Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  I clutched the door handle. “Don’t you ever worry about getting pulled over?”

  “No.” All smug and eye-rolly.

  His earlier words—he will remove it and explain the rules—turned into a taunting dirge that prevented slumber. I huffed and rededicated myself to the scenery. Although the snowy open terrain surrounding the highway was quite the picture, I wasn’t thrilled at the prospect of leaving the city. Escaping would be much more difficult, I thought despondently. I dreamt I was running past lampposts, past a bus stop, past a dead bird, past a far-off mailbox, then straight into the safe courtyard of my home.

  We rode on in silence for half an hour. I could feel the tension mounting and intensifying as we reached a suburban neighborhood; my palms started to sweat a little and my breathing became shallow. I kept stealing small glances at Robert, but he never looked away from the road. It wasn’t like he had anything to worry about. With the jewelry around my neck, I didn’t stand a chance.

  By now I had a vague impression of where we were headed. My eyes widened as I saw the spectacular view of the large mansion that was placed on top of the half-hill. I’d always admired these types of houses, and knew only one tycoon who could afford to live in one of them. Or, maybe Bruce Wayne wasn’t a fictional character, and this baronial mansion was his. It certainly looked like it.

  Bruce Wayne was evil, there you go, revelation of the century.

  Coming around a snow-covered embankment, Robert drove through a private road that was flanked with copses of bald cypress trees until we reached an imposing iron gateway. He pulled up in front of a high wrought-iron fence with spearhead finials, a snow capped stone mansion looming in the distance. The single and most terrifying thought I’d had during the entirety of the drive was who was behind this, and now my suspicions were confirmed. With all the private guards patrolling the long driveway, Turner Estates looked like a gated community. There was even a speed limit 20 sign.

  Robert got out of the car and came around to my side. I stepped out and he put his hands behind his back. “Please use the front door.”

  Looking at him bewildered, I did my best to keep my voice from raising another octave. “Will he hurt me?”

  “You’re strong enough to face him, Elena Anderson. Just obey from here on. Conform to his rules. When you do something that he doesn’t want you to do, that’s when you don’t want to face him. That’s when he will break you,” he informed me.

  The irony wasn’t lost on me. Perceiving that simple harassment had veered into horror, my mouth fell open.

  “Go. A word of warning, don’t make him wait. Ever.”

  I raked my fingers through my hair and nodded. Saying nothing further, I continued along a pathway until I reached the double door entrance. With a tilt of my head, I opened the door.

  Elena Anderson

  The Office Games

  “It’s official, you belong to me now.” Alexander’s hand flew across my cheek the minute I opened the front door of Wayne Manor. He didn’t even look at me, he just slapped me and continued typing on his iPhone. It was scary how fast he was, like he had some preternatural fighting ability.

  Maybe all filthy rich men had.

  I was speechless at first. Little did I know. Captor and captive? Predator and prey? There were things I wanted to ask¸ but I couldn’t bring my brain to gather my thoughts, nor could I get my mouth to start working.

  “Alexander,” I managed. Just saying his name made my voice breathy and small. I cleared my throat. “Why aren’t you in NYC? Why am I here?”

  “Shut the fuck up! You shouldn’t have contrived to go on a jaunt.” He stopped typing and backhanded me so hard that, for a moment, my vision went dark. Then the light came back and reality sparkled back into view. There was little pain, almost insignificant to bother mention it. The significant part was the taste of metal in my mouth; my teeth had cut into my cheek. It stung as the tip of my tongue rubbed at it. By way of explication I was in pain, I shot Alexander a wary glance and backed away. “Stop hitting me.”

  “Follow me.”

  I followed.

  He gestured toward a fashionable coffee table, “Why don’t you be a good girl and stand by the table?” and sat down on a modular couch, reinforcing his seating pose with an ermine throw pillow. Throwing one leg over the other, he knocked back a good amount of…whiskey. The dull clunk of ice cubes inside the glass reminded me that alcohol is a diuretic, making me realize how thirsty my hangover had rendered me.

