In the Land of Milk and Honey

by Nell E S Douglas

  Pictures of Jill, her modeling days, topless bikini shots she’d done for Italian men’s magazines. Photos accompanying editorials naming her an ice queen, a gold-digger, quoting employees who’d quit because of her unbearable perfectionism. The lawsuit from one claiming she’d thrown a crystal paperweight at her, a false claim filed in vengeful retaliation after Jill fired her for stealing. A picture Nate must have taken of her lying on his boat out at sea, provocatively pouring champagne down her naked body. The articles from the night Jill found out about Nate and Nadia. Nadia approached Jill at a bar telling her she was sleeping with Nate, he was in love with her and said that he’d never loved Jill, then Nadia took a sip of her vodka and shared with Jill she was in her second trimester. Jill had slapped her and thrown the drink in her face for it. And photos from before I met her, a teenage Jill making out with another girl and groping each other while looking at the camera, probably something posted online she thought would never show up again. Rehab records for an eating disorder I’d never heard about. And a picture of her holding a crying infant Tristan.

  Ian, his arrest, the mug shots of a bloodied Nate and a smiling Ian. Photos of him out with different women, one of him bending a girl over a bar and flipping her skirt, him at some type of college party, taking body shots off of women. Ian with hazy bloodshot eyes blowing smoke rings from a joint with his baseball cap turned backwards. Fuzzy grainy stills from what looked like an amateur video of a young Ian having sex with two girls. Records from his Harvard rugby team; a suspension for injuring someone badly after inciting an in-game fight. And recent personal photos of us at the park, him doing his Godzilla impression because it always makes Tristan laugh. But all it showed was me tossed over his shoulder laughing while he supported my weight with his hand on my rear skirting the edge of my shorts. The accident looked like an intimate moment. And another from the same day of Ian doing push-ups in the grass with me and Tristan stacked on top of him laughing.

  August, old candids of a young man holding hands with a man, another with their arms around each other, the others man’s head resting on his shoulder while August looked down at him; pictures of him holding hands with my son, looking down at him fondly. Pictures of August and me at his company parties, embracing each other, others of all three of us at parks, zoos, one of me sitting on a bench resting my head on his shoulder and him kissing my forehead.

  Even Zack. Photos of him always with his arm around me, us snuggled on a couch right after I’d given birth, the two of us sitting together while I held the infant Tristan looking like skinny kids babysitting, recent pictures of him looking tough partying with girls at X. Me and him at the grand opening, him dipping me, me laughing—and him looking at me as though he really truly loved me. I’d never even noticed that before.

  Me, separate pictures of me hugging or kissing cheeks with all parties mentioned. Me at a few cocktail grand openings for all of their separate businesses in nice dresses because I was there to support them. Me on my date with Jeremy. Hugging Zack in X. Photos of me with Tristan as an infant, me in a ponytail and Target clothes looking more like his big sister than his mother, various pics of me in similar frumpy childlike attire with infant Tristan in a carrier across my chest; like a little girl with a doll stuffed in a backwards backpack. Press shots from the runway show Violet held to benefit teen moms and she used real women models, like me. She begged me and because of the cause, I walked the catwalk in her design—a skimpy crochet bathing suit and high heels—smiling into the crowd. It didn’t show the smile’s recipient—Tristan—sitting in Jill’s lap in the front row. I looked young, carefree, and irresponsible.

  Worst of all, the adoption papers I’d signed over to August. Accompanied by statements from me saying ‘I don’t want it’ and ‘just get it out of me’ from the agency representative that facilitated the process.

  Tristan’s medical records, the extensive regular testing I had done on him because I had no idea what kind of man had fathered him; AIDS, HIV, Hepatitis, Syphilis, everything. I never stopped testing because I was afraid. The time he was in the ER with a twisted ankle after tripping, now stamped boldly with the words ‘Investigation’. Photos of him, I’d taken when we went camping upstate. We’d rescued a trapped baby bird from a hole. He was crying because the bird had died, and I remember the camera had gone off and captured the image of a weepy, dirty boy alone in the woods. His school records of his fight the first day, the other boy saying it was unprovoked. And his emergency contact sheet.

