charity thing. But it’s super upper-crust. Invitation only, ten grand entrance fee, and that’s just to get in. There’s a guest list that’s going to read like the Academy Awards. I can’t bring any old skank in some slutty dress, like I usually do for these things. I need someone with presence, and class.”

“Jonathan, I know what you’re—”

“I need you, X.”

“I am not available.”

You frown. “You don’t even know when it is.”

“It doesn’t matter when it is.” My tea is very well stirred at this point, but still I clink my spoon against the china.

“I’ll pay you normal rates for your time, of course.”

I look up sharply, eyes blazing. “I am not an escort, Jonathan Cartwright.”

“That’s not what I meant! I swear, I just . . . I know you’re not—I meant, it wouldn’t be, like, a date-date. It’d be part of my training. See how I do. A test.”

Nicely recovered. I hide a smile. “I see. Very clever. But still not a possibility, I’m afraid.”

You are suddenly on the couch beside me rather than standing casually at the window as has become your habit. Too close. Cologne tickles my nose. I glance sideways, see your Cartier watch, a square chunky thing of silver with a black leather strap, masculine and elegant.

“Why not, X?”

I cross my legs knee over knee, sip my tea. Do not look at you. “It’s . . . not done. Not possible. Not for me. Not with you. Not with anyone.”

“Why, X?” Your hand ventures along the couch back.

I freeze, silently begging you not to do that, not to put your arm around me. Don’t do it, Jonathan. For me, and for you, don’t do it. I’ve come to like you, against all odds, and I don’t want to see anything happen to you.

“Jesus, X. You are the prickliest woman I’ve ever known. I’m not even touching you and you’re all tensed up.”

“I am not prickly.”

You snort. “All right, babe. Whatever you say.” Sarcasm is rife in your tone.

I fix you with a glare. “Babe?”

You hold up your hands in mock surrender. “Sorry, sorry. But you are a little . . . standoffish.”

I stand up, empty teacup in hand. I am not even cognizant of having finished my tea, yet the cup is empty. I move into the kitchen, rinse the cup, set it upside down in the drying rack. I feel you, a foot away.

“If I am prickly or standoffish, perhaps it is for a reason.” I compress myself into the smallest area possible up against the sink as you invade my space. “It’s a warning, Jonathan. One you would do well to heed.”

“Hands off, huh?”

I let out a breath as you back away. “Yes. Hands off.”

“Property of Indigo Services?” Your voice is sharp.

I catch my breath and look up. Suddenly you seem to see more deeply into the truth of matters than I had assumed you were capable. “Don’t, Jonathan. Just . . . don’t.”

Yet you do. “Are you a hermit, X? I mean, I’ve never seen you even step over the threshold of this condo.”

“Jonathan. Stop.”

You pace away, out of the kitchen. Glance around. “I mean, damn, X. I don’t see a TV, or a radio, or a computer. I don’t even see a fucking pencil sharpener. Like, I don’t see one single electric appliance, except for the fucking refrigerator and toaster. And the thing with the elevator? The whole scary-as-fuck elevator operator-slash-bodyguard? Or is he a prison warden? Do you have a cell phone? Shit, even a landline? Do you have any contact with the outside world in anyway what-so-fucking-ever?” You come to a stop behind the couch.

I cross the room and step up close to you, razors in my gaze, ice radiating off me. “I believe it is time for you to leave, Mr. Cartwright.”

“Why? Because I’m asking questions you aren’t allowed to answer?”

Yes, exactly. I do not say that, though. God, no. That would be disastrous. I just stare you down, and, to your credit, you do not look away. You just return the stare, possibly seeing more than I am meant to allow.

You reach into your hip pocket and withdraw a slim silver case, depress a button, and the case flips open, revealing business cards. You slide one card free, close the case, stuff it back into the pocket of your slacks. A shuffled step, and you’re crowding me, staring down at me. The card pinched between thumb and forefinger, you slide it into the V of my cleavage without touching my skin.

