“Mr. Rawlings will be here precisely at 7:00 PM for dinner. He expects you to be ready and dressed accordingly. I presumed you might need some assistance.”
At first, Claire couldn’t wrap her mind around the entire scenario. He wanted her dressed for dinner. Who the hell did he think he was? “Listen, if you want to assist me, let me out of here.” Claire did her best to keep her voice from raising another octave, yet the fear of seeing Anthony and the possibility of escape made that all but impossible.
“Ms. Claire, that is not up to me. I’m here to assist you as I can.” It didn’t make any sense. Yet in the desperation of the situation, for some reason, Claire believed this lady. Catherine continued, “We only have an hour. Perhaps we could begin with your hair?”
Undaunted by Claire’s appearance or even the circumstance of her presence, Catherine’s calmness eased Claire. She shook her head, remembering the resolve from her shower, spoke with a convincing authority, “Catherine, thank you for offering to help, but I don’t plan on dressing for dinner. I actually believe there has been a mistake. I will be leaving here soon.” While Claire continued, Catherine came and went from the closet with a blue cocktail dress and matching shoes. “Oh, I don’t know whom those clothes belong to.”
“Why, miss, they belong to you. Now, we really should move along, and even if you don’t plan to eat, do you not need to wear clothes?” Claire noticed her pattern of speech seemed formal. She couldn’t place the origin. It definitely wasn’t the Georgia accent she appreciated but worked daily not to duplicate.
Catherine gently took Claire’s hand and walked her into the bathroom. Claire obediently sat at the dressing table as Catherine began to softly brush her hair. She decided to not protest this kind woman. Instead, she would save her energy to face Anthony.
“There are cosmetics in the drawers in front of you. Perhaps you could begin to apply some while I do your hair.” Then she added, “You’re very pretty without it, but I believe it will make you feel better after sleeping most of the day.”
Claire looked into the mirror. Seeing her eyes, temple, and lips, she began to cry. It wasn’t the sobs of earlier, but a rush of tears quietly flowing down her cheeks.
“Now, miss, that won’t help the situation. Mr. Rawlings appreciates punctuality. Crying will only make the cosmetics run.”
“I don’t want to face him.” After the first desperate sentence, she hesitated. Claire didn’t know this woman. She obviously worked for Anthony. Why would she confide in her? Then Claire looked in the reflection, not at herself but at the woman behind her. Her eyes were the color of steel, gray and soft. Her expression wasn’t one of duty or pity, but of compassion. It may have been wishful thinking, but for some reason, the words continued to flow. “After last night, I feel so…dirty. You don’t know what he did, what he made me do. I’m too embarrassed.” Her words came accompanied by tears, and her nose began to run.
Catherine’s voice held no judgment for either Claire or Anthony, instead desire for understanding, as if that could be possible from Claire. “I have known Mr. Rawlings for a long time. Did anything happen last night that he did not want to happen?”
Claire shook her head. “No. Everything that happened he wanted to happen.”
“Then there’s no need for you to be embarrassed. When you do something that he doesn’t want you to do, that is when you don’t want to face Mr. Rawlings.”
Catherine went to the cabinet, removed a washcloth, and wet it in the sink. She handed it to Claire, who compliantly wiped her face and began to apply make-up. It wasn’t long until they were satisfied with the results. The bruises were concealed quite well under a covering of foundation and powder. The lipstick made the swelling less noticeable. When Catherine entered the bathroom with the dress, Claire realized she was naked under the robe.
“Umm, I don’t have any lingerie.”
“Yes, miss. Do you not remember Mr. Rawlings’s rules?” Without waiting for a response, Catherine continued, “No underclothes, ever.”
Claire fought the fog of last night. She couldn’t understand why the memories were so fuzzy, yet somewhere she had some recollection of such a conversation or, more accurately, a demand. Then again, this entered the world of ridiculous. Who the hell was he, that he even thought he could make such demands, and they would be followed?
Catherine assisted Claire with the dress, so as not to mess her hair and make-up.
Claire vowed to herself regardless of how absurd it sounded: I’m not sure how or when, but I will leave here, get away from him, and go to a place where women wear underwear.
