Grace turns back around to the mirror, giving a cool and composed look to the brother. “What are you doing here, Josh?”
Josh takes one big step towards Grace and whirls her around to face him. He looks her up and down, but she stands like a perfect depiction of stony beauty, one that could only be described by Greek mythology. No mere mortal would be able to withstand her icy stare. I think about getting in between them but only continue watching her. She shows no shame, no shyness, no flinching at his obvious rage. There’s no attempt to cover her nakedness. She’s clearly not afraid of him, so I decide to hang back.
I don’t move when he grabs her arms and shakes her. “You fucked this guy?!”
Her look remains the same, even with the bobbling of her head. He finally stops but keeps his hands on her. “You’re a fucking whore!” He spits this at her.
And she laughs, with her low thick laugh, “I thought that was obvious!” So I was right the first time; she did fuck him too.
He pulls back and slaps her, with the back of his right hand, straight across her mouth. I watch this, still not moving. I’ll put a stop to it in a minute, but for now, I want to see what she does. It’s a rare opportunity to see another man hit her, to see how she reacts to such an obvious attempt to dominate her physically.
She slowly brings her face back up to his and licks her lip. No fear, no anger, no pain—it’s almost her impassive look. We’re both watching her closely. “That will be the last time you get to do that to me, Josh. Hope you enjoyed it.”
I’ve had enough of this fuck touching what’s mine. I flush the toilet. Josh turns to me, and Grace quickly springs out of his reach. I only smile, waiting to see if this idiot will actually make a move on me. He seems to decide that, even in my undressed state, he shouldn’t try it. I’m quite a lot bigger, in height and build. He turns his head to Grace instead. “Get rid of him and come right back here.”
I laugh but wait for Grace to reply, just to see how she reacts to his lame attempt again. She only shakes her head, a small smile on her face. She really is beautiful—a cat ready to pounce, a girl ready to laugh, a woman of infinite possibilities, all breathtaking.
“I think you should go, Josh.” I say this quietly, only a little hint at a warning, an even smaller hint at a laugh. I lock eyes with Grace and smile at her as he turns his head back to me. I don’t flex. I don’t even tighten my hands into fists. It’s best to stay relaxed and open until your opponent makes a first move.
He does, but it’s only to turn to the door and throw one more look at Grace. “Then get your shit and get the fuck out of here. Before my brother gets home.”
We stay looking at each other, her look blanking, until we hear the front door slam. She breaks the stare first, moving back in front of the mirror and looking at her face. I walk out to the front and put my pants back on but return to the bedroom quickly. Grabbing the bag from the corner, I throw her clothes inside; most everything fits. I grab a gym bag from the closet and empty the contents onto the bed, making room for the rest of her shit.
She hasn’t moved from the mirror, applying a little makeup to the side of her mouth slowly. I have her clothes from the front and throw these at her when she turns to me. “Get whatever you want from here. We’re leaving.” I expect her to say something, put up a pretense that she’s not going anywhere, but she only nods and slowly puts her things into a bag.
She’s a strange girl. I can’t get a read on her again. She’s not showing remorse, no shame or guilt. She’s not even sad, just doing it. Just doing as she’s told? No. It can’t be that simple. She didn’t respond to the brother with any sort of submissiveness, even though it was obvious he thought she would when he tried to order her around. So she was submissive with him before but not now.
I chose her last year because she was so withdrawn, so sheltered. She was so broken as to be a challenge. Could I take a broken girl and break her again, remake her into what I wanted, not what she already was. She was definitely submissive then, to everyone and everything, like she didn’t want her existence to leave any impression at all.
But the girl I’ve seen since has been the opposite. Mostly. She’s been brazen and bold, confident and cold. Any hints of natural submission have been squashed. She’s been a pendulum, swinging from one extreme to the next. This is a different extreme; she’s resigned and completely pliant.
