by Amber Bardan
Today the lyrics ache, hacking through my loneliness like a broken shard of glass.
My imagination wanders. The way it wanders at night. The way it does when my thoughts slip, flooding with images of hands on me. Sweat on my skin. Touch on my thighs. Breath on my neck.
My skin prickles with phantom sensation.
My breath rushes faster.
I’ve spent a great deal of time alone in this room. A great deal of time imagining.
He is behind me—I feel him in my mind. His arms come around my waist. The deep pit of emptiness inside me contracts—fills with him. His lips brush below my ear and I catch the scent of his breath.
Familiar and illusive.
I run my palms over my chest. My nipples tighten. Need ripples through me. I lie back on the bedspread and illusion takes over.
He moves over me. His touch urgent on my breasts, at my hip, between my legs.
My thighs fall open.
I close my eyes, never wanting to picture his face. Not wanting to create expectation of what he’ll look like.
My hand moves between my thighs, over my panties. He growls my name. “Sarah.” Desire hums under my touch. “Sarah, Sarah, Sarah.” I love that this man says it. My hips arch. I dip my hand under my underwear. My fingers glide through slick arousal, sensation coiling in my swollen flesh.
It doesn’t take long at all. Not with all these years of forced celibacy. The hollow pleasure builds.
Bang.
My eyes fly open. A knock rattles the door. For one jarring instant my fantasy collides with the image of who must be there.
Ice blue eyes fill my vision.
Julius.
My fingers freeze, but too late—I come. Bliss radiates through me with the image of him vivid in my mind. I jerk, the dull, muted pleasure I usually find alone this time sharp and biting. I pull my hand from my underwear. My heart heaves.
The image bleeds out—I block it out.
I sit up and hit Stop on the CD player. For no lack of trying, I can’t pretend I’ve never done this before. Never imagined this one wrong, forbidden thing—Julius.
My breaths pant. A rustle sounds at the door.
The disc stills.
My attention catches on the label, Sarah, written in thick black marker.
For some reason that sends a twitch up my spine. Footsteps recede outside. I let out a long breath, then cross the room and go outside. A black bag hangs from a coat hanger on the lamp next to the door.
Boxes sit on the floor beside the door. I reach for the black bag and red flutters under the zip. My movement slows and I drag out the dress. Yards of fabric red as blood and sin. Red as the pain and hate pumping my veins. Panic clutches my chest, and sends my heart spurting wildly.
What’s he doing?
He’s never given me anything like this before. Julius gives me innocent things, such as the CD I just listened to, shell necklaces, once he even gave me a beer mug.
Despite the way he wants me, the gifts are never overtly romantic. This is. My stomach turns.
I reach for the boxes and tear off the first lid. The smallest box contains shoes. Ruby slippers, with sharp, sharp points.
Maybe if I put them on, click them together, some miracle will get me home.
I swallow a mouthful of grief. My home, just like my family, no longer exists. I flick the lid off the longer box, and freeze at the sight of what’s inside.
Roses. Not just roses. My freaking roses.
The same beautiful open antique roses he gave me once upon a time when I thought he was someone else. A note card rests on top of the stems. I crouch down and pick it up.
There’s no writing.
He’s made me a drawing. A heart scrawled in red pen.
Hearts and roses.
Julius just gave me hearts, roses and a red dress. He’s making fun of me. Giving me some syrupy movie version of romance. I’m just not sure if it’s spite for what I said, or to keep on proving who he thinks I belong to.
Either way it’s better than the alternative, that this could be the new us.
I’d rather die. No, that’s a lie. I’d rather live.
I take the dress inside. Put it on. Pin up my curls. Find a lipstick in a palette that’s bold enough to match the fabric. All these years, I’ve played by the rules. Avoided him. But I’ve always known I can’t outrun Julius without help.
Help that may never come.
I slide my feet into the heels. As much as they’ll suck walking the sandy path, they’ll be worth it for the look on his face.
He’s always underestimated me. How has he not learned that he really shouldn’t call my bluff?
The way to take a devil is by his horn, and that’s what I’m going to do. I leave the bungalow. The points of my heels meet the steady even surface of the paved courtyard. I stride toward my regular seat. Everyone looks up and stares. Even Dan and Leo, who are so well trained at keeping their attention where it belongs. Then Julius turns, a thick slab of lamb pinched between his tongs and supported by a fork.
His gaze meets mine, absorbs me, then rakes down my body.
Heat floods my cheeks, but I make it to my chair without falling, without succumbing to what is right there in his greedy eyes, my chin up as I guide myself down.
He sets the lamb onto a chopping board on the table, then draws a long flashing knife down through the flesh.
Slices it finely. Wafer thin.
I fill my plate with salad and oily peppers, then take a hunk of crusty bread off the bread plate, pull it apart and eat it in small bites.
The meat is carved and Julius slides the board into the center of the table for everyone to help themselves.
Not me, though—I get full service.
Julius moves to my side, stretches the tongs wide and collects lamb slices, then sets them in an artful swirl on my plate.
