Strapped

by Nina G. Jones

  “I feel like a terrible person,” I say as I sink my head.

  “You’re not a terrible person. Terrible people don’t feel terrible about hurting people.”

  “I wish I felt differently.”

  “So are you going to leave him?”

  “I don’t know. I keep thinking it might be a mistake. Maybe this is just what happens in relationships.”

  “I wish I could tell you what to do, but either way, I think you need to talk to Rick honestly about it. Maybe he just needs wake up call. After all, all relationships lose their fizzle after a while. Do you really think there is a better guy out there than Rick?” Damn Kristin and her level headedness.

  “You’re killing me here. On one hand you’re saying cut the strings, but on the other, you’re saying he’s a great guy.”

  “You need to do what you know is right for you. Rick is a great guy, but if you really feel it’s the end of the road, then something has to be done. You know I’ll support you either way. I just want to make sure you think it all through.”

  She’s right. They don’t make them more loyal and kind than Rick and yet that doesn’t seem to be enough. Maybe if I hadn’t met Taylor, Rick and I would have been content, but Taylor made me suddenly want something I didn’t know I was missing. That blanket of doubt that always wraps my thoughts asks the question: What if this is all a stupid mistake and I end up all alone?

  Eventually, I get tired of mulling over my feelings and we change the subject to our work lives. Kristin is bogged down with studying for the bar, which I know she’ll knock out of the park. I wonder if H.I. needs a young attorney?

  The subject quickly turns back to me and H.I. and I can’t keep a stupid grin off of my face. I show her some pictures from St. Petersburg.

  “Who is that?” Kristin asks, practically knocking my phone out of my hands with her aggressive pointing. I try hard not to glow, because she will know in an instant.

  “Oh, that’s my boss, Taylor Holden.” Don’t smile, don’t blush, keep cool.

  “THAT’S the CEO of Holden Industries? My god Shyla, he is so fucking hot. How do you get any work done? He’s so young too!” She opens the window for a little fun, if I even try to pretend that he is not attractive, it will be obvious that I am hiding something.

  “I know, it’s like working with a damned Calvin Klein model all day. I was swatting off Russian women like flies.” We giggle like little high schoolers.

  “I know! Actually, everyone in this picture is good looking. That guy with the hair is cute too. What the hell? Is this like the corporate headquarters for young, successful and sexy?”

  “Oh please Kristin. I’m in the picture!”

  “Shut up! I totally wanted to say this when I saw you, but you got all emotional on me. You look fabulous. I mean you have always been adorable, but you look so professional and adult-like. Is Sexy, Inc. rubbing off on you?”

  “Thank you and yes there is a certain dress code I have to abide by. You know I would much prefer jeans any day of the week.”

  “Is he married?”

  “Nope, he’s a bachelor.”

  “Please hook me up! I need a sugar daddy!” Oh Kristin, you have no idea.

  “I try to stay out of his love life. He’s very private.” Seriously, I am desperately trying to stay out of his love life. My cell phone rings; speak of the devil. I display an apologetic frown to Kristin as I pick up the phone.

  “Hi Taylor.”

  “Hi Shy. I know you are out to lunch, but I have some documents I left in the locked drawer in my desk that need to be brought over immediately.”

  “Sure, no problem...Oh, but I don’t have those keys.”

  “Yes, you’ll need to come by to H.I. I am the only person that has a copy.”

  When I hang up, Kristin is busy fixing her lipstick. She has a faint scar on her upper lip. It is the only hint there was ever a cleft once there and the thing she is most insecure about. She never leaves her house without covering it up. I break the news to her that I have to run.

  “So he’s gorgeous, but he’s a total buzzkill. He really is working you like a dog!” Kristin says exasperated.

  “We have to do this once a week,” I say as I throw a one hundred dollar bill on the table.

  “Shy-la! You are not paying for me.”

  “Don’t worry. It’s on H.I.” I wink and pitter-patter to my car in my heels.

