The Dollhouse Society Ultimate Boxset: 21 Books & 5 Shorts in the Dollhouse Society Series

by Eden Myles

  I gripped my sweater close. “What do your patients have to do with me?”

  “You have perfect breasts,” they said in unison.

  I thought about standing up and telling them to go to hell, walking out, but I had to admit I was so desperate for this job that their statement left me more stunned than insulted. “I don’t understand.”

  “Your breasts,” Dr. Dorian said. He spoke softer than his brother, with less flair, but there was something quietly compelling about his presence. He seemed to fill the room with a subdued heat, and I found I couldn’t look away from him, his equally chiseled features, sandy hair, broody blue eyes. “They’re perfect double-D’s, which is infinitely rare. They are real? You haven’t had work done?”

  “They’re real,” I said.

  “One never knows these days.” He surprised me by going down on one knee like he was about to propose marriage. “May I see?”

  His eyes were so sincere, and his voice such a compelling hush, I didn’t feel the least bit threatened, even though the situation was ridiculous. I let the cardigan fall away. He didn’t touch me, but he looked me over carefully while his brother spoke up from the opposite side of the desk.

  “Mammoplasty is as much art form as science. My brother is very, very good, but only because he’s studied women like you, Belle. In fact, he regularly goes around the world, studying the most beautiful and naturally perfect women in the world. What we call Holy Grails. Women with perfect breasts.”

  I laughed at that. “I’m not beautiful, and I hate my breasts.”

  “I love them,” Dr. Dorian said. His voice was a low, vibrating purr. He raised his head and his glasses flashed at me as he centered his attention on my face. “You have the housekeeping job, of course. We would love to have you work for us.”

  “So you can look at me,” I guessed. “Study me?”

  “That’s part of it, yes.” He looked over at his brother and I sensed a signal passing between them on an almost psychic level.

  Dr. Damian said, “What your friend Stefan said we’re offering we’ll double, naturally. We want you to feel you’re being paid well for your services.”

  “What are my services?” I demanded to know. “I mean, I don’t have to take my clothes off or do things…?”

  “No, of course not,” Dr. Dorian said, standing up. “We are gentlemen, after all. But I would like to watch you at your tasks, study your form while you work, if it’s no bother. It will help me in my surgeries to see how you move…to see how your body moves. I’ll be as unobtrusive as possible.” He nodded at his brother and Dr. Damian opened a desk drawer and drew out a checkbook. He wrote off a check that he then passed to his brother.

  Dr. Dorian handed it over to me.

  I nearly had a heart attack. Stefan must have been mistaken. The check was for four times what he’d said they were willing to pay me for just one month of wages. I looked at the check, all the zeroes, my hands shaking. “Is this some kind of joke?” It was more money than I made in six months at all the other jobs I had ever worked. I could pay off half my student loans with it. I’d have extra for Grandma’s expenses.

  “Keep it and come work for us,” Dr. Dorian said, folding my shaking hand over the check, and for the first time, I didn’t mind a man touching me. In fact, a kind of electricity seemed to arc over my skin at his touch.

  He crossed his arms over his impressive chest and narrowed his eyes. “I only have two requests, Belle. Don’t alter your weight in any way, and please don’t wear that godawful cardigan again. If you do that, we’ll give you another check at the end of this month. Please say yes, Belle.”

  ***

  I was in the college library, cramming for a killer business math exam, when Stefan dropped his backpack by my table and sat down. “So…hot or hot?”

  “What?” I said, looking up, startled.

  He rolled his eyes. “Dr. Michaels. Is he hot or is he hot?”

  “Which one do you mean?”

  Stefan scratched at his shadow. “Excuse me?”

  I held up two fingers. “There’s two Dr. Michaels. Twins.”

  “You’re shitting me.”

  “I shit you not. Dr. Dorian and Dr. Damian. Dr. Damian’s an anesthesiologist, which is probably why you don’t remember him during your surgery. And get this…he was the front man of Suicide Kings back before they folded! They opened for Mudvayne a few years ago, didn’t they?”

