by JR King
While I tipped the little white pills from my palm to my mouth, Serena regarded me knowingly. I held her gaze, and when I gave her the highball back, I made certain my fingers brushed against hers.
She flinched, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. I smiled.
I knew very well I was the flavor of the week year round on these grounds. I pretended not to notice when I saw female colleagues calculating just exactly how they were going to get into bed with me.
“Anything else, Mr. Turner?” Serena’s eyes were startlingly downcast, fixed on her toes.
The stillness in the office was absolute; every metronomic tick of the antique clock hanging above the door could be heard. I could be chauvinistic because, let’s face it, that’s what the baroque corporate world is built on. That’s how subordinates climb, not just EPRs and acting like a team-player by going down to a lower floor to pick up commercial flight tickets—business class—from the in-house travel agency, instead of having a secretary deliver them to you. I could peck away on emails and make Serena wrap her lips around the—big, hard, beautiful—cock of corporate America and suck hard, just like a good girl should. But see, here’s the problem; Turner Holdings had peculiar rules. The CEO wouldn’t hesitate to throw the book at me. Tenets that, since the company’s inception, were instilled by my father. Just like any good law and casual sexism, they couldn’t be vetoed. While there were too many examples to relay here, latent sexism in the army included, arguably, sexism is part of a large sexist corporate culture that has systematically discouraged women for decades, feeding frenziedly on it. Only now—and I was all for this—workshops and campaigns were getting around to possibly do something about it.
I waved the blister strip at Serena and tilted my head as I gave her a self-deprecatory look. “Thank you for providing my mind relief. Do you want the rest back?”
“Not necessarily.”
I slid my swivel chair a little nearer to my desk. “These extra strength Bayer bastards are mine now, Serena. Thank you.”
I watched her sashay away with practiced elegance before answering my phone.
“Aleks, she’s awake. She made one call when her grandparents left. A girl named Maria in California. She wants to leave the city.”
More shit. Flabbergasted, I didn’t say anything.
Robert said, “Are you still there?”
Tightly knitted in concentration, I could feel the weight of my brow. “She can’t leave.”
“Plan B. Stanford will be good for her…make her forget Peter. I like this girl. Remember whose daughter she is? I want to work for her one day. So you don’t get to mess with her. She’ll come back to Boston. To him. She’ll never leave him.”
“True. She’ll come back to Frank.”
“There’s something else.”
Something in his voice didn’t hit the right note with me. “Jesus. Hit me.”
“The chum had mifepristone pills messengered over to his house. RU-486 to you.”
“Shit.” I imagined blood bubbling out of Peter’s mouth as he tried to breathe. His head lolled to the side, his wavy black hair mussed and streaked with blood. The crushing pressure bearing down on his chest was becoming unbearable. In between frantic breaths gulping for air, he coughed, and something snapped, like a sharp twig. What followed was gurgled breathing accompanied by a shower of bloody saliva spraying up into the air. Coup de grâce, he twitched and then his body lay lifeless on the floor.
“Get this. Two gals in Peter’s class were hospitalized earlier this year when they suffered severe abdominal cramps. Elena, however, has no traces of the drug in her system. I took a blood sample while she was unconscious, went back to the drawing board. Amid all the chaff, a morsel of insight grew in the fucker, because he bought Trojans to change his MO. I’ve uploaded Elena’s latest blood results to the server.”
Talk about a morbid sense of humor, now I was the one who wanted her to leave so she could heal. “She has to go, Robert. I’m on it. She can’t find out about the other girls. In her fragile mental state, it could be disastrous.”
This tectonic shift required preemptive action. I dumped a liberal amount of bourbon in my double espresso, sat back and stewed over it all. Two cups of coffee later, the tension left my shoulders. I started culling records to implement Plan B, which took the entire day.
