At Mr. Cartwright's Command

by Ash, Ingrid

  “Tamara, I thought I'd never see you again,” he says, pulling me into a warm embrace.

  “It's good to see you, too.”

  He pulls back, holding me at an arms length. “I'm glad you've come to visit me,” he mocks, and I laugh along with him.

  “I...I'm here to see him. Just for a moment.”

  He sighs and his features droop. “Would you believe me if I told you he isn't here?” I shake my head. Ronald glances behind me and steps outside of the house, leaving the door only cracked behind him.

  “I'm afraid I can't let you in.”

  I roll my eyes. “He doesn't want to see me,” I state. I could have figured as much.

  “On the contrary,” Ronald replies.

  My eyes dart up at him with surprise. “So he does want to see me?”

  He shoves his hands in his pockets, pausing for a moment. “I don't think it's a good idea for you two to see each other. At least not now.”

  “So you're banning me from seeing him?”

  “And I'm banning him from seeing you. It's my job to look at for both of your interests.”

  I fold my arms across my chest. “Ronald.”

  He holds up his hands and says, “I know, I know, it's not my place. But look what happened the last time you two were together? As much as I want you two to be endgame, you need your time apart right now.”

  “I—what? Endgame?”

  He smiles, shrugging a shoulder. “What can I say, I'm a hopeless romantic.”

  “Yeah, well, not to break your heart but, endgame we're not.”

  He raises a thick eyebrow at me. “Oh really?”

  I nod. “I just need to tell him something, that's all. I'm not staying. And it's extremely important.” He lets out a long sigh and doesn't respond. “Please, Ronald?”

  “Oh, alright,” he relents, “who am I to refuse you?”

  I smile back at him as he steps inside the house, opening the door wide and ushering me back in. The place is just like I remembered it—still ornate, luxurious, and ultimately, empty. I follow him to the back of the house, right outside Mr. Cartwright's study. He motions to me to stay in the hall as he steps inside with a knock.

  “Master Cartwright,” he says, clearing his throat. “There's someone here to see you.”

  “If it's my father throw him out,” he says. I peep into the room, walking quietly up behind Ronald to see Mr. Cartwright sitting in a plush velvet chair, looking down at a book with a glass in his hand. He's wearing pajamas and slippers, and his hair is surprisingly unkempt and hanging in his face. I've never seen him looking quite undone like this before, but even when he's disheveled he's still ridiculously handsome.

  “It's not. I think you're going to want to see this one,” Ronald says.

  Mr. Cartwright looks up with a slightly agitated scowl on his face. But the moment he sees me and our eyes lock, his features soften. He doesn't say a thing, he just stares, and I can't read him but I know he isn't happy to see me. Why would he be after our last meeting?

  Ronald turns to see that I've entered the room. “Well, I suppose I'll leave you two alone,” he mutters as he exits, closing the door behind him.

  “Hi,” I say to him, stepping further into the room. His eyes don't leave me as he claps the book shut and places it on the small table beside him. Without saying a word, he raises his glass to his lips, finishing off the last few drops of golden-brown liquid, before getting up and moving across the room.

  “I'd offer you some but it looks like I'm out,” he mumbles, holding up a crystal decanter with a tiny bit of liquor swishing around the bottle, which he pours in his own glass and promptly drinks.

  I step towards him. “Finish that whole bottle off yourself?” I ask curiously as I lean a hip against the table, a few feet away from him.

  “Don't pretend to care about my well being, Tamara,” he says.

  “I don't.” I reply.

  He turns towards me, his eyes traveling the length of my body as if he's studying my clothing. “You're looking well,” he remarks coldly. “Did you buy this with my father's money?” he asks, twisting his finger around the hem of my blouse.

  I quickly snatch it away from him. “Don't.”

  He chuckles drunkenly. “What, did you fuck him too?”

  I groan, gripping the edge of the table, trying to control my frustration. He's trying his best to get under my skin and it's working. “I don't know why I even bothered coming here.”