  “Yeah.” Stefan slapped his forehead. “You mean I’ve been fantasying about one absolutely perfect gay guy when there’s actually two perfect gay guys?”

  “I’m not sure about the gay part,” I told him frankly. “I mean, they didn’t have an aura of gayness about them or anything.”

  Stefan quirked his eyebrow. “Aura? You do know not all gay guys act like Ru Paul, right?”

  I grinned at my best friend. “Yeah, but let’s just say they did not exactly ping my gaydar.”

  “They pinged mine.”

  “But you’re attracted to straight guys, so that means your gaydar’s all broken, my friend.”

  We bickered back and forth a bit before I spilled all about my very unusual interview at their mansion the day before.

  “They didn’t ask for references, a resume, nothing. They just hired me on the spot,” I said.

  Stefan gave me a dubious look. “Because they like your boobs? I mean…seriously?”

  “Apparently. They said I’m the Holy Grail of boobs.”

  A girl passing us by threw a strange look over her shoulder at me and I laughed. It sounded odd, even to me.

  But Stefan wasn’t laughing. He did touch my hand, very lightly. “I hope these guys are straight with you. I really hope I didn’t get you into something weird—two weird guys with a boob fetish or whatever.”

  I thought about that. I supposed it did sound weird, but something about the Michaels brothers had put me at ease almost at once—after I’d gotten over the confusion of there being two of them. I couldn’t explain it; it was just something in my gut that told me I didn’t have to be afraid of them. I boldly put my other hand over his. “I’ll be fine, Stef. I promise. If anything weird happens, they’ll be eating my dust.”

  He didn’t look entirely convinced, but he did force a smile. Reaching down into his backpack, he pulled out a flier. “I saw this on the community board and thought of you.”

  It was some kind of announcement for a meeting. The Survivor’s Club, it read. Oh no, it was a support group for men and women who were survivors of rape and sexual assault. They were meeting for the first time later tonight. I smiled at Stefan. “Don’t be silly. Why would I need this?”

  “Izzy Pop,” Stefan said in a serious tone of voice, “please consider going. Just drop in and see what they have to say. It’s totally private. And maybe it’ll help you a little.”

  “Nothing’s totally private,” I said, sounding angry even to myself. “And I’m fine. I don’t need help. I’m not a victim!”

  “You’re right, Iz. You’re not. You’re a survivor. But you should still talk to someone.”

  “Leave me alone!” I shouted at him, and the librarian finally looked up from the front desk and offered me a frown.

  “Is there a problem?” she asked in a cold tone of voice.

  “No, ma’am,” Stefan said getting up, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Obviously not.”

  After he left, I crumpled up the flier and tossed it at the nearest wastepaper basket, but missed. I immediately went back to studying statistics and probability, but before I left I picked up the ball of paper and put it inside my backpack. Maybe dropping in wouldn’t be so bad and would help Operation Get Your Shit Back Together. Who knows?

  ***

  The meeting was pretty cool.

  There were ten of us in total, and I was a little surprised to discover that four of the people who showed up were guys. Somehow, I just hadn’t been expecting to see guys. I didn’t think guys could be sexually assaulted.

&nb
sp; It was students only and we sat around in a horseshoe in the darkened student cafeteria and just talked about nothing in particular at first. Finally, though, this one tiny Asian girl named June piped up and talked about the night her boyfriend wouldn’t stop feeling her up and what happened afterward. Everyone told June it wasn’t her fault and she was awesome for being so brave.

  A tall, handsome black guy named Myles went next, talking about what had happened between him and his uncle when he was twelve years old. The stories after that were scary, and sad, but somehow cathartic. The students who talked looked relieved after telling their secrets, like they were dropping this huge weight off their shoulders. It was like it stopped being scary after they got it out, like we were all sharing each other’s burdens.

  A kind of anticipation started bubbling up inside me, and when it came my turn to say something, I was a little surprised by how much detail I offered. “I never saw him again. I hope I never see him again, but I’m afraid one day I might, and if I did, I won’t know how to react,” I admitted, staring down at my feet.