When she has her bag filled, she turns to me and doesn’t move—like she’s waiting for instructions, like she’s completely at my command now. And this pisses me off. I grab her arm in a tight grip, knowing I’m leaving bruises on her arms. “Come on.” She doesn’t resist at all.
I grab both the bags of clothes in my free hand, not letting go of her arm, squeezing a little harder even. When we get to the front door, I stop her from opening it by yanking her back to me. She doesn’t make a sound, only looks up at me with the same resigned look. “Leave your keys.” She fishes them out of her purse, not even trying to get loose from my hand. She leans over to a table and puts them on it quietly.
I keep my grip on her all the way down and out the building. We don’t say anything. I walk her this way the two blocks to my car. She never even tries to speak or move away, not even when I dump her bags in my trunk, not even when I shove her down into the passenger seat and slam her door, not even when I get into the car and drive her away.
I wanted today to be the start of something more between us, but this is not how I pictured it. I’d imagined making her an offer to jumpstart her modeling. I’d wanted to give her a golden carrot of some sort, entice her to come to me, get her to want to come to me. I’d made a plan to slowly knock down all her resistance and make her completely submissive to me, not drag her away like a whipped bitch from a pile of shit she made on the floor.
I haven’t done anything to make her this submissive, and it’s really starting to piss me off. I realize that I don’t even know where I’m heading. I pull over and turn off the car. I don’t want to take her back to my apartment, not like this. I want to dump her ass on the side of the road and keep going. She remains sitting quietly with her fucking makeup bag still on her lap, her hands still at her sides.
“Do you have somewhere to go, somewhere to stay?” I know the answer already.
“No.” Her voice is flat. It’s not weak, but it’s not her usual sensual deep either. I turn to look at her. I know she’s lying to me. Why? She has two apartments in her name. So why tell me she doesn’t have anywhere to go?
“Shit.” I hiss under my breath through gritted teeth and start the car again. Goddamn shit. I need a minute to think, and I can’t do it sitting in my car on the street with fucking zombie girl. This is what obsession gets you! Grandfather’s voice mocks me in a way he never did in real life.
Seattle: Miles Vanderson
“Yes, Ingrid. That will be all for tonight.” I dismiss the servant, watching as she avoids knocking her head on the dining table as she stands.
“Good night, Mr. Vanderson.” She gives a quick bow of her head before bolting out of the room.
I don’t bother zipping up my pants as I also stand and retire for the night. Ingrid’s ministration to my needs was efficient, perhaps not very creative or good, but hopefully it does the job to help me relax somewhat.
Closing the door on my bedroom softly, I realize my hands are fists. The muscles comprising my arms, shoulders, back are knotted and aching again. I crack my neck side to side, trying to remove the yoke of tension once more. My body has been on edge, a bundle of pent-up nervous energy. It’s like I’ve stored up all my needs, worries, and anxieties over the last three years in every nerve ending.
It’s no use though. I won’t relax with the images I now have in my head.
Gillian is living with a man. My Gillian shacked up with some scum of the earth, new moneyed… I breathe. “It won’t do any good to go down this path again, Miles.” I say these words out loud, talking myself out of the heated words I feel on my tongue.
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I adopt the soothing tone my mother used when I was a child. Even though I haven’t talked to her in years, cutting off all contact after my father married Anya, I can still hear her sweet voice putting me to bed.
I cut off ties with Mother after I met Gillian. I used it as an excuse to get closer to Father, to be granted further access to his home and new family. He had no use for my mother; I needed to prove that I was his son more than hers. I needed to claim my rightful place as his heir, as the future of his beloved company.
He never suspected my real motivation for wanting to be closer. He was blind when it came to people. He understood dollars and stats more than feelings and behavior. Martin Vanderson was a genius in business but an imbecile at home.
And Miles Vanderson, his son and only hope for the continuation of his legacy? I am a genius in both. I smile at this thought. I know it’s not completely true, only half. If I was a genius at home, I would’ve seen through the lies Gillian told me. I would’ve known she was planning her escape. I would’ve stopped her before she ever had a chance to step one foot out of my reach, before she ever had the chance to become this Grace Martin person she’s pretending to be.