  “You came here to torment me. Just like you always manage to do,” he replies. He takes another swig and slams the glass back on the table, loud enough to make me jump. “Now, you didn't answer my question.”

  “Are you serious?” I ask him, my voice sounding high pitched and frankly, insulted.

  “It's a simple yes or no question.”

  “You think that I slept with your father? For money? That's a low blow, even coming from you.”

  “You're a regular old hypocrite, you know that?” he shouts. “You're a fucking hypocrite! And I expected better from you.”

  “How am I a hypocrite?”

  He takes long strides towards me and says, “Because you wouldn't let me live down the fact that I wanted my inheritance and what did you do? You let my father buy you. You took the money, and chose that over me.”

  “It's not the same and you know it,” I reply, holding a finger up to him.

  “No, you're right, it's not. Because I still wanted you. I did everything I fucking could to keep you, but you threw me away completely for a few fucking dollars.”

  “You know what? If you want to think I'm a hypocrite then so be it,” I say, “I just came to say thank you for taking care of my mother. You probably saved her life, so thank you. Thank you for doing that for me.”

  His eyes widen with surprise. “How did you find out about that?” he asks, his voice softening.

  I hold up a hand and say “It doesn't matter. You know, I was mad about it at first. Because I didn't think she deserved it.”

  His eyebrows go up and he says, “But she's your mother.”

  “Yeah and? Walt is your father and you hate him.”

  His jaw sets and his face looks pained. “I hate him because he killed mine,” he says.

  “What?” Did I just hear him right.

  He looks troubled. That familiar hurt look returns to his eyes, as hard as he tries to hide it. He paces across the room, running his hand frantically through his hair. “If my mother were still alive and I had the chance to save her I would,” he says, his voice breaking. “I'd do anything for her.”

  I drop my bag to the ground and rush to his side. “What did your father do to her?” I ask.

  He looks away from me, his throat bobbing—I can see the pain on his face. His eyes look so distant. “He didn't kill her by force, he just sucked every last bit of light out of her.” he says. He closes his eyes tight. “She was young and so, so beautiful, but he only told her the opposite. She could only see the good in others so she believed he loved her and, well, he believed in drinking, gambling and other women. It only made her depression worse when he wouldn't stop. He tormented her until she simply couldn't live with it any more.” He lets out a deep breath as I listen to him intently. He looks down at me with watery eyes and says, “My father only loves money and himself. My mother is the only one who ever loved me.”

  My heart breaks for him. Not just for his loss, or how cruel his father is, but because he believes that lie. I want to tell him otherwise, but the words won't come out. “I'm sorry,” I whisper.

  He takes a deep breath and smooths his hair back with his hand. “It doesn't matter,” he says dismissively, his voice now cold in tone. He steps around me, picks up my bag and hands it to me. “Now I believe you have someplace to be.” I hesitate to take it. How can I leave him now, after all of that? But he shoves the bag against me and says, “Go.”

  I don't take it. Instead, I inch towards him and slip into his arms, wrapping my hands around
his waist and holding him tight. He slowly breaks down, wrapping his arms around my shoulders and waist, burying his face in my hair. I can feel his sorrow in the way he clings to me.

  “How was she?” he asks.

  “Hmm?”

  “Your mother.”

  “She's sober. She has a job now,” I explain. “She even remembered me. She knew who I was just by looking at me.”

  “Of course she did, that's what mothers do.”

  I pull back, far enough to look him in the eye. “I hated her for so many years. When I found her today I thought I'd tell her how much pain she caused me. But as soon as I spoke to her I didn't want to anymore. I didn't tell her, but I think I've finally forgiven her. And that's because of you.”

  He brushes my hair back with his hand and strokes my cheek. “I'm glad you've found some peace.”

  We both slowly pull away from each other. I watch him closely for a moment, unsure of what to do next. And then he lifts his hand, with my bag still dangling from it, and hands it to me. Reluctantly I take it, wrapping my fingers around the handle, my skin brushing against his in the process.

  I turn and make my way to the door, wishing he would stop me. Wishing he would call off the stupid wedding and say to hell with his inheritance. Wishing he would choose me. But he doesn't.