  A red-haired girl name Christa nodded and said, “You’re not the only one, Iz. Clark did the same thing to me.”

  I swallowed hard, like a walnut was stuck in my throat. “You mean Clark is a…like a serial…”

  I didn’t want to use the word, but Christa nodded again and said, “A serial rapist? Yeah. I know at least three girls on campus he’s done it to.”

  I caught a sob in my throat. “Why doesn’t anyone say anything? Turn him in? Do something?”

  She looked at me sadly, with darkened eyes. “You didn’t turn him in, did you?”

  I thought about her words as I got into bed that night. For once I didn’t cry myself to sleep. I was too damned mad to cry.

  ***

  I pushed the Dyson Ball back and forth across the living room floor, leaving tracks in the plush crème-colored carpeting, while Dr. Dorian sat in a wing chair in a corner of the room and quietly made notations in his small, leather-bound notebook. He made not a sound, but I could feel his eyes on me as I slowly worked my way across the vast plane of carpeting. I worked hard at ignoring him and tried to concentrate on the task at hand and not go too fast. The work was surprisingly easy.

  In the past week, I’d learned that the Michaels brothers were almost pathologically neat. There were never any stains on the carpeting, messes on the coffee tables, or even many dishes in the sink of their vast, industrial kitchen. Their bedrooms were absolutely spotless. I think they spent more of their times in the offices, consultation rooms, and attached clinic than anywhere else. They seemed to eat out more than they did in. When I arrived at work in the late afternoons, right after classes, it normally took me about ten or fifteen minutes to assess the damage from the night before, and usually only an hour or two to neaten up.

  Dr. Damian told me I was responsible for answering the door, seeing patients to consultation rooms, and cleaning the whole bottom floor of the mansion—everything except the offices, consultation rooms and clinic. Those had a professional industrial waste cleaner who came in once a week to dispose of medical wastes and make certain the clinic was up to medical code. I’d asked about the second floor, but he said because it was just the two of them since their parents had died ten years ago, most of the upper floor rooms had been sealed off and I only had to worry about their bedrooms. It was easy work—almost too easy. An almost obscene paycheck for no more than two hours of work a day. I felt like I was stealing their money.

  The carpet done, I shut off the vacuum and started rolling up the cord. “I put the dishes in the dishwasher and did all the carpets, Dr. Dorian. I also changed yours and Dr. Damian’s sheets and straightened up. I don’t think I forgot anything.”

  “Thank you, Belle,” he said in a soft monotone, still scribbling notes. “Thorough work, as always.”

  I checked my watch and realized I’d finished up in just forty-five minutes today. “Did you want me to do the upstairs rooms? I have plenty of time. I could start cleaning some of the closed-up rooms for you. It would be no bother.”

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He looked up at me. “Yes.”

  I finished rolling up the cord and pushed the Dyson toward the door. I thought about getting my feather duster out even though I’d dusted only yesterday. I wanted to actually feel like I was earning the ridiculous wages my employers were paying me, but Dr. Dorian stopped me.

  “Belle, may I ask you something?”

  I turned to him and smiled. “Sure.”

  “My brother and I are attending a fundraising shindig for the American Cancer Society tomorrow night. Would you be available to act as our consort?”

  It took me a moment to digest that. “You want me to be your date? Yours and Dr. Damian’s?”

  “Consort.” He offered me a smirk. “Arm candy, if you will. And no, that’s not code for anything.”

  “Both of you?” I was finding it a little odd that they didn’t each have high-class dates to bring—or escorts, or whatever men like the Michaels brothers took. I mean, they were doctors. Any woman in the city would kill to be on their arms.

  Dr. Dorian set his notebook down in his lap. “My brother and I like to share.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It amuses the investors. Two doctors who look alike. One date between them.” He shrugged. “It entertains the investors and loosens their purses. But if you’re uncomfortable…”

  I thought about that. It was for a good cause. The American Cancer Society. And they were already paying me an absurd amount of money to do practically nothing. “No, it doesn’t bother me. It sounds like fun, actually.”