*
As I strolled to the car, pleasant little twitches pulled at the muscles of my jaw. I was in need of a drink, a thick-cut strip of steak, and a long fuck, in no particular order. If you’re familiar with Boston, you know that the aureate sunrays reflecting off the Charles River gives a part of the city an almost postcard-like look. Traffic was thinning out on Clarendon Street. The flight ahead was going to balance out private life and work. I wasn’t a fan of red-eye flights, and being stuck in the evening rush hour in a tunnel—however well lit and wide they were—sucked. To get to the Logan Airport, you always had to pass through a tunnel. Of the various tunnels, Sumner was one-way, so it was either Callahan or Ted Williams, and the limo’s GPS magically chose the one that went down to Boston Harbor.
Near dusk it mostly looked like the light in the city had been turned down on a dimmer switch. When we reached the tarmac, it was only minutes before I stretched out my legs. Whiskey in hand, I faced the sad truth: flying has never been the same since Concord got grounded. I wasn’t seated in a Boeing business jet, according to my father, that type of plane is reserved for CEOs. Between the Dassault Falcons, Bombardiers, and Gulfstreams, I’d sweet-talked him into borrowing a Gulfstream.
When the eerie orange and blue runway lights blinked a Morse code that solely airplanes understand, the jet soared east toward Le Midi, where a private villa at a luxurious hotel awaited me.
As we reached 30,000 feet, I yawned to pop my ears open and started to work. I didn’t live off my father’s money; I’d made my fortune by getting the best diplomas and working hard. I’d had no choice because he refused me access to my trust fund, and since I liked living in the lap of luxury, I took out a student loan and did what I had to. On occasion, that included doing some hot teacher. In old times, the apposite practice wasn’t frowned upon as much as it is nowadays. To the guys out there, remember that longstanding teacher-student fantasy? The one in which the geeky teacher with repressed librarian looks—female version of dark-rimmed Clark Kent glasses and all—turns out to be a leather-wearing, cat o’ nine tails-waving, handcuff-bearing nymphomaniac? Hear this, I’d lived that fantasy.
Go ahead, unseal the bottle of Jack and drown your sorrows.
Want me to make it worse?
I had grilled seaweed, parsnips in razor clam broth, charred radicchio, cress and caramelized squid, sweetbreads with wild onion and wheat, and lamb ragu with mint and sorrel…I’ll spare you the dessert courses. Approximately 3800 miles later, we touched down on the tarmac in Nice so smoothly it felt like we’d landed on silk. A limousine drove me to the helipad of the Côte d’Azur Airport. Two uniformed men were standing by a sleek silver-and-black helicopter. Once I was belted in, the helicopter lifted, soaring delightfully close to the blue expanse of the Mediterranean.
A long while went by before we reached the hotel’s private helipad, and a mere ten minutes after that I set foot inside a villa. I was standing on the terrace, longingly staring out at the ocean that rested in the nearby distance. The environs were quiet, sunrays shone in intermittent beams in between the clouds as they skated tirelessly across the sky, and the air was salty and fresh. While I toyed with my signet ring, a stiff breeze washed over the terrace and stirred the Brioni trousers I wore.
There’s nothing like a hard fuck first thing in the morning. I forwent the habitual breakfast, made myself a stiff drink, and then looked into the master bedroom. Spotlighted in a pool of eerie golden sunlight sat a young girl. The tint of her skin looked a lot like the summer hue of dune dust mixing in with desert sand. Her beautiful face was looking unabashedly at me, her twinkling eyes trying to meet my guarded gaze.
I extended my palm as an invitation to the tall, thin girl with tanned skin and a wild mane of dark locks. I welcomed her kisses on my neck, clutched her ass and pressed my hard-on against her hip. She moaned loudly against my skin. I let go of her as fast as I’d pulled her in.
I asked, “En vrai, comment t-appelles-tu?”
She plastered on a trained smile. “Laure.” There was no excessive makeup I could detect—no suffocating pores—just a glossy sheen on her lips and a rosy blush on her cheeks with the soft texture of real skin rather than a model’s airbrushed, loaded features.
I toyed with a loose curl on the side of her neck. “T’aimes prendre dans le cul?”
Her eyes shone so bright they could spit sparks.
And that was that. Such a good girl. Did I mention she was French?
