Madame X

by Jasinda Wilder

  My heart thuds as I take a couple quick steps away from the door, smoothing my expression into neutrality.

  Deep breaths. Focus. Put on the armor. No cracks, no chinks. Hard. Cold. Smooth. Unassailable. Imagine claws in place of fingernails. Viper eyes. Ice.

  Knock-knock.

  I glance at the clock: 6:17 A.M. One last deep breath, blown out through pursed lips. Twist the knob, swing open the door. "Mr. Drake." An arched eyebrow. "You're late."

  You bring up your arm, extend your wrist, bare your extravagant Blancpain watch. I loathe that movement: arm rises, flick the wrist forward. It's ostentatious, vain. And that watch? Easily three hundred thousand dollars. Alligator leather, eighteen-karat gold, sapphire crystal face . . . all the fancy trappings of the insecure wealthy. I am not impressed.

  "By like, two minutes, X." You breeze past me, and I gag on your cologne. You had to have bathed in it to stink so thickly of it. "It's cool, man. No big deal. Two minutes, whatever. I'm here."

  I remain standing by the door, hands at my sides, head high, staring down my nose at you. "No, Mr. Drake. Not whatever." I gesture at the door. "You may go. We are done here."

  You have the decency to look at least a little worried. "X, come on. It's two minutes. Who the fuck cares about two little minutes? I was on the phone."

  I know, I heard--I know better than to say this, however. "I care about two minutes, Mr. Drake. One minute, thirty seconds, a single moment. Late is late. You should be knocking on this door at six fourteen. Punctuality is a key trait of the successful, Mr. Drake."

  "My dad is late for board meetings all the time," you point out, not moving from your position three steps into my condo.

  I quirk an eyebrow. "Your father is the founder, CEO, and majority shareholder of one of the most powerful corporations on earth. He has power, which grants him the privilege of being late, to show up whenever he wishes, because he wields the control. You wield nothing, William. You receive an allowance. You are tolerated. Your lot in life is to do what you're told, to show up where you are told to show up, when you are told to show up, and not a single millisecond later. Your father is one of the biggest, baddest sharks in the ocean, and you are a guppy. Good-bye, William. Perhaps next week you will think twice about yapping on your mobile phone outside my door, thus wasting my time, which--need I remind you--is infinitely more valuable than yours will ever be."

  You cross the three steps between us in a blur. Your hand is on my throat, cutting off my air supply. Leaving bruises, certainly. You are nose-to-nose with me, eyes radiating fury, panic, and hate. "What did you hear, whore?"

  I blink, forcing myself to remain calm. My toes barely touch the floor, my high heels drooping off my feet. I cannot breathe. Stars blink and flash in my eyes. I do not fight, do not scrabble at your arms or wrists. I stare at you. Make sure you are holding my gaze. And then, deliberately, I let my gaze flick upward, to the corner of the ceiling where the camera is hidden. Your eyes follow mine, and although you cannot possibly see it as it is far too well hidden, my meaning is clear. I lift my chin, arch an eyebrow.

  You drop me. I inhale a deep breath, forcing myself to do so slowly, to lock my knees and remain upright, on my feet. Instinct has me wanting to collapse to the floor, gasping, rubbing my throat. But I do not. Dignity is my armor.

  Ding.

  Elevator doors whoosh open, and you go pale. My door is still open. You back up a step, two, three. Shake your head. Four enormous men stalk through the doorway, wearing identical black suits, white shirts, and slim black ties, with earpieces in their right ears, cords trailing under their collars.

  "You will come with us, please, Mr. Drake." One of them speaks, but his lips barely move so it could have come from any one of them.

  It is politely phrased, of course, because you are heir to a multibillion-dollar company. But then, you put your hands on me, and Caleb does not tolerate that. Not at all. Not from anyone. If you were not such a pathetic, nasty piece of scum, I would almost pity you. I know these men, and they do not feel mercy.

  But then, neither do I.

  You puff out your chest. Your lip curls in a derisive sneer. "Fuck off. You can't tell me to do shit." You breeze past me.

