by Ava Sinclair
“I know it may not be your regular style, but if you dress like my princess, you’ll come to see yourself that way.” He looks out the window. “Only a lowlife parent would make a child feel less than adored.” There’s a vehemence to his words, and I’m touched at his obvious anger over how my parents neglected me.
“Come here,” he says, and I move over to sit beside him in his seat. He pulls out his phone. “One of the perks of being wealthy is that I don’t have to shop for groceries. I have them all delivered. You’ll eat a healthy diet as long as you’re with me, Jill. But you’ll also be allowed comfort food.” He glances over at me. “What were your favorite foods as a child?”
He pulls up an app for the corner grocer as he waits for my response.
“For real?”
“For real.”
It’s a loaded question. While my mother loved to cook, she only did so when she was sober. Most of the time I ate hot dogs and cold cereal. When I tell Max Iver this, he nods sympathetically and tells me I’ll never have to eat hot dogs or cold cereal again so long as I’m with him. Then he prompts me again to tell me what I did like.
“Macaroni and cheese,” I offer. “But not the kind with the powder. The kind with the shell pasta and creamy cheese sauce.” It’s my favorite comfort food, I tell him.
“Go on,” he says.
“Ice cream,” I say. My mother used to buy rum raisin, but she would never let me have any. She said it was hers.
He scrolls through the app and orders a quart of gourmet rum raisin, adding it to the list.
“Not rum raisin, though,” I say. He deletes it. “Chocolate chip mint.” He orders the chocolate chip mint.
“Go on,” he says, and I grow bolder. This is fun. I feel all the excitement of a little girl being told she can have anything in the store, only it’s a virtual store.
“Canned biscuits. Big ones. With butter.”
“They come in cans?” He looks over, quirking a brow.
“Yes,” I say, then remember the rule. “Yes, sir, I mean. You have to pop them open. I can make them from scratch, but I like the canned ones.”
“Canned biscuits,” he says, shaking his head as if skeptical of their existence. “Well, look at that…” he says a moment later. “Biscuits in a can.”
“Your parents must have been rich if you never ate biscuits from a can,” I joke.
His face, reflected in the light of the phone, grows grim. He doesn’t answer. “What else?” he asks, ignoring my comment.
I quietly list other things I longed for as a child, things I’d stare at in the grocery store as I watched my mother buy beer instead. Pringles potato chips. Twinkies. Chocolate milk.
“We may need to revise your gym schedule to two hours a day,” he quips, and I’m relieved that his good humor seems to have returned. There’s a moody edge to my benefactor, and in the couple of days I’ve been with him, I sometimes catch him staring at me in a way that makes me wonder what he’s thinking.
I try not to read too much into his glances, though. I try not to read too much into what he told me about his personal sexuality. Just because dominance is his turn-on doesn’t mean I turn him on. I remind myself of what he said—that it was my neediness that triggered him, not my flirtation at Serrano’s.
I’m a charity case and nothing more. I have to remember that, so I focus on coping with the newfound generosity that is leaving me feeling humbled. When we discussed the foreign language tutor—I selected French as my language of choice—I casually mentioned that I’d loved the two years of French I’d taken in college. Max asked me what other subjects I liked, and I mentioned photography. I’d taken that, too, but wished I’d taken some of the more advanced courses. The next thing I know, he enrolls me in a comprehensive professional online photography course and presents me with brand new Nikon camera complete with every lens I could wish for. When I protest, he simply tells me that it makes him happy to spoil me.
It would be easy to get used to this. My mother made me feel guilty for eyeing the last dry biscuit on the plate. Max is teaching me the art of receiving, which he said is an important skill, since a good person will want to spread that joy by giving to others.
“I wish I could do something nice for you,” I tell him as I sit cross-legged on the carpet examining all the features on my new camera.
“You already are,” he says.