The champagne was classic Ruinart. Then I fucked her like I did everything else: carefully and thoroughly, all the while voices of my past and my current demons chased me. There was much tightness. Shock. Resistance. There were times I fucked when I was more animal than man; this was one of them. I fed on the odd little hitches in her throat, my turgid murmurs assuaging some of her pain. Her naïve behavior superseded my expectations. I almost asked if she were a virgin, but I knew she wasn’t. Condom removed and initial pulse unleashed, the first time around, my come got projected in an arched trail over her body and onto the white linens beyond. Anyway, I’ll spare you the tedious recount of what I did to her, use your imagination. When all was said and done, I reclined and rolled onto my back, satisfied and gloriously drained.
Feeling beat, I put my arm around Laure and rested my hand on her stomach. My forefinger drew aimless circles around the wink of her belly button. I listened, and the voices and demons no longer chased me. Two people out of breath, a rustle of sheets and covers; that was it.
Laure was willowy and had whiskey-brown eyes that were socketed in memorable. I liked her puckish tease of a giggle. Against the blinding white of the bedsheets, her tanned skin was that perfect shade of pale gold dust. She nuzzled my neck and I allowed it, painfully wishing—praying—she’d morph into Elena. Blowing out a rueful breath, I wondered if I was ever going to get the girl I was in love with, on my terms, rewards and punishments included. I ached for her so much that it felt quite ridiculous.
That Masquerade Ball. I kept remembering it like it was yesterday. She was the prettiest girl there; invitees sighed when she walked past. Women looked at her with envy and wished they could be like her, and men looked at her with desire and wished they owned her. And though she was young and inexperienced, she was still a girl, and therefore susceptible to my charm. Wasn’t the first time I’d seen her in person, nor was it and instalove thing. Instaobsession was more like it. I’d flashed my smarmiest smile when I asked her to dance with me.
Hope is a dangerous thing. Hope can drive a man insane.
Man, screw Red, what does he know? Discouraged people say the darnedest things.
My breathing slowed to peaceful, and my head grew heavy. I tried consoling Laure with an incoherent mumble. “Ça va, petite Laure?”
She closed her eyes and plucked at her raven hair to cover her face with lank locks. Another giggle fell from her lips, but no concrete reply was given.
I wanted her gone. I never saw the appeal of having a hooker in your bed for anything but fucking. To get to the point, I reached for my wallet on the nightstand. Although the agency that dispatched her had already debited my account, I took the liberty of upping the ante by depositing a boatload of ultraviolet Euros next to her purse.
“Ce n’est pas nécessaire,” she informed me in firm, cemented tone.
“J’insiste.”
She squinted only for a second. I watched her as she quietly picked up the trail of clothes from the middle of the room and went to the en-suite bathroom. By the time she walked out the door, I’d finished my stupidly expensive whiskey, realizing once again that this would only temporarily staunch the bleeding in my heart. I readjusted my pillow and forced myself to fall asleep.
Elena Anderson
The Rape
When I woke, through narrowed eyes I noticed there was a large photograph on the wall opposite the bed. It was neatly framed like an art photo. The subject was a smiling woman, standing on a shingle beach with crystal blue water churning in the background. Even though the photograph looked old and matted, it was obvious by the colors that it had been taken on a sunny day. The woman had struck a rather glamorous pose and the full skirt of her short orange sundress and her long dark hair were both caught up in the wind coming off the sea.
There was something familiar about her.
Why hadn’t I perceived the photograph before I fell asleep?
The ghost of a metallic smell made my nose twitch. Seconds later, I noticed the blood on my hands. It was everywhere on my naked body. My breasts, my thighs, my toes…the raw taste was even in my mouth.
Feeling disoriented, when I attempted to raise myself on my elbows, I saw the lifeless, bloody body beside me.
What had I done? Why would I stab such a handsome chest?
I knew that if I could draw in enough air, I would be able to scream. Would someone come to my aid? I crumpled to the floor, and though no one came when I screamed, the shades of darkness did ebb away. I remembered that in this institution I was just another crazy person, and hope is all I had left.
Remember Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.
Just then I reminisced about him. I’d barely turned sixteen.
