by Camilla Monk
I complied, searching his eyes. “Who are you? What do you want from me?”
“People call me March,” he said, picking up the fuming cup. “And I think you know why I’m here, Island.”
No, I didn’t, and it felt very strange to realize that having a name to put on this man’s face didn’t change anything. After all, no one remembered Jack Torrance’s name; his face, however, smiling maniacally through a jagged hole in a door, axe in hand, had become the incarnation of terror and entrapment. And so, my visitor’s name was “March.” First name? Last name? What did it matter? To me, he was merely the shape fear had molded itself into. I blocked from my mind the innumerable possibilities and tried to keep my tone neutral. “You don’t seem like a burglar. What do you want, March? What do I have to do to make you go?”
At first he didn’t reply. He just took several slow sips of coffee, appraising me. I seized the opportunity to do the same, trying to memorize every detail. At least I would be able to provide the cops with a precise description, should I live to do so.
His neat and ordinary looks clearly belied his brawny build—and the extent of his civility, as I had already found out. Shaved closely, no black mobster suit or anything terribly formal: just a pair of jeans, an immaculate white shirt, that blue jacket, and well-polished brown oxfords hinting at a spit-shining fetish. Scanning his chiseled features and deep-set blue eyes, I found his physical appearance sort of deceptive, especially since he kept such a relaxed, half-smiling expression that highlighted two dimples. The faintest crow’s-feet suggested he had passed the thirty-year mark. My eyes lingered on his light chestnut hair. Here again, no crazy middle-parted hairdo that might have hinted he was a maniac. Just your basic short cut that probably got wavy when it grew.
He seemed to notice I was staring, and something shifted in his expression, a twitch of his brow, a slight hardening of his features. He placed the cup back on the table and took a few steps toward me, moving with predatory grace.
“I’m looking for two billion dollars. Any idea where I can find something worth that, Island?”
Well . . . I sure hadn’t expected that one. I know it’s going to sound stupid, but my mind suddenly started reeling with dozens of positive-outcome scenarios. March had the wrong person; he was clearly hunting for much bigger fish than me. Granted, he wasn’t exactly a gentleman, but so far he hadn’t shot me, right? Maybe he’d leave if I swore never to mention our encounter to anyone? Choosing to ignore the obvious alternative—that his routine might include eliminating witnesses—I crossed the room to retrieve a stack of crumpled sheets from the top shelf of the bookcase standing near our couch. I walked back to him, handing him my pay stubs with a pleading look. “Look, I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I swear I won’t press charges if you just leave.”
His eyes widened, and what might have passed as a genuine smile deepened his dimples. “You have a remarkable sense of humor, Island. Right now, however, your priority shouldn’t be to make me laugh but to tell me where that stone is and how you plan on returning it.”
What the . . . ?
I took a step back, letting the pay stubs fall from my hands. I had wanted to believe I could rule over my fear long enough to face him. But it was back with a vengeance, squeezing my lungs.
Oddly enough, I looked up to see that March’s expression appeared to mirror mine. His throat constricted at the sight of the dozens of papers scattered at my feet. “Please pick them up and place them back on your shelf.”
All right, the guy completely had a cleaning disorder.
I figured it wasn’t worth testing him further to discover just how many wires hung loose in that brain of his: I quickly knelt down to pick up my pay stubs, as I had been instructed. Before I could complete the movement, though, a sharp pain at the base of my spine stopped me. I jerked up reflexively and panic exploded in my chest.
Oh God. Nonononono!
Above me, I heard a deep, long sigh. He had seen it. Or maybe guessed. It was all the same: March knew about the vegetable knife, the one I had clumsily tucked in my tights’ waistline under my little wool dress, and which had just—quite literally—stabbed me in the back when I’d bent down.
Performing a rigid ballet, I picked the papers up anyway, aware of the warm blade brushing again my spine with each movement, wondering if it showed that well through my dress. Once I was done gathering them in a neat stack, I got up slowly and handed them to March, my eyes downcast. He took the pay stubs wordlessly and extended an arm to place them back on the shelf without leaving me any room for escape.