I don’t tell him that I’d like to thank him with a kiss, that I long to feel his arms around me, that at night when I lie in the comfortable bed, I think of the only close contact we’ve had. I think of the image of us on the tape, how he scooped me in his arms when I passed out. He must have found my address on my license, unlocked the door to my apartment with the key. I imagine him tucking me in where I woke up fully dressed the next morning, untouched by my gentleman savior.
I think of the spanking, of the building heat and the blinding pain as he rained blow after blow on my helpless bottom while I bawled like a baby. I think how helpless I felt as I struggled in his grip, unable to evade a child’s punishment. And at night, when I replay the correction and the gentleness of the aftermath, my pussy clenches and quivers, and my fingers slip into the waistband to rub away the ache of desire.
He’s offering me guidance as a father figure. I’d called him a pervert in anger, but am I perverted to be attracted to him not despite his paternal demeanor, but because of it? I feel a little tingle every time I call him ‘sir,’ and my nipples get hard if he reminds me when I forget to say it. When he calls me ‘young lady’ in that deep, dark voice, I imagine his weight pressing me into my mattress, imagine wrapping my knee-sock-clad calves around his waist as he drives into my vulnerable, willing body.
But despite what he told me about his dominance being part of his sexuality, he’s been the perfect gentleman. And I hide my feelings, because while he said he finds me attractive, he’s told me twice now that this isn’t about sex. If I try to come on to him, I could screw it all up. And although it’s just been a few days, I’m finding the contentment alone therapeutic.
Five days in, he leaves to go to his office. He has a company to run, he says, and while he does some work from home, his presence is required. He reminds me of the rules. I’m to study and exercise, and after that, the day is mine to do with as I please. Max hasn’t confined me to the apartment. He’s caring for me as a father would without restricting my adult privileges of travel. When I tell him I may go get lunch, he says that sounds like a good idea.
After he leaves, I change plans. Playing with the new camera has made me want to shoot some pictures, so I pack it up and head to the park.
Ingram Tower sits across the lake in the park in the center of the city, so I decide to go to the other side. I remember walking by the lake the morning after my blackout, how the cold and the brightness of the sun were painful. Today they both feel crisp and refreshing. It’s chilly, and I’m wearing a cozy cable knit sweater, tan leggings, and expensive boots. Even on my most stylish days at work, I never felt this fashionable.
The camera has so many bells and whistles that I don’t know where to begin. A trio of squirrels are chasing one another around an oak tree. I adjust the aperture and shutter speed and snap some shots of them, squealing with delight at how well they turn out. I play with the shutter speed some more, capturing more stills of the hyperactive rodents and a nearby sculpture made to look like a waterfall.
I reach into the bag and pull out the different lenses. The macro one is amazing. I lean down and photograph the detail of a crisp yellow leaf, focusing on its sad curled edges. If the pictures are this good on autofocus, I can only imagine how amazing they will be once I learn more about the intricacies of photography.
I change the lens to the longest one, and the power is astounding. I can zoom in on windows of buildings across the pond. A yellow cat sits in one between two potted plants. I turn, zooming in on a storefront glittering with jewelry. It’s so powerful I can almost make out the labels on the
display. I sit on a bench, testing the limits of my zoom. I shoot a homeless man, a street vendor, and two nannies pushing strollers on the sidewalk.
I pivot and stop, surprised at what I’m seeing. No way. I zoom in. It’s Max coming out from under the awning of an Italian restaurant. I almost laugh, thinking how amused he’ll be when I go home to show him the picture I’m snapping. I imagine my laughing reassurance that I wasn’t stalking him. I lower the lens, adjust the setting and raise it back up, searching again for Max.
He fills the frame just in time for me to see a woman approach him. She’s closer to his age than mine, and strikingly beautiful. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a sleek bun and her tall, willowy form is clad in a form-fitting blue dress and matching pumps.