  Mother: Mary Gabrielle Valentine

  Godfather: Charles August King

  Godmother: Jillian Lenore King

  Aunt: Marie-Violet Sadorowicz Valentine

  Uncle: Zackary Amir Meeks

  Family friend: Ian Angus Foley

  In that order.

  Like toppling dominos…

  This was what it felt like to be buried alive, so I clawed at the dirt.

  “Where the hell did you get this shit?” I hissed as my hand trembled with rage. I slowly raised my narrowed eyes to meet his; his jaw tightened but he didn’t speak.

  “Where the HELL do you get off trying to take my son from me based on this horseshit!” I shouted as I slammed it down on his desk.

  “It is my duty to protect him from these animals you’ve surrounded him with!” he roared, lunging himself in front of me.

  “These people are his family! They were there for us when you went trotting off into the sunset after screwing me and disappearing!” I shouted as I got in his face.

  He shook his head and walked around to the other side of his desk.

  “You were different then,” he said solemnly.

  “Maybe I was. But I’m better now. And if you think for one second I’m not going to take you on, you’re crazy,” I threatened, my shoulders trembling.

  He turned slowly to face me, his eyes cold and distant.

  “You know how this ends, Gabrielle,” he said evenly, as his eyes coldly communicated the truth and my heart dropped to the floor. He was deadly serious…and he was right. I could fight and fight, but with his power and his family behind him, my chances were shot. He could buy me and sell me ten times over. And he was prepared to do it.

  “What is wrong with you? What has fucked your head so hard that you think MY son is better off without me?” I asked, pleadingly.

  “I am looking out for the boy’s best interests,” he replied firmly. “You’re trolloping around with these deviants. These men, your unstable sister, and the King whore who shares your bed,” he said with disgust.

  “You’re craz—wait. You interrogated my son?!” I halted in disbelief, understanding the plurality of the accusation.

  “I found out what was necessary,” he hissed and jealousy flashed in his eyes.

  “This is about me, isn’t it?” I asked incredulously. “This is because I don’t want you.”

  His anger seemed to be coming to a boil, but I had nothing left to lose. He was taking it all away.

  “You give yourself so freely to all these men—and women apparently—” he started.

  “What! I have never—”

  “Am I wrong?” he interrupted, his voice booming. “You care less for me than you do any of them and it wasn’t so difficult get you in bed,” he accused callously. My jaw dropped.

  “You seduced me!” I defended.

  “You didn’t complain,” he leered and raised a brow, and my mouth fell open as my heart and dignity were ripped to shreds.

  “You’re inhuman,” I whispered in a daze, broken. He looked down at the papers on his desk and resumed what he was doing before I arrived.

  “Have your attorney send a signed copy of the papers to mine. You will be allowed as much visitation as you like, but he is not to be around any of the other parties. The judge is a friend and willing to expedite the process. I will arrange for him to be collected this afternoon,” he said formally, like he’d placed his lunch order at the Ritz.

  “Are you out of yo
ur mind? You think I’m just going to let you walk off with him?” I contested in disbelief, and he raised his eyes to meet mine.

  “You would agree it’s best we kept this out of the courts,” he said blankly and darted his eyes to the accordion file in my hands that suddenly weighed a thousand pounds. Everything was crumbling. Everything I’d worked towards, my entire life he was crushing, and the room was spinning. Everyone I loved. And he was taking away the center of my universe as easily as a piece of candy.

  And he could.

  “Please don’t do this,” I begged as the tears fell freely. “Please.”

  “You have left me no choices,” he said quietly as his papers stilled in hands.

