by Kyra Davis
“I’ll find them.” The promise comes to my lips easily with an assurance that I know I haven’t earned.
Lander pauses a beat and then reaches up to push back a lock of my hair. “It’s been four days since we took Jessica to the hospital,” he says quietly. “Travis called to tell you he’d let you know when he would need you to come back to work and he hasn’t called again since then—despite the fact that Jessica was out of the hospital in less than twenty-four hours. I assume she still needs an assistant, and yet she’s not calling either, and considering the dynamics of that relationship, we have to assume that if she’s not calling it’s because Travis told her not to. I think we have to entertain the possibility that he’s lost trust in you.”
For a moment I don’t speak. I allow my eyes to move up, to the wall behind him, seeing memories rather than what’s actually there. “I’ll get his trust back,” I whisper. “I know how.”
He nods. I can tell he doesn’t fully believe me, but he doesn’t challenge me either. “Yesterday when you showed me Jessica’s schedule I noticed that she has an appointment tomorrow at three thirty.”
“Her appointment with Dr. Wolper—only one of the many doctors who give her prescriptions for her favorite drugs. She won’t miss that. Why?”
“Travis will be in meetings all day tomorrow. I want you to go to see Jessica earlier in the afternoon. I want you to convince her to let you in, lead her to believe that Travis has given you the go-ahead to resume your duties for her if it helps. But get in there and find a way to stay after she leaves for Dr. Wolper’s.”
“Why? What do you want me to do?”
“It’s what I want us to find. Travis bought a personal safe a while back. I have no idea where it is, and from what I can tell Jessica doesn’t even know it exists. But I do think it’s in the penthouse somewhere, just waiting for the right person to discover it and unlock its secrets.”
“Ah,” I say, my smile returning. “You mean the wrong person. A person who’s wrong in all the right ways.”
“Like you.”
“Like me,” I agree, smiling mischievously. “And I know how to break into a safe.”
“Do you really?” Lander asks, clearly impressed.
“If it’s a combination safe, yes. I did pick up a few tricks during my juvenile delinquent days. It takes a while but I can do it.”
Lander shakes his head. “I probably shouldn’t, but I find that incredibly sexy.”
“Why, thank you!” But then my smile dies on my lips as the challenges of the task ahead begin to weigh on me. I gently place my forehead against his, weave my fingers into his hair. “Promise me. Promise me we’ll get them.”
“I promise you, Doncia,” he says, caressing my nickname with a gravelly whisper. “Travis, my father, and all their cohorts.” He takes the now-empty flute out of my hand and casually throws it toward the fireplace, punctuating the moment with the sound of breaking glass. “We’ll get them all.” He places his hands on my thighs again, this time grasping them firmly as he tilts forward and lifts me up and onto the table as he stands before me, my legs spread open, my weight leaning backward as I support myself with my hands. “Together, you and me.”
I love the sound of that. With Lander what was a dark task of revenge now feels like an adventure. Like he’s Zorro and I’m his lover, Señorita Lolita Pulido. Or he’s Robin Hood and I’m a feisty Maid Marian. It’s a dark fairy tale, the kind I used to gobble up as a kid.
It’s exhilarating.
With one hand Lander unbuttons the Kiton shirt I wear and pushes the fabric aside so that I’m completely exposed to him. His eyes move over me slowly, touching me like a feather that both tickles and arouses. I wait for him to touch me for real. But he simply leans forward to take the other champagne flute. “If I had my way you would never be dressed,” he says softly. “Hiding you in clothes, it’s like draping a masterpiece with a veil. And you know,” he adds, putting his fingers under my chin, tilting my head even farther back so I can only look into his eyes, “I do like to show you off. Just like in a gallery, I want them to see, but not touch. No one but me.” His fingers slide down the center of my neck. “Isn’t that right, Adoncia.”
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Then say it.”
“No one touches me but you.”
Lander nods and takes another sip of his drink as I stay there, posed for him, wanting to touch him but sensing that it is not my turn to be the aggressor. There’s something commanding in his stance. He’s holding me in place with a look, making me wait as I battle with my own impatience and anticipation. With one hand he traces a line from the inside of my knee, up my leg, to that hollow spot beneath the muscle of my thigh, right where the skin sinks toward my sex.
“You thought you were going to destroy me,” he says thoughtfully.
“Yes,” I whisper.
His eyes move back to mine and there’s fierceness there, perhaps even a savagery. His fingers move to my clit, circling it slowly, toying with me as I tremble. “You were wrong.”
His fingers slip inside me and my eyes fall closed. I press my hips against him as I hear the sound of another glass breaking against the fireplace. There are pictures on this table; articles and reports, sins that crinkle beneath my palms as I rock against the polished wood surface. His fingers continue to work me as I bite down on my lip, only to then cry out as I feel the wetness of his tongue. My eyes fly open and there he is, tasting me as his fingers continue to move. The unexpected pleasure rips through me and a deep, guttural moan slips from my lips. My arms are trembling so much they can barely support me. It’s almost too much. But I don’t move; I keep my position as he does with me as he likes, bringing me to a place of ecstasy, making me weak as he strengthens my desire.