  I asked, “Isn’t it too early for alcohol?”

  “Only way I can go through with this, baby.” At the very moment, his deft fingers released his sparkling cufflinks from the gaps, shoving them in his trouser pocket. He rolled up his shirtsleeves, exposing taut golden skin, and haltingly scrubbed his chin with the back of his hand. The tendons of his arms stood out clearly, contracting and rippling high and low as he moved his hands and crossed them behind his head. “Here we are.”

  “I’d like to leave.”

  “You’re not going anywhere.” He closed his eyes, his face tautening. When he looked back at me, it was definitely a glare. His eyes were dark and fixed me like a butterfly pinned to a board. “You will do as I say.”

  I tried to lighten the situation with a smile. “Hey, not funny.”

  “It’s not meant to be funny, Elena.”

  In a moment of clarity that only hits you once, or twice—in my case, in a blue moon, I moved forward. “You motherfucker!” My hand darted out and backhanded him.

  “Bitch.” Seething out a breath between his teeth, he smashed me against the nearest wall.

  “Ouch. That hurts,” I breathed. I rolled over, dropped to my knees.

  He walked over, the soles of his expensive-looking cap-toes clicking evenly, and crouched down beside me. “Ouch,” he whispered back with a smile. He licked his lips, a quick dart of a movement which made me long to follow his tongue with my own. I caught a whiff of the amazing cologne I’d been trying to track down, and straight away I became tame like one of Pavlov’s dogs. Every womanly sense in me came alive. I sniffed, catching his scent on skin and clothes—it was disgusting and pathetic. Part of the explanation might be that I’d never quite felt as alive as I did right now.

  “Welcome to my humble abode. Will you behave, Elena?” His voice had softened considerably.

  “Yes, I will,” I answered softly. My gaze dropped to my lap, studying the pale, clenched fists I found there.

  He placed a strong hand on my shoulder and forced me to meet his face. My eyes lifted, and I held my breath. Looking at him straight on, my heart started thumping in my chest. Both of us elapsed into an electricity-loaded silence, then he gave my shoulder a rather soft squeeze. “Stand up.”

  We both did, and I asked, “Why are you doing this?”

  He stared at me blankly. “Because I can.” He didn’t look particularly angry anymore, but a man like him was surely an expert at hiding his emotions. “When should you be back from California?”

  “What?”

  “Your grandparents, when are they expecting you back? I presume you gave them a date?”

  “Around—,”

  “Stop.” His hands ran through his hair, and he looked at me with disappointment, which felt far worse than alcohol-fueled anger. “Don’t lie to me, Elena. I already know the answer. I just want confirmation.”

  “Two weeks from today,” I heard myself saying.

  He glanced at his watch. “Okay, I can work with that. You’ll stretch the vacation to one month.” Glittering grey eyes met mine. “Then we’ll proceed according to your achievements.”

  I chose fight over flight and pushed forward to dig my sharp heels into his sides. “Fuck you,” I sneered, bringing my knee up between his legs. But he twisted and it didn’t connect with his balls. He just grunted as I hit his thigh.

  “Now you’ve pissed me off.” His hand closed around my upper arm so tight I cried. “Either you’re going to behave, or I’ll mak
e you behave.”

  I wasn’t really listening to him. One month? Achievements? I swung at his face with my free hand and, missed again.

  “Be my guest. Try again,” he muttered, slapping my fist away.

  My last option was to use my head, and when I made a motion to smash my forehead into his nose, his hand wrapped around my throat, pressing my head back against the wall. “Let’s play your game.” He grabbed me around the waist with one arm, hefted me onto his shoulder.

  “Let go.” It came out as a laughable wheeze. I was upside down and couldn’t breathe properly. With every shove of every step he took, I felt the blood draining from my face. And, inanely, I noticed how muscular and perfectly shaped his ass looked. I wouldn’t mind sinking my teeth into it. It would be unwise, the hand around my waist proved that this man was made of steel.

  He was too strong for me, too protected by his clothes to even feel my strongest blow. Having gone through a maze of endless hallways, he put me down in what looked like his office, decorated with more taste than I could ever summon. “Relax,” he ordered.