  “I’ll do whatever you want,” I insisted weakly, and his eyes slowly rose to mine. And without second thought, I began removing my clothes.

  “Don’t,” he ordered firmly, but his eyes were hungry as my dress dropped to the floor and I unfastened my shoes. He looked like an addict who had sworn off a drug but was now faced with the hit he’d been desperately craving, so I used it. I could do this for my son. I’d die for him. He watched as I dropped my bra and slid my panties off until I stood completely naked as silent tears fell. I had nothing left.

  I could see the burning conflict in his eyes as he rose and slowly made his way to me. He stood over me, and it seemed almost against his will as his hand rose to stroke my collarbone and brush my hair back behind my shoulders. I stood as still as my shaking body would allow as he traced his fingers lightly all over my body. His hands seemed to be less steady than usual as well.

  “I can’t say no,” he confessed as he focused on my lips and his eyes were hooded with the need to succumb to the craving. I swallowed hard and sucked in a breath.

  “Then don’t,” I said in a trembling voice, and his hand went under my chin angling it up to him, and I closed my eyes as I felt his lips press against mine. He kissed me softly on the lips, running his hands up and down my waist, and then he kissed his way down my chin to my neck before he wrapped his arms around me, lifting me and sitting me on his desk.

  The kisses were soft at first, but they became increasingly desperate. Moist open mouth kisses with tender bites down my chest. He laid his big warm palm under my throat and pressed me backwards until I fell back on my elbows, and then he gripped my waist in both hands and slid me to the edge of the desk as he made his way down my stomach. His hands started rubbing the outside of my thighs in slow deep circuits until he cupped the backs on my knees and spread my legs wider for him. My body reacted. And I hated him.

  He placed open-mouthed kisses on my hip bone on his way lower, and then he found me; fingers and mouth. My eyes snapped open as I gasped and I stared at the ceiling as his intensity increased, faster and faster, licking, sucking, circling while his fingers curled and pressure began to build, the reaction as out of my control as my life. My knees trembled as I peaked and he groaned with pleasure. And I hated him.

  “You’re so good,” he whispered reverently, as he slid his fingers out and affectionately grazed my sex with the tips.

  I heard him unbuckling his belt and the sound of clothing hit the floor before his hands slid up my shoulders and he lifted me into a sitting position at the end of the desk. He pulled me against his chest, pressing my breasts against him as he caressed my back and kissed my shoulders. He raised my arms around his neck, and they tightened on their own accord. And I hated him.

  “Gabrielle,” he exhaled hoarsely as he slowly pushed in to me, gripping me tight.

  We both groaned as he rocked once and began to slide back out and then he thrust harder. His hand pulled me close, running between my shoulder blades, down my spine and then leaned me back, gaining access to my breasts. His hot mouth on my nipple, nipping and sucking, and then he thrust again and I let out a high-pitched whimper as he slammed in to the spot that made me burst with response. And I hated him.

  He cursed as his hand trailed down, and his thumb began to encourage me as he pumped slowly in and slowly out with maddening friction, then he pushed in deeply and slid back out to the edge.

  “Not yet,” he said in a rough voice as his head bowed down watching himself unravel, his hands now pinned down on either side of my head as I lay flat on his desk, his palms splayed out wide, supporting his weight, trapping me in, his muscles tight with restraint as he took his time. My ears conspired with my body, saying they liked the sound of his voice and the words on his lips and my body arched off the flat surface. I had to turn my head, closing my eyes rejecting the sight of the tendons in his wrist, because my eyes were lying when they whispered to my ears they liked the sight of his body over me in the daylight, and my fingers reached out and threaded his scalp, grabbing a handful of hair, and I pulled hard because I wanted him to hurt. I watched his flat hands curl into a claw against the wood in response, and he plunged back in and pressed down, using his body weight, and rocked in to me again and again. I felt myself tightening around him—the tremors had started—and he picked up the pace. I was over the edge and he moaned, and I moaned—and I hated him.