When he finally pulls away, standing again between my open legs, I can barely speak. I curl my toes around the fabric of his pants and look up into his eyes, silently pleading for his permission to remove them.
He only has to give me the slightest nod and I pull down on the steely gray cotton, easing the pants down his legs.
And when I see him now, like this, I too am reminded of a masterpiece.
“Only me,” he says again. “I am the only one who will be with you like this. I’m the only man who will even use your real name. Adoncia, it’s mine to say, and this”—his fingers caress my hardened nipples as I shudder again—“this is mine to touch.”
I’m aching for him, my need is broadcast in the shallowness of my breath as I once again whisper, “Yes.”
And with that he grabs my hips as I link my legs around his thighs, dragging me forward as he presses inside of me, filling me, going so deep that the sensation is almost all I can process. And yet the crinkling of the papers reminds me that we are making love on a bed made of sin.
I lower myself down until my back is against the table too, moving my arms to my sides as I lift my legs so that they rest on his shoulders. He lifts my hips up, supporting me as much of my lower back rises off the table. It’s a fluttery friction as he rotates his hips against me, touching every nerve ending, making me cry out his name.
I can hear the subtle, staticky sound of papers tearing on the table as I thrash against them. The men beneath me are evil and perverse, lusting after nothing more than power and money.
But the man above me is Lander.
He presses in harder, farther, and this time it takes me over the edge. The orgasm is overwhelming and again his name touches my lips as I feel him coming inside of me, feel him throbbing as I pulse against him, taking him in. His essence, his scent, everything.
He’s the only man who will touch me like this. The only man who has the right to use my name.
And the men beneath me?
We’ll rip them to shreds.
chapter three
* * *
The next day I take the bus across the park to Travis and Jessica’s penthouse. I could have taken a cab; Lander left me the money for it before
he took off for work. But although there’s a luxury to taking cabs and limos, the bus offers me the familiarity that I’m currently craving. Pretending to be one thing for Micah, one thing for Travis, another for Jessica . . . There are so many roles to play. But here, right now, I’m just Adoncia from East Harlem, taking the bus to the West Side. Even the grime on the bus windows puts me at ease.
I reposition my oversized purse on my lap; its heavy weight helps center me as I prepare to put part two of the game plan into motion. In front of me a teenager with dyed black hair whispers in the ear of a girl with lip piercings and heavy black eyeliner. There’s something almost sweet about their rebellion. It’s as if they’re still innocent enough to think that a few piercings and hair dye will make the world see them as dangerous. They haven’t figured out that the really dangerous ones never use fashion to advertise the threat they pose. They don’t have to.
My eyes travel back to the window as I consider my situation. Lander was right. Travis has lost trust in me. Worse, he correctly suspects that my loyalties are with his brother. How did he piece it together? Have I done something to tip him off? No, more likely he just saw something in me. Maybe my eyes dance a little more now, whereas before they only stared. Maybe my smile seems more genuine; maybe he sees the changes in me that you would expect to see in a woman who is falling in love.
Falling in love.
I’ve never said the words aloud. Never even hinted at them. I’m not even sure I know what they mean. All I know is that when I’m with Lander, even when I think of him, something inside me shifts.
I wonder if there are feelings that he has for me that he hasn’t vocalized. I wonder if he feels what I feel.
It’s been so long since someone loved me.
I chuckle to myself, rejecting a path that could easily lead to self-pity. I’ve earned every wound I’ve suffered. I accept that. It’s my mother who deserved better. Once I have my vengeance, I’ll dedicate it to her.
Which brings me back to Travis. I meant what I said to Lander: I know how to regain Travis’s trust. It would be simple, really. All I would have to do is decimate everything that makes what I have with Lander real.
That’s what would happen if I gave in to Travis’s request, since what he really wants is for me to sleep with him. He would also accept my sleeping with someone else—he’s stated as much. It’s not that Travis desires me, or if he does, it’s beside the point. He just wants me to prove in no uncertain terms that I’m not loyal to Lander. He wants me to behave in a way that would hurt his brother should Travis choose to expose my sins to him. Perhaps more importantly, Travis wants to be sure that he can turn Lander against me if it ever serves his purposes.
And of course part of it is about power and control. Travis wants to control everyone in his life. My submission would be his victory.
Unless of course my loyalties are not with Travis or Lander. If I’m only loyal to the memories of my mother, shouldn’t I do whatever I need to do in order to avenge her? Gaining Travis’s trust has always been a means to an end, and it is true that I was willing to sleep with Lander when I thought he was my enemy . . .
. . . but no, not Travis. I just can’t. Furthermore, it’s not necessary. The trick is to make him think I’m willing to submit, find a way to hold him off. He just needs to believe that he’s going to have me . . . at least until I’ve woven my noose and placed it around his neck.
I sigh and stare out the window. The leaves on the trees along the street are ridiculously green, screaming rather than stating their vitality. When I’m with Lander, when he’s inside of me, I have a taste of that. It’s funny that after years of pursuing men who made me feel numb, I now find myself brought to life by the touch of a man I once thought I hated. Even when he challenges me there’s a certain pleasure in it.
