by T. K. Toppin
He gave up. Ten minutes later, his dick still stood proud and taunted him with a glare, saying it definitely knew what it wanted, if only its owner would take a hint and do something about it. John growled in anger, sucked in a breath, and headed straight for the shower, blasting himself with cold water. He hoped to die of cardiac arrest. Perhaps then life could resume as normal, and he wouldn’t have to figure it out the mystery of Josie.
Showered, dressed, erection managed, and bladder relieved, he ignored his housekeeper’s suggestions of what was available for breakfast and marched out the house. Without even thinking it through, he headed for Josie’s quarters, knowing only that if he didn’t see her again, his day wouldn’t feel right. In fact, since the day he met her, he liked to watch at her. Just to see or be near her. It bothered and angered him that she had this sort of effect. Yet he craved it and needed it; if not, he knew he’d be morose and senseless for the rest of the day. She was like a wicked drug. Addictive.
John found her in the small terrace; a fresh, just-showered scent lingered about her. Wearing a light and rather sheer cotton robe, she was bent over, presenting him with her small, neat rump. The thin fabric pressed invitingly against her skin, defining the crevice of her backside and even the two dimples of Venus indents on her lower back, his favorite spot on a woman’s body. His mouth ran dry.
She inspected something on the ground and muttered. John almost turned to flee, thinking he should really have knocked or announced himself. Before he could react, or fix his face, she whirled around and glared at him. She must have sensed him. He was certain his face was flushed red with guilt and lust, since it hurt; he fumbled with an awkward smile.
“Don’t you ever knock? Didn’t your mother ever teach you any fucking manners?” Josie rose and faced him full on, wrapping the robe snug around her. It didn’t help; John still saw the round shadows of her nipples. He tried to focus on her face.
She seemed wide-awake, fretful, and surly. It was evident she’d had a restless night as well. Seeing that, John felt somewhat better. He chose to ignore her comment. He should’ve been ashamed, but something like petulant indignation flashed in him. He was the World President. He never knocked. Never in his life did he have to, and he wasn’t about to start.
“What were you looking at?”
Josie snorted, but it wasn’t in anger. More like disgust. “You’ve got ants.” She jerked her head toward the ground. “What do you want? Another crash course in art history? Come to see if I’ve eaten anything? Spy on me while I stand here half naked? What?”
Her words were made of glass today, and her aloofness set John’s back rigid. He decided to match it with a bit of his own. “Get dressed. I’ll wait.” He smiled inwardly; glad he’d managed to sound cold and snippy. He’d learned that from his older sister.
Josie’s expression tightened in a flash. Her eyes widened, and her body bunched. “Why?” Taking a tiny step backward, she sounded small and frightened.
He guessed her mind flitted through a list of possible upsetting scenarios. For a moment, he wondered what they could be about.
“You look starved. We’ll have breakfast in my conservatory.” Sounding like a brutish ogre, he added, “I promise not to…badger…you with annoying questions.”
She nodded and walked away to go inside, pausing only to look back at him with a frown. When she disappeared and closed the door to the bathroom, a smile erupted on his face. It was like he’d won some sort of contest. Pleased, he glanced down to inspect the ants.
He hated ants.
Chapter 21
During the next few days, I roamed around the Citadel, or at least, where I was allowed to roam freely. I didn’t go far, but each time went a little farther than before. And in doing so, exploring and poking about here and there, something tight in my chest eased. Unwound. Breathing became easier again. I forced myself to not think of Lorcan or Max, or even the Aguilars. Doing so would only have me tearing my hair out and going berserk. I felt that darkness in me, the ability to eclipse into depression. My appetite vanished as well. And by to not eating, it pinged John Lancaster’s radar. He seemed pointedly fixated on my dietary habits. He nagged worse than some women I knew. Many times I’d eat, even though I wasn’t hungry, just to shut him up. Thankfully, that didn’t last long, since my appetite returned with a vengeance. I guess all it needed was actual food inside me.
