Grace Doll

by Jennifer Laurens

  His eyes stay with mine for seconds that stretch into sweaty moments. His wheezing breath hisses in, out, in, out, like a human respirator.

  “Grace.” He whispers the name with reverence.

  Desperation seeps into the air. Stare all you want. Lust all you care to. You can’t have me.

  “You…” His foot inches forward. He breaks into a fit of shakes and halts any further movement. “You’re here.”

  With a quaking hand he reaches into the pocket of his black slacks—silky perfection identical to the fabric he’d adorned himself in years ago—and tugs out a white handkerchief, dabbing it at his gaping mouth.

  “Why?” he asks.

  I allow seconds to drip by like blistering water on raw skin.

  “I’m doing something I should have done years ago.”

  “Asking for my forgiveness?”

  I force a laugh. “No.” I gesture to the walls where the face I share stares back at me. “I’d heard you had a shrine.”

  “Nothing but a temple for you, Grace,” he murmurs, eyes raking me. ”You look…different. I’ll be damned.”

  Yes, you will be.

  His weak attempt at chit chat is so transparent I want to spit in his face. Rufus never chatted. I step closer. The move sends his slits-for-eyes wider, his body into another round of trembling. His fingers, anchored on the wing chair, dig.

  “Why do you think I came here?” My tone is his Grace’s tone: milky seduction with enough little girl lost to urge his lust. A voice he’d spent hours and money with teachers making sure I internalized so that I ‘sizzled.’ I haven’t used this voice in years. After the fire I worked hard to speak so as to never sound like his Grace Doll again.

  I hold his dark eyes. Emotions shade them: curiosity, wariness. He’s not sure who I really am or what I’m doing.

  We share long moments of cautious quiet. Frank serenades on an endless loop. I slowly cross to the wall of windows that overlook the expansive backyard, pool, guest house and formal gardens, lit by small decorative lights. Rufus’ gaze burns through my clothing. I slow my stroll, skimming the French doors with my fingers. Even with what I’m doing, why I am there, I am amazed at how the Dollhouse has been restored to exactness. So easily the mood, scents, the overpowering feeling of her threatens to completely overtake me.

  I watch Rufus’ reflection in the glass. He hasn’t moved, only pivoted, his attention riveted to me. I stroll to the closest gallery where Grace’s image hangs—the portrait I hated the most—the one Rufus had worshipped: me on the couch with only a tissue dress between my body and the eyes of the world. Anger bunches nerves beneath my skin. I will always hate him and resent him for what he took from me, what he allowed the world to see of me.

  I move past the giant portrait, my eyes unable to look at anything other than Rufus Solomon’s Grace Doll. She’s everywhere.

  Pristine. Perfect.

  Unreal.

  “You came here to torment me,” Rufus finally groans.

  Over my shoulder, I look at him through lowered lashes.

  His eyes tear into my back with a ravenous appetite. I stop at a grouping of black and white photographs of him and other Hollywood elite from the day. Seeing myself in the photos, surrounded by once powerful men and women who are dead now or mere forgotten shells closed away in some rest home somewhere, I’m in awe that I’m alive. On occasion my immortality hits me straight on, like now, with a breath-taking slap.

  I unbutton my overcoat. Behind me, the air tenses around Rufus like lightning ready to strike ground. Slowly, the coat to slips from my shoulders down my back.

  He sucks in a wheezing breath.

  Yes, look at me. Want me.

  I wear a black, sleeveless dress. My neck is bare. My arms and back are bare. My legs are bare but for black suede boots which hug my legs to the knee. I don’t have to look to know he’s devouring me; his gaze heats my skin like a spotlight.

  Silence builds. I cross to the fire, stare at the languid flames. Warmth heats my face, arms, and neck.

  “Take off those ridiculous boots,” he demands. “I want to see your legs.”

  I break out in a laugh. “Really?” I face him.

  The violin weeps in high strains. Frank’s voice pleads. Rufus weighs my words and performance. Even in his infirm body, I sense urgency to leap out of his skin and rush to me. “And take down your hair.”

  Timing. I clasp my hands and remain where I am. His fingers claw into the wing chair. He tries to step forward but can’t let go of the support. Rage causes his body to quake.“Look at me, Grace! This is what I became for you!”

