The Blue Room Vol. 4 (The Blue Room Serie)

by Gow, Kailin

  Getting made up like a princess, I soon discover, is quite the ordeal. We start with various lotions, exfoliants, moisturizers, face creams. Then it's onto the hair: hours of cutting and dyeing and styling in different configurations until my newly-sunkissed curls fall just slightly over my bared shoulders. Then there's the makeup – delicate eyebrow tweezing and eyelash dyeing, contouring – the most elaborate makeup ritual that's ever been performed on me or, for that matter, everyone else. I don't even feel like myself. I don't even feel like I'm in my own body. I'm just a doll – nothing but a doll – floating in midair. My body is the canvas for someone else's art.

  Bzzz. My phone buzzes.

  I look down to see a text from Terrence.

  We need to talk. He writes. It's important.

  OK? When?

  Now.

  I can't. I try to type back without incurring the ire of my hairstylists, who are carefully putting methodical curls in place. Mrs. Walters is prepping me. It's taking all day. How important is important?

  Don't worry.

  More words appear.

  It can wait until tonight. Enjoy being pampered. It's not every day a girl gets to be treated like that. You deserve the relaxation – although I can think of other ways to relax you.

  A smiley face emoticon.

  I'll talk to you later. We definitely should meet up, though. Better in person.

  My stomach ties itself in knots. What happened at the board meeting? And there's still so much more Terrence needs to tell me. About Mr. X. About Roz. About...everything, really.

  Fine, I think to myself. I'll talk about it later.

  Mrs. Walters clads me in a dark red velvet gown. It's one of the most elaborate outfits I've ever seen. Deep burgundy velvet, tight across my breasts, the sleeves off the shoulder, revealing my entire neck. I feel sultry in the dress. Like some sort of 1940's vixen. I almost like the feeling.

  “Mr. X. picked the dress out specially,” Mrs. Walters says dryly. “It's couture. Don't spill anything on it.”

  When I return to my room, I find to my surprise that it's full of flowers. A dozen bouquets of dark red roses are scattered throughout the room.

  And a note.

  To go with the dress. That's all it says. From your mystery man.

  Oh, Mr. X, I think. You really are a mystery.

  A few minutes later I hear the doorbell ring.

  Mr. X. is standing before me in full black tie, immaculately fitted. I've never seen him look so sexy, so handsome, so elegant, like a 19th century English aristocrat. He takes my breath away.

  What are you doing? I wonder. And who are you?

  And what are you doing with me?

  What could he possibly get out of treating me so well, out of sweeping me off my feet? Is this just some elaborate con job I don't understand – or something more?

  “Hello, my lovely one.” He takes me into his arms, kissing me, holding me tightly. “You look so beautiful I can hardly stand it.” He kisses me deeply. His embrace is full of desire. “You look exactly how I imagined you would. Like a true princess.”

  “I'm no princess,” I look away. I try not to get sucked into this fantasy, try not to give in to how good it feels to be in his arms again, to be with him again. What's your game, Mr. X? What's your angle? If there's anything I've learned in my time at the Blue Room, it's that everyone has some angle. I just haven't discovered his yet.

  “I missed you,” he murmurs.

  “I was away,” I say.

  I see the jealousy flash across his face.

  “Visiting my mom,” I quickly add. “She's...sick.”

  “Yes...” Mr. X. looks grave. “Yes, I know. I'm so sorry. How is she doing?”

  “OK...” He's so easy to talk to. Even now. Even now I want to confess everything to him. “Better, actually. I haven't seen her seem this good in months...years, even. I mean, I know she's sick, but she seems different from how she normally is. Happier.”

  “That's good,” he says. “I'm glad. I'm sure she's so happy to have you around.”

  “I want to make her proud,” I admit. Not that I'm doing a very good job of it.

  “I'm sure you do.” He holds me tight. “Any mother would be proud of a daughter like you.” He kisses my forehead. “But for now,” he says, sweeping my elegantly tousled hair out of my face, “I want to make you forget your worries. Give you a beautiful time. A true night to remember. I have this charity gala tonight – the Blue Foundation. And I can think of nothing that would make me happier than having a girl like you on my arm.”