That was yet another spite to me, I’m sure, choosing a name that ties her to my father more than me. She’s rubbing my nose in my failed plans for us.
Getting into bed nude, the cool sheets are comforting against my electrified skin. I lie perfectly still, my steepled fingers on my chest rising and falling the only movement, as I relive the past. I might as well; I won’t be getting the rest I need tonight. I won’t be able to quiet my mind. I haven’t been able to silence my thoughts since Gillian entered my life six years ago.
I might as well torture myself with the memories I have. It’s a familiar bedtime story I like to savor: the Prince saving the poor Stepsister from an evil witch, the white knight hero that always gets the girl in the end. Their happily ever after is always an epic love story for the ages.
Gillian did need saving. The fairytales of old never held a candle to the horrors that girl had been through. Her body was a litany of miseries at the hands of her mother. Her tears were the ink that dried all too quickly after each new grim fable. Her mind was shattered with too many tales to be held together in one volume.
Gillian was the sum of all her terror, more beautiful than any girl has the right to be after experiencing so much evil. But she wasn’t untouched by that evil, not always. There were moments when I would witness the real her. I’d see the parts she kept hidden away, safe behind her vacant, unblinking, angelic face.
I’d catch a glimpse when she was doodling at the kitchen table while the staff prepared breakfast around her; when she was angry, smashing and thrashing around, thinking no one would see her; when she was seductive, using her body to tease and tempt any male around; and my personal favorite, when she was withdrawn, shelling up in herself to avoid more anguish, reading her books. She was all of these, hidden behind her innocent and pleasant facade.
I never understood how my father failed to see any of this. The staff all took notice of her odd behaviors, but they were all too well paid and trained to say anything. Her mother knew. Of course she did. She was the witch in this story.
I did see what my father saw in her mother though. Anya had played him. Or she thought she had. She had no idea the prison she was signing up for when she agreed to marry the wealthy Martin Vanderson so quickly. She was beautiful, a 31 year old version of Gillian. She was charming and sweet, at least when she was around other people. She never showed her true self to anyone except her daughter and, of course, me. My father never saw the real Anya; of that, I am sure.
Eventually, she showed herself to me. I forced her to. It was almost a year after Anya and Gillian moved into my father’s house before it happened. It was almost a year after Anya lost the baby that had tied her to her fate with my father, the baby she had originally used to tie my father to her. It was almost a year after I saw Gillian in the library that first time.
Thinking through these memories does calm me because I always get to this part of the story and can almost feel Gillian’s presence with me again.
Gillian did need saving, and I was her white knight of sorts. I smile into the dark, relaxing my hands onto my chest with the warmth of these memories. A sigh escapes and I almost think I could sleep, if only to have Gillian in my dreams.
San Francisco: Simon Lamb
Sitting on my sofa, Grace looks smaller. She’s curled into herself, unresponsive. I don’t sit, still trying to think. “That wasn’t your boyfriend?” I know the answers to all my questions, but I just want to get her talking again. She only shakes her head. “Look at me!” Her head snaps up in attention. “Fucking answer me, no shaking or nodding, but fucking words. Got it?!”
She starts to nod but stops. “Okay.” The vacant look starts to fade. It’s something anyway. “No. He was not my boyfriend.” Her voice is still flat though.
“Was he always that rough with you?” I want to know this answer.
Grace only shrugs and looks away, but she quickly brings her eyes back to me when I take a step towards her. “Not always.” Something shifts in her look again. A fierceness is added to her expression; her voice deepens. “Only when I allowed him to be. When I let him play out his little fantasies of being a man.”
I smile at this. She stretches her body, coming out of her shell more. I watch her change. Her limbs relax and she leans her head to the side to look at me, twirling her hair lethargically. She’s back to dancing her other hand around her tiny body too. “Did it excite you, Trust?”
