Exposed

by Jasinda Wilder

  Their hands clutch the crystal tumbler, thin lips touch the rim, golden liquid slides. Tongues taste, a pink smear visible through the distortion of the crystal. "Damn. That's fuckin' amazing."

  "For ten thousand dollars a bottle, it had better be very good," I answer.

  They do not flinch at the number. Of course not. Today they are a rich boy of the highest caliber. Family homes in the Caribbean, Mediterranean, in the south of France, even a ranch on the pampas of Argentina. They are used to absurdly expensive goods, watches, liquors, cars, private jets. A ten-thousand-dollar bottle of scotch is de rigueur.

  This does not, however, mean they are possessed of a refined palate or discerning taste.

  Or manners.

  Of course not.

  I struggle to remember the name from the dossier; this is their first appointment.

  Clint? Flint? Something like that. Bland. Like them. Tall, but not too tall. Flat brown eyes. Average brown hair, albeit expensively cut and coiffured. High, sharp cheekbones, at least. Not too well muscled or defined, no extravagant amounts of time in the gym for them, it would seem. A kind of throaty voice, as if they speak through a bubble of phlegm. It is maddening, actually.

  Clint. That's their name.

  "So, Madame X." Doc Martens rest on my coffee table, rudely, barbarically. "How's this work, exactly?"

  I inhale sharply, for patience and for effect. "First, Clint, you remove your feet from my furniture. Then, you tell me whether you read the pamphlet and the contract."

  "I skimmed the pamphlet. Sounds like a modern version of Emily Post etiquette lessons for men, except you charge a grand an hour." A sip of the scotch. "And yeah, I read the contract. I mean, no shit. Who doesn't read a contract like that before signing it? It's not like online terms and conditions or whatever. So I get it. No touching you, no hitting on you. Whatever. I've got a girlfriend, and I don't cheat, so that's not a problem. I just want to get this bullshit over with, to be honest."

  "Why are you here, Clint?"

  "'Cause Daddy holds the purse strings for now, and Daddy says I need my edges smoothed out." This is said with extreme sarcasm, virulent bitterness.

  "And you disagree?"

  A shrug. "No shit. I mean, I don't see the point. What are you gonna do, tell me to stop swearing and teach me which fork to use at black-tie dinners? Fuck that."

  I am very tired of this whole ruse, suddenly.

  "That's precisely what I'm supposed to do. Tell you to clean up your language. Tell you to keep your stupid, dirty boots off other people's furniture when you're in their home. And yes, I'm supposed to smooth out your edges, teach you how to behave in polite society as if you have a single well-mannered bone in your entire uncouth, barbaric body." I let out a breath, rub the bridge of my nose. "But, honestly, Clint, I don't see the point. You are probably irredeemable."

  "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

  "It means you are a grotesque barbarian with no manners whatsoever. It means that you have no charm. No poise. It means, furthermore, that I don't really believe you even have the potential to learn any of that. It means, Clint, that you are a waste of my time."

  "Well Jesus, you're a real bitch, you know that?" They stand up, brown eyes blazing with hate. "Fuck you. I don't have to take this from you."

  "Indeed you do not." I gesture at the door. "How does that phrase go? Oh yes: don't let the door hit you on the way out."

  They leave, and I am relieved.

  I really don't know how much longer I can do this.

  Pretend that what I do is "work." That it holds any value. That I like it. That it means anything whatsoever. To me, to the clients, to Caleb. To anyone. It's just . . . emptiness. Time wasted. A game. All of us playing pretend.

  I can't do it anymore.

  I am suddenly overwhelmed, overcome. Anxious. Restless.

  Angry.

  I have this feeling inside me that defies description. A yawning chasm, a metaphysical hunger. A need to go somewhere, to do something, but I don't know where, or what. A need for an intangible something. The need borders on panic, a feeling that if I don't leave this condo, leave this building right now I might explode, might devolve into arm-flapping, screaming, gibbering insanity.

  I stand up suddenly, try to force a measure of calm into myself by smoothing my white Valentino Crepe Couture dress over my hips. Wiggle my foot in my lavender Manolo Blahnik sandals. As if such physical gestures could soothe the disquiet within me.

