Sacred Revelations

by Roxy Harte

  I needed a fresh start, a new identity. If my enemies did come looking for me, they would not seek a man with a wife and a child. If she used me for a fresh start, I used her as well. Then there was the lust. Maybe it was just the element of mystery, danger, and the fact that we were total strangers. The beginning was easy.

  If nothing else, lust has kept us from killing each other.

  Pulling me down onto a pile of floor pillows, she unbuttons my shirt. If I stink from three days in the desert with no bath, she is kind enough to not mention it. She strokes my chest while I undo the many layers of cotton and silk she wears, exposing her large, heavy breasts and her swollen stomach. Three months have made a significant difference in her shape. For a moment I hold the roundness between my hands, waiting for the baby’s kick to find me as they mysteriously do and am rewarded with a quick movement.

  Lattie smiles, but her eyes hold sadness. I wish I could make things different but I can’t. I hold her, stroking her, rolling her onto her side and positioning pillows to make things work out when I enter her from behind, spooning around her, cradling our unborn child and feeling its movements against my palms as I move inside her. Sex doesn’t cure all ills, but for a moment I forget exactly why I was so pissed off. She too puts her anger away for this.

  “I know these scars, Thomas,” Lattie says, rubbing her fingers around each quarter-size circle, a trail of eight running diagonally across my back, left hip to right shoulder, old scars, faded but still visible, even after twenty years. “I grew up seeing men make scars like this. Machine gun spray gave you these scars. So many scars.”

  I roll away from her, onto my back, hiding the scars from her, hiding the memory of how I got the scars from myself, never admitting to anyone that they were self-inflicted to escape another life, another identity. I pull her down onto my chest, though she is still folded, sitting on her knees.

  “I can’t go back to the United States, Thomas.”

  “I don’t want my children raised here.”

  “You think I do?” she gasps. “I told you, I needed to be here but I wouldn’t put them in harm’s way! I don’t intend to stay here forever, but I do want my child born here.”

  “My children are not staying here!” I argue, my voice so full of emotion that I am pushing her away, but I cannot help it. This time, this war is too close to my heart.

  She pulls away, standing and redressing in the layers she entered the tent wearing. I pull on my pants as she paces the tent, if we’re going to fight again; I’m at least going to be wearing clothes.

  I implore once more, “Let me get you out of here, Lattie. Pick anywhere else in the world to raise our children.” As soon as I say the words, I regret them, knowing just how badly I have been played.

  “I’m glad you feel that way. From here, we travel to Bahrain. After the baby is born, I will be taking the children to France. My father has a large estate there, vineyards, land, horses. It will be a good place for them to grow and then, when they are eleven, we will discuss boarding schools.”

  “I can’t live in Bahrain, Lattie,” I state a truth she knows well. There is a death warrant for me in Bahrain, the king less forgiving than even Lattie’s father, and knowing he is here in this makeshift tent city makes me very nervous. I do not want my children to see their father killed by their grandfather. “I can’t go to France, either.” A treason trial awaits me there. If this is karma coming back, I am truly being punished.

  “I know, Thomas. I want you to leave. Return to the United States. You’re protected there.”

  I shake my head in denial, knowing she has no intention of ever returning to the States. As much as she once thought she wanted all that it promised, it was ultimately the materialistic gluttony and imperialistic governmental ideals that made her hate the US.

  “Will it help you to go if you know that the child I carry isn’t yours?”

  I see the truth of her words reflected in her eyes. Together five years, I know the difference between her truths and her lies but hearing truth and accepting truth is two different things. I close my eyes, wanting her words to be a lie, wanting to believe that she is saying hurtful things to make my leaving easier. I want to ask who, but the tent flap swings open and I spin around to find myself facing her father. Before the door-flap slides back in place, I see that darkness has fallen, at some point becoming night. The dark doesn’t hide the four armed guards standing just beyond the swaying flap. I don’t need her father to state the obvious, but he deems it necessary. “There are more than two places you’d be shot on sight. You should be thanking me that you made it as far as you did still breathing. I did some checking, your dead carcass is worth as much to your enemies as you delivered alive.”

