“So don't,” I reply.
“Easier said than done,” she murmurs as we reach the door. I swing it open and she nods and steps through, her hips swinging like she knows just how good her ass looks in the tight dress she's wearing. I follow her out as she digs in her tiny bag for the valet ticket. She hands it to the attendant and then turns back to me, fidgeting with the clasp to the bag.
“I didn't just come over to thank you for the donation and the flowers,” she says and I nod, because I know. “But also because of your help the day of the...” She trails off, like she can't say it again. “The day.”
“I didn't do anything of value,” I say.
“You did, though,” she whispers. “Knowing that someone cared enough to try meant a lot to me.”
“I wasn't able to get much information, and I apologize for that,” I lie smoothly. “I thought I would be able to help more than I could but everything was too crazy.”
“Well, there was nothing more to be done,” Jessica said. “When I heard the news, I was paralyzed. I didn't know what to do. I didn't know who to call. You helped me. I'll be forever grateful.”
“Forever is a long time,” I say, sliding my hands into my pants pockets.“She was an odd one, wasn't she?” I say.
“Odd. Yes.” Jessica nods, a hint of a smile on her lips. “Too smart and beautiful for her own damn good. Too talented.” Jessica trails off and turns away from me, turning her gaze to the busy city street. “She hated all this shit. All this...” she waved her hand around. “She only came to that gala because she knew how much it meant to me. And then I didn't even get to hardly talk to her. I was so concerned with everybody else that I didn't pay attention to the one person who was really important.” Jessica clenches her jaw, steeling herself against her tears. She wraps her arms around herself and I can see how vulnerable she is. I can practically taste it. “She was the last of him. I promised him I would take care of her, but I failed,” she continues, her voice low, like she's talking to herself. “She wouldn't let me take care of her. And now she's gone.”
“She's not completely gone,” I say. “I keep thinking that there has to be something left. Something to bury.”
“They won't talk to me,” she says, her face sagging again. “I've tried, my lawyer has tried. The authorities claim they're still investigating and the consulate is no help.”
“Do you want me to try again?” I lift my hand and press it to her lower back. Safe. Reassuring. Comforting. She sucks in a breath, surprised by my touch. “Now that things have calmed down a bit, I think I can maneuver some more. Cut through some red tape. Maybe bring her home.” She blinks a few times, absorbing my offer.
“Yes. That's what I want,” Jessica says, her voice stronger.
“I can do that for you.” I lean in. “Easily.”
“Why?” she asks, her eyes on my lips. I reward her with a smile. “Why would you do that?”
“Because I can see how much she meant to you,” I say, taking a step back as the valet returns with her white coupe. She gives me a long look, like she's trying to figure out what my motives are. I doubt she'll guess what I'm after and I don't give her any hints. After a minute, she gives up.
“Thank you,” she says, finally, and I duck my head respectfully, like I'm not a snake in the grass with a secret agenda. I watch her as she hurries to her fancy little car and drives away. It's slick and expensive, the exact kind of car I would expect her to drive. When her red tail-lights merge with all the others on the street, I pull a cigarette out of the pack in my jacket and light up. The taste of the burning tobacco immediately reminds me of Adrienne. I can almost feel her smoke-tinged lips against mine.
When she was in her morphine haze, Adrienne called out for Jessica. It's surprising to me, how genuine their bond seems to be. I think Adrienne does love her, for whatever reason. I can use it to my advantage. Their relationship is leverage I can use against both of them, if I have to. I have a feeling I'll need it eventually. Although Adrienne seems to be warming to me, I doubt she's ready to surrender yet.
But she will surrender. There's no other option.
I know I'm too attached to her, unfortunately. After the wheelchair incident, I lost control and fucked her beyond all reason. I lost myself in her, but I still don't know what I want from her, exactly. I don't know how long this obsession will last. I could wake up tomorrow and find a new plaything and then my obsession will end.
Somehow, I know that's wishful thinking.