  You make it perhaps four full strides, which brings you out of my condo and into the hallway. You even round the corner. Big mistake, William. There are no cameras out there. One of the guards moves like a striking cobra, faster than thought. A single blow, jackhammer hard, to your liver. You drop like a sack of flour, moaning, writhing.

  "Len," I say. One of the guards swivels his head on his thick neck, glances at me. I beckon to him, a crook of my finger.

  He moves to stand in front of me, hands clasped behind his back. "Ma'am?"

  "I overheard him speaking on the phone to a friend. I heard some . . . rather unsavory pieces of information." I point at the ceiling. "Are your microphones powerful enough to have caught it?"

  Len's face remains impassive. "I don't know what you're--"

  "Don't insult my intelligence, Len."

  A pause. "I'll check the tapes, ma'am." Len glances at you. "He's a piece of shit."

  "He's a predator, Len. A sick, twisted criminal. He has a woman held captive somewhere, and he's going to do something awful to her, if he hasn't already."

  "You fucking bitch!" you rasp from the floor. "You can't prove shit."

  One of the guards puts a large, polished-to-a-shine dress shoe on your throat. "You don't speak to Madame X that way, boy."

  "My father will have all of your jobs," you threaten.

  Len laughs. "There are people in this world far more dangerous than your father, kid. Our employer makes your daddy look like a sad little kitten."

  You glance at me, curious now. "X? She's just a whore."

  The shoe presses down, and you choke. Len strides over to you, kneels beside you. "Kid, you have no clue what you're talking about. My friends and I? We're just pawns on the chessboard. X? She's the queen. And you? You're not even on the board. Your precious papa? He might rank as high as a knight. Maybe." Len reaches into his suit coat pocket, pulls out a copy of the contract. "And this? This is a legally binding document, signed by you and your daddy. There's a whole shitload of fine print on this thing, son. You know what that fine print says? It says that my friends and I are going to stomp the sniveling fuck out of your puny little corpse, and then you're gonna show us your little playroom, and then we're going to drag you to the nearest police precinct. And then . . . and then our employer is going to sue your father for every dollar and every share he's worth, and there's nothing anyone can do to stop us. Get me . . . son?"

  You quiver. You want to bluff, you want to bluster. You have never been bullied or threatened before. I doubt you have ever even felt pain. Lily-white little pissant. But Len's eyes, they are a shade of steel-gray that brings to mind razor blades and gunmetal. They are not just cold eyes; ice is cold, winter is cold. Len's eyes? They are vacuum cold. Deep space cold. Zero Kelvin cold. They are not lifeless, because they exude threat, like those of a leopard stalking prey. They hold truths of a dripping-scarlet variety.

  Len glances at me. "We can handle things from here, ma'am."

  I take that as the cue it is and return inside. Close the door. But I can't resist standing with my ear to the door. There are sounds that make my gut twist. Thuds, smacks, crunches. The sounds gradually become . . . wet.

  I shiver, and push away from the door.

  Eventually there's the ding of the elevator, and I am alone once more. Forty-seven minutes until my next client.

  Hands shaking, I make a mug of tea. Earl Grey, a touch of milk. By the time I'm swallowing the final mouthful, the elevator dings again, and my door opens.

  The figure that stalks through my door is not a client.

  *

  Fury turns dark eyes darker. Lids narrowed to slits. Chest swelling and compressing, fingers curled into fists.

  "Are you okay, X?" Voice like thunder, rumbling on t
he horizon.

  I shrug. "It was . . . unpleasant, but I will be fine." My voice is steady, but raspy from being choked.

  Hands on my shoulders, gently but firmly holding me in place. Eyes sweep over my face, searching. Flick down to my throat. "He bruised you."

  I touch my throat where William grabbed me. The flesh there is tender. I twist gingerly out of the hold on my shoulders, turn to the mirror on the wall above a small decorative side table. My skin is dark, the color of caramel, maybe even a shade or two darker. I don't bruise easily, but there are fingerprint-sized bruises on my throat. My eyes are reddened. My voice is hoarse, raspy.

  Presence behind me, hot and huge and angry. "That little fuck is lucky Len got to him before I did."

