Tight

by Alessandra Torre

  It felt strange to be in a big city with Brett, his Porsche SUV taking us through downtown, skyscrapers lining either side, a homeless man staring at me through the window while I glanced nervously away. This was his home, his city, a place so far away from Quincy it might as well have been on a different continent.

  I’d never seen him drive before. I watched his hand as it rested on his thigh, the other one hanging off the steering wheel, the glint of his watch red in the reflection of the streetlight. His face in shadow, his movements on the road calm and in control. He was always in control. His need for it was almost OCD, our plans structured around my wishes, the implementation details controlled, to a science, by him. The only break was during sex, when his arousal would blur his control, giving me a wild animal that took with greedy hands and gave with raw passion. I loved those moments, that feeling of power when I had pushed him to the point of breaking, and he turned over all control to me.

  “We’re about twenty minutes away. Are you hungry? There isn’t much to eat in the house.”

  I shook my head. “I packed a sandwich for the plane.” I looked out the window and wondered about his house, if it matched the accommodations we’d always enjoyed on our trips.

  Brett’s wealth was still a mystery. I remembered Jena’s initial research - her estimate of Brett’s income. I didn’t know how many boats he sold, but couldn’t imagine that it was enough for his spending - his exotic vacations every weekend, the plane, the tiny details that lay along every thread of his lifestyle. Brett had never really hidden his money from me; I didn’t think he knew how to. It sat in the cut of his suit, in the easy way he settled into a seat and ordered a thousand-dollar bottle of wine. In his casual step into a beachfront mansion in Cabo without even a glance around in appreciation.

  A half hour later, he pulled up to a gate, the guard waving him through, the neighborhood one of mini-gates and ivy, the car bumping along cobblestones as we wound through private estates until he came to a stop in front of an iron gate, lions’ heads inlaid in the metal.

  “Fancy,” I remarked.

  He glanced over at me. “It’s a family house. I didn’t earn it. My parents moved to a condo ten years ago, deeded it over.” I looked out the window, the house coming into view, and lost a little of my breath.

  I didn’t care about money. Truly I didn’t. But I’d be lying if I said my heart didn’t trip a little at the mansion that came into view. It was the house I would have dreamed of if I knew what could exist. A Spanish-style white home with a red tile roof, the enormous size warmed by the planters underneath every window, vibrant flowers spilling from them, putting bursts of color everywhere I looked. Up the walls grew tiny ivy, inset lanterns setting lively shadows over their textured surfaces. “Wow.” The word popped out, collecting a chuckle from Brett.

  “I’ve seen it so long I can forget its effect. When you meet Mom, be sure to tell her.”

  When you meet Mom. I nodded without responding, the car coming to a stop by a large, round fountain, my vantage point now showing a courtyard gate, a view into the house, which seemed to curve around a large pool, all overlooking a dark void which was most likely the ocean.

  This house ... it wasn’t that of a rich man. This house, this oceanfront estate ... it was WEALTH. Wealth greater than anything in the Smith Bank & Trust coffers. The kind of wealth that kept Rolls Royces in the garage and butlers in the help quarters. I felt suddenly inferior, my flip-flops still wet against the interior of this car, my nails chipped when I reached for the handle.

  Brett opened my door, helping me out before popping the trunk and grabbing my bag. “No butler?” I quipped.

  He smiled. “Just us. Roughing it this weekend.”

  I stopped him, pushing against his chest until he hit the car, my bag falling to the ground as he grabbed the offending hand. “Just us?” I repeated, glancing from left to right in the private courtyard. I suddenly wanted to do something, wanted to, in some ways, right the upside-down seesaw I felt on the short end of.

  The corner of his mouth turned up, and he released my hand.

  “Just us.”

  I reached down, popping the top button of his jeans, and dragged down the zipper. Used the best tool I had and kissed his mouth as I slid my hand inside. Gripped his cock through his underwear as our kiss deepened, his reaction rising against my hand. Yes. My confidence soared back to a more comfortable level.

  “Riley, wait.” His voice was rough yet tender. I paused, letting him pull my hand out of his pants and my body into his chest.