  I smiled, and Dr. Dorian smiled back.

  ***

  I’d found a little black cocktail dress on sale down at a thrift store on Market Street in the East Village. I’d thought it was really cute and sophisticated until I got to the house and saw Damian and Dorian coming down the spiral staircase dressed in tuxedos that would have had James Bond panting. Then I started feeling totally underdressed and exceedingly poor.

  I quickly excused myself, locked the door in the downstairs bathroom, sat on the closed lid of the toilet, and speed dialed Stefan. “Oh god, I’m totally in trouble, Stef,” I said as soon as I heard him pick up. I touched my pounding heart, afraid I was going to have a coronary.

  “What’s up? They didn’t pull something weird…?”

  “No. They’re totally gorgeous, both of them. And total gentleman, as always.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “I’m…me.”

  Stefan laughed. “You’re beautiful, Izzy Pop. I know because I put you together myself.”

  “I’m not beautiful. I’m poor and fat and totally out of my league.” I was breathing too hard, on the verge of hyperventilating and passing out. I hadn’t had a panic attack like this in months.

  Stefan must have known because he coached me, saying, “Breathe, Iz, breathe.”

  “I’m trying!”

  “Put your head down between your legs and breathe.”

  I followed his instructions and took several long, shaky breaths. Finally, the nausea retracted and my fluttering heart seemed to slow down from its frantic gallop in my chest.

  “Where are you?”

  “Locked in the downstairs bathroom.”

  “Stand up and go to the mirror.”

  I did.

  “What are you looking at?”

  “A really ugly, fat, poor girl,” I said, tears in my eyes.

  “Iz, listen to me: you’re a total knockout. You look like a princess, and nothing Clark did can change that. You were beautiful before and you’re beautiful now. Do you understand me?”

  I breathed in and out, in and out. Stefan’s words hit a chord. I heard similar things in my support group every week when we met up.

  You did nothing wrong and you’re not to blame.

  You’re beautiful and
strong and indestructible.

  What happened is not your fault.

  You’re unbreakable.

  “Unbreakable.” I repeated those mantras we said to each other in the group until my tears subsided and I was calm and breathing normally once more. I looked in the mirror and slowly a veil lifted from my eyes. I didn’t feel ugly now. I felt almost pretty. I felt almost pure. Almost.

  Stefan said in my ear, “Iz, still there?”

  “Yeah, I’m here.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, Stef, I am. I’m okay. I’m fine.” I patted at my makeup with a piece of toilet paper and even tried on a smile. “I’m good.”

  “Good. Now go get ‘em.”

  ***

  I felt like Cinderella being driven to the ball. I sat on the seat of the limo with Drs. Dorian and Damian on both sides of me. I leaned back on the seat, sipped my champagne, and tried to act as casual as I could, even though there was some serious butterflies flitting around my stomach. The closeness of two beautiful men and their spicy, expensive cologne didn’t help much.

  “I guess I should try and keep my mouth shut, being the odd girl out and all,” I said.

  “You’re free to be yourself, Belle,” Dr. Damian said. “And if anyone makes you uncomfortable, just seek one of us out.” He touched my knee briefly, but it was a light touch, not sexual, comforting.

  Dr. Dorian turned and slid his arm along the seat so I was sitting close enough to feel his heat. It was a strangely possessive gesture. I never felt ill at ease with Damian, who always smiled and made jokes, despite his punkish exterior, but Dorian was another matter. If I had to peg the dangerous one, it would be he. He looked me over carefully, his eyes lingering on my dress, my neckline, everything. I always felt a little twitchy while under his scrutiny.

  His hand brushed the back of my neck, raising goose bumps there. “Nervous?”

  I laughed. “Yes.” And then I blurted it out. “The dress is just awful, isn’t it? Cheap. I look cheap.”

  “I hadn’t noticed,” Dorian said. “You wear it well, Belle. You wear everything well. You’re lovely.”

  I wondered if he was just saying that to put me at ease.