  That makes me shudder, because I'm pretty sure William will never again be as pretty as he once was. Nor as . . . healthy. "I'm fine."

  "He's cost me money. You can't work the rest of today, at least. Maybe longer. You can't see clients with bruises on your throat."

  So much for concern, it would seem. I push away a knot of bitterness.

  "Did Len check the tapes?" I ask.

  "Why do you care?"

  "I heard what he said to his friend. He should be stopped."

  "A report has been filed. The police are investigating." It is not an answer, but then I know better than to expect a confirmation of the cameras and microphones.

  I know they are there, but no one will outright confirm it. It is some kind of secret, as if I am not supposed to know that every move I make, every word I speak is watched and overheard. It is for my own protection, I do realize that. Today's events prove as much. But most days, the utter lack of privacy grates, weighs heavily.

  "I will be able to work tomorrow," I say.

  "Dr. Horowitz will be by later today to check on you. Take it easy for the rest of today." A nose in my hair, near my ear. Inhalation, exhalation, slow, deliberate, with ever so slight a waver in the exhalation. "I'm glad you're okay, X. No one will ever put their hands on you ever again. Clients will be even more thoroughly vetted from now on. That should not have happened. If you'd been seriously hurt, I don't know what I would have done."

  "Trained a new Madame X, probably," I say, recklessly. Foolishly. Stupidly.

  "There will never be another Madame X. There is no one else like you. You are special." This voice, these words, low, quavering with potent emotion, I do not know how to absorb them, how to react to them. "You are mine, X."

  "I know, Caleb." I can barely speak, do not dare glance in the mirror, do not dare witness such vulnerability, such strange and alien passion.

  Fingers, just the tips, the pads, brushing down my cheek. Tracing my high cheekbone. I finally must glance in the mirror, see the dark hair head-and-shoulders above me. Nearly black eyes, pinning me in the reflection. Fingertips, trailing down the side of my neck. Hand, twisting, reaching around my throat, fitting fingers one by one to the bruises, but gently, tenderly, barely making contact.

  "Never again."

  "I know." I whisper it, because it hurts to speak, and because I somehow dare not speak any louder.

  I see the tableau, frozen in the mirror glass: Charcoal suit coat-sleeve, slim, tailored, molded to a thick arm. Coat unbuttoned, tie knot just barely visible over my right shoulder, a perfect triangle of crimson silk against spotless white. Dark, potent eyes on mine, a hand clutching my throat. Possessive, owning, yet somehow gentle. A promise, not a threat. Yet . . . still a warning. Mine, that hand on my throat says.

  A sudden, deep inhalation, and then I am alone at the mirror, watching a broad back and wide set of shoulders recede.

  When the door clicks shut, I can finally let the breath I've been holding rush out, can slump, shaking, hands on my knees. Step out of my bright red Jimmy Choo heels, leave them at the mirror, one upright, the other tipped onto its side.

  I suck in a breath, let it out. Another. Shake my hand, curl fingers into a fist, a vain attempt to stop them from trembling. A sob rips out of me. I stifle it. Another, louder. I cannot, cannot. If I give in, that door will open again and I'll succumb to the need for comfort. And I, at war with my disparate selves, need that physical comfort, that carnal reassurance . . . and I also loathe it. Hate it. Revile it. Feel a deep, secret need to shower and scrub the memory of it off my skin as soon as the door closes behind that broad and muscular back.

  Yet I need it. Cannot fight my body's reaction to such raw, masculine, sexual, sensual primacy.

  I grab a throw pillow from the couch, cross my arms over it, bury my face in the scratchy fabric, and let myself cry. The camera is behind me; it will only see me sitting on the couch, finally processing the events of the morning. It will only see me engaging in a normal, natural reaction to trauma.

  I shake all over, shaking so hard my joints hurt, sobbing into the pillow. Alone, I can strip off the armor.

  It isn't until I've nearly cried myself out that it hits me: That was the first time in recent memory that a visit came and went, and I remained fully clothed the entire time. An anomaly.