The card stock pokes at my flesh. Your eyes are too knowing. Too perceptive. When did you stop being a spoiled boy and become this confident man? You do not rile my flesh, you do not incite panic or breathless fervor in me, but that is no fault of yours.

There are giants—which I can see you becoming, in time—and then there are titans. And even though you have found your footing, discovered the fire in your belly and how to harness it, you are no titan.

But your proximity unnerves me, nonetheless.

“’Bye, Madame X. I can honestly say that without you, I’d never have had the courage to live up to my potential. So . . . thanks.”

Your hand lifts, hovers a hairbreadth away from my jawline. Your face is an inch from mine. I think for a terrifying moment that you are about to kiss me. I cannot breathe; my heart does not beat. I do not blink. You have me trapped against the back of the couch, and I do not dare put my hands on you to move you. To do so would be tantamount to striking a match in a room full of dynamite; there is little chance an errant spark will find a fuse, but the risk is simply too great.

You back away, one step. Two. A breath, a single lift of your chest, your chin rises. And then there it is, that insouciant smirk, knowing, a little mocking, ripe with boyish, roguish humor. You whirl, twist the knob, jerk open my door, and you’re gone.

When the door has clicked closed, I withdraw your business card from my cleavage and examine it.

JON CARTWRIGHT

Owner, Cartwright Business Services, LLC

Tel: (212) 555-4321

E-mail: [email protected]

You started your own business. I am inordinately proud of you.

When my door opens rather suddenly, I don’t look up, assuming perhaps you forgot something.

It isn’t you.

“Well, well, well,” a deep, leonine voice says. “Looks like our little Jonathan has grown up.”

•   •   •

“Caleb.” I glance up sharply and take a step back, surprised. “Yes. It seems he has.” I extend the business card, feigning casual disinterest. I don’t think it is a believable farce, however.

Dark eyes flick over the card. “Good for him. He has the potential to do well, I think. Perhaps Indigo Services will offer him a contract.”

I remain silent. Business endeavors are not within my sphere of knowledge or influence.

Smooth, panther-silent strides across the room, sit, recline with kingly elegance in the Louis XIV armchair. Examining Jonathan’s card. Speculating. “You parried his questions and advances very adroitly, by the way. Well done.”

“He’s harmless.”

“No, he isn’t. You’re wrong there, I’m afraid. He’s not harmless at all.” The card flips, flips, flips, twirled between index, middle, and ring finger.

I dare. “What do you mean? What harm is there in him?”

“His questions. His curiosity.” Eyes, burning like balefire, scorching me. “He wouldn’t understand the truth, X.” The card flies through the air like a knife, then flutters to the floor.

The truth. Which truth?

I remain silent, knowing my input isn’t required as yet.

“You will accompany Jonathan to his event.”

I manage an admirable pretense of casual surprise, when inside I am utterly stunned, faint enough that I could have been knocked over with a feather. “I will? Really?” I sound more eager than I should.

I am not eager; I am terrified. Or rather, I am eager and terrified in equal measure.

“You will. You will be well guarded, however. Len and Thomas will be at your side at all times.”

“Why?”

“Why Len and Thomas? Or why am I sending you with Jonathan?”

“Both, I suppose.”

“Well, Len and Thomas because they’re the most suited to watching over you. Len is as vicious as he is vigilant, and Thomas, well . . . let’s just say he has a rather specific skill set.” A pause. “As for why I’m sending you? It will allay suspicion. The event itself is very private, so there will be no cameras, no press. Everyone else attending will have their own security, as well, so it’s as safe an event for you to attend as anything.”

I still don’t quite understand, but I say nothing. I don’t need to understand.

I’m going out.

“Say something, X.”

“I’m not sure what to say, honestly.”

“Are you excited? Scared?”

I shrug. “Both.”

“Understandable. After what you’ve been through, I can see how you might have mixed feelings about it.”

I nod. “Mixed feelings. Yes.” I sound faint, slightly incoherent. It’s too much to take in. To process. Too many thoughts, too many feelings, too many questions. Too many doubts.