  “The joke’s over. Let me go.”

  “The joke hasn’t even begun.”

  “Come on, Alexander. Enough is enough. Very funny, but I’m not amused. I mean it. Stop being stupid! You win, okay? I’ll go out on a date with you.”

  “I’m done asking you on a date.” A hint of a grin crooked his lips. “You had your chance, and you blew it.” While he read something on his phone, I sunk to the ground to brace and protect myself. “Stand up, Anderson!” He’d snarled my last name as if it were poison.

  Reluctantly, I did.

  “Pretty is as pretty does, eh? Why’d you try slicing Robert?” His hand skidded up my throat and rested on the collar.

  I gasped at the contact, and attempted—in vain—to leap away.

  “So responsive.” He moved his thumb up and brushed my mouth.

  “You disgust me!” I spat the words at him so my saliva showered his face.

  His left hand wiped away the spit I’d sprayed on his face. “Emptying the contents of your mouth in my face won’t do us any good.” I parted my mouth to speak, but before I could get a single word out, he raised his hand and slapped me across the face.

  My hand came up to cradle my cheek as the shock registered. I twisted to get away from him, and realizing I couldn’t, I balled my fist and took careful aim, for a second time this morning. I hit his neck very hard, the hardest I’d ever hit anything. I might have sprained my wrist in the process.

  He took a fistful of my hair and roughly jerked my head back. “Did you dislocate it, my pet?”

  The seriousness of his voice sobered me. “We’ll end up physically hurting each other, Alexander.”

  “Also a good reason to keep you here. Go ahead, hit me.”

  Strung together like a ditzy flag of surrender, a few words forced themselves up from my throat. “I don’t want to.”

  He unlocked my collar and threw it in a trashcan. “Remove your coat and get comfortable on the sofa. I’m late for work.”

  I didn’t bother to mention it was Saturday, or that he owned the company, or that psychopaths have a pathological need to be punctual. “I assume I should watch mold grow?”

  “There’s no mold in any of my properties. You may watch me. Jillian will bring us coffee and pastries in a while.”

  This is where he works? One could write a book about it.

  I took off my coat. My gaze skimmed over comfortable club chairs and a sofa, a fireplace, white orchids, and various abstract paintings before I saw the entire thing. Aesthetically, and within seconds, the room won my heart. Around me were rich mahogany browns and oxblood leather, walls boasting carefully selected batik art, floor-to-ceiling makore veneer bookcases erecting on opposite walls with hundreds of books—leather-bound and otherwise. Persian rugs adorned the marble tiles, a round table with a crystal vase of fresh-cut flowers was angled in front of a window, and a sideboard on which a silver tray held decanters containing liquids in various tints stood against another wall. Old-fashioned glasses and a Tiffany chrysanthemum silver tong completed the vignette. Nearly hidden in a spacious alcove were a low round table and two leather armchairs with their respective ottomans. I heard strains of a concerto playing in the background, oh so soft, as if comforting the atmosphere.

  His desk—made of straight-veined, pinstripe Nublado marble—was impressive. With its bright contrast and glossy finish, instead of standing out, the subtle, earthy look of the surface drew you in. In every inch, at first sight, the desk looked purely masculine, but at second sight, the man behind it brought a different feel to its setting. A blend of unscrupulous power and effeminate warmth, and compared to the grey skyline view, he offered a visual that was sensuous.

  And, as expected, the devil wore Prada, owned this lair, and crudely reminded me why I was here when he took my coat from me and dropped it on a nailhead leather bench against a wall a few feet from an oil painting. My eyes were immediately drawn to the abstract underwater image of a thronged reef, its multitude of colors intriguing my eyesight. It was a captivating piece of art, tempting me to ask Alexander about it.

  Preposterous. I wasn’t here to discuss art with him. But, if I could locate some superglue, perhaps I could glue his balls together. Sounds good, doesn’t it?

  I asked, “Where’s my stuff?”