  I let my tears dry, find my breath, find my equilibrium. Set aside the pillow. Stand up, shake my hands and toss my hair. No more weakness. Not even alone.

  I glance at the clock; it is 7:48 A.M. What am I going to do with the rest of the day? I've never had a whole day to myself. It should be a luxury, a precious gift.

  It isn't.

  A whole day, alone with my thoughts?

  I am terrified.

  Silence breathes truth; solitude breeds introspection.

  FOUR

  You are a woman. I was not expecting this. The dossier listed your name as George E. Tompkins. Twenty-one, five-seven, only child and heir to a Texas oil baron's rather significant fortune. George Tompkins. No photograph. I was expecting a Texas kid, all twang and "y'all" and a big shiny belt buckle and scuffed Tony Lamas.

  Nine A.M., because Caleb canceled my first few appointments of the day so I could sleep a bit later . . . and apply extra concealer over the angry black-green-yellow bruises on my throat.

  Eight-fifty-eight A.M.: ding . . . knock-knock. "Madame X?"

  A lady is never caught speechless. So I blinked, summoned my smile, and ushered the tall, lanky Texas kid into my condo. Speechlessly, but with the expected grace.

  You are tall, lanky . . . with prominent breasts that can't quite be hidden, even behind a baggy white button-down shirt. An actual bolo tie. Yes, scuffed Tony Lamas. And yes, a shiny belt buckle larger than both my fists together. Stunning green eyes, hair somewhere between dark blond and light brown, expensively cut and styled . . . short, swept off to one side, parted neatly. A male haircut, not a pixie cut, but a true male style. No earrings, no bracelets, no rings, no necklace. No hint of femininity whatsoever, except those breasts, which I imagine are simply too large to hide, so you don't bother.

  You stride past me, back ramrod straight and stiff, a swagger to your walk, a sway/sashay that's a strange mix of masculine and feminine. You peer around at my home, the Van Gogh Starry Night print on the wall, the Sargent portrait that is my namesake on another. The white leather couch, dark hardwood floors, high ceilings, exposed support beams crossing the ceilings made out of the same imported African teak as the floor. The built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelf--more African teak--filled to bursting, stacked three deep in places, with books. Fiction of all kinds, biographies, translations of ancient classics, current literary novels, thrillers, horror, true crime, indie-published romances, nonfiction on subjects as far-ranging as biology, physics, psychology, history, anthropology . . . I read just about everything. It is my only pastime, my only form of entertainment. You spend several long moments in silence, perusing my collection of books.

  "Must read a lot," you say. Your voice could be masculine or feminine. High enough to be a woman's, low enough to pass as a high-voiced male.

  "I do."

  You eye me. Not just look, not just see, but examine. Intelligence shines in your vivid green eyes. C
uriosity, nerves, confidence, defiance. Complex eyes.

  I know what you see when you look at me: five-eight in my bare feet; long, thick, black hair, straight, raven black, glossy, hanging to midbicep when it is loose, which is rarely; I am built with curves, bell-shaped hips and buxom, but I am fit, toned, athletic, lithe--my diet is rigorous, my exercise regimen strenuous and unforgiving; black eyes that I am told seem to see too much and give too little away; high cheekbones, full lips, delicate chin, classic heart-shaped face. I am exotic. I could be Spanish, or Middle Eastern. Even Islander, or Hawaiian, Filipino.

  I am beautiful. Uncommonly beautiful, my features possessing the kind of symmetry and perfection that only comes along once in a generation. Exquisite. Breathtaking.

  I know what I look like.

  I endure your scrutiny without flinching, without looking away.

  Another lesson learned early: to establish authority in any situation, wait out the silence, force the other person to speak first.

  You concede. "I'm George."

  "Good morning, George. Welcome. Would you care for some tea?"

  "Got any coffee?"

  I shake my head. "No, I'm sorry. I don't drink coffee."

  "I'm fine, then. Don't really care much for tea." You amble about the living room, peer out the window from a far enough distance that I suspect you're afraid of heights. Yes, you shudder subtly and turn away, shrugging uncomfortably. Move to the Van Gogh. "This an original?"