I found the strength to sustain his gaze, and when my eyes met his, I physically felt myself blanch. I couldn’t see it, of course, but there was this prickling sensation, like a thousand shards of ice biting my cheeks, cooling the sweat there, and I knew blood was draining from my face.
He held out his hand without a word, pinning me in place with his intense, knowing stare. Tears built fast, blurring the edges of my vision, and my own hands were shaking so badly that it took me ages to reach behind me and fumble with the hem of my dress. It’s a little pathetic, but I tried not to lift it too much because I didn’t want to undress in front of this guy.
I finally managed to extract the flashy pink blade from under the gray wool. He remained silent, the muscles in his jaw tightening as the knife came in sight. It crossed my mind that I could try to use the knife: I mentally pictured myself taking a wild swing in his direction to wound him.
I can only assume March read my thoughts, since he . . . Well, he judoed me, for lack of a better word. In a split second, I felt a painful grip on my wrist that made me drop the knife, and one of his legs swiped mine, causing me to lose my balance. His free arm locked around my waist to catch my fall, before he hauled me like a bag and flung me over his shoulder caveman style. That day, I discovered that all those ninety-nine-cent romance novels had lied to me.
There was nothing even remotely pleasant about being swept off your feet.
TWO
The First Time
“Shouldn’t she feel guilty that she was allowing this huge werewolf to force himself on her? But he was so perfect and well-muscled! Cindee’s body reacted instantly.”
—Gilda Sapphire, Scorching Passion of the Billionaire Werewolf
My memories after the whole judo attack are a bit blurry, but I know I struggled and cried hysterically all the way to my bedroom. Of all the outcomes I had envisioned, rape had been the least likely until now, because the guy appeared to be looking for something specific, and let’s be honest, that smooth bastard and his dimples didn’t look like they needed to resort to coercion in order to get laid.
Needless to say, when he dropped me face-first on my flowery comforter, I was quickly reconsidering my earlier assessment of the situation. I tried to bat his hands away as he leaned toward me, resting one knee on the mattress.
“Don’t touch me! Don’t touch me or I’ll—”
“Or what, Island?”
I couldn’t come up with any satisfying answer to this rather rhetorical question, and I guess that’s more or less when what little backbone I had been holding on to until then deserted me. He locked my arms against my back, his hold both inescapable and unexpectedly controlled. My heart raced and pounded against my rib cage until it hurt. Common sense screamed for me to call for help or to try to struggle again, but March clearly overpowered me, and I had no idea what he might do if he so much as saw me open my mouth. This time, the call remained stuck in my vocal cords as he shifted to sit on the edge of the bed.
“Y-You’re going to rape me?”
“No. I’m going to interrogate you.”
Whatever relief his initial denial had caused me promptly vanished, replaced by horrifying visions of movie spies getting their fingers cut off with pruners. An unpleasant pressure started building in my skull, and my thoughts scattered like pieces of a broken mirror: I could picture myself reacting in hundreds of different ways, but my b
ody remained paralyzed. I just froze and tried to block what was happening—the slight warmth elicited by the contact of his hand on my arm and his faint scent of coffee and mint. He brought my wrists closer together, and I heard a metallic sound behind my back. Somewhere in the maze of my mind, a little chunk of gray matter that wasn’t pissing itself in terror connected this sound with the cold sensation around my wrists.
He had handcuffed me.
My arms jerked in an instinctive response, and I think that the realization I was physically restrained triggered something primal within me. It was way too late, but I fought back for real this time, Bruce-Lee style and all.
Pumped up with adrenaline, I tried to roll away from him. My legs flailed and kicked in all directions, and I thought I had landed one good hit against his stomach with my right heel, but all my foot met were hard muscles under the fabric of his shirt; he didn’t even flinch. My little loafers went flying around us, one landing near the bed, the other hitting the wall. I howled in rage and tried to kick him again. This time, he stopped my heel effortlessly, rewarding the initiative by a strong grip on my neck and a cool warning.
“Don’t push your luck, Island.”