  “It’s not for the money, is it?” I looked up sharply, at his face, his heart beating a frantic pattern under my hand, his eyes deep in color when they looked down at me. “That’s not why you’re here. The trips, or the house ... it’s not that, right?” I had seen him in a hundred situations, a hundred looks, but never this one, young and vulnerable, like he was twenty instead of thirty-seven. It was shocking to think that, in my moment of insecurity, he was feeling it too, but for the completely opposite reason.

  I relaxed in his arms and lifted my hand to his hair. Ran my fingers through it and then over his lips. “The money has nothing to do with this. And, to be honest, I could leave all the travel behind. I’m kind of a homebody, to tell the truth.”

  A smile hinted, peeked, then stretched over his face. “Really?”

  “Really.” I smiled. “Now, tell me the truth. Are you just with me for my rocking body?” I pushed off his chest and turned, my arms stretched out, modeling the very sexy jeans and rumpled blouse hanging from my frame.

  He laughed, tucking in his cock and zipping up, his eyes taking a slow and obvious leer of my body before he stepped forward, my confident man back, and snagged my bag, slapping my ass and squeezing it. “Absolutely, baby. But I like the things that come outta that sweet little mouth too.”

  “I think you like putting things in my sweet little mouth too.”

  He laughed, looped his hand through mine, and we walked into the most beautiful house in the world.

  tight (tīt)

  (adj.) having close relations; secretive.

  “a tight-lipped group”

  Brett’s friends were odd. A fraternity of hard men, defined by straight posture, strong builds, and matching scowls. I hadn’t expected them, his mention of the ‘guys’ bringing to mind flabby middle-aged men with football jerseys and minivans. I stared at them and had the sudden urge to change, my bathing suit and robe too casual for this group of polo-clad men who surrounded Brett’s desk as if they were plotting world domination.

  I paused in the doorway of what appeared to be Brett’s office. I had followed the sound of male voices, down a long hall, expecting to find a den or media room, the guys gathered around a pool table with beers. Instead, they were hunched over Brett’s computer, four rigid frames of masculinity, a few affirmative comments thrown out as Brett typed.

  My gaze skipped over their faces, and I tried to match the voice I had heard so long ago with one of these faces. Nope. None of these men could have laughed with Brett on a sunny balcony at Atlantis over a cream cheese bagel.

  Brett looked up from the center, his hands leaving the keyboard and bracing on the surface, the hunch of his body one that was primal and dominating and hotaseverlivinghell. I swallowed as he stared at me, they stared at me, and the study fell silent.

  “Can I help you with something?” He didn’t smile, didn’t straighten, and I stared into his eyes and wondered what the hell I missed. Was this a fantasy football league on crack? A home renovation project they were taking way too seriously?

  “No. I’ll be out by the pool.” I smiled. They scowled. “I’m Riley.” I smiled bigger. Waved tentatively. My cheeks were going to fall off at this rate of friendliness.

  “Can you give us a moment, Riley?”

  “Sure.” I stepped back, my wave wilting.

  “Please shut the door.”

  “Okay.” I met Brett’s eyes, and he smiled. A horrible smil
e, one that was warm and reassuring and fake. I wrapped my hand around the cold metal knob and pulled, breaking our eye contact, the firm snap of the door in place final and offensive. I stood for a moment, outside, my ear to the wood, but it was too thick, their words impossible to understand.

  I walked down the long hall, marble flooring underneath my bare feet, the water bottle in my hand cold, the terrycloth robe floating out a little as I moved. I opened the french doors and stepped out, moving across a sun-lit area and toward the dark pool that stretched before me.

  No, that wasn’t strange. Five grown men working over a desk, doing secret-secret stuff on a Saturday afternoon. My boyfriend dismissing me as if I were an irritating child interrupting Daddy at work. Not strange at all.

  I stretched out on a cushioned chaise, leaving on my cover-up and positioning a pillow under my head. Lying back, I let my mind clearly define the puzzle piece, every bit of that room, that moment. I analyzed and formed the edges and shape of it. Then I worked through my other pieces, tried to make something fit, tried to form a connection with something ... but I failed. The puzzle piece fell, loose and unattached, to the bottom of the pile.