I stick my fork into the center of the plate, drive my knife through the offering and cut. Lamb and lemon and herb melts across my tongue. Rarer than I’d like but so smooth and so soft there’s barely a need to chew.
No one cooks like he does.
There’s no amount of hate that can dispute the simple fact that this man has some kind of foodie superpower. Julius fills his own plate. I watch him in my peripheral. Perhaps because he’s shifted slightly toward me, making it so much easier to spy. He’s turned his chair just a little to watch me back.
His cutlery remains untouched on the table. He brushes his lower lip with his thumb. It’s a thoughtful gesture. Thoughtful and so familiar I almost shake my head to clear the image.
A curl of something warm and unrecognizable moves through me.
The world has shrunk.
He’s encroached so deeply on my mind that now it’s like every thought is déjà vu. I reach for the wineglass. A glass I’ve not once touched in his presence. Not touched because what woman in her right mind would let herself become intoxicated around him?
Today it doesn’t matter. I can’t think straight anyway.
I bring the glass to my mouth and drink. Drink deep and long and when wine trickles down my chin, I don’t bother to wipe it away.
“Red suits you.” The low sensual tenor of his voice penetrates my skin, sinking directly into my blood, more potent than wine.
My tongue goes numb.
I set down the wineglass, and turn my face to him. He wants me. Julius wants me. And that’s the reality I’ve tried not to dwell on.
There’s only one month left.
One month until he makes me marry him.
My heart thuds.
He stares back at me, lust palpable in his heavy gaze.
I don’t know what he’ll do to me then. The absolute conviction I’ve held that I’d
never have to find out, that I’d escape, that three years was long enough to be saved—that conviction is dying. I feel its demise as crushing weight under my ribs.
But the way he looks at me now... There’s an alternative to the worst-case scenario.
I don’t want to do this—I may have to.
I lick my lips. “I’m glad you like it.”
Julius leans forward. “There’s a lot I like about you.”
There is. I’ve always known it from the moment he first looked at me. I don’t know what he sees to like in me without an ounce of encouragement. Maybe it’s the chase, the fight, the anticipation...
His gaze burns deeper than his words. He looks at me so closely, so astutely, as though he sees what’s under my skin.
The meat turns to stone between my teeth. I can’t chew, can’t swallow.
Because there’s one other path to salvation, and it’s paved with sin.
To make myself indispensable is to do the one thing I vowed I never would.
I’d have to get under his skin.
Plates scrape. Burps ring out around the table. Signs of contentment and full bellies. My plate remains mostly untouched, my hunger flailing just like my hope.
I want to cry.
Julius has never seen me cry. He’s seen me broken but not in tears. Would that torment him? I glance at him, fill my sight with the view of that stubborn jaw, his short, tawny hair slicked back across his skull.
Does he have actual feelings?
Is he capable of remorse?
More important—could I make him experience both?
I swallow and look away. Ash fidgets over his plate. The cords in his neck strain.
His eyes move. Not his head or face, just his eyes roll up.
Enough to see me.
I pull my gaze away. Refill my glass with dry wine and let its bitterness numb my tongue, and dull my mind.
The doors to the main house slide open, and a tiny uniformed woman steps outside in her gray dress. Imelda, the Filipino maid so well trained nothing I’ve tried so far has cracked her indifferent shell. She moves around the table collecting plates. The others stack the dishes, help her out as though she’s a friend.
Me, I don’t budge. Don’t help her out. I hate her more than all the asshole men who’ve just gorged themselves stupid. She’s a woman. Imelda is not so much older than me, maybe twenty-five, maybe thirty, young enough we could be friends.
She knows what’s happening to me, and yet she’d step over my dead, bleeding body if Julius told her to. There’s no female camaraderie here.
I down the rest of the wine. Watch her balance more dishes than her little arms should be able to carry.
Cow. I went to a girls’ school. I played female sports. There’s no way I’d ever leave a sister behind. Never leave one alone in the snake pit.
Even if it got me bitten too.
I don’t need to test that theory to know it’s true.
The men stand. Soon they’ll move into the poolroom. Play cards, or snooker, or pool, or darts, or other things the men like to play on the weekend.
Maybe Julius will summon me to join them. Maybe he’ll be kind, let me go, disappear until tomorrow.
Julius leaves my side. Scrapes down the barbecue while everyone moves toward the doors. My legs won’t move, I’m stuck in the chair.
Ash walks the long way around the table, passing directly behind me. Something flutters in front of my eyes and drifts into my lap. I catch the scrap of paper. My attention snaps to Julius. His back’s still turned. He wipes down his tools, then knots a plastic bag of garbage.
I take the paper from my lap, and ball it in my fist.
“Come join us.” Julius drops the plastic bag on the end of the table.
My throat grinds with my reply. “I need to freshen up.”
I force myself out of the chair. Go inside, then slip into the powder room, put the lid down on the toilet and sit. Open my fingers and look into my palm.
I spread the scrap of paper and read three little words. “You’re not alone.”