  I'm in the elevator, suddenly, and the ding of the car arriving drags with it a host of memories. I have the key now. Or a copy of it, at least. I can insert the key myself, turn it to whichever floor I want. The doors slide open and I'm shaking as I step into the elevator car. Fighting hyperventilation.

  I need to go.

  I need out.

  I need to breathe.

  I cannot.

  Cannot.

  I clench my fists and squeeze my eyes shut and stand in the center of the elevator and force my lungs to expand and contract. Compel my hand to extend and my fingers to fit the key to the slot, compel my fingers to twist the key. I don't pay attention to which floor I have chosen. It doesn't matter. Anywhere but here.

  Ground floor. The lobby. Hushed conversation between a man in a suit and a woman behind a massive marble desk. The lobby is an expanse of black marble, three-foot-by-three-foot tiles veined with gold streaks. Soaring ceilings, easily fifty feet high. Thirty-foot-tall cypress trees rooted under the floor itself lining the walls on either side of the lobby. It is a space designed to intimidate. The reception desk is a continent unto itself, the receptionists on pedestals behind it, literally looking down at visitors. It reminds me of a judge's podium from centuries past, when the judge literally sat several feet above you, thus engendering the phrase "to look down upon" someone in arrogance.

  My heels click-clack-click-clack across the floor, each step echoing like the report of a rifle. Stares follow me. Eyes watch me.

  I am beautiful.

  I look expensive.

  Because I am.

  I did not know this, before.

  Before I made the naked journey from my condo prison up to the penthouse, thus making a choice for my life.

  After that, I began learning.

  That my beloved crimson Jimmy Choo stilettos cost two thousand dollars. That my Valentino dress, the one I have on right now, cost nearly three thousand dollars. That each article of clothing I own, down to my underwear, is the most expensive of its kind there could be.

  I discovered this, and didn't know what to do with the knowledge. I still don't. I didn't pay for them. I didn't choose them.

  I allow my thoughts to wander as I cross the vast lobby, forcing myself to walk as if I am confident, arrogant. I let my hips sway and keep my shoulders back and my chin high. Focus my gaze on the revolving doors miles and miles in the distance, across acres of black marble. Acknowledge none of the stares. In the center of the lobby there are twelve large black leather couches arranged in a wide square, three couches to a side, each separated by small tables. People wait and converse and perhaps do business deals, and they all watch me cross the lobby. Surreptitiously, I count them. Fourteen.

  Fourteen people watch me cross the lobby, as if I am utterly unexpected, a rare sighting.

  A leopard stalking down Fifth Avenue, perhaps.

  I try to capture that essence, pretend that I am a predator rather than prey.

  It gets me through the revolving glass doors and outside. It is late August, hot, the air thick. The sun bright, beating down on me from between skyscrapers. The noise of Manhattan assaults me in a physical wave: sirens, a police car zipping past me, howling. An ambulance in pursuit. A garbage truck groaning around a corner, engine grumbling. Dozens of motors revving as the light turns green twenty feet to my right.

  I force myself to walk. Refuse to let my knees fold in, refuse to let my lungs seize. The panic is a knife in my throat, a blade in my chest, hot wires
constricting my breath. I am clutched by talons of panic. The sirens did it, the sounds of sirens howling like wild beasts, howling in my ear.

  Tires squeal somewhere and I cannot see, my eyes are squeezed shut, and hot dark marble burns my bicep as I lean against the side of the building, succumbing to panic.

  I hear questions, someone asking if I'm all right.

  Clearly I am not, but I am beyond answering.

  Until I feel a hand on my shoulder.

  Hear a voice in my ear.

  Heat from a big body crowding against me, blocking the world and the noises and the questions.

  "Hey. Breathe, okay? Breathe. Breathe, X." That voice, like the warmth of the sun made sonic. "It's me. I've got you."

  No. It cannot be.

  Cannot be.

  I look up.

  It is.

  Logan.

  TWO

  What--what are you--" I cough, clear my throat, try again. "What are you doing here, Logan?"

  His palm touches my cheek, and I can breathe. "Stalking you, obviously."

  "Logan." I manage to sound scolding. It is a feat of will.

  I hear the grin in his voice, but also the strain. "Actually, I wasn't kidding. I really am stalking you. I mean, I've been looking for you. Hoping to get a glimpse of you. Talk to you, even just for a second."