I’d spent quite a bit of time loitering in the gardens and watching people come and go. Some, like me, strolled to take in the calm serenity of nature. Others came to meet friends and take a little break, have lunch. Some sat and read from their devices, others laughed and talked, and sometimes young children came by to play with toys or pets. Full summer bloomed everywhere, and the weather screens were pulled back, letting in the glorious sunshine and fresh mountain air. It rejuvenated me somewhat.
I gathered I was in some sort of semi-residential area where people lived to be near work. The atmosphere was like a corporate family group or a company picnic, where all levels of management met and everyone had a “meet and greet” time socially. It wasn’t creepy-friendly, which would’ve freaked me out a little. More polite and discreet. Reserved friendliness, like meeting new neighbors in an established residential setting. It made me smile, and I even saw some regulars, who’d chat to me for a bit as we exchanged the usual pleasantries. No one seemed to question who I was, and even if they knew, they didn’t treat me like an outcast. But I sure felt like one—like an interloper.
If I wasn’t in the gardens, I roamed the corridors, or sat propped for hours on a wall, staring at the sprawling network of urban life within the Citadel. It seemed to be a city within a city with buildings clustered together, joined by a network of roads and tunnels, dotted sporadically with green forests and parks. Everything meshed and molded together like an intricate ants’ nest. Cars and buses, trams and elevators took people here, there, and everywhere. From my vantage point, I saw the different levels and sections, and they thrummed with life and activities. Everyone and everything went about their business like ants, busy carrying messages, food, and work back to the main nest.
Everyone but me. I’m not sure why, but for the first time, that thought didn’t upset me. Perhaps it was the mountain air, crisp and medicinal. I’d never felt this good, this alert. It was as though my time in Switzerland was like being at a spa. Probably not a good analogy, but I was unable to understand why. But what did it matter right now? I felt good!
I was housed in the main nest, so to speak. It stood in an area as large as a small city—about ten blocks at least—and piled several stories high, the highest being John Lancaster’s offices and residence. The basic architecture was of a sprawling but chopped up, split-level, design, cutting into a mountain’s side like a two-dimensional layer cake. On one side, a waterfall with a river ran through the Citadel, providing it with power. It was a self-sustained city.
Seeing these things, and later finding out much more on the occasions John shared a meal with me, gave me a better sense of where I was and how the Citadel worked. Yes, he allowed me to call him John in private—practically insisted on it. He suggested we treat one another like equals rather than how it appeared. However, each time I glanced at my bracelet, I was reminded I was still very much a prisoner.
There were times when it seemed like we were both aware of the odd moment we’d experienced the night I cried on his shoulder. Well, I was certainly aware of it. His smell, the way his body seemed to shield me in a protective shroud; it had been comforting. I noticed that sometimes he grew silent, and the way he stared at me reminded me of how he’d looked that night. And to make it even more obvious, if there was one thing we did not talk about, it was that night. Even in reference.
At first it was odd to have conversations or share a meal with the enemy, but as I relaxed, it became a pleasant distraction. There were the highlights to my days.
Though John didn’t talk with any animation or enthusiasm, and was sometime
s cold and arrogant, abrupt and offensive, he was polite and pointedly avoided asking me direct questions about myself or Lorcan. Instead, he projected the image of the perfect gentleman. Despite everything, he was that: a gentleman.
Whether it was a light breakfast or lunch in the conservatory of his office, served by impersonal serving droids, a private dinner in the presidential dining room, or even a simple coffee in my room, he remained civil and courteous, and answered most of my questions. I started out hesitantly at first, but soon put more effort into each question I asked. He became more relaxed, more…human, and allowed me to shed some of the stigma I’d first placed on him from what I’d heard from Lorcan and Max. No, he was not a dictator, though at times he acted like one; maybe even wanted to be one just so things got done.
