Mansions

by Whitney Bianca

  I have no suitable answer. I just know I'm not. And I can't be.

  I want to ask her to come away with me, to leave this awful party and go somewhere quiet. I want her to talk to me or to lay beside me and stroke my hair as I go to sleep, like she used to do. I'd listen to anything she had to say at that moment, even useless babble about her Botox routine or her yoga schedule. I just want to hear her voice. But it doesn't last. It never does. Eventually someone invades our bubble, requesting her attention, and she drifts away from me, even though she doesn't want to.

  “Now you listen to me, ungrateful stepdaughter. Don't run off again without saying goodbye.” Her fingers twist in the fabric of my dress before she lets me go.

  “I won't, evil stepmother.” I step away and sigh dramatically. “You won't get rid of me that easily.”

  “Not this time. You know my address. I expect your ass to be in my guest bed tonight. No hotels,” she says, already melting into the crowd once again. She has a speech to give or a big donor to talk to. I know how these things go, but my smile fades as I watch her get further and further away. I roll my drink between my palms, trying to calm my nerves. I push through to the outer rim of the crowd as the live jazz band starts to play “Rhapsody in Blue.” I meander along the edges, my eyes skimming over the rich faces. When I was younger, I would make up stories about them, about where they'd come from and where they were going. Now, I don't have to make up stories because I know the truth. They're all born liars. Their faces say one thing, but their eyes and muscles say another. A twitch here, a blink there – those are the only clues that will give them away.

  Dorian and his wife are among them and I look for him, even if I don't want to. I shouldn't be surprised that he's here, but I am. I didn't know he still associated with the Hamina name. Our fathers were partners, but now they're both dead and there's no real connection left. Of course, he's given Jessica money in the form of donations but I wonder what strings are attached, if any. Our fathers were powerful men. I wonder how powerful Dorian is. I also wonder if I really want to know the answer to that. The more powerful he is, the more dangerous he is.

  He seems to be perfectly at home in this crowd, unlike me. This is his territory. This is where he belongs. I'm just a bystander here, an observer. With any luck, that's how I'll remain until I can escape. I don't want to engage any more than I have to. His eyes drift across the faces and I can feel them coming for me. I turn away just in time. I've resisted the allure of the museum for long enough, I decide. It's time to go exploring.

  *****

  My father loved the Egyptian wing.

  When I was a girl, I spent countless hours in these cool, quiet hallways, studying the ancient carvings on the massive stone tablets. My father would tell me that this was my heritage and that we were descended from kings and queens but I didn't want to be royalty. I never did. However, from an early age, I recognized the immortality that humans can have. The enormity of this ancient history, it was calming somehow. Their era was over. They didn't have to suffer and toil anymore, but they still lived on. They were dead but their bodies were still here, on display. Their lives were still being recognized. That's true power, I always thought.

  Never being forgotten.

  The still museum air soothes me. The music from the main hall fades the further in I go. I pull my skirt up as I wander, tired of tripping on my hem and not worried about hiding my boots anymore. The subtle scent of chlorine sends a shiver of recognition through me. It's strange how smells trigger memories. I turn the corner and enter the huge open pyramid room. The moat-like pool around the edge of the room calls my name. I hop up on the smooth black stone edge and glance down at the water. My face is reflected back at me. If I look hard enough, I can almost see the younger version of myself. My young face smiles back at me and I take comfort in knowing I was happy, once.

  I hum to myself, along with the band. I can't name the song, but it's familiar to me. It echoes faintly in the cavernous empty room. I take a sip of my tequila, walking slowly around the pool. The amber lights above create a glow upon the stone tablets in the center of the room in an ethereal way. I feel another small smile cross my lips. I wish I had my camera to capture the beautiful sight for always.

  “Don't fall in,” a low, smooth voice says behind me. I don't have to look to see who it is, but I do anyway because I can't help myself. “I won't dive in and save you,” he continues. He stands near the edge of the pool, a few yards away, like a man who thinks he's a god, his hands in his pockets and his body loose. His icy blue eyes are trained right on me. A shiver runs down my spine. I had so hoped this wouldn't happen. I've been trying to avoid it for years. “This suit is very expensive,” he says, the hint of a smile on his lips.