I drop my butt to the ground and stomp it out. Then I return to the dim dining room and my dull wife. As I weave through the tables, I think about what Jessica said, about how Adrienne hates all of this. She's happier than a pig in shit as far away from New York high society as she can get. I think about the Hamina gala and how the whole event seemed to teem with possibility when she was near. I wonder how much less boring all of this would be with her by my side. I think about whispering dirty things in her ear. Fucking her in the fancy bathroom of a restaurant just like this one or in the back of my Bentley on the ride home. Having her wear a fancy dress that barely covers her beautiful tits. Running my hands through her hair and tangling my fingers in the thick strands in front of everybody. Showing off her scars, the scars I've given her. Claiming her in front of everybody. Letting the whole world know that Adrienne Hamina is mine. That I've tamed the untamable.
The fantasy puts a smile on my face that I can't shake. Then I see my wife and the reality comes crashing back.
“Poor Jessica,” Selene says as I return to my seat. “What a mess.”
“She just lost her daughter,” I say, playing devil's advocate.
“Her daughter?! They're practically the same age,” Selene titters, and I can see she's had too much to drink. “She should be thrilled. Now there's no more hands in the Hamina family pot.” Selene giggles into her napkin.
“I don't want to talk about Adrienne Hamina,” I say. “She's dead, end of story.”
“You're right. A blown-up dead girl is dreadful dinner conversation.” Selene leans forward, her eyes glittering in the candlelight. “I want to talk about the holidays.”
“I think we're done talking for the evening,” I say.
“I'm not going to give up on this, you know. You may as well give me what I want.”
“And what is that, Selene?”
“I want to spend the holidays with my husband. I want to serve you turkey and yams on Thanksgiving. I want to see you on Christmas morning. I want you to hand me your gift instead of having your assistant ship it.”
“Why?” I ask, bored with the conversation but genuinely perplexed as to why we're having it.
“Because that's what people do,” she shrugs like that explains everything. “But maybe you'd rather spend Christmas with your whore downtown.” Her eyes flash angrily and I exhale slowly through my nose. For a split-second, I think of Adrienne. Waking up next to her on Christmas morning. What would that be like? “Or maybe you'd rather be comforting poor, sad Jessica Stockton-Hamina.”
I can't help but laugh then.
For once, Selene's not so far off the mark.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The wind is steady outside of my window, but, for the first time in days, rain doesn't pelt against the glass panes. The sun is weak but it shows itself, finally, pushing through the clouds like it's tired of hiding as well. As I do my morning stretches, I take that as a good sign. A sign that today is finally the day.
I'm ready for an adventure.
I may not have a wheelchair any longer, but I've never been one for sitting still too long. There's only so much lazing and laying around that I can do before I start going a little mad. There's only so much reading or counting peacocks that I can stand. I've been practicing my crawling every day. I'm getting very fast. My arms are stronger than they ever were before the incident. My stomach is tight and my shoulders are spread open, no longer hunched in pain. Whether it's true or not, I feel like I can do for myself again.
I feel like I can do whatever I put my mind to.
And my mind is on the outdoors, all the land beyond this house.
He's visited three times in the last two weeks. Each time, he's fucked me like a man starving and dying of thirst, but then he's gone in the morning, like nothing ever happened. Like there's no ripples on the surface of his calm life. Each time, I try to tell myself not to be angry. It doesn't matter what he does. It doesn't matter that I crave him every waking minute, but he seems content with scheduling me in along with all the other shit he does all day.
It shouldn't matter and I shouldn't care.
But it does, and I do, somehow.
I've started to mark the passing days on the bedpost, carving a line everyday with the fork I keep hidden under the mattress. Irina has started leaving the door unlocked, out of trust for me, or out of neglect, I can't be sure. Marketa always locks it, but I've gotten pretty adept at picking it. Picking locks is a skill I acquired up in my childhood and it's always come in handy. It took me two weeks, but I've finally explored the top floor extensively. There's a library and a home office closest to me. On the other end of the hallway are more bedrooms, a solarium, and a locked room that I haven't been able to get into yet. I know he watches me, keeps an eye on me as I move around the house, but he hasn't stopped me. I don't know why, and I don't care.