Max stops as he sees her, and I find myself snapping a picture of his expression as it turns icy. The woman steps up to him. She places a hand on his arm. He throws it off. I can tell by her solicitous body language that she’s trying to calm him. But he’s angry, raising his finger now and jabbing the air to punctuate whatever he’s saying. The woman is shaking her head, her expression pleading. I snap a picture of her face, and I know I shouldn’t be doing this. Whatever is happening is a private moment, and I’m intruding in a way I know I shouldn’t. Max steps over to the woman. His hands move to his hips, pushing back the stylish overcoat he’s wearing. The woman drops her eyes. He’s speaking to her quietly now, but the anger is still in his face. The woman closes her eyes, looks away, then looks up, her mouth a grim line. She says something to him and I can clearly read his lips now as he deliberately says, “Fuck you.” She turns and walks away. Max watches her retreat before turning and heading in the opposite direction.
What just happened? I feel a surge of anxiety as I turn and go back through the photos. I zoom in on Max’s face. He was calm and controlled when he punished me. But in the photos, I get an idea of what he would look like angry.
Why is he angry? Who is this woman? He’s secretive; he’s told me as much. He doesn’t put his private life on display. One magazine article I read described him as ‘a remarkably discreet man who demurs when asked about his relationships.’ I click back through the pictures and zoom in on the woman’s face. She’s gorgeous, even in distress. It must be a former lover. That’s the only explanation that makes sense—a former lover who wants to patch things up. By the looks of her clothes and carriage, she’s wealthy, probably a professional, and definitely not a fucked up, jobless woman with nothing to offer. Insecurity begins to nibble at the edges of the security blanket that is my new life.
I pack my lens hastily, suddenly and irrationally afraid that I’ll be spotted, even though I know Max can’t see me from here. Hefting my camera bag on my shoulder, I jog to the street by the park and hail a cab for my last errand of the day before lunch.
Even when I lived with Becky, I got all my mail at a PO Box, so I get the driver to head to the post office just a few blocks from where I used to live. Among Max’s amended rules is that I adopt some financial literacy. I confessed to him that I sometimes miss payments, either from mismanagement of my money or forgetfulness. He wants copies of all my bills so we can sit down and make a schedule. I suspect my mail will be full of them.
The post office is crowded with people picking up mail and packages. I pull out my key and search for my box among the rows and rows of brass labels. As I expected, it’s jammed. I take it to one of the tables, separating the stuff I need from the catalogs, junk mail, and political mailers that I don’t. I’m lost in my sorting, trying to concentrate on the stack of papers instead the pictures I just snapped on my new Nikon.
“Jill?”
I freeze at the sound of my name. Then I turn slowly at the sound of a familiar voice. Becky is standing behind me.
“I wasn’t sure it was you at first,” she says.
Her gaze moves over me, and I know she’s marveling at my transformation. The last time she saw me, I was in a pair of worn sweats, my hair in a messy bun, and my face splotchy from lack of sleep. Now, with my nice clothes, camera bag, and expensive purse, I look like I could have stepped out of the pages of Vogue.
“Hello, Becky,” I say. “How are you?”
“What’s all this?” she asks, instead of answering. There’s an edge of irritation to her question. She’s a student of fashion, and must know that the clothes I’m wearing are high end.
“Oh, this?” I look down at my outfit and shrug. “I just got some new clothes.”
“You?” she says. “You got a new wardrobe.” She cocks her head. “And a new camera, it seems.” She inclines her head toward the huge Nikon bag sitting on the table as she shoulders her Coach bag and crosses her arms. “How did you swing all that, without a job?” There’s a tight, angry smile on her face.
Her tone troubles me, as does the demand for information from someone who’s made it clear she’s dumped me as a friend.
“Look, Becky,” I say. “I understand why you kicked me out. But you need to understand that I’m not obligated to answer personal questions.”
“You’re not going to tell me? Really, Jill? After all we’ve been through?” She puts air quotes around her last sentence, mocking me for all the times I used the same line to keep her from throwing me out. Then she snaps and points a finger at me. “Let me guess,” she says. “You’re… turning tricks.” Becky has a way of trying to make insults sound like jokes. I shouldn’t let her hurtful comment get to me, but I feel my face flame red.
“Believe what you want,” I say, knowing if I told her the truth she wouldn’t believe it anyway. “I have to go.” I stop sorting and push my mail into the large handbag Max bought me.