  I make it to H.I. in only seven minutes, thanks to the dramatic improvement in my Ladybug driving skills. Taylor is on a call when I walk into the office and he points at a small ring of keys on the table. I recognize this as the one he uses to get into the secret room. He never has it off of his person. Don’t even think about it Shy. How many lines are you going to cross with this man? Underneath the keys is a post-it:

  Please get docs back here by 3pm.

  His clock reads 1:35. This is doable. I get to the house in 25 minutes thanks to zero traffic. I head straight to the desk and very quickly find the stack of original documents that he needs. I look at the clock. It’s 2:03. No, Shyla. Don’t do it. I fondle the ring of keys. Maybe he wants me to go into the room. What could possibly be in there? A medieval torture chamber? Dead bodies? I am sure it’s nothing, but this may be my only chance to find out.

  I creep out of the office, as if anyone could hear me. Harrison should be at headquarters, as he just brought Taylor back from a meeting across town. He usually hangs around the main offices when Taylor works there. I walk to the large wooden panel and run my fingers over the keyhole. There are about ten keys and I would prefer not to go through each one. I pick out the likely culprit...not a match. Then another...doesn’t work. My pace starts slowly, but I become more impatient with each failed key. He must have removed the key before relinquishing the ring. I am on the sixth key when I hear the clicking sound of an opened lock. My heart jumps. I promise not to overreact to whatever I see. I take a deep breath and push the door forward. It doesn’t make a sound.

  Chapter Twelve

  It’s...a bedroom? A very minimalist, stark bedroom, painted gray, and in the center is a huge four poster bed. The posters at the head of the bed are taller than the ones at the foot. The wood is painted black with the knots still visible. The bedsheets are satin, a deep, gunmetal color. The bed is flanked on either side with a black nightstand and each has a lamp consisting of a silver post with a frosted globe on top. I have to admit, I am disappointed. This is what he has been hiding? I can only assume this intense need for bedroom privacy has to do with his quirks. Perhaps his bedroom is sacred to him or something. This explanation does not satisfy me. I look at the clock on his nightstand. Shit, it’s 2:20! I have at most ten more minutes before I should be in the car speeding back to H.I.

  I enter his closet. It is a huge walk-in, practically the size of my bedroom at home. His clothes are perfectly pressed, folded, and broken up into color categories: gray, black, white, blue, beige, more gray. Something on the far side of the closet catches my eye. It is a black door hidden behind some clothes. I hastily walk towards it and find that it is locked with a keypad. The door is metal, similar to a giant safe. Whatever is behind it must be very important. His bedroom has to be a coverup for this other room! Exasperated and frustrated, I slide the clothes back in front of the door and begin to dash towards the exit but stop suddenly in my tracks. I get a strong hunch to look in his nightstand dressers. It’ll only take a second and chances are nothing will come of it, but I put my ass on the line so I might as well be thorough. The left one is empty, save for some pens and a notepad. He must jot notes down before bed like me, I think fondly. I run over to the second drawer expecting to find some more innocuous items, but I discover something that makes me pause. Inside the right nightstand drawer is a black leather journal. It has a flap with a button fastening it closed. There is an emblem on the cover that I vaguely recognize, but cannot place. It is a circle with three identical symbols curling out of the center. Shit it’s 2:32. I pop open th
e flap and flip through the pages.

  Each page has the name of a woman, dates, and random pieces of information about each of them. My legs weaken and cause me to seek out the stability of his bed. Is this some list of conquests? Is he really a serial killer? Oh fuck. As I flip through to the last page of writing, the name shocks me like a cold bucket of water: Emily Brown. His last assistant. Am I part of some twisted collection of assistants? My mind is so scrambled that I can’t make out what all of this means. No one at H.I. ever mentioned Taylor changing assistants frequently, but maybe they are all sworn to secrecy like I am. I try to make sense of the text but they are in fragments, like a collage. Then my eyes begin to well up and reading becomes even harder. I don’t know if I am anxious or angry and I can’t settle my thoughts enough to find out which. I can’t see him right now. I need time to gather my thoughts. The documents! I call Harrison.