He still remained an awesome and sometimes fearsome force to be reckoned with. He was passionate, this I could see, and it was his true nature. He tried to channel it, not control it. Unlike Lorcan, who suppressed his emotions by sheer effort until he was emotionless. Distant. John was closed, but wide open, if that made any sense at all.
I also began to see John was just a man. Maybe he could’ve been an ordinary man had the circumstances of his life and who his father and grandfather before him not been as they were. Yet here he was, placed in a position dictated by his bloodline and destiny, fully capable and aware of the power and authority he had, and what they did to people around him. And yet still, here he was, sitting before me, eating and drinking like any normal, run-of-the-mill man, with their many quirks and habits. His ranged from a dislike of sprouts, which he’d push aside discreetly, to pleating his napkin while he spoke. He even laughed, once, when commenting on my appetite, and it wasn’t forced. Laughter changed his entire appearance from a brooding, solemn man to one of simple boyish happiness and jest. I could see the young man he once was, and possibly still was: carefree yet mindful of who he was, charming and humorous, wickedly funny, but reserved.
I decided maybe I liked him. He was human, after all.
Though I felt rejuvenated, my spirits still remained subdued and remote. Being arrested and shipped off to parts unknown and held prisoner tends to dampen moods a bit. And then the other things I tried not to think about. John seemed to sense this, and chose topics ranging from the weather, of course, to what his work entailed, which was quite a bit, but made easier with his cabinet of ministers and aides. He talked of life in general within the Citadel, from the school system to the work force to sporting activities and their independently run media and communication houses, and entertainment. While most topics were interesting and held my attention, some I listened to with a feigned polite interest. Politics had never before held my attention, and it didn’t appear to be holding it now.
Sometimes we spoke about his family with a general overview, and I suspected he omitted bits he didn’t wish to divulge. In turn, grudgingly, I elaborated a little bit about myself. Sometimes, I’d let slip a comment or situation, whether it was because I grew a little relaxed or that I’d just forgotten my circumstances. Each time it happened, a certain spark or gleam would alight in his eyes as he absorbed this little bit of information with great interest. I imagined intricate cogs in his brain whirring and churning as it processed and stored the tidbit for later use. He looked the type to do so.
There were also times when he fell silent, brooding on some thought. I chose my words with care when we spoke, mindful of his explosive temper—moods, really. But he didn’t scare me anymore, so regardless of his mood, I’d brush it off and ignore him. My mother used to say, “Don’t feed a fire. Piss on it sideways and watch it lose muster.” She had a wry outlook on life. In any case, I think John noticed how unaffected I was by his manner, so would lose steam and gradually surface from his dark corner. Talk would once more be light, tinged with sarcastic banter and verbal spars. To be honest, I enjoyed those moments. They made me forget, if only for a little while, my circumstances.
And sometimes, gloom and despair about my predicament would consume me so that I barely managed a few polite words, reining in tears that were all too close to the surface. He’d sense this and be silent, watchful, anticipating my mood by boring into me with those all-seeing dark eyes, or change the subject to something he thought might spark my interest. Whichever he chose, whatever he did, I was grateful. At least someone still cared enough to make an effort. It made me smile, in a sense, a little easier.
And I found that when I smiled; John was in a better mood.
* * *
A little over two weeks had passed since I came to the Citadel. Sometimes my bracelet beeped and pinged depending on where I was, or it would tug my hand if I stood near metal. Judging this to be a cue to indicate prohibited areas, I’d back away and retrace my steps, venturing off in another direction.
Though I complied and accepted my current state of “imprisonment,” every chance I had, I continued to fuss and pull at the bracelet. It became an unconscious habit. Even in my sleep, I’d dig fingers into my wrist, trying to pull the offending manacle away, and wake to find fingers aching from their efforts during the night and fresh scratches and bruises on my wrist.
I felt trapped and offended. Humiliated. But escape, or trying to, never once entered my mind. What would be the point in escaping? Where would I run to, anyway? I just wanted my freedom, to be relieved of the manacle. It was claustrophobic.