“Only for a few minutes, sweetheart,” the man’s slow, deep rasp insisted, but I shook my head. His demeanor suggested he was much older than me, for sure over ten years. He stood in the room as if he owned the mansion, his annoyingly beautiful lips and strong jaw captivating me.
“Sorry, sir,” I quipped in a casual tone, trying to prove to myself that I didn’t care all that much. Of course I cared; I would have followed him off a cliff if that were where he’d lead me. “I don’t dance with strangers. Grandpa raised me better than that.” I giggled under my embroidered Venetian mask—ornately decorated with blue-black feathers and intricate swirl-patterns of gold sequins—at his smarmy attempt to get me to sway on the dance floor. I knew I was a good dancer. No one else but Sara and my grandparents knew about this. With my sense of cloaked shyness, facing the world was pure torture.
“I ain’t bearded and gap toothed, and it’s not like I’m luring you into a modest white van with a Kit Kat bar,” he went on, placing his long-fingered hand on the crisply starched tuxedo hugging his chest. “Could I at least see what’s hidden underneath that mask, neighboring those beautiful eyes of yours?”
Adjusting the frame of the mask, I peered around the crowd, my leveled gaze searching for Sara. It was my first Masquerade Ball, and I wasn’t quite enjoying it…until I met him.
“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” I resumed bantering. He wore a Grifone mask—beautiful nonetheless. I couldn’t decide on whether the gold filigree etched around the eye area made the mask exquisite, or the haunting grey eyes beyond it.
In a clipped tone he said, “That isn’t going to happen.”
How Neanderthalish and ignorant.
“Then go away,” I parried, deadpan.
“Careful.” He reached out and plucked at the curled plume covering the top of my mask. “Behave—be a sweet, clever girl.”
Sending the elevator back down, I reached for the black ribbon that was threaded around the edges of his mask. “Why would I do that?”
He leaned into my touch and spoke softly; I felt more warm breath than I heard articulation, as if cutting through the din would trigger the end of the world. “Rewards, baby. Misbehavior will earn you punishment. You don’t want to suffer the consequences of misbehavior, do you now?”
Despite his sensual lips, he reeked of trouble. I was way too aware of the sudden huskiness his voice had taken on and, the smile shap
ing his lips could persuade a woman to murder for him in all sorts of ways.
I was young, oblivious, and angry, so angry that he hadn’t kissed me, because if he had, Peter would have been history…Peter would…
“FRANK!” I yelled.
“Wake up,” A hand shook me, none too gently. “Wake up.”
Not scitzy, just nightmares—I had elaborate ones. Coming to consciousness brought back the bad memories. Brought back the incessant shock of seeing Peter and two of his friends approaching me. There were steps everywhere. Behind every corner, down every alley, gaining on me, mowing me down. I remembered the homeless man huddled in a threadbare, soot-stained coat, muddy army boots peeking out, the top of his head covered by a knit Red Sox beanie cap, a bushy beard dominating the lower part. Despite his destitution, he gave such an easy, beautiful smile. The surroundings fuzzed around me, and my vision dimmed. “Run,” he’d told me before everything went dark.
The slough of silence was killing me, so I started to adjust the covers. Tunnel vision confirmed it was daytime.
“Kiddo, take it easy,” I heard a smooth rumble of a voice.
The calm, avuncular tone belonged to grandpa.
Darting my eyes around the hospital room, an uncontrolled, airy sigh escaped me. “What happened?”
“Smelling salts.” He threw his hands up in disgust. “Quite the predicament, you fainted in the street. A Russian gentleman assisted. Called 911 and contacted us.”
Grandma said, “Mr. Good Samaritan left before we could thank him.” She had a smile that was contagious and bright, lighting up like a solar flare. “What do you remember?”
A sweat formed across my forehead. I rubbed a finger pad in each corner of my eye next to the nose, dabbing the moisture.
All of it.
*
As summers go, this one was smeared with the balsam fragrance of growth and the earthy pungency of greenery. My perfectly handsome and perfectly courteous boyfriend brought up the inevitable discussion: sex. He was my better half since one year before he popped the big question. I freaked out and almost broke up with him that day.