The paper crushes in my fist. I sink my face against my knees, and breathe tearless sobs out of a shaking chest. Sounds squeeze up my throat. I clamp my hand over my mouth, and lock the noise inside.
Fuck you, Ash.
I am alone. More alone than I’d ever let myself believe. The hope that’s kept me together slices clean through as if under a falling guillotine. I want Ash off this island. Want him gone. He doesn’t know what he’s doing or what he’s saying. He’s one of the few suits Julius has ever brought into the fold. One of the only people involved in whatever legitimate enterprise keeps Julius King’s criminal empire under wraps who’s ever been brought home.
For some reason Ash is Julius’s new favorite boy. The one he speaks to in quiet corners.
This has to be some kind of test.
I stand, lift the lid and drop the paper into the bowl. Watch it float on the water. Then flush it down.
There’s only one man who can save me and it sure as shit’s not Ash.
Chapter Four
Darts, that’s what they play. The men line up, taking turns proving who has the steadiest arm. Drink, when they don’t usually drink. But it’s Saturday after all. No business today, and what better combination than alcohol and the throwing of sharp objects to ensure a good time.
A damp breeze blows through the bifold doors, which have been swept wide open to merge the poolroom and decking into one enormous space. The air sticks to my skin, heat and moisture forming a salty film. I lean my shoulder against a pillar, and stare outside. The rear of the big house faces the ocean. Now, at night, the view is especially worthy of postcards and calendars. A full moon hangs low in the sky, reflects a perfect globe on black seas, and spreads white ripples toward us. The very definition of purgatory—halfway between paradise and hell.
Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.
Darts meet the board. Julius is throwing. Don’t need to turn my head to guess. He always takes three sharp shots in a row.
Always hits the center dead-on.
I squeeze the stem of the empty wineglass. Turns out I can scratch drinking off the list of things that might help me here. Any buzz I might gain gets washed away by the adrenaline polluting my blood every time Julius walks my way. Every time I catch Ash looking where he shouldn’t be looking. The wine makes it worse. Makes my heart skittish.
Makes my tongue curl with nasty unsaid things.
Footsteps tap behind me. “It’s your turn, baby.”
I cross my arms under my chest, empty glass tilting sideways in my hand. “Not sure that’s wise when I’m tipsy.”
Julius circles the pillar, then stands in front of me. Takes the glass from me and sets it down. “How much have you had?”
His gaze eats me alive. Travels my body that’s wrapped in clinging blood-red fabric. My arms cross harder, then I still, his hungry gaze shooting to where my arms push my assets out.
My tongue dries. “Three glasses.”
“That’s not so bad. You don’t look drunk.” There’s a rippling challenge in his voice. A curiosity demanding to be sated.
Why is today different? Why did I drink? Will I play new games tonight?
He’s not usually so obvious, but then, I’m usually a lot more proper. Julius might keep me on his island but he hasn’t spoken to Sarah since the day he took me. He keeps me, but he doesn’t have me. His gaze sweeps to my face, yet I still feel the scorch on my breasts.
“I’ll sit this one out.”
His pale irises flash as his chin dips. He steps toward me. Air catches full and strains in my lungs. I’ve never refused a direct request, not in all this time.
I say yes—yes, Julius—of course, Julius.
&nbs
p; The game never ends. Boundaries cemented over time.
“But I want to play with you.” His tongue flicks over his lips.
Heat pools in my core. I can’t remember how I’m supposed to feel. His words are a joke because we’re playing already. This time, for the first time, the boundaries quake. He’s ruthless but there’s always been one rule between us. It’s kept me safe and healthy and well looked after. Pampered like a prized pet.
The rule is civility.
He’s never been rude. Neither have I. He tests me, pushes. Sees what it’ll take for me to stop being such a good girl.
For all bets to be off.
I’ve been infallible for three years. And for three years, I’ve gotten exactly nowhere.
“You know what I want, Julius?” I say so softly he has to lean in.
“What?”
The dare in his eyes nearly has me backing down, running to the dartboard and behaving as I always would. But I’m not telling him to drop dead, if he thought that’s what I’d say. “I want McDonald’s.” As close as you get to a unicorn in these parts.
His forehead wrinkles.
My voice strengthens. “I want a hot, juicy Big Mac.” I smack my lips together. “Large fries, a Coke and an ice-cream sundae with warm chocolate fudge.”
He laughs, rich, rumbling laughter that makes my stomach rise. “Anything else you desire?”
Your heart in a trinket box.
“Nope, I’m a woman of simple needs.” My lips twitch with poison.
His hand darts out, snatches my jaw. I jerk, but he holds me in place. His touch softens, fingers spread out from my jaw. “Have you always been such a liar?” He delivers the words like an endearment. As though he just called me a star, or a princess. Only an edge of bitterness taints the sound.
“No, you’re just special to me.” I tug my face.
His grip tightens for an instant, his nostrils widen, then he lets me go. Silence rings between us, and around us.
I break from the tunnel vision he always slams me into. Everyone’s gone quiet. No one’s throwing darts. Dan takes a swig of beer. They don’t look right at us.