  He pulled me up to him until I sat and then he thrust in hard, both of us soaking wet and pulled my face to his, cupping my cheeks in his hands until we were almost nose to nose. I opened my eyes. He green eyes were blazing and thrilled, but when he saw me his brows knit together as his eyes searched mine.

  “Christ,” he murmured as he stared into my dead eyes. Dead because I was sated by him and I hated him for it. His eyes flicked down to where we were still joined below, and his face fell but his eyes were still enthralled and torn.

  “I can’t stop,” he confessed like the junkie he was now that the hunger had slacked enough for him to be functioning and see that I was broken. But he couldn’t stop if he wanted to. I already knew that. He’d held back his own release so he could draw it out. He wanted his hit to last, but he hadn’t really flown yet.

  My eyes fluttered closed, and he kissed both my lids and planted small kisses all over my face before he cradled my head to his shoulder. To my eternal self-loathing, I wrapped my legs around him. Why did I want this? He thrust his craving in to me again and again, and I felt him pulse inside as he came hard. A groan from deep in his chest rumbled against my own chest as he pressed me tighter. He rested his turned chin on my head and caressed my hair as held me against him and rocked me as silent tears fell on his shoulder.

  “Nothing feels like this,” he whispered to the air, his face was turned towards wall of glass panes that towered above the glistening city, the place that either made or broke you. The place he looked down on from his chrome tower every day and took as he wished. I didn’t know if he meant the rush of the high or the emptiness of the crash, but the latter was the only thing I knew.

  “I hate you,” I confessed in a muted and broken voice. And then I sucked in my quivering lip and bit, because he was the only one strung out by this anymore. I felt him become rigid for a moment and his soothing actions stilled; then he exhaled.

  “It was only a matter of time,” he said soberly and began to lift me to a standing a position.

  I watched as he hoisted his pants up to hang loosely around his hips and pick my clothes up off the floor. There was pity in his eyes as he took his time fastening my bra and sliding my arms through the sleeves of my wrap dress and tying it around me. He crouched down in front of me and tapped the back of my knee twice quickly, telling me to raise my leg; and I wobbled. He grabbed my shaking hand and rested it on his sturdy shoulder.

  “Hold on,” he said as he lifted my instep and slid the leg of my panties around my right ankle and then he did the same with the other.

  He let his hand move slowly, dragging the scrap of fabric up both sides of my legs to cover me, pulling the fabric of my dress along with it, and then he bowed his head, resting his cheek against my abdomen under my breasts, and his arms circled my waist as he pulled me closer and inhaled deeply.

  And then I realized he had no intention of lett
ing me keep my son.

  “You’re still going to take him from me, aren’t you?” I verbalized the dawning realization that took place in my head as I stared at his back wall lined with accolades, photos with diplomats, captains of industry, politicians, and degrees from Ivy League schools.

  He was taking his time because he was kicking the habit for good. He wordlessly unwrapped his arms and stood, buckling his belt and sliding on his dark gray button up.

  “You cared for me, once,” he recollected in a distant voice as he slid on his jacket and straightened himself out. He looked up at me with resolute eyes. “But now he does,” he explained as his eyes narrowed into the predatory look I’d seen before—and my heart clenched. Tristan was his. Tristan cared for him, so he was keeping him. It made him worthy of his distorted protection. I wanted to tell him I wished I’d never met him, but that would be an insult to my son. But I wished I’d never found him again.

  “He only loves you because he’s doesn’t know better,” I replied coldly. I knew it was a cruel thing to say, but I feared it was the only truth. And if he took him, he’d ruin him, too.

  “Maybe that goes for all of us. I’m acutely aware of the rules, Ms. Valentine,” he said sharply, and anger and loss flickered in the eyes behind the stony face. “Go,” he commanded and went back to the papers on his desk as if he wasn’t the blackest soul I’d ever known.