  Ready to leave him in his misery, I lay my overcoat over my arm, signaling I’m done—an old cue he taught me. His body breaks into convulsive shakes. With nothing to hold onto, he wobbles. His eyes search mine, desperate for me to come to his aid.

  Power courses through my veins. All these years I’ve avoided this? Brenden is right—what can Rufus do but condemn himself as a deformed, delusional recluse?

  Sinatra’s melancholy song drenches the moment with irony. I step closer to Rufus until his wheezing breath hitches. The closest we’ve been to each other since the night of that fire. His eyes light with a want so fierce and real, it nearly chafes my nerve.

  “I came to show you that I’m no longer your doll.”I slip my hand into the pocket of my coat and pull out the vial. His eyes widen.

  “The antidote?” he whispers. “You’ve had it all this time?”

  I rip out the cork and toss the contents of the vial down my throat. The liquid is flavorless.

  Rufus gasps. “Grace, no!” He lunges for me, coming to life like a hungry panther. “You can’t!” I dart behind the giant wing chair. My heart pounds.

  So the monster was immortalized.

  He’s stunned, and for a moment, stands still, as if trying to process what I’ve just done with one action—destroying years of his dreams that someday we’d be together. Then fury rages behind his eyes. “You threw away my gift. My gift!”

  “Ah, there you are,” Grace’s voice pours out of me.

  A quandary of emotions flicker over his scarred face: hate, frustration, desire. “I’ve been here all along. Waiting.”

  I take off at a run and head for the kitchen. A silent whoosh of movement behind me sends goosebumps over my skin. He’s breathing down my neck. He grabs the clasp holding my hair up and yanks me back against him. I drive my elbow into his abdomen. He gasps but doesn’t release my hair. His other arm snakes around my waist. With a fast snap, my chin is on my chest. I feel his hot breath on the back of my exposed neck. “You had it removed?”He booms.

  “Nothing about you is a part of me anymore,” I hiss.

  “You’ll always belong to me.” He slobbers a kiss where he tattooed the star into my skin. I writhe and twist. One of my arms squeezes free. I send my fist backwards into his face.

  He lifts me, kicking and scratching, elbowing and writhing, and he carries me back into the living room. To the fireplace.

  He throws me down. I land on my shoulder in the middle of the sheepskin rug. So many times he took me here; the memories threaten to immobilize me. I heave for breath. Take control of the scene.

  He begins to undo his slacks. “If you’re going to die,” he hisses. “You’re going to die here.”

  I scramble to stand but he’s on top of me before I can get my legs underneath me.

  One of his hands snaps into my hair, fisting it, holding my head inches from his. “I hate this color. Your hair should be darker.”

  “I’m not your doll.” Bucking, I realize his strength hasn’t waned. Trying to fight him is futile, but I’m not going to die in the Dollhouse. And I’m not going to die today. I twist my head, ignoring the hot pain in my scalp, and clamp my teeth down in his forearm. He screams. My jaw aches, but I lock my jaw. Warm blood trickles into my mouth. He lifts up, taking me along with him, and slugs my skull with his free hand. Pain arcs through my head. The next blow dislod
ges my teeth from his arm, sending my face sideways. Gasping for breath, I fall back onto the carpet and start crawling away, my fingers digging into the thick fur.

  His body falls on me again, pinning me. He flips me over and straddles me. I send both of my fists into his face.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ~Brenden~

  I don’t know what awakens me, but I sit up—the unfamiliar surroundings startling. I remember where I am. “Grace?”

  No sound.

  I glance at the clock radio on the side table. Eight-thirty.

  “Grace?” I stand.

  She isn’t here, the room’s empty—and I’m hollow.

  I check the bathroom. Empty. My heart plunges to my knees. The bags are still here, and I suck in a breath. My backpack is unzipped. I dart to it and search for the box. It’s there, but unlocked and empty. I lower to the foot of the bed and sit. I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. I’d had the fleeting thought not to but my body had caved to exhaustion.

  There’s only one place I can think of that she would go. A slug of fear hits me in the chest.