  “I didn't keep the money,” I tell him from the doorway. “Not most of it, anyway.” Mr. Cartwright doesn't make a sound nor do I turn to see his reaction. With a soft sigh of finality I say, “Goodbye, Mr. Cartwright,” before exiting the large wooden doors and closing them tight behind me.

  Guilt for leaving him in such a self-destructive state weighs heavy on me as I make my way down his hall. He made his choice, and I have to remember that. I can't give him all of me when he'll only give me half in return, and that's something he'll have to learn to understand in time.

  As I step to turn the corner I hear a loud crash coming from the study; it sounds like breaking glass. I spin around and see the doors fly open. Mr. Cartwright barrels through the door way and down the hall, headed straight for me.

  He takes me roughly by the waist, pulling me into him. “I'm not fucking letting you go, ever,” he growls, and my heart pounds against my chest. He hoists me up into his arms, pinning me against the wall, his lips crashing hard against mine. I can't protest and I can't speak; I can barely think at all. All I can do is melt into his violent kiss, my legs wrapping tight around his waist.

  I cling to him as he carries me down the hall and around the corner, his mouth mauling mine as we go. We stumble into a room at the end of the hall. He slams the door shut behind us and soon after we both crash against the mattress, a heap of criss-crossing arms and intersecting legs. Our clothes fly off, piece by piece, between violent, aching kisses. He cups my breast, massaging my malleable flesh before tearing my bra off of my body. His hair is like silk between my fingers and I pull it tight, groaning when he bites my lip almost too hard.

  He looks up at me when he breaks our kiss, lips pink and swollen and eyes filled with fire—a fire I know burns for me and only me. He keeps those eyes locked on mine as his lips travel down my chest and over the slope of my breast, stopping only to flick my erect nipple with his tongue. He kisses my stomach and my hip before gripping my panties with his teeth and pulling them clean off. He forces his head between my thighs, holding my hips in place as he dives into my depths. With a loud moan my back arches up off the bed, stars bursting behind my eyes as I open up wider to invite him in.

  He laps up all of my juices, not sparing a single drop. His tongue is rough and hot, leading the way over my skin as he travels back up my body. Our mouths collide again, our tongues entwining and we practically devour each other whole. He wraps a hand around my thigh, hoisting it high above his hip. And then he pulls my hands, which are grasping desperately at his shoulder and hair, and holds them tight against the supple mattress beside my head..

  He adjusts himself, finds my entrance and thrusts deep inside. My hands ball into tight fists, my body writhing beneath his hard, muscled chest. My thighs clasp his hips as he buries himself inside me, harder and faster with every grunt. This isn't gentle, tender lovemaking. He fucks me like he needs me, or like he can't breathe without me. He fucks me like it's the first time, and the last.

  My body shudders beneath him, and even my own high pitched gasps sound as if they're coming from miles away. His body goes limp in my arms. I cling tight to him as we lay together in silence. All I can hear is white noise and the faint sound of his breathing. I can feel him inhale and exhale, slower over time against my chest, his lips softly brushing my collarbone for God knows how long. Until finally he untangles himself from me and slides beside me.

  “You're still going to leave me,” he says, pushing me on to my side and curling his body around mine. It's not so much a question, or even a realization; it's more like a resignation. I let out a sound that's little more than a whimper. His hand slides under my arm, taking my breast and sliding over my nipple. Just the feeling of him touching me like this is enough to make me clench and fidget in his arms.

  My hand comes to rest on top of his as he wraps his mouth around my shoulder. He slides my leg forward with his own, and I feel him push into me again. I let out a moan, his lips moving to the back of my neck as he rocks me into the sheets.

  *

  Mr. Cartwright's lips move while he sleeps. He lies next to me, on his side, his bare shoulders bathed in the golden light of dawn. He looks so perfect, vulnerable and silently murmuring to me in slumber. I watch him for a while, not wanting to stir or wake him until I have to.