And to be honest, other than being in Switzerland, I didn’t even know where I was, so any thought of running was useless, let alone trying to find my way back to Lorcan’s house. I’d asked several times, during the more serious moments of conversations with John, when I’d be allowed home or when, at the very least, the bracelet would be removed. It also itched. Each time, the answers were the same: “Indefinitely,” and “Not just yet.” I suspected at times that John avoided answering, or was hiding something that had nothing to do with my current situation. Why, I didn’t know.
Resigned and agitated, I was strolling through the gardens, admiring some odd-looking flowers on a shrub, when I spotted a small, yellow ball. The sight of the ball triggered a memory. A few days ago, a young boy I sometimes saw playing had lost his ball and howled. Even his mother’s attempts to console him with sweets and other tempting bribes had failed.
The ball was pressed up against a guard-wall, partially covered with dead leaves and roots. Had it not been for the bright flash of yellow, I would’ve missed it altogether. Crouching down on all fours, I elbowed my way through the shrubs. Extending a finger to tickle the ball closer, I then clutched it firmly as it rolled into my hand.
Without warning, the bracelet made a piercing beep. More like a screech. I jumped in fright. The bracelet flashed, a dazzling array of angry red lights and in an instant, my hand was yanked from beneath me and I was pulled, violently, through the shrubs and branches. An invisible cord tugged me at rapid speed over the grass and cobbled pathway, my left hand flung forward like a superhero in flight, the rest of me dragging unceremoniously behind. My left side scraped and banged along for the entire twenty feet. With a resounding clang, the bracelet attached itself to the leg of a garden bench, sending a shockwave of dull pain through my wrist and down my arm.
The sudden force of my abrupt stop caused me to pitch forward until I was underneath the bench, stopped only by the bracelet, which was stuck firmly to the bench leg. It hummed, and emitted a steady red light that illuminated it entirely.
I must’ve yelled or made a noise—probably cursed—I don’t know and don’t care. Indignant, and thoroughly shaken, I dragged myself from under the bench. Because of how the bracelet adhered to the leg of the bench, all I was able to do was sit on my heels before it, resting my right hand on the seat of the bench. I tugged to no avail, and looked at the bench. It was bolted to the ground. I did curse then. Venomously. I spewed out new made up expletives one after the next, all the while pulling and tugging my arm, hoping to dislodge the bracelet.
My knees throbbed where they had sc
raped along the cobblestone pathway. My elbow bled from another scrape, my face stung where bushes and branches had scratched and smacked, and the back of my head smarted like someone had slapped it hard with a piece of wood. With a wry laugh, I realized I still held the little yellow ball.
I looked around wildly. No one was around. It was the middle of the afternoon, and most people were either working or at home. They wouldn’t be back out until the late afternoon, which was hours away. I recalled it was a day in the work week, Thursday, and so would be quiet. To make matters worse, I was way off on the outskirts, where it was secluded even at the busiest of times.
Shit. Not a soul in sight. With mounting outrage and humiliation, I tried and tried to pull and tug the offending bracelet free. It was useless. It didn’t budge an inch, and just made my wrist hurt more. I couldn’t even get comfortable, since the angle it was stuck at made my arm twist a little. Any more pressure and my wrist would snap.
“Where the fuck are people when you need them,” I vented, shaking and pulling my arm in earnest, ignoring the pain, knowing it was useless. “Goddamn it! Hello? Anyone?”
Red-hot anger, sharp and glittery, like the edge of blade cut through me. A pent-up scream raged out, then another. It embodied all the grief and angst and fear I’d bottled up for the last few weeks. It felt so good to just screech out like a wild animal, to breathe in grunting mouthfuls of air as if I were about to give birth to a beast.
It felt so good.
Chapter 22
Simon found Josie an hour later, sitting hunched over, head resting on an arm and her face bright red and sticky with anger. She reminded him of his daughter when she had a meltdown. Worse.