Today, I've decided I'm going downstairs.
I wait until after Irina brings me breakfast. I lay in bed and pretend to sleep when she comes, and she doesn't bother me. As soon as she closes the door, I sit up, ready to go. I don't each much – just the fruit salad and one egg. I don't want to have to pee during my adventure, so I ignore the tea and the fresh squeezed orange juice. I tuck my contraband fork into my compression bandage around my left thigh and I foist myself onto the floor. A new wardrobe arrived for me a few days ago – full of dresses that I'd never wear in a million years. But there were also some sweaters and soft loungewear included in the package. It's getting colder day by day in the drafty old house, so I pull a soft, white cable-knit sweater on over my new black jersey knit romper. It's exciting to have real clothes again. If I never see another pale silk chemise, it'll be too soon.
I shove my hair back out of my face, but there's not much I can do on that front. It's getting annoyingly long now. With a glance up to the camera in the corner, I turn the knob. It's unlocked and I smile. I take it as a good sign. My adventure begins without a hitch. I pull myself down the now-familiar Persian carpet, past the ominous portraits that line the hall. I keep my eyes on the ground in front of me because I can feel their dead eyes on me. Watching me.
I hate the hallway because of the portraits, but I don't let their judgmental stares deter me from my goal. I make it to the stairs and peer through the balustrades to the floor below. I know he's got cameras all over the place, but he hasn't stopped me from exploring yet. I try to keep to the shadows as much as possible, and the hallway is so dark, I hope he won't see me anyway. Below, it's quiet. There's no one in the foyer and I can't hear any voices. I pull myself to the stop step and began my descent. I feel a little like a toddler, first learning how to go down stairs. I slide my ass off each step, lowering myself with my arms as I go. It's slow, but it's a good system. I almost lose my balance once, but I catch myself with my longer leg.
I'm sweating by the time I reach the bottom but I don't stop. The slick marble floor makes it easy for me to pull myself and glide to the front door. It's a big door, with a high knob and I can't barely reach it, even if I lift on my knee. It's also locked. I sit down hard on my ass as I regroup. The front door was my first choice, but in a house as big as this, there's got to be many exits. I look left, then right. To my left is a dark doorway that leads to a big sitting room with a scarlet red carpet and matching drapes. It looks like it hasn't been redecorated in forty years, like Dorothy Draper was still alive and kicking. To my left is a grand dining room, with a table so big it looks like it could seat thirty people. The house is nothing if not ostentatious.
I choose the dining room because I can hide under the wide table, using it to shield me from anyone that might happen by, as well as the cameras. The walls are lined with windows, but the sills are high and I don't think I can gain enough height to shove up the sashes. I continue on, making sure that the coast is clear before I abandon the shelter of the table. I hear a male voice in the distance, but it seems to be coming from the other side of the house. My curiosity is piqued. I thought that only the nurses were here with me? But then again, someone has to be cooking my meals everyday. Someone has to be keeping up the property. I've been pulling myself along the floor and there's barely any dust on my clothes or hands. Someone obviously keeps the huge house clean.
I wonder how many people Dorian has on staff. I wonder how many people know that I'm being held against my will and have done nothing to help me. But then again, Dorian's not stupid. He would require strict loyalty from his staff. Besides the only people I've come into contact with are the nurses. Maybe they're the only ones who know my truly pathetic situation.
I crawl along the baseboard toward the back of the room. The dining room branches off to two other rooms and I choose the one with the most light. Turns out, that was the best choice. I close the door behind me, shutting myself into a sun room filled with wicker patio furniture covered in a bright palm leaf print. On the wall right in front of me is a set of French doors that lead directly to the garden. I muffle my excited squeal into my hand.