  I pale at his words. I spent too much time and effort making sure my enemies all thought I was dead for this man to awaken old grievances.

  “Ah, don’t worry, son, all is well, and as long as you behave, your secret is safe with me. Now let’s talk about what it’s going to take to get you back to the United States alive.”

  My world was okay as long as I thought my children would be coming back to the States with me. Now, the knowledge that it will be months until I see them again destroys me. I pull them each to me, Hektor, Olympia, Nikkos, so young, so innocent. I close my eyes, wishing I could go back in time, but what would I change?

  “Do you have to go, Father?”

  I kiss Hektor on the forehead, whispering against his face, “Yes, son, but in an emergency you know how to get a message to me and you memorized my cell number.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  I kiss him again, quickly as Olympia climbs over him to get into my arms. I hold her tight, inhaling her scent. She smells like her mother, exotic fragrant oil scenting her dark curls but beneath that is her scent, the distinct scent of Olivia tucked in the soft crease of her neck. I will miss this small girl, my daughter, my princess, and for a second I think I will take a chance against my father-in-law’s armed guns, but in the end, the guns win. If anything happened to Olivia, to the boys, I would not want to live a moment more.

  “Don’t go, I command it!”

  I laugh into her hair, pitying for a moment her grandfather, but knowing he will dote on her every bit as much as I have. “I have to go, but I’ll see you in the spring.”

  “That’s too long.” She stomps her small, bare foot on my thigh. I kiss her nose, standing to hand her to her mother. It crosses my mind that within forty-eight hours and a few stakes called in, I could potentially have my children safely away. I still have a few friends who would help me get my children away safely, unharmed, but that would leave us hunted and having been hunted in the past, it is not a life I want for my children.

  I tell myself this happens every day in almost every country—divorce, broken lives. I’m angry there was no warning, but could I have changed it if I’d seen it coming? I’m intelligent enough to know I might have delayed this, but there was no way of stopping this and, for a moment, I allow myself to be pathetic on the inside, hugging all three to me at once. I am strong enough not to let Lattie or her father see my tears. Holding my children, there is still doubt in my mind that her father will let me leave the sands alive and I find myself praying for the plane ride and the time to cry alone.

  I’m not going back to the United States, not yet. I need time to think, time to be alone, and with Lattie in the middle of a third-world country, pregnant, I won’t be far from her. After all of this, I wish I could hate her, but I don’t. I will be close if she needs me, flying only as far as Greece. After her child is born, I will think about returning to the United States, but that is months away and I cannot begin to think about returning and the pain I have yet to feel over not being able to reclaim Sophia.

  Chapter 15

  “Love is the flower of life, and blossoms unexpectedly and without law, and must be plucked where it is found, and enjoyed for the brief hour of its duration.”

  -D.H. Lawrence


  Kitten

  I awake to hear Garrett’s voice and Enrique’s rising in excited discussion. “A week? Ju es’pect me to plan all dis in a week? I don e’en know vere to start. I don e’en like de bitch!”

  “Gee, thanks,” I say to the beige walls.

  Garrett strides into the bedroom, hollering over his shoulder, “Look, figure out a theme, plan the damn party, I have a little more on my plate than normal this week.”

  I scrunch my face, glaring, confused, tired, achy.

  “Good. You’re not asleep. You can help Enrique. I hate to do this your first day back, but I have a meeting downtown and I really have to run.” He kisses me brusquely and heads back out of the room. Tilting my head in dazed confusion, in desperate need of coffee to clear the fog, I follow Garrett through the extra long great room and into the kitchen.

  “Kitten’s awake, thanks to your big mouth, but at least maybe she can help you come up with some ideas.”

  Enrique glances up from a note tablet filled with notes to catch me standing behind Garrett and promptly covers his eyes. “Naked girl, boss.”