  “Do I arouse you?” His fingers traveled freely over my skin, soft caresses over my breasts, his hands cupping one of them before traveling over to the second.

  “No,” I choked out, bucking my back, the bed quiet as I struggled. I can smell my sweat, my arms stretched and cuffed above my head, to the frame. My legs spread slightly, attached to the footboard bars.

  “Don’t lie, Kitten,” he warned. “Lies will only make this last longer. I am a handsome man, no?”

  I don’t respond, closing my eyes against his face, burying my head to the right, the damp skin cool against my nose.

  “I have been told that I am handsome, that I know how to please a woman.” I twisted, thrashed as his fingers dragged down my side, my stomach, fingers turning into palms, one of those palms gripping my hip and holding me down.

  I begged, my words soft then loud, then screams into the concrete room, a hundred no’s uttered as he rubbed soft circles into the wet mat of hair between my legs.

  “I will stay here, I will touch you, until you come for me, Kitten. It is inevitable, let it happen. I need to see it.”

  When it finally happened, every thread in my body failing in fighting it, a cry mixed with tears ripping out, a piece of me inside broke.

  I rolled over when the bathroom door opened, flooding the room with light for a brief moment before Brett flipped the switch. Even in the dark, there was illumination from the water, a full moon reflecting over a thousand miles of ocean. Brett’s bedroom faced the ocean, a wall of windows giving a million-dollar view of the night waves. He reached out a hand, hit a button on the wall, and a hum sounded, curtains pulling over the view.

  “Can you leave them open? I like seeing the waves.”

  “Sure.” He hit another button and the hum stopped. “Just don’t blame me when the sunrise wakes you up at five AM.” He sat on the edge of the bed and picked up a remote. Pressed a few buttons. I ran a hand over the lines of his back, his skin bare and warm beneath my palm. He carried so much tension there, the muscles underneath my fingers tight and coiled. It was such a beautiful back, so strong and wide. He lay back, interrupting my view and flung out an arm, inviting me in. I curled into his side. “You like it here?”

  “It’s beautiful.” And it was. The city, the neighborhood, his home. Everything the best money could buy. I didn’t voice the issues. That it didn’t feel like home. That, suddenly, in this zip code, we felt out of sync. I couldn’t put my finger on it, just felt, for the first time in our relationship, like I was out of the loop on something. “Who were those guys? In your office? They left before I could meet them.”

  “Some guys I work with. Friends. I’m sorry… I should have introduced you. I just felt bad about working while you were here.”

  “It’s okay—”

  “No. I should have introduced you. I didn’t even think … I’m sorry Riley.”

  “It’s not that big of a deal.” But it had felt like a big deal to me. Why? What had felt so… suspicious about the whole thing? And, in that moment, my finger found what it had been trying to land on. I felt suspicious.

  Of Brett.

  The man I’d already given my heart to.

  “Why don’t we have a cookout tomorrow? I’ll invite the guys over, have them bring the girls.” Brett was still talking, his voice unnaturally bright.

  “The girls?”

  “Their girlfriends. You’d love them.”

  I tried to imagine the girlfriends of those hard men, and the combination we’d make on Brett’s pool deck. “It’s okay.” I ran my hand down his flat stomach, dipping my hand under the silk of his boxer briefs. “I’d rather spend the day with you.”

  “You sure?” His voice caught when I slid my hand lower, running my fingers over the length of his cock. He tightened his arm around me, pulling me on top of him. “I want to make you happy, Riley.”

  “You do.” I whispered, lowering my mouth to his neck and kissing the scruff there.

  He raised his hips and moaned my name as I tightened my hand around his shaft. And, for the next half hour, I lost any thoughts of suspicion.

  tight (tīt)

  (adj.) well-sealed against intrusion

  Somehow, despite my assurances to the contrary, Brett felt the need to invite his friends back over. This time, they brought their girlfriends; all eight individuals apparently had no other plans on a Sunday afternoon. I sat in the shade of an umbrella, nursing a Corona and glanced at the group behind the privacy of my sunglasses.