I find myself waiting, expectant. A distraction would be welcome. Yet when long legs unfold and eyes stare down at me from such great height, they are distant, a little cold. Calculating.

“I have much to do today, X. I’m afraid I have to get going.”

“You aren’t . . . staying?” I know how I sound, and why, and I hate it. I hate that I sound disappointed, needy.

“No. I can’t, but you know how much I wish I could.” Cold and calculating becomes hot and amused. “You know how much I wish I could stay, don’t you, X?”

“Yes, Caleb.”

“But you understand why I have to go.”

“Yes, Caleb.”

Yet despite claims of pressing matters, I feel an erection crushed against my belly, hands feathering up my thighs, lifting my dress hem. Slipping under the elastic of my underwear, slipping into me. Curling, circling, dipping, swiping. Swiftly, no play or pretense.

I come in moments.

“Your mouth, X.” I sink to my knees.

Unzip. Free the slide-and-hook clasp of custom-tailored trousers. Taste flesh. Smoky essence. My hands and mouth on firm, clean, masculine flesh, and then it’s over, faster than I would have thought possible, considering how long it can last under other circumstances.

“Thank you, X.” A sigh, now-slack manhood tucked away. A few strides, and the door is silently swinging open. “I’ll send someone with a suitable gown for the event.”

I remain where I am, kneeling in the middle of the living room, dress rumpled, lipstick smeared, hair mussed by gripping fingers. “All right.”

“Don’t look so sad, X. I’ll be back, and we’ll have some proper time together.”

“All right.”

“X.” This is a scold. “What is it?”

“I don’t understand you, is all.”

A long, long silence, the door half open, expression hidden in the doorway. “You don’t need to.”

“I’d like to, though. I try to.”

“Why?” Curiously inquisitive, strangely sharp, subtly tender. All in one word.

“I . . . you’re what I know. What I have. All I have. Yet I don’t know you. And I don’t get much of you. Of your time, of you. And when I do, it’s . . .” I shrug, unable to articulate any further.

“In your own words, X . . . it’s for a reason. It’s a warning.” A step out the door. The conversation is over.

But I hear five words sling out of my mouth like reckless bullets: “I saw you. With her.”

“X.” This is growled. Snarled.

“That girl. She was upset. She was angry with you. I saw you fuck her, right there in the limo. The door open, for all the world to see. I saw. And I—I know you saw me. You looked right at me, and you—you fucking smiled.” Why on earth do I sound so angry, so jealous, so crazed?

“Goddammit, X.”

“I know I mean nothing to you, Caleb, but must you flaunt it in my face?” I am reckless. This is insanity.

The door slams closed. BANG! “You need to think very carefully about your next words, X.” This is spoken in a voice that resembles the edge of a scalpel.

My chin, on its own, lifts. Dares rebelliously upward. “So do you.”

Three lunging steps, a brief sensation of weightlessness, and then I’m pinned against the wall as if I weigh nothing, hard hips crushing mine to the wall, a hand on my throat, cutting off my oxygen in a way that somehow does not hurt.

“Let’s get one thing straight. You belong to me. Not the other way around. Do not presume to speak to me as if I owe you shit for explanations regarding anything I do or with whom I do it.”

I blink. See stars. Darkness encroaches my vision.

“Do you understand me, X?” This is whispered so low as to be nearly inaudible.

I dip my chin ever so slightly, lift it. I am released. I drop to the floor, gasping, oxygen rushing into my brain in a sweet, cool flood.

I barely notice as my favorite window is darkened, the frame filled. Shoulders hunched, head hanging. “Fuck. X, I’m sorry. I overreacted.” Pivot, a glance at me. “Are you okay?”

I am sprawled, very unladylike, against the wall, knees indecently apart, dress hem hiked up around my thighs. I gasp. Merely breathe. I do not answer. I do not have the strength.

Or the courage. That has been choked out of me.

I very intensely dislike being strangled, I am discovering.

Soft footfalls, huge, hard, heavy body crouching beside me. A hand extended to touch. Hesitant, gentle.

I flinch away.