  “Ms. Ball, is everything okay?”

  “Yes...well not really. I am suddenly sick, could you please come get the document from the house, and deliver it to Taylor?”

  “Of course, I will be there shortly.”

  “I will leave it on the entry table since I will be resting in the guest room.” I don’t want him to see me like this.

  There are 35 filled pages in the journal, but they provide no answers, only more questions. Has he slept with all of these women? Are they okay? Did he hurt them? All the notes are so cryptic; there is some contact information and numbers that appear to be codes. Scribbled dates appear to be ranges of time, of what I don’t know. Sentence fragments litter the pages, clearly so that only the reader knows the meaning of the reference.

  “Pictures.”

  “Video of Toronto.”

  “Screamer.”

  “Clamps and shock.”

  The dates could be the duration of his relationships with these women. Oh my god -- what if they are in the hidden room? While all the clues point to something sinister, I just know in my heart he is not dangerous, this has to be something else. It is about 4:30 when I get a text from Taylor.

  Mr.Holden:

  Are you ok? I had to go right into a meeting, but Harrison said you were ill? I usually like to keep him out of moving documents.

  I can tell he is trying to make this sound like business, but really, he just wants to check up on me.

  Shyla:

  You’ll have to tell me if I am okay. I need to talk to you right away, in person and I would appreciate Harrison not being around.

  Mr.Holden:

  I have no idea what this is about, but I’ll leave the office in 25 minutes. I have no other meetings.

  He doesn’t even ask what this is all about and I think it’s because he already knows. When you have something to hide, everyday you wait. You wait for the day when someone finds out your secret. I think Taylor knows this might be his day.

  A wave of nervous energy unlike any I have ever felt comes over me. While I don’t feel like I am in danger, he has an incredibly intimidating presence whenever he is firm. He will no doubt be angry at my snooping around, but I cannot let the conversation stray from what is really in question. I take a bottle of wine from the cooler and pour myself a glass to help calm my nerves. I notice my hand shaking as I raise it to my lips. It only takes Taylor about 45 minutes from his text until I hear the front door open and hear his footsteps. My entire body tenses up and my stomach twists and turns. He walks up to the great room and stops abruptly when he sees me leaning at the breakfast bar, facing out towards him in silence. I can barely see his face. I hadn’t realized that the room had slowly darkened with the sunset. I want to scream, I want to barrage him with questions, but all I can do is lift up the book and utter “What is this?”

  He flips the light switch and when his eyes register on the journal, his expression goes from baffled to something I have never seen. His eyes light on fire, his nostrils flare. I stand erect, feeling the tension rise in the room and wonder if confronting him alone was a mistake. He runs his hand through his hair, pulls the knot on his tie, takes a hard gulp and does a few paces back and forth. The wait for him to say something is torturous.

  “Shy...How the...fuck...did you get your hands on that?” He removes his hand from his hair and points at the journal on the table. I look down, ashamed at what I did to come upon this. “You had no fucking right Shy!” It’s the first time I have ever heard him scream. “You snooped around my bedroom?”

  “What is this Taylor? Is this some sort of list? Emily is on here! Am I next?” Tears start pouring down my cheeks. My lips tremble. “There’s notes about screaming. Did...you...do something to them?”

  “What? Shy? God no! No, no, no. You have this all wrong. You don’t understand. They are all alive and living their lives wherever they are now. Anything that went on was consensual and I have no intentions for you in there. That’s why...Nevermind. I don’t have to answer this, you were not ever supposed to get your hands on that. That is a private journal!”

  “Are these all your former assistants?”

  “No! That would mean I had a new goddamned assistant every other month. I am fucking done with this discussion. I am very fucking pissed right now and you need to get out of here. I trusted you.”

  “I trusted you too, but clearly you have lots to hide!”