What luck? The battle cry died in my throat, along with my offensive. There was a beat, a floating couple of seconds during which I released a trembling breath. I heard him exhale as well, and I felt his fingers tapping gently twice against the nape of my neck, as if he had just come to a decision regarding my fate.
Lightning-quick, one of his hands sprang to reach under my gray sweater dress and grab the hem of my tights. He pulled down, and my panties threatened to roll down my thighs along with them. I couldn’t process this: hadn’t he said that he wouldn’t . . . ? I let out a panicked sob, begging him not to rape me, and squeezed my legs together. I felt his fingers untangle themselves from my underwear, though, to focus solely on the tights. A swift tug nearly tore the black cotton, and they came down.
I was in all likelihood being assaulted by a former cowboy, since March had just lassoed me with my own fricking tights. I whimpered in fear at the realization that my ankles were now locked together by the stretchy material.
A little part of me still wanted to be strong, but all I did was bury my face in the pillow, hot tears wetting its red peonies pattern. His fingers threaded in my hair, caressing it in a surprisingly gentle manner, considering the way he had treated me until now.
“This doesn’t have to be difficult. Tell me where it is, and I’ll let you go.” His voice had turned soft, coaxing.
It only made me weep harder. “I swear I have no idea what you’re talking about . . . please don’t kill me!”
He was about to speak when a faint noise coming from the apartment’s entrance door caught his attention and mine. We both heard the lock at the same time, and my chest swelled with a mixture of dread and hope when I heard Joy’s despondent voice in the living room.
“It’s me . . . I need a hug, and an Irish cocoa . . . ’cause right now I wanna die.”
Well, that could be arranged on short notice.
I registered March’s short huff of aggravation. Mr. Clean actually seemed surprised. Scratch that, he was surprised. As I’d learn later, our phones had been tapped, and our respective schedules diligently tracked. My working hours and Tuesday yoga, Joy’s Friday Pilates followed by hot sex. He already knew it all. The only thing March couldn’t have guessed was that I would call it a day at five instead of seven, while, somewhere in SoHo, Joy was getting dumped over a kale and banana juice by her Pilates instructor.
All that crying had broken my voice. I barely heard myself croak against the pillow. “Joy! Call the p—”
March didn’t need to cover my mouth this time. He pressed his hand against my neck again and I shut up instantly, deciphering the unspoken message on the tip of his fingers.
“Please, don’t hurt Joy—” I whispered my plea, afraid that a mere decibel too much might cost Joy her life.
“Then tell her to leave us alone.”
I said the first thing that came to my mind, hoping she would buy it, but I had a feeling this wouldn’t end well. “Joy, I thought you’d be with Dan . . . Don’t come in. I-I’m with someone—”
It didn’t end well.
There was a slight rustling sound that I assumed was her coat landing where it belonged—on the couch, mind you—and high heels clanked on the wooden floor as she rushed to my bedroom. March stood up, ready to deal with her, and I gave him a desperate look when I saw him adjusting his black gloves over his knuckles. I remember grinding my teeth in tune with the faint squeak of the leather.
Joy burst in the doorway, her long golden locks falling over her shoulders, her eyes wide.
Silence sometimes speaks louder than words. The ten seconds of absolute peace, the wordless intensity filling the room as she took in the scene before her, those were worth a thousand oratorios rising to the firmament to celebrate an event of biblical proportions. I was lying on my bed facedown, handcuffed, my legs tied with my own tights, my panties showing; a handsome guy stood near me, and I thought Joy was going to cry.
She didn’t. But it was a close call: when she recovered the ability to speak, her tone was reverent. “Oh my God . . . Finally. Finally!”
Her eyes then met March’s; I winced as a suggestive smile stirred her lips. “Mmm . . . which is it? Sir . . . ? Daddy, maybe?”
Seriously? Daddy?
Joy would probably be safe, since she had no clue what was going on. I, on the other hand, would die, and all people would remember about me was how my life had ended at the tender age of twenty-five, in a miscalculated BDSM scene.