  Garrett turns and wags his eyebrows at me. “Ah, naked girl. We’ll have to do something about your delicate sensibilities because she’s going to be staying.”

  “Robe?” Enrique squeaks.

  “No, Enrique, she’ll blend with the furnishings before you know it. It’ll be okay.” Garrett reaches for the coffee pot and pours a mug, handing it to me. I lift my brow.

  “Tempting,” he says, touching his fingers to my lips. “Alas, no time to even drizzle sips from my mouth to yours, but soon, when you are ready, I’ll make the time.” He kisses my cheek. “I’ll be back in two hours, have it planned by then, or I’m using your ass for the party piñata.”

  Enrique blanches behind his shielded eyes.

  “Party?” I ask.

  “Jackie’s birthday party. It’s a surprise and you are helping Enrique plan it. She’s turning thirty-eight…”

  Enrique snorts, interrupting, “Again.”

  “Age isn’t the important issue,” Garrett rebukes. “The theme is. It has to be as dramatic as the woman.”

  Enrique snorts again.

  “I love surprise parties,” I say, the caffeine and the challenge perking me up.

  “Then I know I’m leaving Enrique in good hands.” Garrett kisses my cheek. “Really gotta go. Have it completely planned by the time I get back!”

  His exit is sudden, leaving me naked and alone with his houseboy. I sigh into my coffee and swallow a massive gulp.

  “Welcome back,” Enrique says behind me.

  I pivot quickly to face him, expecting sarcasm, but find him blushing behind his still lifted palm.

  “Does my being nude really bother you? Or is this theatrical?”

  He peeks between two fingers, quickly closing them to hide his eyes. “I don’ know what ju mean, but we need to wok on dis.”

  “Tablecloth?”

  “Hmmm?”

  “Where does Garrett keep the tablecloths?”

  “Dat drawer.” Enrique points, I rummage, finally finding the drawer near the vicinity of his blind point. I pull a plain tan tablecloth from the drawer and wrap myself in it.

  “Better?” I ask.

  Enrique peeks and I am blessed by a gracious smile and his lowered hand. “Si.”

  “Can I see your notes?”

  He pushes the notebook over and I peruse what he has—wigs, makeup, and a word I think if spelled correctly would be decadence.

  “This is it?”

  “Si. Jackie’s favorite tings.”

  “Ah, and we have to plan a party around this?” Pointing at his list, I see that her birthday is October thirty-first. “Her birthday is Halloween?”

  “Si.”

  “Then we have to have masks…and high drama?” I think out loud.

  “But money no object. Free reign.” He smiles, waving Garrett’s credit card.

  “Oh my.” I bite my lip, thinking how incredibly dangerous it is to not give someone a preset limit. “How many guests?”

  “Intimate. Only a hundred closest friends.”

  I nod, understanding that a hundred people in Jackie’s sphere is rather intimate.

  “Do we have a where?” Enrique lifts his brow, making me guess, “The club?”

  “Si. Jackie and her friends can be as vulgar as they like.”

  “Ah,” I say.

  “What ah? What you mean the way ju say dat ah?”

  I smile. “Nothing, just understanding.”

  He gives me a look. “Ju understand no-ting.”

  “You don’t like Jackie but I have a feeling Jackie likes you.”

  “No,” he denies, adding quickly, “Ju have ideas or not?” He points at his watch. “Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.”

  “Yeah, yeah, tick tock, all right. Sure, I have an idea. Jackie adores wigs and makeup and high heels and glamour and decadence. Vulgarity? Erotic?”

  “Yeah, si. So?”

  “Have you ever seen the movie Amadeus?”

  “No.”

  “Vanity Fair?”

  “Si.” He nods, smiling. “Big wigs, costumes. Si. Very lavish. Like movie Marie Antoinette.”

  “Yes! That’s it! We’ll have a Marie Antoinette Masquerade!”