The hand withdraws. “Fuck. FUCK!” The last word is shouted, sudden and frightening.

I jerk away, unable to bridle my instinctively fearful reaction.

“I’m sorry, X.” The hand, on my shoulder.

I go very, very still. Tense. Frozen. Eyes shut, jaw clenched, fingers fisted on my thighs. I do not even breathe until the hand and its accompanying presence is withdrawn. And even then, I take a slow, careful breath. Watch out of the corner of my eye. Harsh, angry steps. The door, jerked open. Slammed closed with such violent force that the door splinters and the frame cracks.

I hear the elevator door, and then silence.

I sit where I am for I don’t know how long. Eventually I hear the elevator again, male voices.

Len.

“Ma’am?” Beside me. Lifting me to my feet. “Come on. I got a guy that’s gonna fix your door for you. Why don’t you go lay down, huh? You want some tea or something?”

I shake my head, wrench free of Len’s grip, as gently solicitous and careful as it is. “Nothing.” I whisper it, my voice hoarse. “Thank you.”

I move into my bedroom, lie down on my bed, still wearing my dress. Len tints my window black, turns on my noise machine.

“You shouldn’t make him angry, ma’am. It’s not smart. You got a tiger by the tail, you best not rile him. Know what I’m saying?”

“Classic apologetics for domestic abuse, Len.” My voice is raspy again. I don’t think I’ll have bruises, though.

“I’m not apologizing, just saying.”

“Apologetics is—you know what, never mind. Thank you, Len. That will be all.”

“Okay, then.” A pause. “I’ll be by tomorrow, with the designer.”

“Designer?”

“The outfit, for that rich bastard kid’s event.”

“Jonathan, you mean.”

“Yeah, whatever. They’re all the fucking same.”

I don’t answer. I feel my eyes grow heavy. Ignore the turmoil in my heart, in my head, ignore the burn in my throat and the sting in my eyes.

I hear the noise of my front door being replaced, and then silence.

I sleep.

•   •   •

Darkness. It is thick and raw and ravenous. A rumbling beast, with gnashing teeth. Red eyes, luminous orbs.

I stumble through the hungry blackness on bare feet. Stub my toe, feel a new stab of pain pierce the all-over agony as a toenail is ripped away.

Another beast, with glowing white eyes. Loud, roaring.

Howls, wailing, rising and ululating and deafening, all around me. So many monsters, iron-fleshed and fast, smashing heedless through the blackness, bright eyes and glowing red tails.

Stumble, my path in the darkness lit by lightning, my bones shaken by thunder, my trail erased by a deluge of cold rain. I am not weeping or screaming, because I hurt too badly to do so, because to weep requires breath, and I have no oxygen, no breath, lungs scorched from the hungry flames.

Flames.

They are somewhere behind me, still flickering and smelling of roasted flesh.

The beasts circle around me, roaring, flashing their too-bright eyes, claws reaching, trailing bandages and needles.

Squares, endless squares above me. Squares pierced with a million, million dots. One hundred and ten thousand four hundred and twenty-four dots, black holes spiked into the white squares.

Voices, buzzing around me like echoes from a thousand years ago.

Words. Sounds that should be comprehensible, but aren’t. Words, words, words, that mean nothing. Nothing.

Loss.

Agony.

Grief.

Agony.

A face, over and over and over.

Dreams of flames.

Dreams of darkness.

Darkness.

No more darkness. Keep the darkness at bay! There are beasts in the blackness. They want my blood, desire my flesh.

I cannot breathe.

I am drowning in an ocean of darkness, and I cannot breathe.

“Breathe, X.” A command.

I breathe, drag in a long painful breath.

“Breathe.”

I breathe.

Hands caress my face; a body cradles mine. I find comfort even as dimly remembered fear pulses through me. “Caleb.”

“Just keep breathing, X. You’re okay. You were dreaming.”

God, the dreams. They ravage me, pillage my soul.

Awareness returns with a jolt like lightning striking a tree. “Let me go.” I crawl away. “Don’t touch me.”