  He pulled me toward him and wrapped his fingers around my wrists. “They will be in your room in an hour. MacBook, iPad, iPhone, to name a few, every device here works through a relay system. Dial a number you shouldn’t or try sending an email you shouldn’t, and it won’t go through. Good that, just like me, you’re not big on social media. No Facebook or Twitter.”

  Regrets, I have a few. Craving privacy above all, Fuck Facebook was my motto, those bastards owned rights to your personal photographs and thoughts. How dumb do you have to be to publicly store private stuff? I also had a strong aversion to Twitter. I just didn’t get it. A social obligation that forces one to pop in and slavishly spy on celebrities is nothing if ridiculous, its system so dumb-making that one could spend hours and hours on random names, and the next thing you know you’re staring at Tweet photos from the Kardashians. Instead of following conversation threads as stupid as cockroaches, I preferred spending my time productively.

  “I’ve taken everything into account, Elena.”

  A gasp escaped my throat. “That’s sick.” A scowl began to form on his face, but it didn’t deter my perseverance. “What about my job? What about my family? My grandparents? My grandparents, Alexander! They’ll come after you!”

  “No they won’t,” he answered matter-of-factly. “Frederic will accept the request to extend your vacation period with eyes closed. As for your grandparents, be good and you may Skype with them. We’ll revise after a month. Enough for now, I must work.”

  Good grief, I was a character in a William Gibson novel. “You’re sick, Alexander! You should be locked up,” I asserted.

  Instead of responding, he towed me along. Opening the top drawer of an Edwardian chest of drawers with cabriole legs, he fished out a pair of handcuffs. One meaningless comment about bad manners before he slapped one end around my left wrist and attached the other to a front leg, giving me a licentious smile when the cuff snicked shut. “Not a hatchet job, I can be very handy.”

  “Oh God,” I breathed in horror.

  I felt him grab my chin, holding it in place. “Oh God,” he echoed through a chuckle.

  Stunned, I gazed at the metal secured around my wrist. There were more or less twelve inches of chain that separated one end from the other. I pulled at it in horror, a dull clank against wood telling me it was pointless to resist. “Alexander, c’mon.” My eyes grew wider as I looked at him, my voice pleading tremulously, “Please unchain me?”

  Seated in a high-back office chair, he tore his gaze from the iMac to look at me before swiveling his head back to the screen.

  Moving forward as far
as I could get, I dragged the handcuff up the leg and placed my free hand on the floor. “Please take it off?” I demanded stiffly, pulling at the restraint to make noise.

  He lifted one of his hands and shrugged. “I’d like to, but I think I’ve lost the key, baby.”

  Feeling helpless, I began yanking the chain fiercely, and he finally rotated his chair to look at me. “I will behave. I really don’t like this kind of punishment.” I bit the corner of my lip, hoping he’d take pity on me.

  He shook his head, and made a couple of keystrokes on the computer’s keyboard. “This isn’t punishment,” he told me flatly. “Get comfy, I’m not taking it off.”

  I sat on the floor, surprised and confused. “Comfy? If this isn’t punishment, then why are you doing this?”

  He rolled toward me with such force that the chair casters squeaked. Towering above me, his evil gaze roamed over my body. He leaned forward and brought his lips close to my ear. “I’m doing this because I want to.” When he pulled back and looked down at me, a devious smile lifted the corners of his mouth.

  “I’m going to scream. Your personnel will come looking and find out you’re a lunatic monster.”

  His eyebrows furrowed in response. “Elena, you probably shouldn’t scream.”

  “Scared your employees will find out about your psychopathic extracurricular activities?”

  He grinned at the implied insult. “The walls are soundproof. All you’re going to do is hurt your throat, and undoubtedly my ears. I’ve got work to do.” Rolling away from me, he swiveled his chair back toward the computer screen. “I do have industrial tape lying around here somewhere.” He laughed. “I might even have a ruler, imagine that.”

  “Why are you doing this to me in particular? Other types of girls get huge kicks out of this sort of…practice. They might even find it sexually arousing. I don’t.”