I laugh and finally sit down in a chair opposite her. She’s certifiably nuts. I’ve come to that conclusion. She must be. She bounces from one extreme to the next. Drugs? I look at her arms. No signs of any so far, but maybe she’s a secret pill popper. “Are you on drugs, Red?”
“I saw how turned on you got…when Josh slapped me. I couldn’t help seeing your cock get hard for me.” She’s doing her best seductive lounging—touching her face, teasing me with her eyes and body. But I’m not in the mood for cat and mouse.
I laugh again but add with a menacing tone, “Answer my question, or you’re going to see what a real smack feels like.”
She pouts and wiggles her tits playfully. “Is that all you men ever want to do with a poor defenseless girl?” I gotta give it to her; she makes me laugh. And all her lifelessness is gone at least. She’s fully aware that my threat was real, but she’s not afraid at all. She’s asking for it, teasing and tempting.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. “You don’t want to play with me, Red. You’ll lose. See, I won’t stop with only a little smack to your face.”
“Grace.” I frown at her. “Call me Grace.” She’s sitting up, a little back from me now. Her pout is more real this time. Her face is a little softer than I’ve seen before.
“All right, Grace. Now answer me like a good girl. Are you using drugs?”
She only shakes her head. “Good.” I think I believe her. So she’s just nuts, the regular kind. That I can handle. That I expected. “Simon.” I grin at her frowning pout. “You may call me Simon.”
“Nice to meet you, Simon.” She sarcastically stresses my name to sound sexier, hissing it at me. All softness is gone again.
“So you don’t have anywhere to go? Anywhere I can take you?” I haven’t leaned back, still pushing towards her. She’s relaxed again, but she reaches slowly towards my hand. She’s like a lioness inching towards its prey before it leaps in chase.
She shakes her head slowly with the best come-fuck-me look I’ve seen on her face. “Can’t I stay here with you, Simon?” Her voice got a little deeper, almost a whisper at my name. I can feel my cock twitch in response.
She is batshit nuts. I thought maybe she lied before because she was in shock or something. Maybe she just didn’t want to be alone right then. But now? She’s back to her confident, assertive attitude. So why lie? Why ask to stay with a s
tranger? Why act helpless?
I lean back, pulling my hand from her loose fingers. “Why do you want to stay with me, Grace?”
“Why not?” She looks around my place, nonchalant. “It’s nice here. You’re nice. We fuck nice. It would be nice to stay here.”
I laugh at her answer. “I’m not nice.” She only raises an eyebrow in response. “And I don’t live here.”
Her eyes narrow at this. “You said this was your place.” She sounds angry, like she’d have reason to be angry with me if I lie to her?
“It is, but I don’t live here. My home is in Alexander Valley, outside the city.”
Her smile is big again. “Sounds nice. I could use a little down time.”
I should kick her out. I should get rid of her craziness right now and forget all about my obsession, but that’s not me. If I could forget my obsessions so easily, I wouldn’t be the man I am. For now, I’m tied to her, at least until I have her screams in my head, lulling me to sleep.
I let my smile slowly spread, knowing it’s both handsome and alarming. She only brightens more, smiling more herself. “All right. We can go to my house and stay there.” She nods and relaxes back into the sofa, like she’s won a game of chess. “But let’s get a few things straight first, Red.” She frowns at me again. “I meant what I said. I’m not nice. I won’t be nice from here on out.” She smiles again, acting as if I’m telling a joke and she already knows the ending.
She can’t be so crazy that she’s missing the tone I’m using, that she’s missing my darkened look of warning…can she? I search her eyes and can’t get past the stony smile. So she’s not batshit crazy. No, just hardened. Maybe she doesn’t believe me? Or maybe she thinks that I only mean the games she played with Josh or any other guy that’s tried to dom her? I don’t know if it’s a new level of cruelty—my desire to give her forewarning. Am I now a cat that bats the mouse around, even when we both know how it will end anyway?
We Were One Once Book 1 Page 7