  * * *

  When I pull up to Solomon’s estate, I see a yellow cab parked on the street. I park in front of the cab and jog to the driver’s side. “Did you bring a beautiful girl here?”

  “Yeah. She’s inside.”

  I run to the gate. How am I going to get over this thing? I run the perimeter, north and south of the property, but it’s a fortress, and the darkness makes it worse.

  Even the garage entrance is protected by a locked iron fence, but this one isn’t housed in a brick and mortar arch. I start to scale it, and manage to make it over the top with a few spikes gouging my chest and stomach before I drop to the other side.

  I run to the house, sticking close to the hedges to keep out of sight. No alarms. No dogs.

  I sprint directly to the front door and bang my fist against the unyielding wood. “Hey!” I slam my palms until my they burn.

  Nothing.

  I round the other side of the house. Smoke puffs into the sky from a fireplace flanked by French doors. The room I met Solomon in—the shrine.

  At the glass door I peer in. Solomon’s on the floor, straddling Grace who’s pinned beneath him.

  I try the handle, the door is locked. Solomon glances over his shoulder at me and Grace steals the moment of distraction to try and buck him off her hips, but she remains trapped.

  I step back and shove my elbow into one of the glass panels, then reach my hand inside to unlock the door.

  Solomon leaps to his feet and flies over. Frantic, my fingers don’t find a latch to unlock the door. It’s dead-bolted. There’s no key. I try to retrieve my hand, but Solomon slams himself against the glass doors, grabs my wrist and yanks my hand through. He pulls me into the jagged teeth of the glass. Pain slices my arm. Using my bodyweight to wedge myself back fails—he’s strong as a machine.

  Solomon growls, his slobber hitting the glass between him and me. Rage burns in his eyes.

  Behind Solomon, I see flames leap up from the carpet where Solomon had Grace pinned.

  Grace holds a fireplace poker in both hands and she’s coming toward Solomon. Solomon, seeing my eyes trained behind him, turns, but his lock on my arm remains.

  “Grace!” He lets me go, but not in time to deflect her swing. The iron poker hits him in the side of the head. He stumbles, releasing me. Grace swings again, hitting him in the shoulder. Then across the back.

  Arm free, I step back and shove my foot at the center lock, sending the doors swinging open. Solomon rises from his knees and starts after Grace. I jump on his back, wrapping his neck in a choke hold.

  I get my first full look at Grace. Her dress is ripped down the middle. Her legs are bare, bloodied by long fingernail scratches. Her hair’s a mass tumbling to bruised shoulders. Eyes cold, she holds the poker extended, the end of it now pierced through her coat, burning with a wild flame.

  Solomon coughs. His hands dig into my arms, trying to free himself. I squeeze tight. He claws my face. Around us, fire leaps from the couch cushions, throw rugs. Grace lights the long curtains at each window. She sparks the chairs and pillows.

  Solomon gasps. My lock around his neck tightens. He falls to his knees. Smoke intensifies, clogging my lungs. Violent coughs erupt from his chest and mine.

  One by one, Grace lights the portraits and photographs. Solomon, on his hands and knees with me leaching on his back, begins to tremble and shake from loss of air.

  Smoke’s thickening fast, I’m losing sight of her.

  “Grace!” I shout. She’s at my sketch, and she pauses, looks at me, as if wanting my approval before setting it on fire. Then she torches it.

  Solomon’s shoulders slump. His body gives beneath mine. He crumples to the floor, coughing and I jump off him. My lungs feel ready to explode. I run to Grace and grab her hand.

  Tears—I hadn’t seen them until now—stain her cheeks. She’s coughing, trying to breathe. I want to hold her, but there’s no time if I’m going to navigate our way out of this place.

  She throws the fiery poker like a javelin, sending it Solomon’s direction. His head lifts, his eyes wide at the flying fire.

  “Sizzle, darling, sizzle.” Her voice scorches like the flames.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  ~Grace~

  I close the door and rest my back against the cold steel. I’d fantasized so many times about having Rufus out of my life, it’s almost unbelievable that he’s really dead. His screams, his scarred face looking at me through the flames are burned into my head, overlapping other memories of him.