  "Why?" This is weak, small, confused.

  "Because I can't stop thinking about you, X. I've tried, and I suck at it. I'm really good at thinking about you, it seems, and not so good at not thinking about you."

  This brings a smile to my lips. "You must be a glutton for punishment then."

  "I am, though. I love punishment." His hands weave into mine, help me to my feet. "The real truth is, I have business on this end of town, the next building over. I couldn't help passing by this building and wondering if you were up there. If you're happy. I never thought I'd actually get to see you, though."

  Now I'm confused. Which of his statements is the truth? "You're contradicting yourself, Logan."

  "I know. I'm trying to obfuscate how debilitated I am at running into you like this."

  "Obfuscate. That's a wonderful word." What I don't ask is why he's so debilitated. I don't think the answer would do me good.

  "Are you obfuscated, X?"

  "Completely." Am I gazing up at him?

  I am. Very much so. I am faint. My heart is pitter-pattering. I want to feel his hands in mine again.

  "Good," he says. "Then my work here is done."

  "Jokes do not suit this situation, Logan."

  "No?" He sounds serious, suddenly. His voice smooth, too smooth. Too featureless. A little cold. "What am I supposed to say then? That I'm still absurdly, childishly hurt by the fact that you chose him over me? Or that I legit just cannot stop thinking about you? Wanting you? That I keep wanting to show up at your door again and literally carry you off over my shoulder like a fucking Viking? What is the right etiquette for a situation like this, Madame X?"

  "Don't, Logan. Please don't." I don't mind begging.

  "I can still feel you, your bare legs around my waist." His voice is in my ear, murmuring. Intimate. Sensuous. "I can feel the heat from your tight pussy against my stomach. I can smell you. I can feel how wet you are for me. For me. You wanted me, X. I could have done anything I wanted with you. I had you naked, in my arms. Wet and wanting and desperate and all over me. I could have laid you down on the carpet right there in the hallway and fucked you senseless, and I guarantee you, if I had, you wouldn't have walked away from me."

  "Then why didn't you?" Oh, I am damned.

  "Because you weren't ready, and you still aren't. You were scared, and you still are. You were like a frightened little rabbit out of its hole for the first time, blinking in the sunlight. There's a lioness inside you, X, you just have to find it and become it."

  "I didn't even make it ten feet from the door on my own, Logan," I whisper against the soft cotton of his T-shirt.

  "But you walked out, didn't you? Baby steps to the elevator, Bob."

  "What?"

  "What About Bob?" he asks, expectant. "No? Nothing? Okay, never mind. It's a movie reference."

  I sigh. "Total amnesia, remember? Movies are not exactly a common feature in my life, Logan."

  "Well, that'll be the first thing I'll rectify. You and me, we'll stay naked in my bed for a month, having hot, wild monkey sex and watching movies. Catch you up on all the great cinema you're missing out on. What About Bob? is a classic. Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Goodfellas, The Godfather, shit, I'll even throw in some rom-com for you. Notting Hill is a great one, or How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days. Or, wait, wait, Love Actually. God, that movie is awesome, although I know some people hate it. I love it. It's real."

  "Hot and wild monkey sex, Logan? Really?"

  He laughs in my ear, pulling me to his chest, arms wrapping around me. "Yes, X. Hot and wild monkey sex. It's the greatest thing on earth. No inhibitions, no time, no responsibilities, nothing but both of us taking as much pleasure from each other as we can, for hours and hours and hours until we're too exhausted to even move."

  "And watching movies."

  "And watching movies. And drinking beer by the case, and ordering pizza and Chinese takeout."

  "I've never had either," I admit.

  "You're not for real, are you?" He is utterly incredulous.

  "And you're not still surprised at my lack of experience with things you deem normal, are you?"

  "It just seems wrong," he says. "Beer and pizza . . . it's like--a basic, elemental part of life. Seriously. Without beer and pizza and movies, you're not really living."

  "I certainly feel alive."

  "X . . . you are alive, yes, but are you living? Not just existing, not just continuing to be physically present in the world day by day, but . . . enjoying life. Making a difference. Being totally you. Owning who you are and choosing a life that fulfills you. Because from where I'm standing . . . it doesn't seem that way."

  "And beer, pizza, and movies is a part of that, is it?" His words hit too close to bull's-eye, and my defenses are engaging.