  “I'm sure it is,” I say, turning my back on him and taking a slow sip of my tequila. The ice has melted and it's watered down. I don't stop drinking it, though. It's the only distraction I have.

  “How long has the Hamina Foundation been throwing these galas?” he asks. “Five, six years?”

  “Probably,” I murmur.

  “I've been to the last four,” he says, his voice almost bored. “I must admit, they're not the most exciting event in my calendar. Stunningly boring, in fact. Last year, it was held at the Bronx Zoo, did you know that?” He runs his knuckles under his chin and takes a step closer. “That was the most excitement I think this crowd could take without someone dropping dead from a heart attack.” I glance at him sharply, wondering what exactly he's trying to say. I doubt I need to remind him that my father died of a heart attack. I wonder if he remembers the funeral just like it was yesterday. Maybe that's just me. He chuckles slightly and takes another step forward. I feel myself leaning away from him involuntarily. I don't like how close he's getting. I don't like it one bit. “There's more productive and memorable ways I could be spending my time, surely.”

  “Like snorting a line of coke off a stripper's ass?” I say, before I can stop myself. A devilish light flares up behind his eyes and I know I've probably said the exact wrong thing. Now he's intrigued. Shit.

  “I still keep coming back though, year after year,” he continues, not addressing what I just said. “Do you want to know why?” I lift my shoulders in a half-assed shrug. I don't want to keep talking to him, but I can't stop. I don't know how to get out of it. It's only the two of us here. My eyes dart to the entrance, but there's no one coming in. I strain my ears but I can't hear any footsteps or voices coming closer. No one's going to come and save me from Dorian Armstrong this time. “You,” he says, causing my attention to snap back to him.

  “Me?”

  “Every year, I accept the invitation, wondering if the mysterious Adrienne Hamina will finally deign to show up. I told myself I wouldn't waste my time this year and, yet, here I am. And here you are.” He drops his eyes to my feet and then raises them to my exposed calves and above. I stand there, frozen, feeling exactly the same way I felt all those years ago when he first found me in the garden. There's something so strange about him. Something as attractive as it is repugnant. The closer he gets, the more I feel it, deep down in my stomach.

  “Here I am,” I murmur.

  “Why did you leave Mexico?” he asks and I narrow my eyes at him.

  “How do you know I was in Mexico?”

  “The cigarettes,” he says and I curse myself for giving him the pack. It doesn't matter much, but then again, it seems to matter a lot. I don't like him knowing anything about me. It's stupid, but it feels like even simple things are too much.

  “I finished my assignment,” I say, downing the rest of the tequila. He watches me, his tongue dragging across his bottom lip. I watch the small movement because I can't look away. Get out of here, I tell myself. Run. But I just stand there like an idiot.

  “You like to take photographs of tragedies, don't you?” he says. “Of horrific things. What's the worst atrocity you've ever seen? What's the worst thing you've ever seen a human do to another human?”


  “I don't...” I trail off, not wanting to think about all the things I've seen in my life. I firmly shut that door in my mind before the bad things can start to gush out, like an oil spill.

  “Adrienne,” he whispers and I can't stop myself from looking at him. He's close enough he can touch me. His face is so handsome it almost hurts. It's so devilishly attractive I can imagine destroying it, slicing it open until all I can see is blood.

  “Dorian,” I say, although I'm not sure why. He blinks and exhales lightly.

  “You remember who I am?” he asks. Somehow, I've surprised him. “You remember my name?”

  “Of course I do,” I say.