  Brenden looks like he’s gone through hell and back—his charcoal stained clothing, shirt like a torn rag, jeans ripped at the knees cover skin smudged by smoke. He sighs. His eyes watch me with a wariness that tries to hide his thoughts. I hold his gaze, glad to be here with him, happy beyond words that I am free.

  “I need to call Oscar.” The phone sits on a small table between the two beds. I dial the hospital and have the staff ring his room.

  “Hullo?” he says. The sound of his voice brings tears to my eyes. I’m overcome with gratitude for him, for life, for the future.

  “It’s late but I knew you’d want me to call.”

  “I’m having a nightcap with the staff,” he chuckles.

  His laugh comforts me. “How are you?”

  “Fine. Just dozed off for a minute. You saw him. I hear it in your voice.”

  “Yes.” Oscar doesn’t say anything, he’s waiting for the story. I want to tell him I took the vial, but I have yet to tell Brenden. “I’m all right.”

  “Thank god.” Oscar sighs. “Rufus wouldn’t let you go after seeing you, not if his life depended on it. Which means the man is finally dead.”

  “Yes.”

  “A story I can’t wait to hear. When are you coming home?”

  My gaze meets Brenden’s. He’s battle worn, beautiful and I have yet to thank him. “Our flight is tomorrow.”

  “Our?” Oscar’s tone teases. “You have more than one story to tell me, sis. Goodnight.”

  “Night.” I hang up the phone and stand.

  “Is he okay?” I see Jonathan in Brenden, sincere, compassionate Jonathan asking about a dear friend and I feel a connection tie us together. I hope he feels it too.

  “Oscar is fine.”

  “Good.” Brenden steps into the small bath, flips on the light, and stares at his battered face: purple-red scratches on his cheeks, neck, and jaw. His arm is wrapped from the wrist to his elbow in gauze and tape. “Awesome,” he grins.

  I laugh. Standing side-by-side, we look like a pair: both of us having a mess of bloodied bruises. My hair looks like a tumbleweed. I survey what remains of my dress, the bruises on my arms, back, and neck. Long scratches like red stripes down my legs.

  Brenden’s gaze sweeps every inch of my exposed flesh. He steps close, and his hands gently frame my face. His eyes are fierce. He doesn’t say anything, he doesn’
t have to—I feel what he’s feeling: that furious, consuming need to protect and love. That one expression, wordless but powerful, means everything to me.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Don’t thank me. You tore it up back there.”

  “But your timing was perfect.”

  He grins. Gently, he turns me, so we both face the mirror and he steps behind me. He lifts my hair, exposing the back of my neck. His gaze locks on the scar at base of my hair. His jaw turns stony and his eyes shift to mine. “He got what he deserved.”

  He releases my hair, letting it fall so it covers the scar.

  He risked everything for me. Love for him accelerates inside of me. Even knowing I’ll be knocked off my feet, my body sings for contact. I reach out and gently skim the bruises on his cheek, his eyes. Mouth.

  He’s still beneath my touch. Do I have the same affect on him? My fingertips buzz, and that buzz races up my arm, filling my entire body like scurrying butterflies.

  His lips part at the urging of my fingers. On tip-toe, I slip my arms around his neck. He wraps around me, squeezing me tight, the pressure delicious. Then his lips cover mine. I’m submerged in every sweet, tender gesture of love I’ve dreamed of having and never thought I would. Yearning flows and ebbs with each breath, urged with every beat of my heart, each caress of his hands, until the need for completion bursts inside of me.

  After the kiss, he tilts his head toward the bathroom. ”You want to get cleaned up?”

  I need a moment to collect scattered desire, so I shake my head. “You go first.”

  The restroom door closes and my heart stands on a precipice. I hope he will give me a chance. My future at once seemed fragile to me, with the fantasy of Brenden attached to possibilities. Free of Rufus, I realize that with or without Brenden in my life, my future can go any direction I choose.

  I wait for the sound of the shower to start, and cross to the bed, staring at the red, unzipped backpack. What will he do when I tell him I took the vial?

  A way out. I hear Dr. Lemarchal’s voice over the roar of flames as if he just spoke to me. Lowering to the bed, I sit and wait. There’d been no taste to the liquid. I don’t feel any different. What if the antidote lost its properties?