  A sigh. "No, X. It is for me, yes. But in the context of this conversation, beer, pizza, and movies are a standin for you having the freedom to make your own choices. You're still wearing designer clothes, I notice. Probably designer lingerie underneath, too. When I took you shopping, I bought you basic clothes. Basic comfortable jeans, a T-shirt, basic bra and underwear. Nothing fancy. And you seemed . . . I don't know, more you in them. This is still you, this designer-clothes-fancy Madame X. But that's Madame X. Not X, just X. And I don't think you're free to choose that. Not while you're with him."

  "Logan--"

  "All I'm going to say here is that to me, you deserve more. More than just fancy clothes and a penthouse prison."

  "It's not a prison, Logan." I say this because something inside me insists I do, even though his words yet again strike hard and accurate.

  "I want you to leave him and be with me," he murmurs. "I have absolutely no problem saying it in so many words, right here, right now. That's what I want. I want you. I want us. But I also want you to have a choice. I want you to be able to decide what you want out of life. Even if that isn't me. Which means I'll help you find what you want, regardless of the outcome for me."

  We're standing in the middle of the sidewalk not ten feet from the front door of Caleb's tower. This feels dangerous, somehow.

  "Logan . . . why?" I really do not understand. "Why do you care so much?"

  He shrugs. "I honestly don't know, X. I wish I did. It'd be a fuck of a lot easier for me if I could just walk away, if I could stay away. But I can't. I've tried." He gestures up at the tower. "He's not what you think, X. You have to see that much, at least."

  "Then what is he, Logan?"

  A frustrated groan. "Not a good person. Not who you think."

  "What proof do you have, Logan?" I hear myself ask.

  Do I need proof? More than the ev
idence of the third floor? Yet still I persist. I do not know why.

  I do, though. Don't I?

  Because Logan scares me. He challenges my conceptions, my worldview. Makes me want things I'm not sure I can have. Things I never thought I could have. He makes me feel like choices I never even knew existed are suddenly possible.

  Logan turns away, stares into nothingness, scrubs his hand through his hair. "None. Not yet, at least."

  A long, low, sleek, white vehicle slides up to the curb. It is a Maybach Landaulet 62. Worth somewhere between half a million and a million dollars. I've ridden in that exact vehicle. I know who is about to emerge.

  "Shit," Logan murmurs. He glances at me, eyes searching mine. Whatever he finds leaves him unhappy. "I'll find proof, X. I'll show you."

  I have no words; there is nothing to say. I can only watch him turn away, and feel a pang of sadness, a spear of distress. Something in him calls to me, speaks to my soul. The intensity of it frightens me. I do not know how to handle the power of what merely being near Logan does to me.

  The rear passenger-side door of the Maybach opens, disgorging a god of the tall, dark, and handsome variety.

  A displeased god. "Logan." This, in a deep, cold voice. "She made her choice."

  "Yeah. Doesn't mean it was the right one, though." Logan walks away then. Doesn't turn back.

  Something in me fractures.

  *

  Why were you speaking to him, X? And what are you doing out here?" Your voice is low and calm. Too low, too calm.

  "He was passing by. I ran into him."

  "What are you doing out here, X?" You repeat the question.

  I find a seed of courage. "Am I not allowed outside, Caleb?"

  Your eyes narrow. "Of course you are. You're not a prisoner. I just worry for you. The streets are unsafe, and you're prone to panic attacks."

  Prone to panic attacks. Yes. I am. But something about Logan soothes me. Makes me forget my panic. Makes it all okay.

  I do not say this, of course.

  "Sometimes I wonder if perhaps you don't want me to really get over them, though," I find myself saying. Unwisely. Foolishly. Courageously--the seed has germinated, perhaps. "I wonder if perhaps you just want me to stay up there in your tower, at your disposal."

  Your hand closes around my arm. "I'm not having this discussion with you out here."

  You pull me through the revolving door, back across the expansive marble lobby, and for some reason, I let you. I am outside myself, watching as I allow you to haul me into the private elevator, up and up and up back to the penthouse. Watching as you release my arm and pace in circles around me. You are, suddenly, a lion pacing in its cage, feral and furious, and I am a little lamb somehow stuck in the cage with the predator.