  I perch myself on the edge of the bed, stretching my sore muscles and gently messaging the kink in my neck. I glance back behind me to make sure Mr. Cartwright is still fast asleep—his lashes flutter but he doesn't move a muscle. With a deep sigh I carefully retrieve my clothing from the floor and pull them back on; underwear first, and then my skirt. The bed creaks and moves behind me just as I attempt to pull on my top.

  His hand is on my hip first, and then my bare waist. He slides across the bed until he's kneeling behind me with his knees framing my hips. His lips are soft against the back of my neck, brushing my skin like a feather as he encircles my waist with his arms. He pulls me back into the warmth of his body, his mouth opening and taking in my skin.

  How does he make me crave him, every single time, with something as simple as a touch and a kiss? I breathe with him, letting my body melt into his. He touches my shoulder with his lips, nearly devouring my skin as he makes his way up to the nape of my neck.

  “I have to go,” I tell him. It's weak and unconvincing. He stops but he doesn't let me out of his embrace.

  He kisses my neck, and then my jaw, and then my cheek. I turn towards him, ready to repeat what I said before, but when I look into his eyes I can't. They're different now— soft and quiet, and his gaze is unwavering. He presses his lips against mine, his tongue slipping past my tongue, and he suckles my lip between his.

  Our foreheads rest against each others, as he plants another chaste kiss on my lips. “Tamara, I love you,” he says.

  Is it possible to physically feel your heart break? I think so. Hearing someone tell you they love you should be a joyful event. It's something I've yearned to hear from someone—hell, anyone—for far too long. But now I wish he'd take it back. He knows I can't stay.

  I kiss him one last time, deep enough that we'll both feel it on our lips for days to come, and then I untangle myself from him. I gather my things and adjust my clothes as I make my way to the door. With my hand on the knob I hesitate. I wish there were something I could tell him. I could tell him the truth, that I love him too, but that would make things worse. Or I could tell him I don't love him so that he can finally let me go, but that would be too cruel.

  I turn back, but not far enough to actually look him in the eye, and simply say, “Goodbye, Mr. Cartwright.”

  CHAPTER 21

  One year later

&nbs
p; “Tamara. Tamara! Tamaraaaa!”

  Oh God, what now?

  Marcus wailing my name is always a bad sign. I swear, I love him like a brother but he needs to get his act together. He and I met two weeks to the day after I arrived in London. He and his younger sister were first generation Nigerian Americans backpacking through Europe to celebrate her high school graduation. I guess you could say it was our accents that drew us together in the shitty hostel we shared. The three of us hit it off and spent a whirlwind three days together in the city, until he drunkenly let it slip that his sister would be going back home alone. I was travel weary at that point, having trekked through Paris, Italy, and Germany. Money was dwindling, despite the hole in the wall accommodations I chose. It was time to set down some roots. And the rest was history.

  I throw my books and coursework down on the dining room table and make my way down the hall, passing my room and heading straight for his.

  “You're still in bed?” I say when I find him wrapped up in his covers, windows blacked out with heavy curtains, and his arm thrown over his eyes.

  “Yes.”

  I glance down at my watch. “Its 3pm.” Not to say I'm surprised. Marcus is two years younger than I am, and his family back home was pretty conservative. He had to hide a lot of who he really was for many years, so I can't blame him for finding himself now. But maybe he could tone it down a bit on weekdays.

  “Yes, I know, I'm sick.”

  I roll my eyes and say, “You're drunk, there's a difference.”

  “I'm not drunk, I'm hungover.”

  “In the middle of the week.”

  “Monday's are a bitch, honey.”

  I chuckle and reply, “Yeah, except it's Wednesday.”

  He groans loudly, throwing his arm over his eyes, “Can you get me some black coffee or some Gatorade or something?”

  “No! I'm not your personal servant!”

  “Pretty please, just one cup?”

  “Alright, fine. One cup, but this is the last time,” I say as I exit the room and head for our tiny kitchen. I shake my head, thinking about how badly he needs to get his shit together as I prepare a mug of instant coffee for him, and return to his room with it minutes later.