I drag an ottoman over to the door, gritting my teeth as the legs makes a loud scraping noise against the floor. I go still and listen. There's no footsteps or voices, though. No one seems to have heard me. When I'm confident no one is coming, I position the ottoman against the door. It takes me longer than necessary to pull myself upright on it. I've been practicing getting in and out of bed, but without the bedpost, it's difficult to keep myself balanced. When I finally do get up there, I'm at height I need to pick the lock. I pull my fork out of my bandage and go to work. The lock gives me trouble at first and, the longer it takes, the more nervous I get. I glance upward, to all the corners of the room, looking for cameras or flashing green lights. I don't see any, but that doesn't mean they aren't there.
Finally, the lock gives way and the door opens without warning. I topple over with the door, landing flat on my face on the red brick patio. My nose aches and I know my elbows and knee are going to be bruised from the fall, but I think I'm most okay. I lay there, dazed for a moment as a cool breeze slides over me. I shiver, but not because I'm cold. I shiver because I finally feel like life is rushing back into my bones.
I haven't felt a breeze in so long. I haven't smelled the earth - the dirt and trees and grass - in what has to be months. I've been locked up in the stuffy house for so long that, for a moment, all I can do is soak up the beautiful wildness of the outdoors. I lay there and listen to the birds chirping and the rush of the wind through the trees. If I focus hard enough, I can hear the distant rushing of the Hudson River and I know it's close. There's even the faint horn of an unseen boat, somewhere out there. If I stay there long enough, a train might pass as well, heading further upstate. It's too much at once and I almost lose myself in the sheer joy of it all. Time was when you couldn't pay me to visit the Hudson valley, but now, it just feels like home. All the sights and sounds are familiar and friendly. I don't feel any fear. I don't feel anything but excitement. Eventually I push myself up on my scraped palms and scan the horizon, trying to pick which direction to go.
*****
I found Cora a year after I married Selene.
I met her at an art opening or at the opera, something like that. I remember she was wearing a white dress with no panties underneath. I eye-fucked her all night, as she clung to the arm of the man she came with. Before the night was out, I had her on her knees in a hotel down the street. There was something about her that caught my attention. She seemed so lush and soft, so completely different from Selene, who's cold and hard. Sh
e wasn't foolish or naïve though; she quickly signed my non-disclosure agreement and didn't hesitate to let me take care of her. She moved into the apartment I procured for her and allowed me to keep her in the way I saw fit. Being with her was easy. She became a part of my routine, in all ways.
“There's someone else,” she says, pressing her plump lips into a thin line. “Where did you find her?” She's standing in the bathroom in front of the mirror, wearing a black lacy bra and a pair of silk shorts, her hair tied up in a colorful scarf. She's putting on her makeup, something I used to enjoy watching her do for some strange reason.
I realize then, as I watch her in the bathroom, why I chose Cora. She reminded me of Adrienne. I've never bothered to ask Cora her heritage and she's never bothered to share it, but as I study her, I realize the two women look similar – dark hair, dark eyes, soft lips, big tits. Of course. The women are complete opposites but their features are similar. They both make me want to wrap my arms around them and pull them close and bury myself in them. They make me want to forget myself for the moment. Except with Adrienne, it's not a fleeting feeling. It's a feeling that goes on and on and never gets any easier. It's a form of torture, really. Self-flagellation.
As I stand there in Cora's loft, my lack of self-awareness is suddenly glaring. I despise that when it comes to Adrienne, I'm predictable. I've wanted her for so long that the want has invaded my life like a virus, influencing my decisions and my inclinations and my proclivities. My obsession is raging out of control.
“There's no one else,” I say, even though we both know it's a lie. She turns to look at me, her makeup brush frozen against her cheek.
“How long do I have?” she asks.
“Two weeks. Then I'm selling this loft.” She works her jaw and but she doesn't make a scene. She's not that kind of woman. She always knew this day was going to come eventually. She relaxes her shoulders and I know she's processed the information. The dark cloud passes overhead but there's no thunder and lightning.
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