  “Good.” He sounds pleased. I have no idea where this conversation is going, but I don't like it. It's time to take action. With a shaky sigh, I hop off the wall and stroll away from him as fast as I can. I set my empty glass on the ledge and bound up the stairs to the platform in the center of the room, putting as much distance between us as possible. “You're running from me again,” he says, his voice carrying across the empty space. “Do I scare you?”I don't bother replying. I duck into a side hallway and turn into the adjoining room. An ancient sarcophagus yawns in the center of the small darker room, protected from the elements by a tall, clear acrylic case. There are no other exits from the room. It's a dead end. I realize my mistake a second later when I turn around and he's blocking the only doorway with his big body.

  He's bigger than I thought, bigger than he has any right to be.

  “Do I scare you?” he repeats, raising a dark eyebrow.

  “No,” I say, although my heart is beating out of my chest.

  “I think I do,” he says. “After everything you've seen, I'm something to fear?”

  “Don't flatter yourself,” I say, but the words are shaky.

  “I can't believe it's really you,” he says, stepping further into the room, dragging his fingers across the stone wall. “After all this time.”

  “What's your wife's name?” I ask suddenly, trying to throw him off.

  “Selene.” He furrows his brow and shrugs, tossing the name out like it's nothing.

  “And where is she?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Maybe you should go find her,” I say, backing up until my ass hits the stone wall.

  “I don't care about her.” He shakes his head, his blue eyes locking on my bare legs again. I immediately drop my skirt. “Tell me about Mexico,” he says, catching me off guard.

  “It was awful, thanks for asking,” I say, reminding myself to breathe before I start to hyperventilate. His expensive cologne is slowly taking over the air in the small room.

  “Why do you go to those terrible places?” he says, unbuttoning his suit coat as he steps even closer.

  “Someone has to,” I murmur, my eyes locking on the center of his chest. His shirt is blindingly white and stiffly starched. Not a wrinkle in sight.

  “That is what charity is for. I give my money, not myself.” He cocks his head, staring at me like he's trying to figure me out. “It's a lot less messy that way.”

  “That's the difference between me and you, I guess.” I take a step to the side, trying to get around him, but he's too quick. He darts out an arm, locking it around my waist. He pulls me back against his chest and my heart starts thundering in my ears.

  “You give yourself?” he asks, his voice soft. “You give too much.”

  “It's the only way I know,” I say. I don't tell him that the only way to quell the dark thoughts in my mind is to go somewhere darker. I don't tell him that the only way my life is worth living is if I have a purpose bigger than myself. Taking pictures is creating a history. It makes one moment last a lifetime. And that means something. But a man like him, a man who considers himself a god in his own mind, would never understand a need like that.

  “Adrienne,” he whispers my name again, drawing out the syllables low and slow. “You fascinate me.” He drops his mouth to my neck and I shiver. His lips brush my skin and goosebumps raise on my arms. I try to push him away, but he holds fast. He slaps his other hand around my neck, his fingers flexing against my windpipe. He could easily strangle me. He's so much stronger than I am. I can feel the strength in the muscles beneath the fine fabric of his suit. My heart is pounding in my chest and I don't know what I'm going to do.

  I knew all along that Dorian Armstrong was dangerous. Immoral. Devious.

  Now I'm at his mercy, all over again.

  “Let me go,” I say, my voice strangely calm. “My stepmother is expecting me.” He shakes his head slowly, his breath tickling my skin.

  “Neither of us is leaving this room until after,” he says.

  “After?” I whisper, although I know. “After what?”

  “After this,” he says but that's not an answer. “I've been waiting for this moment for a long time.”

  “You don't even know me,” I say but it's getting harder to speak. My tongue feels like it's swelling in my mouth. My skin is tingling all over. I don't want to be here; I would rather be anywhere but here. But I can't move. I couldn't get away even if I tried.

  “We don't know each other well at all, do we?” he says. “That's why we should talk.” He raises his hand and traces his fingertip along the line of my jaw. “I want us to get to know each other.” A laugh escapes my lips even though the situation isn't really all that funny. Well, it is actually. Hysterical.

  “Why?” I ask as he smiles after my outburst.

  “Because I want to fuck you,” he says, like it's the most normal thing in the world. “Isn't that obvious?” He tilts my chin so that I have to look at him.