  “What are you talking about? I have been completely honest with you Shy! There are things I can’t tell you. For fuck’s sake, look at how you are reacting to this!” He turns to walk down the hall. “Shy, we tried, but we cannot work together. It’s my fault. You’ll get a generous severance package. And don’t forget, you are still bound by the NDA.” He snatches the journal off of the counter and disappears into the hallway. My tears flow freely as I gasp for air. I may never see him again, at least not in any real way. My invasion of his privacy was wrong, but never have I been tempted to do something like that until today. His mind games gave me no choice but to use the opportunity to find information about him. I grab my bag and run to the elevator to get to my car in the garage. The elevator doors ping to announce its arrival to the lower level. They open to reveal Taylor standing in front of me. He took the stairs.

  We stare at each other, his eyes lit like blue flames, fiery with emotion and remorse. He shakes his head slightly and bites his lower lip. He looks so raw, his hair a frazzled mess, his collar disheveled from pulling on his tie and his breathing is heavy. Despite the argument, I don’t feel threatened, but instead drawn closer to him. I slowly reach forward for his silver tie. I barely tug on it and he takes a hesitant step forward. My eyes never leave his.

  “Shy,” he says, barely getting my name out. I look at him and nod my head, which ignites a powder keg. He grabs me by my backside, pulling me just enough off of the ground so that my toes graze the floor and drives me so hard onto the backside of the elevator that it nearly knocks the wind out of me. I run my hands through his soft hair as I pant for air. He kisses me so intensely, I think he might devour me. I have so badly wanted to do that since the day I met him. I can smell his clean scent filling up my nostrils, as he kisses my neck, sucking on it, hard. There is a slight pain behind it, but it feels so good. I know where he is coming from, there have been so many pent up emotions, and this is our chance to finally let it all go.

  “Shy, I have wanted you since the moment I saw you.” I nearly pass out, even his words arouse me. He kisses me again. He tastes amazing. “Do you want this Shy?” He asks, his voice is so low and raspy. I nod. “I need to hear you say it.”

  “Yes, Taylor. I want this.” It is like I set a wild animal free. He pauses just for a second to take me in and rips open my blouse. The little buttons dance on the floor until they become still. He pulls down my bra cups and begins to suck on my nipples, hardening them. I let out a groan. I can’t contain myself anymore. He tugs one between his teeth.

  “Oh Taylor!”

  I can feel his hardness pressing against my stomach. I want him inside of me so badly. I grab for his belt and unbu
ckle it ferociously. I unbutton his pants and they drop down onto the floor.

  “Hold on,” he says, his voice low and breathy. I see him go for something in his pocket, it’s a condom. He comes back up and kisses me all over my neck and chest. We are enveloped with each other, clawing, kissing, biting, sucking, as if we want to become one with the other person but can’t quite figure out how.

  Taylor pauses and looks me right in the eyes. They are hooded and he looks so incredibly sexy, almost hypnotized. He pulls up my pencil skirt, so my entire lower half is exposed. His eyes never leave mine. He pauses for just a few seconds, and every single moment is agony. I pull his hips towards me, signaling that I want him. He pulls my lace thong to the side and rubs my labia, and gently caresses my clitoris with his fingertips. I nearly come because the mere idea of him doing this is enough to take me over the edge. He stops.

  “Not so fast.” He grins his crooked grin. He dips his hips just a little bit and enters me. We both let out a gasp and my eyes roll up. The feeling of him inside me is like a million fireworks exploding. The tension of every waking moment that I have experienced these past few weeks all culminate here. It literally feels like I am floating, a euphoria I can only equate to being on drugs. I feel so full and he is so deep inside of me. I use one of my hands to support myself on the elevator railing, my other hand grabbing the back of his head, a fist of his hair in my hand. One of my legs is up and supported right under the knee by his hand. He thrusts slowly, pushing deeply, each entry and exit almost unbearable. I moan, my voice quivering, one might think I was crying.

  “You are so fucking beautiful.” He whispers in my ear. I can’t believe this is happening. Please god, don’t let this be a dream.

  I feel myself peaking. I begin to quiver. My hand tightens, pulling his hair.