“X—”

I scramble off the bed, hit the floor in a pile of limbs, huddle in the darkness against the window. A shadow rises in the darkness, male shoulders, that face, angular and beautiful, angelic in its perfection, even in shadowed profile. My door is open, letting in a sliver of slight, a lance of brightness spearing the darkness, setting a too-handsome profile into relief.

“I’m sorry. You know that’s not easy for me to say, to you or anyone else. I don’t ever apologize. Not for anything, no matter what. But I’m apologizing to you, X. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that, and I’m sorry.” Beside me, crouched, pale arms bare, wearing nothing but boxer-briefs.

“I know.” It’s all the forgiveness I can muster.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

A finger, touching my chin, lifting my face so I’m gazing up into shadowed perfection. “Look at me, X.”

“I am.” Those eyes, so dark, so unknowable, so piercing, they are open and sorrowful and worried.

“Don’t be afraid of me.”

“I’m not.” Oh, I am a skilled liar, when I must be.

Lifted, I am cradled against a hard warm bare chest. I can hear heartbeats, slow and steady. Hands, running up and down my arms, smooth my hair away. I am still in my dress. I don’t know what time it is.

My heart crashes in my chest.

“Sara.”

“What?” I allow myself to sound as confused as I am.

“Her name is Sara. The girl you saw me with. Sara Abigail Hirschbach. Her parents are Jewish, prominent members of the Orthodox Jewish community here in New York. Her father is a business associate of mine. And Sara . . . well, we have a complicated history. An on-and-off sort of thing. She would like it to be more ‘on’ than I would, even though I’ve explained that I do not and will not ever care for her that way. Yet she keeps coming back for more of what I do give her. Which is purely physical.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I struggle to keep my voice neutral.

My question is ignored. “I’m going to be truthful with you, X. Never expect anything from me. What you know of me, it’s all there is. And the truth is . . . you know the real Caleb Indigo far more thoroughly than any of my other . . . acquaintances, let’s call them . . . ever will. They get less than you. Less of my time, and less of me in those brief moments. You . . . you are special, X.”

“How many are there?”

“How many what?”

“Acquaintances.” I let venom into my tone.

“There are many. I will make no apologies for who I am, X. The beasts in your dreams? I am like those beasts. Always hungry. Never sated, never satisfied. And the many, many girls whom I . . . visit, they are snacks. A bite, here and there. Enough to tide me over until I can feast.”

Hot, hot breath on my flesh. My dress is ripped open, top to bottom.

“Caleb . . .”

“You are the feast, X.”

Lips on my skin. Hands devouring flesh. Fingers seeking my wetness, my hidden heat. There is fear within me, but it only serves to excite. I fear, oh . . . deeply do I fear. I fear the prowling predator behind me. I fear the claws in the shadows, the ravening beast whose appetite cannot be slaked. I fear, but I shiver with excitement when I catch a glimpse of it, and I wonder if it is coming for me. And when I see the eyes and the gleam of moonlight on talon, I know it is coming for me. It will devour me, for I am but a soft thing, all underbelly and easily parted flesh.

But this night? This night I find I have claws of my own. “No, Caleb.” I wrest myself free, naked but for panties. Cross my arms over my breasts, my chest heaving with fear and need and anger and myriad tumultuous emotions too turbulent and intermixed to name. “No. You hurt me.”

Silence, fraught with tension.

Feet stab precisely through pants legs, shirt buttons are fitted through openings swiftly and without fumble. Socks and shoes slipped on, suit coat draped over a thick forearm. A hand slips into a trouser pocket and withdraws a phone, brief white glow of the screen, repocketed. Keys jingle, rotated around and around an index finger. “I’ll give you some time, X, if that is what you need. And I will say it one last time: I’m sorry I hurt you.”

There is a promise hidden between the lines of those words: Your time to get over this is limited.

The question that boils within me as my front door opens and closes and I am left alone is very simple: Can I get over this? What do I do if I cannot?

Can I forgive? Should I? Do I even want to?

I fear not.

And I fear what that means for the coming days.