  “In public?” I gasp.

  “You're my date tonight, Staci,” he says. “Any man would be proud of showing you off. Myself included. I want to whisk you away like Cinderella, to show you a truly incredible time. I had to arrange the date through the Blue Room, but to be honest, I want this to feel like something else. Not an encounter. A real live date. I get invited to this gala every year with a plus one. But I never attended before. I never have any reason to. I never had a special someone to bring. But now I do.”

  A special someone? What is he talking about? Is this part of his fantasy – or does he really believe that I'm special to him?

  He makes it so easy. To think of myself as his date, a woman in his life, anything other than a Blue Girl. In his arms, I am beautiful. I am special. I am blonde-haired – the golden girl in a long red dress – everything that could do him credit. Everything that could make him proud. With Mr. X., I am not myself. No, I am caught up in the fantasy: the same fantasy that he's spinning for me. Truth and lies, reality and fiction – they are but two sides of the same coin when it comes to Mr. X. and the world that he has created for me.

  He wraps his arms around me. He holds me tight. He strokes my hair the way a lover would – tenderly. Beautifully. His fingers are light against my cheeks. When he is holding me like this, I find that I cannot bring myself to care about anything else in the world. All I care about is being with him.

  He is a liar, I tell myself. He keeps secrets from you – so many secrets. You can't trust a word he says. He lied about Roz. He knows Rita's secrets.

  But it doesn't feel true. The only thing that feels true as I press against him is the reality of my desire for him. The reality of love.

  It hits me when he kisses me one final time before we leave.

  I'm in love with Mr. X.

  And I don't even know his name.

  Chapter 8

  Mr. X. leads me down into the limo. I don't look up at him. I'm too scared to. I'm afraid that if he looks at me, really looks at me, sees into my eyes, he'll see what I have only just realized: that I'm head over heels in love with this guy. I've made the classic mistake: the mistake I never wanted to make. The classic Blue Room blunder. Confusing what is real with the fantasy we share.

  I tell myself I'm just a prostitute, just an actress. Paid to make this situation real. But as we snuggle in the back of the limo Mr. X. has procured for us, as he wraps his arm around my bared shoulders and kisses me on the back of my neck, it's difficult to deny the truths of the body. This feels real: as so little else in my life has felt real. I've never felt like this with anyone before. Not even Terrence, as attracted as I am to him. With Terrence, it's always just been about the attraction, first and foremost. Animal heat. But with Mr. X., there's something else. A protective quality to the way he touches me. Something that convinces me he wants more from my body than mere pleasure.

  “It's like our own private retreat,” Mr. X. says, motioning to the limo. “The driver can't see or hear us. The windows are bullet-proof and tinted – nobody can see in or out.”

  “That's some security,” I tease him. “Are you a wanted man or something?”

  The smile sharpens on his face. “Only by you,” I hope.

  Classical music is playing on the car stereo, light and beautiful.

  “It's Chopin,” Mr. X. says. “One of my favorite composers.” The piano arpeggios send chills down my spine. Sexy a
nd cultured? Is he trying to torment me with his perfection?

  There is an ice bucket in front of us, filled with bottles of champagne.

  “Moet & Chandon,” he says with a smile. “Two decades old.” He laughs and feels the glass, pressing his ice-cold fingers to the side of my face. I start in surprise. “This champagne is older than you!”

  “Not quite.”

  “Don't you want to taste it?”

  He pops the cork and fills the glass: it's almost overflowing with fizz. He brings the glass to his lips and drinks a little – just a little! Then he kisses me. His lips are ice-cold but they taste delicious. The little champagne on his lips warms in my mouth. It's the most delicious thing I've ever tasted. The heady atmosphere, the cool air, his delicious champagne-tinged lips are all driving me crazy. I'm losing my self-control. I know now that there's no way I can ever be objective about him. I want this guy and I want him badly.

  The sensuality of the moment is overwhelming.