Catherine smiled approvingly at her as she stepped in front of the mirror. “Mr. Rawlings will be pleased. Now, I must go; he’ll be here soon.”
The reminder of his impending arrival sucked some of the resolve from Claire’s demeanor as well as the air from her lungs. Catherine knew him. Maybe if she stayed, he would…Claire didn’t know how to finish that thought. He would be nice? Let her leave? It just seemed safer with this woman around.
“Perhaps you could stay until after his arrival?”
Catherine didn’t respond, but the look of satisfaction briefly changed to sadness. Instantaneously, Claire knew that Catherine’s departure was beyond both of their control. Claire would be face-to-face with her fear—the man that abused and dominated her the night before. She also knew that he was her only means of escape. For that reason and that reason alone, she would face him. “Thank you again for your help. I really doubt I will be here tomorrow. He and I will discuss it over dinner.”
Catherine nodded. It was an acknowledgment of Claire’s statement, not an affirmation of its accuracy. Then she left the bathroom. Claire heard a faint beep as Catherine left the suite. It reminded her of the noise made by a car fob.
While still in the bathroom, her heart rate increased when she heard the faint beep again.
He didn’t knock. He just opened the door and entered. Claire imagined him surveying the empty suite. If she stayed in the bathroom, would he eventually come for her? Or leave? While she debated, he waited silently in the bedroom. It took a minute or two, but slowly, Claire opened the bathroom door and entered the suite.
She used all her strength to suppress the fears that screamed to get out, determined to meet him head-on at his mind game. The first things she saw as she entered the suite were his eyes—his dark black eyes—resembling voids or black holes. His lips were moving. He was talking, yet Claire could only hear the memories of the previous night. She walked to the bookcase at the far end of the suite, feigning strength.
The fake resolve melted as she turned to see the eyes staring directly at her. Then almost instantaneously, he was there, right in front of her. His proximity caused her stomach to wrench, bringing back the nasty bile from earlier.
His large hand captured her chin, pulling her eyes and face toward the dark voids. His strong voice was deep, slow, and authoritative, “Shall we try this once more”—It wasn’t a question but a statement—“It is customary for one person to respond to the greeting of another. I said good evening.”
Claire’s knees went weak at his touch. She wanted to yell, to run, but she couldn’t let herself. If she couldn’t be strong, she could at least avoid fainting. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I’m feeling well.” With his grip still upon her chin, she knew he could feel her body tremble.
He repeated, “Good evening, Claire.” This time, it was more drawn-out. His eyes were so cold. Claire couldn’t distinguish what they said—only see the depth of their infinite darkness.
“Good evening, Anthony.” She would tell herself she sounded strong, but she didn’t.
At that moment, the door opened again, and a young man pushing a cart brought them their meal. Claire started to walk toward the table, but Anthony’s hand seized her arm, stopping her. She looked back up at him, into those eyes. He reached with his other hand to lift her dress and place a hand on her buttocks.
The shock of his touch quickly tu
rned to anger. Her green eyes flashed fire, and her neck stiffened. “What the hell…?” Her impulse was to lash out, but the hand that held her arm tightened its grip, causing her to forget her words.
“I see you can manage to follow at least one rule. Shall we eat?” His grip loosened as his voice attempted a reasonable tone.
Anthony pulled back Claire’s chair at the intimate table. She eyed the display: It all looks so nice and is such a masquerade. The food smelled wonderful, but Claire’s stomach wouldn’t allow her to eat. All of her pep talks about standing up to him proved worthless. Instead, she sat politely, playing with her food and nodding attentively.
Looking at the dinner, Claire felt that something was missing—besides common sense. The young man had poured water into the glasses, yet to make the masquerade complete, at such a dinner there should have been wine or champagne.
It was almost as if he read her mind when Anthony commented, “I do not like to drink alcohol. It inhibits the senses.”
She immediately thought how nice it would be to have a fifth of Jack Daniels.
Anthony clearly relished her discomfort. “Don’t you like your food?”
“I do. I guess I’m just not hungry.”
“I heard that today you have only eaten breakfast. I suggest you eat. You will need your strength.” As he took another bite, he sent her a grin which didn’t reach his eyes.