I returned to nuzzling my pillow in shame and defeat. “Joy, can you leave us—”
“Oh. Sure . . . I guess I can go see a movie. Do you guys have everything you need? Booze, toys, protection?”
“Yes, thank you, Joy.” March seemed to know exactly how to make his voice sound deep and sexy when needed. Had I not known any better, I almost could have believed he was about to perform.
She wiggled her hips with a provocative grin and turned to leave, sending a last wink in our direction. “Losing your V-card Fifty Shades of Grey style. I respect you, girl. You’re gonna have to tell me e-very-thing!”
And with this, she was gone.
After the apartment’s door had slammed, March focused his attention back to me, and there was a sympathetic smile on his face. “Good thing it’s not what we’re here for. I can’t think of a worse scenario for a first time.”
I won’t lie. For a second there, when I heard his meditative tone, devoid of the threatening edge it previously held, I thought Joy’s intervention had defused the whole situation and that March had fallen prey to her innate ability to lighten the mood wherever she went.
I was wrong.
As soon as he had said this, he switched back to inquisitor mode, grabbing my right elbow and twisting it against the cuffs with controlled pressure. “Island, my employer has been hunting that diamond for more than a decade. So tell me where it is, or I’ll break your limbs one after another until you talk. Do you understand?”
I was far beyond rational thinking, and all I could do in response was wail and pant. The discomfort slowly grew in intensity, my joint fighting its unnatural position, and when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, it started.
I knew the signs: the dull thudding against my temples had been present for half an hour or so. I had been prone to occasional but violent bouts of migraines since the age of fifteen, a permanent souvenir of the car accident that had killed my mother in Tokyo and left me in a coma for two weeks. The strain in my arm increased; I could no longer move, no longer breathe. My entire skull exploded with white-hot pain. I slammed my head against the pillow and hissed in agony.
Of course he didn’t buy it, no doubt filing me as a wimp. “I haven’t even started . . . Wait at least until it hurts.”
There was the slightest hint of mockery in his voice, an
d I hated him even more for that, especially since I was going to have to beg. My mouth was watering already, and the unpleasant sensation in my esophagus told me this was going to be a large migraine with a side of nausea.
“I need to go to the bathroom.”
My plea fell into deaf ears. “I’m sorry to inform you that it can and will wait.”
Giving up all control, I screamed, “March, I’m going to throw up!”
I felt his grip loosen, as if he were pondering the authenticity of my plea.
My entire body shook in urgency as I begged again, my voice cracking. “Please! Please!”
I suppose that the prospect of vomit all over the sheets carried a peculiar sense of threat for a guy who loved order so much. Strong hands hauled my body and carried me to the small bathroom, setting me in front of the toilet. I bent forward and waited for a few torturous seconds, soon rewarding us both with a series of awful gurgles as my stomach heaved and poured its contents in the bowl. Once I was done, the nausea itself was momentarily relieved, but the waves crashing inside my skull wouldn’t stop. I let myself fall on the old blue tiling and rubbed my forehead against the cool surface in despair.
I think it was the head rubbing that gave him a hint. Kneeling beside me, March turned me over, cradling my face in his right hand with unreadable eyes. “You have a migraine.”
I nodded haphazardly, sweating, unable to talk. The ceiling light was setting my eyeballs on fire, and my surroundings were getting blurry.
He remained perfectly Zen, as if all his victims always collapsed in a similar fashion. “Do you have any medication?”
I managed to raise my chin at the mirror cabinet resting above the sink, prompting him to get up and open it. As he examined the jungle of beauty products crammed onto the shelves, I rasped two mangled syllables that he was able to connect with the box of Zomig resting in front of him. When he pried my mouth open, I gladly welcomed the tablet, letting it dissolve under my tongue.
I felt the cuffs around my wrists and the tights squeezing my ankles come undone before he carried me into the tub. I still had my clothes on, but I was so out of it I didn’t care. Warm water started pouring on my head and neck, and when his hands moved to cup my cheeks, I registered he had removed his gloves at some point. I progressively went limp as large thumbs pressed on my temples, massaging the pain away in slow circles.