  His mouth, his tongue are chilled by the champagne. Then, with a smile, he pours a little bit of the champagne onto my shoulder, into the space created by my collarbone.

  I cry out at the cold sensation. He lowers his lips to my shoulder and licks, slightly.

  He licks my neck to my breast, gently unzipping me so as not to damage the dress, until I am exposed from the navel upward. He smooth back the dress and continues kissing me, licking me, consuming me. My body is aflame with desire and need. The passion is more than I can take. He reaches underneath my dress and suddenly, all at once, plunges his ice-cold fingers inside me. I cry out again, this time from a mixture of surprise and ecstasy. The feeling is unlike anything I have ever known. My eyes roll back in my head; my vision blurs. I feel nothing but this incredible, mind-numbing, overwhelming pleasure.

  He works me, moving inside me, manipulating my body with expert surety. Soon, my back is arching, I am screaming so loudly that I feel sure the driver can hear me despite the soundproof screen.

  Then he licks his fingers dry.

  “See?” he says with a wicked grin. “I hate wasting perfectly good champagne.”

  I sit up, still shaking with pleasure, as he zips up my dress once again. He kisses the back of my neck.

  “Now,” he says, regaining his composure. “I hope you're too relaxed to be nervous about tonight.”

  “I hope so,” I say. My throat is dry.

  “Now, listen,” he says. “What can I tell you about tonight? You'll see a lot of people at the gala that you might recognize. Celebrities of many types: actors, singers, writers, politicians. They will be there because one of the companies I run has funded their projects in the past, or have hired them to work on a project, or placed a great deal of money into campaigning for them.”

  My eyes widen. The mysterious Mr. X. is getting more and more interesting.

  “This particular gala happens to be a benefit for a charity we sponsor to help wayward kids.”

  I have to admit it – I'm impressed. Gorgeous, cultured, and charitable?

  “So, I'm here as your date, huh?” The thought makes me very nervous.

  “Yes,” he says happily. “If that's all right by you?”

  “It is...” My mouth is strangely parched. “It's just...”

  “What is it, dear?”

  “What will I call you?”

  I can't exactly call him Mr. X., can I?

  He smiles. “It's about time I tell you,” he says. “There's a lot you need to know, Staci. And perhaps I feel safe telling you, as I never felt telling any of the other girls.”

  Like Roz, you mean?

  “It is Mr. X., actually. Of a kind.” He smiles and tousles my hair. “Alexander,” he says. “OR Xander, for short. So you see, your nickname for me wasn't entirely off.”

  Or was it?

  I don't know what to believe at all anymore.

  “Okay, Alexander. Xander.” I practice how the words feel in my mouth. “Xander what?”

  He takes a deep breath. “Xander Blue,” he says.

  That makes my jaw drop. “Xander Blue?” I can't have heard him correctly. 'Like – Xander Blue, Clarence Blue, Danny Blue, Terrence Blue Xander Blue?”

  “I'm afraid so,” he says.

  “But...” I almost splutter. “How can that be?”

  “I'm a cousin,” he says. “A distant one, to be sure – I wasn't raised with any of the others. But a cousin nonetheless. Who, through my work in finance, has often ended up entangled with my family business affairs.”

  So Mr. X. – that explains what he was doing in that boardroom. He's not just a founder of the Blue Room, he's in its inner circle. But if he's in the inner circle, then surely he must know the identity I'm really looking for – the name of Roz's Mr. X. And what happened to Roz and to Rita.

  “Don't look too surprised,” Mr. X. smiles as our car comes to a stop. “You need to get used to calling me Xander, to knowing I'm a Blue. Especially since...” He whispers in my ear, leaning so close that his lips almost touch my neck. “We've been dating for a month. And I'm utterly besotted with my beautiful and utterly fascinating girlfriend.”

  It hits me like a punch to the gut.

  “Girlfriend?” I ask.

  “Yes...” The driver opens the car door for us and we emerge in front of a beautiful 19th-century mansion. “Look – I'll explain later – once we get some time inside. I meant to tell you in the car, but we got...ah...distracted.” His smile is winning. “For now – all you need to know is that we're completely and utterly in love with one another. Hopefully, you won't have to work too hard to pretend.” His hand is on the small of my back. “I know I don't.”