Claire used every ounce of energy to remain seated and not run. Besides, the door was shut, and she heard the faint beep when the waiter left.
Apparently, the night before was only a prelude. Once Anthony finished eating, he stood and took Claire’s hand. Her trembling increased as she stood. He smiled and held her at arm’s length as he asked, “Did you choose this dress for the evening?”
“No, it was Catherine.” She remained tall and defiant even though she knew her will would not be considered in his plans.
“Yes, she knows me well. Now take it off.” No sweet talk, no kisses, nothing—just a demand to remove her dress. Claire didn’t move. She glared first at him and then at the floor.
Taking a deep breath and returning her eyes to him, she said, “I think we need to talk about this—” In a sudden movement, the dress fell from her shoulders as he tore the lavish fabric from her body. Claire stood in shock, wearing only high heels.
“Apparently, you do not remember all the rules. Rule number one is to do as you are told.”
The trembling intensified as tears teetered on her painted eyelids. No words came from her mouth. It was all right. Anthony had other plans for her mouth. He pushed her down, directed her to kneel, and unzipped his pants. She noted immediately that he followed his own rules—no underwear. He didn’t speak but roughly engaged her movement. At first, fearful of suffocating, she attempted to fight and back away, but he entwined his fingers in her hair and directed her as he found fit. From there, the evening continued until about 1:00 AM.
When Anthony finally left the room, Claire threw back the blankets, grabbed the robe, and rushed to the door. Her hand gripped the smooth gray lever and pulled with all her might. It didn’t budge. She formed a fist and pounded again. Her hand throbbed, yet no one responded. The only answer was an eerie stillness.
Claire reached for something, anything. Finding the vase of flowers, she threw it against the wall. The crystal shattered, showering the wall and carpet with crystal shards and water. The flowers unable to drink, scattered on the floor, left to wilt and die. Claire sank to the ground, tears flowing. Succumbing to the exhaustion and desperation, she fell asleep where she lay.
The next morning, Anthony entered the suite. The sound of the beep and the opening door startled Claire. She rose and their eyes met. He surveyed the suite: a lamp overturned by the bed, a scarf tied to one of the bedposts, and the broken vase near their feet. He smiled. “Good morning, Claire.”
“Good morning, Anthony,” she said with more determination than she’d been able to muster last evening. “I want you to know I have decided to go home. I will be leaving here today.”
“Do you not like your accommodations?” Anthony’s black eyes shone as his smile widened. “I don’t believe you’ll be leaving so soon. We have a legally binding agreement.” He removed a bar napkin from his suit pocket. “Dated and signed by both of us.”
Claire stared, astonished as her mind started to turn. This whole situation was so idiotic it couldn’t possibly be real. Who in their right mind thought a bar napkin was a legal agreement? And even if it was, which was like a snowball’s chance in hell, it never gave rights to abuse, demean, or condemn a person to slavery. Dumbfounded, she stared—speechless.
Anthony continued, “Perhaps you don’t remember. You agreed to work for me—to do whatever I deemed fit or pleasing—in exchange for me paying off all of your debts.”
Claire’s head throbbed. She recalled something of a napkin, maybe a job offer, but it was fuzzy. Besides, she would stay in debt and work double or triple shifts at the bar before agreeing to this!
“Apparently, you’ve been busy in the last twenty-six years. With education, rent, credit cards, and car, you have managed to accumulate approximately 215 thousand dollars of debt. This agreement was dated March 15, and as with any legally binding agreement, you or I had three days for recession. Today is March 20. I currently own you, until your debt is paid. You will not be leaving until our agreement is complete. End of discussion.”
In desperation, her trembling resumed, and she found her voice. “It is not the end of this discussion! This is ludicrous! An agreement doesn’t give you the right to rape me! I am leaving!”
She eyed the door to the hallway—only a few feet away and miraculously left open. Without warning, Anthony’s hand contacted her left cheek and sent her the other direction across the floor. He slowly walked to where she lay. He didn’t bother to bend down, merely looked at her from high above, and repeated, “Perhaps in time, your memory will improve. It seems to be an issue. Let me remind you again, rule number one is that you will do as you are told. If I say a discussion is over, it is over.” Picking up the napkin and placing it in his suit coat pocket, he continued, “And this written agreement states whatever is pleasing to me, means consensual, not rape.”