And yet I haven’t told Lander anything at all about Travis’s proposal. Not a word. It’s not that I don’t trust Lander, I just can’t predict him. I don’t know how he would react. Is it the kind of information that would spur him to confront his brother and thereby screw up everything?
And secrets aren’t the same as lies, are they?
The bus pulls to a stop two blocks from Travis and Jessica’s place and I file out along with a few browbeaten businessmen and upbeat interns.
My purse bangs against my side with each step I take down the sidewalk. I steady it with my hand and mentally run through the things I’ll say to Jessica when I see her.
The doorman and security of Travis and Jessica’s building greet me warmly. They all know me by now. Still, security calls up to Jessica before letting me go up to see her. For a tense moment I think she’ll refuse me admittance, but shortly those fears are put to rest and in no time I’m riding up in the elevator.
When I get to the top floor, Jessica’s waiting in the doorway. She’s dressed in a peach shift that hangs stiffly around her slender form. Her hair is bundled up at the base of her neck and a perfect string of large pearls is around her neck. She looks like she could have been ripped from the pages of Town & Country magazine . . . except she looks a little fragile today. And there’s a slump to her shoulders that indicates exhaustion or defeat, maybe both.
“Travis didn’t tell me you would be coming today,” she says, her voice assuming almost a mechanical quality.
I smile and shrug. “Perhaps I should have called first. I know Mr. Gable doesn’t always remember to share my schedule with you.”
“Oh, he doesn’t forget. He just doesn’t see the necessity of it.” She turns at that and walks inside. Quietly I follow her, closing the door behind me.
Last time I saw Jessica she was drunk, sloppy, and mean. But right now, as she leads me into her office, she just seems sort of . . . blank.
Almost everything in Jessica’s office, from the furniture to the art, is either a stark white or an onyx black. It’s all very postmodern, which is more Travis’s style than Jessica’s, but then her preferences are never allowed to take precedence over her husband’s.
She gestures toward the desk, and without a word I go to my usual spot behind the computer. She remains standing and moves to the window, looking out at the city.
“I suppose we should talk about . . . what happened,” she says softly.
I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Jessica had been such a mess last time I was here it’s hard to believe she even remembers anything of that day’s events. But if she does, what part does she want to talk about? Does she want to apologize for doing her level best to demean and insult me? Does she remember throwing out vaguely classist and racist statements? Or maybe she wants to talk about how she told everyone who would listen that I was a whore? There are so many ways we can go here.
“I know I was . . . a bit unpleasant that day.”
I don’t answer. That feels like a bit of an understatement.
“I suppose I should apologize.” She turns to me, apparently expecting a response. “I don’t believe I’m a good person,” she says after I fail to answer her. “Now that I think about it, I’m not sure that anyone in my life ever even suggested that being good was important.”
I consider not answering again but find myself asking the obvious question despite myself. “Do you want to be a good person?”
“Hmm,” she says, considering. “I’m really not sure. I mean, in the end, where would it really get me?”
I can’t help but laugh at that and she answers me with a quiet smile of her own.
“Do you think you’re a good person, Bell?”
“Once upon a time, maybe, when I was truly young.”
Now it’s Jessica’s turn to laugh, although even her giggles have a sort of hollow quality that is more disturbing than joyful. “Yes, well, it’s easy to be good at five, although I’m sure there are more than a few kindergarten teachers who would argue the point,” she quips. But then her smile melts to nothing. She turns away from me and back toward the glass. “What do you think it takes to be truly good?” she asks.
“What tools must you have access to in order to achieve that?”
“I think,” I say slowly, “maybe . . . maybe love. I think that being a good person requires some kind of experience with love.”
“What kind of experience?” The sun is bright today, providing a glaring backdrop to Jessica’s delicate silhouette.
“Oh, I’m not sure it matters,” I muse. “The love of a parent, a sibling, or a teacher . . . maybe a lover.”
“Travis knows what love is,” she says.
“I highly doubt that,” I say, the words flying from my mouth before I can stop them. I look nervously at Jessica, but she doesn’t seem offended.
“No, no, he does,” Jessica assures me. “He was in love before. And from what I understand she even loved him back.”
A flash of memory, Lander saying something about a woman Travis once cared for but it didn’t work out . . . he didn’t know why . . . or something like that. “Do you know who she was?” I ask.
“Hmm?” Jessica had spaced for a moment, or maybe she was thinking about things outside of this room.
“The woman who Travis loved,” I press. “Do you know her name?”
“Oh yes, it’s Cathy.” She pivots on her heel and crosses to the love seat. “Cathy Earnest. Common, don’t you think?” She lowers herself onto the white leather cushions, her gaze still on the window. “It has no grace or prestige to it. If she went by Catherine at least she’d sound important.”
“And why did Travis and Cathy break up?”
Jessica’s eyes dart back to me but then she looks away just as quickly. “She’s married now,” she says, ignoring my question. “To Eli Lind, another awful name. But he’s rich enough . . . not Gable rich, but still, perhaps she’s happy.”