“You’re being stupid, you know,” she says. “Whatever you’re doing to afford clothes like that? You’d have been better off to have moved back to your mom, start over, get help.” She scoffs. “But isn’t that just so you? Living off other people. Depending on them to carry you?”
I turn back, ready to react emotionally, but I don’t. She’s right. I did that for far too long. I’ve started over now. I want to tell her that, but I can’t. She wouldn’t believe me. And why should she?
“I’m sorry, Becky,” I say. “I really am. I’m sorry I ever made you feel used.”
“Just don’t,” she said. “Don’t stand there in clothes you can’t afford and pretend that you can also afford to be magnanimous. People like you don’t change.”
She walks past me, leaving me feeling wounded and worthless, an imposter in pretty clothes. I try to remind myself of the night Max made me forgive myself, how it felt, but blame creeps back in. Becky has always tried to help me. To think that I inspired this kind of bitterness, that she thinks I am beneath deserving anything nice, is unsettling.
I walk hastily from the building without looking back. I was going to go get something to eat, but I don’t have any appetite now. For the first time since the cathartic emotional cleansing in front of the mirror, I hear my mother’s slurred words in my head. Goddamn it, Jill! Why do you always have to screw everything up?
I’m surprised I don’t get a ticket zooming back to Ingram Tower. The attendants wave me in and I find the space Max reserved for me. It’s so nice, coming home to this. But it’s not home. It’s temporary. Nothing ever lasts for me, not friends, not jobs.
By the time I’m back in the penthouse, I’m shaky and in tears. I want to calm down. I need to calm down. I don’t know what time Max is coming back, but I don’t want him to find me wrecked and crying.
My eyes fall on the liquor cabinet. Max may not be a drinker, but he does keep a well-stocked cabinet for entertaining. I know what I’m about to do is wrong. I know it violates the rules. But I don’t need much; I just need one drink—just one to take the edge off, just one to tamp down the panic I feel.
I shouldn’t, but it’s all too much. On top of Becky’s humiliation, I can’t stop thinking about the beautiful woman talking to Max, from wondering who she is to worrying that she’s a former
lover who might reclaim Max. I could comfort myself that Max looked at her with hatred, but there’s a fine line between love and hate. How easy would it be for him to come home to a dependent woman who offers him nothing, reflect on whatever she said, and decide that a gorgeous professional is less trouble?
I open the cabinet.
He has it all. Bourbon, scotch, tequila, rum, vodka. I recognize a few of the brands. A few I don’t. I assume the ones I don’t are super expensive. Grey Goose. I recognize that brand. It’s expensive, but probably not as expensive as some of the others. And it’s open, so maybe he won’t notice if I take a little.
I get a glass from the kitchen and pour half a finger’s worth of the clear alcohol into the bottom. But it doesn’t look like it will do the trick, so I make it a full finger. I put the cup to my nose. Just the smell brings back all the memories, all the reasons why I shouldn’t break this rule. But I’m hurt. I’m weak. And I don’t know any way to make it better. I swallow the liquor in two gulps, and gasp as it burns its way down to my empty stomach. The effect is almost immediate. I feel myself grow relaxed and warm. My limbs feel looser, and a detached feeling comes over me. I feel a little better.
I stand and walk over to the controls Max uses for the stereo system. I scroll through the preset playlist until I find some mellow jazz. I move to the music, happy to feel better. But if I feel this good after that little bit of vodka, just a tiny bit more and I’d feel great.
Don’t do it. You know where this will lead. The voice in my head is warning me, but I ignore it. Just a little more won’t hurt. I dance back to the liquor cabinet, swaying as I fill the glass with another two inches of vodka, then reconsider and make it three. I shimmy down to replace the bottle, pick up the glass, raise it to my lips and turn.
I’d have dropped the glass from surprise if he hadn’t snatched it out of my hand. His face is dark with anger. I didn’t hear him come in, and I realize now how loud the music is. He turns it off.