  The men’s names were a fog: a Justin, Frank and… I couldn’t remember the others. Names had never been my forte. With the women, I made more of an effort. Amy, the brunette by the grill, was dating Justin. She seemed nice, if not a little quiet. Kelly sat next to me, quietly sipping on a margarita, and was married to the man flipping steaks. They had two kids and had been together for four years. I had asked about her children, but she had, with a quiet glance at her husband, stated that they were ‘with friends.’ Margo and Stacy were in the pool and hadn’t said five words to their partners, their main focus on tan development. Now they floated, eyes closed, on recliners in the pool.

  “How long have you guys been friends with Brett?” I turned to Kelly with a friendly smile. Her eyes darted from my face to her drink, a shuttered look crossing her face, like I had just asked a deeply personal question.

  “A few years,” she finally said, her eyes flipping to the outdoor kitchen, where Brett raised his beer to us, a wide smile crossing his face.

  I smiled and waved *we’re happy over here* and turned back to Kelly, curiosity winning any competition with tact. “Have you met any of Brett’s other girlfriends?”

  “He hasn’t had any,” she said quickly, tipping back her glass.

  I watched Brett, his eyes skipping between the two of us, his smile dropping slightly. Then he leaned into the man next to him, a telephone-like game occurring, one whisper passing to another, Amy receiving the secret message and heading toward us, her strides quick and confident, her smile breezy when she flopped down in the chair across from me. “What’d I miss?” she asked. “Anything exciting?”

  Kelly looked away, and I leaned forward. “I was just asking about Brett’s exes. How much I had to compete with.” I grinned as if I didn’t care about the answer, as if I wasn’t pumping strangers for intel like a crazy, insecure woman.

  Her smile fell, then rose again, as if it was programmed to reset. “Well, that’s easy,” she recovered. “He hasn’t had any. At least not as long as I’ve known him. What do you do in Quincy, Riley?”

  I ignored the question, intent on knowing something more. “Why’d the guys come over yesterday? It looked like they were working on something.”

  Dead silence. Suddenly, Breezy Amy had nothing to say. I looked from one to the other, Kelly’s neck twisting e
ven further away, Amy’s jaw working open and closed with no words coming out. I felt like I had just stepped on a landmine and had no idea why. Finally, Amy’s voice box worked. “The guys are always getting together.”

  “Guy stuff,” Kelly said dully.

  “Yeah!” Amy said brightly. “Guy stuff. I stay out of it.”

  “Me too.” Kelly looked up, a false smile pasted in my direction. “Sports stuff bores me.”

  “Are your guys also in sales?” God, I can’t believe I forgot their names.

  Another uncomfortable pause.

  “Sort of,” Amy finally managed while Kelly just held her smile.

  I out-faked her in the smile department, then tipped back my Corona, my seed of suspicion growing roots.

  tight (tīt)

  (adj.) disciplined or professional, well coordinated

  “a tight ship”

  After we gave Marcia a clean bed and nursed her back to life, after I watched her trembling hand hold my phone and call her parents, I became a man obsessed. With saving these women, with diving into the guts of this beast and ripping every entrail out. I thought it would be easy, thought that I could hire a few Navy SEALS and clean up the issue in the course of weeks. Envisioned, with the few rays of optimism that remained in my heart, that we’d find or avenge Elyse. I rolled up my cufflinks and waded in next to the men. Became, my large fortune in hand, one of the largest purchasers of women in the business. I became notorious, whispers of my cruelty and insatiable need for more flowed through the underground, fed by carefully planted stories and rumors. Plus, there were my buying habits. I bought anything - every age, race, and size. Our first year we bought 62 women. The second, 104. The third, 129. I opened a house in Miami for rehabilitation and staffed it with a medical team, psychologists, and six caregivers. I saved as many as I could, my weekends spent in the air, the Caribbean and Central America my feeding ground, the thousand miles surrounding where Elyse disappeared canvassed as thoroughly as possible.