  “You're married,” I say, dumbly, like I've never fucked a married man before. At this moment, it seems like my only defense, the only reason why he would turn around and go back to the party. That's assuming that he would feel any guilt or consequence for fucking around outside of his marriage, however. The more I think about it, the more I know with all of my heart that he wouldn't. This man doesn't have the capacity for guilt. It's his turn to laugh then, and the rich deep sound that fills up the room. I can feel it reverberate through his chest because he's too close.

  “Tell me about Mexico,” he says. “Tell me everything you can't tell anybody else.” I shake my head and push at his chest, but he doesn't move. The last person in the world I want to have a conversation with is Dorian Armstrong. Besides, there's no one who can understand my assignments, other than the other people that were there. I have friends in the field but we don't talk. We do everything but talk about the things we've seen. We've all experienced it, which is more than enough. Dorian hasn't experienced anything close to what I have. He doesn't really want to know all the things I've seen, anyway. No one does.

  “You want to hear about decomposing bodies in mass graves? Won't that kill your mood?” I shove at him again but he only pulls me closer, his fingertips digging into my waist. He smells good, I can't help but notice, woodsy like bergamot and whiskey and sharp like pepper and fresh like mint and, of course, the hint of smoke still lingers on his clothes. I haven't been this close to a man in a couple of weeks. I've been trying to be good. I've been trying to keep my legs closed even when the boredom and the insomnia gnaw at me. This is different. This is raw temptation in human form, a huge 'fuck you' to my psyche. He's a bad man, a devil in a well-fitting suit. I should fight him until I can't fight anymore.

  I know what he wants.

  Before I know what's happening, he's shoving me against the hard acrylic case. The smooth acrylic is cool on the exposed skin of my back but the sharp edge cuts into my shoulder blades. I gasp, not exactly in shock, but maybe in surprise. It takes a lot to truly surprise me but he might've just done it. I've been touched roughly by men many times in my life, but this is different. This feels too close, too intimate. Too much. My heart feels like it's going to explode. I've felt this kind of thing before. The first time I ever tasted death I felt it. It's fear, but the kind of deep fear t
hat takes your breath away and clears the mind of all extraneous thoughts. I can't think of anything else that very moment but surviving.

  It makes me feel alive, too.

  Especially when he slants his mouth over mine and pushes his tongue between my lips. I may not understand a lot of things about life, but this is the one thing I definitely do understand. Breath mingling. Bodies coming together. Skin on skin. Sex. Desire. Need. His desire is selfish and single-minded but it's also easy to understand. This is what happened the first time we met, after all. Back then we were too young to know what to do with the feelings, at least I was. I was innocent and distraught and too wrapped up in my grief to recognize it for what it was. For some men, just one taste is enough. One rejection or one good orgasm is all they need to go back to where they came from. Maybe Dorian will be the same. But I have a feeling he's a lot more hungry than that.

  Insatiable, even.

  “This can't happen,” I say into his mouth. It's wrong, but not necessarily for any moral reasons. It's wrong because whatever he wants from me won't be easy. Whatever he wants from me won't be quick. It'll be drawn out and painful. The thought of it makes me clench my thighs together even as my mind protests. He groans, low in his throat, and for a minute I think he might actually reconsider. He might realize that it's a mistake. But then he reaches up and hooks his hand in the top of my dress. One swift yank and the bodice of my gown drops down around my ribs.

  “How do you want it?” he asks, his fingers tightening around my throat as his other hand cups my breast. His thumb grazes my nipple and I bite down on my lip to suppress a moan. “Rough?” He presses his mouth to my temple, dragging his lips across my skin. “You want to be on your knees? Do you like to suck cock? My throat constricts and I close my eyes, feeling like I'm going to pass out. He presses his body against mine, staring down at me through his dark eyelashes. I can barely breathe. He's smothering me with his body, taking over all of my senses. He pulls away and sighs heavily. The scotch on his breath is intoxicating.