  And with that, he leads me into the room.

  There's something overwhelming about the whole affair. People are wearing costumes that cost more than an entire year's worth of rent back home: silks and satins, taffetas, real couture. Feathers. Diamonds. They look like peacocks, like rare birds of an unearthly species. The most beautiful people I've ever seen.

  Immediately I'm ill at ease. I'm that shy, scared girl that Rita rescued out of her car that cold morning so many years ago. What am I doing here, with these people? What makes him think I'm worthy?

  As if he hears, Mr. X. leans over and whispers in my ear. “Don't worry, my dear one. You're the most beautiful woman in the room.”

  Still, there's some tough competition.

  “Just look at that,” Mr. X. whispers as a woman clad entirely in swan feathers enters the room. “Ridiculous, isn't it?” We share a giggle and a conspiratorial glance. “What some people will do to get attention in this town.”

  “And that one!” I whisper back, enjoying our little game, as I point out a woman in a dress whose slit goes all the way up to her breasts.

  “I wonder if she's hunting for a backer for her latest film – or a new husband?” He squeezes my hand.

  This feels nice, I think. Our little jokes. Our shared secrets. We really do feel like lovers: two people who share a rhythm, a history. Who share a life.

  He kisses me on the cheek. My whole face lights up with joy. This is how it's supposed to feel, I think. When you're with a lover. When it's right.

  I'm happy. So incredibly, unearthily happy.

  “Everyone wants my attention tonight, Staci,” Mr. X. whispers. Xander whispers. “That's why they're all dressed up. Trying to get money, power, love, sex – trying to get things I don't want to give. That I won't give. Because right now, all my attention is on you. And none of these other women matter one whit to me right now. I'm happy.” He strokes my hair. “And I love you.”

  I don't know if he means it. I don't know if this is all part of the fantasy, part of the game he's playing. But I do know one thing – one thing I'm sure of. I want more than I want anything in the world at this precise moment in time for what he says to be true.

  Chapter 9

  The gala is overwhelming. I have never been surrounded by so much beauty, so much elegance, at any one time
. Everyone around me is tall, gazelle-like. The women in their priceless pearl-laden dresses, the men in their immaculately tailored tuxedos.

  “My darling,” Mr. X – Xander Blue – whispers in my ear. “You look magnificent.” He kisses my neck in full view of all the other partygoers. I see a few women stare up at us with what looks suspiciously like envy. They're staring at him, of course – at his incredible good looks, his rugged masculine charm. But they're also staring at me. I know what they're wondering, of course. I've been wondering the same thing myself for the entirety of the evening. What's a girl like THAT doing with a guy like HIM?

  But whatever the answer, I know – and the knowledge fills me with incredible joy – that Xander wants me. The way he holds me does not lie. The way he touches me does not lie. His touch is soft, sweet, gentle, but deep down I can feel something else inside him too. A strength. A power. A dominance that turns me on even as he relaxes me. This is a man who is used to getting what he wants, of that much I am sure. And right now he wants me.

  I murmur softly as his tongue lightly darts at my neck. It feels good – gloriously good.

  I catch the eyes of some of the other women. They're staring at him like vultures, their thick, collagen-inflated lips parted in a duck pout.

  “Lots of these women wanted to whisk me away tonight,” Xander laughs. “But I guess you won. Or should I say – I won, since I'm the one who gets to go home with you.”

  I blush. “They're looking at me like they hate me.”

  “What's that Jane Austen line?” Mr. X. gives a little laugh. “It's a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a large fortune cannot go outside for fear of being accosted by would-be trophy wives?”

  “Sounds about right,” I smile.

  “The truth is,” he whispers, “it's the hypocrisy that bothers me. That's what I like about the Blue Room, at least. Everything is on the table.”

  The Blue Room. My face falls. He hasn't forgotten, then. What I really am. What we really are to one another. Stupid, stupid, I chide myself. Letting yourself fall into the trap of thinking this way. Letting yourself fall in love.