Still towering over her, he straightened his suit jacket and smoothed his tie. “I have decided that it would be better if you do not leave your suite for a while. Don’t worry. We have plenty of time, 215 thousand dollars—worth of time.” With that, he turned to leave the suite, the sound of broken crystal echoing from under his Gucci loafers. His controlled, imposing tone terrified Claire more than his words. He spoke with such authority it left her powerless to move or speak.
“I’ll inform the staff that you may have your breakfast, after you clean up this crystal.” He disappeared behind the large white door.
Claire heard the beep and the lock as she allowed herself to reach up and touch her stinging cheek. The total silence returned as she looked at the mess before her. Though it was a small, insignificant protest, she heard herself say, “I’d rather starve than clean this up.”
A while later, with tears in her eyes and the sound of sniffles, she found herself crawling around the floor retrieving pieces of crystal. She had most of the large pieces picked up when she noticed the blood on her robe. After investigating, Claire determined that it came from a cut on her hand. The blurriness of her vision made the task difficult as she tried unsuccessfully to remove the sliver of crystal from her palm. Suddenly, the too-familiar beep made her turn toward the door—terrified of Anthony’s return.
Catherine entered, looked around, and shook her head. “Ms. Claire, let me clean that. You’ll end up cutting yourself.”
“I believe I already have.” Claire held out her hand. Very tenderly, Catherine led Claire into the bathroom and removed the crystal. She then cleaned and bandaged her hand. When they returned to the suite, the evidence of the previous night was gone. The suite was clean, no overturned lamps, no scar
ves, and the vase was gone. Sitting on the table was a tray of food.
Claire walked to the table and obediently ate her breakfast—alone. An overwhelming feeling of desperation filled her chest. She was trapped, alone, and didn’t know what to do.
Grandma always said a new perspective was helpful. Claire decided to take a shower again, and then hopefully, she would think of something.
The trust of the innocent is the liar’s most useful tool.
—Stephen King
Chapter Two
‡
—Five Days Earlier—
The day filled with meetings served its purpose. First, he met with the station manager, then endless hours with the sales team listening to budget reports followed by proposals. Truthfully, these meetings didn’t usually warrant the attendance of the parent corporation’s CEO. Judging by the way WKPZ’s executives fell over themselves to justify every expense and augment every proposal—they demonstrated that they at least, recognized this visit as extraordinary. Truth be known, Anthony Rawlings didn’t give a damn about the two-bit television station. It already served its purpose. If he closed it tomorrow, he wouldn’t lose sleep; however, the meetings revealed that the station was turning a profit, and given the current state of economy, profitable was good. When he returned to the main office, he would assign a team to investigate an impending sale. Wouldn’t it be great if this acquired station could reap both personal and monetary benefits?
After the conclusion of the meetings, he agreed to a social outing with the new station personnel director and his assistant. If they knew anything about him, they would realize that this was completely out of character. Totally self-serving, his acceptance of their invitation came with one stipulation—they must go to the Red Wing. He told them, he’d heard it had the best fried green tomatoes in Atlanta, Georgia.
Thankfully, the two associates had families that were waiting earnestly for their return. Anthony listened attentively to their personnel plans and thanked them for their devotion to WKPZ. After sipping a Red Wing signature beer and consuming a portion of the fried green tomato appetizer, Mr. Rawlings insisted that they take leave and spend time with their loved ones; however, if he were questioned under oath, he wouldn’t be able to recall one word they said. His attention was focused on the brown-haired, green-eyed bartender. He knew she was scheduled to start her shift at four o’clock and would be here. As soon as his associates left, he texted his driver and informed him that he would be at the Red Wing until late. Then, he casually walked to an empty stool at the end of the bar, near the wall. It reduced the probability of anyone striking up conversation by 50 percent. He would have preferred 100 percent—but damn—he couldn’t have everything—yet.
Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Page 2