  Amazing things happen when money is no object. I should have been a party planner. Invitations to the surprise party went out a week ago, mine and Garrett’s costumes hang ready and waiting in his office, and Jackie was shanghaied for the event two hours ago. We couldn’t have her show up at her own party not dressed for the occasion, so her kidnapping and forced costuming became part of the surprise. It is my understanding that although she kicked and screamed, being corseted, made up and wigged had her squirming delightfully. The wig chosen for her is bright white and will tower eighteen inches above her head. I helped pick out her gown and it is beautiful—bright red with orange and magenta embroidery, beaded, and the neckline scooped very low. If nipple doesn’t show, it is because she doesn’t want it to.

  My nipples will definitely show. Actually, my corset is cut to fit completely below my breasts, but then, as I stand drying—my arms, breast, neck, back and face painted white—I wonder if anyone will notice. Closeted in the employees’ lounge with six of Garrett’s female servers, I apply a thick line of eyeliner. Only seven women will be at the party, they to serve, me to grace Garrett’s arm.

  It will be my first time seeing Jackie post-Lord Fyre servitude and I’m nervous as hell. I know she didn’t like my decision and I know she gave Garrett a hard time about it. I’m hoping this extravaganza at least lets her know how much I care about her. I’ve missed her and I spent extravagantly as a result of guilt. Even though I didn’t directly do anything, my decision to go to Fyre, and Garrett’s support of my decision, has affected their friendship.

  I wrap myself in a blue terry robe as the women around me flutter and giggle, applying fake eyelashes, dark black fake moles above, below, or beside their dark scarlet mouths. Their wigs are pale yellow, their corsets and skirts match, distinguishing them as servers. I look like a boy next to them, they are all so well endowed. Looking in the mirror, I try to imagine myself with boobs, big ones, maybe a doubleD cup. I push my white painted breasts together with my hands and sigh, I can’t even imagine it. However, wigged and painted, even swaddled in blue terry, I am beginning to look exotic in a sultry, eighteenth-century manner. I can imagine the deep royal blue gown and silver embroidered corset. My costume is exquisite on the hanger and that is always a good sign that it will look equally amazing on. For a second I wish Lord Fyre could see me as well as Garrett; I imagine the way he looked at me when he was photographing me on the rocks. He wanted me.

  I don’t know what kept him from having sex with me. Well, I do. I didn’t ask. All I had to say was fuck me, and he would have. But I didn’t and he didn’t and now he’s gone so it doesn’t matter. The only thing that does matter is that Garrett wants me to become his pamper
ed pet again and I want to be his Kitten again. I just have to convince him I mean it.

  A knock signals it is time for the servers to go out, and they leave me alone for only a moment before Garrett enters bearing my gown, corset and shoes. He isn’t dressed yet and I try not to look too disappointed. Admittedly, he is a head turner in slate Armani slacks and a monochromatic pullover sweater, both fitted to show off all his best features.

  “How’s the captive?” I ask lightly, at a loss how to convince him I want him.

  “Captivating,” he answers. “Did you know how stunning she would look in the colors you picked for her?”

  “She’d look good in sack cloth. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Well, she’s beyond beautiful tonight.”

  “Should I be jealous?” I ask, teasing, but true worry behind the question makes my smile waiver. I pull my bottom lip between my teeth nervously, balancing by holding onto his shoulders while he helps me step into the skirt, the yards of fabric a nightmare to climb into alone.

  “Jackie is my best friend. We’ve never been lovers and we never will.” He rubs my stocking-clad leg from ankle to bare thigh, snapping my garter as I try to maneuver the heavy, swirling fabric and not lose my balance. “If I decide to take a secondary lover, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Secondary lover?

  “You aren’t helping!” I complain tersely, pushing his hands away, wondering if he’s been considering a secondary partner. It’s only been twelve days, but I thought things between us were progressing, even though I haven’t locked the collar yet, even though I haven’t begged him to master me. Oh hell.

  Garrett rubs his hand higher, over bare skin, cupping my sex, pinching my labia between satin panties and his forceful fingers, lifting me so that I have to look at him. “I am helping you. I’m being extremely patient.”