by Falon Gold
Yeah, you'll probably do lots of that.
The doorbell chiming interrupts my gaping into the mirror at the woman permanently cringing. She had an identity yesterday, a future. Feels like a lifetime has passed since then. Camron will be delighted to tell me who I am now, which he will, and it’s infuriating that I have to open my door so he can.
When it swings wide to his gorgeous, smiling mug, he looks absolutely stunning in a casual Polo shirt and jeans, even genuinely happy… at my expense—all it took was the signing away of the rights and privileges to live my life as I see fit. That's even more maddening.
"It's a shame God wasted all that beauty on a pervert," I spew.
His joy slips into a dirty frown.
That's enough pettiness, Amari. More than you have something at stake here.
"Let. Me. In. Amari." His tone is hard and clipped, and only the devil knows why I hear a double meaning in it. The devil as in Camron. If there is a hidden message in his voice, I choose to overlook it. It'll be to my detriment if I don't.
I move to the side, letting him violate the other side of the only shelter I had from him. I want to shove him right back out of it when he starts to peruse my humble decorations that are nothing like the sleek, white and chrome museum he rarely sets foot in on Blanchard Row. Taking in the living room from the top stair, his inspection makes me examine my apartment too.
I’m not looking for what could make it better though, wouldn't change a thing about the stark, white walls or the single tan one that stands out and matches the couch perfectly. The plants hanging from the ceiling and the floor pedestals loaded down with more creeping vines bring the outdoors inside, providing its own colors. Healthy, potted palm trees show off like peacocks from the corners housing armchairs, miniature glass tables, and crystal reading lamps.
Camron ambles down the staircase, stopping in front of the gas fireplace below the mounted television to scrutinize the framed family snapshots on the mantel. It's not long before he strolls to one of the windows hidden behind closed blinds. I leave them shut when I'm traveling. Couldn't bring myself to open them when I got back yesterday. Would've had to close them right back today.
It would've felt as if I was letting the sun pour into my soul, lighting up the places blackened by Camron's extortion, only so he could come and block the healing rays.
That kind of torment, I can do without, rather stay in the dark until the sunshine is eternal.
He thumbs the leaf of a floating Devil’s Ivy. “What are you going to do about your plants?”
“They'll die of course,” I respond hoarsely.
They're the closest I've gotten to having children, reduced to collateral damage to his rule of ‘take nothing with me.’
“You could have someone come feed them,” he suggests logically, with his back turned.
I swipe away a lone teardrop. “I would, but that’ll be one more person you’re forcing me to lie to about why I won’t be home to do it myself. No, thank you.”
He frowns. “What lies? We’ll be together, living together. A couple in every way.”
“Bullshit! No real couple needs a contract to be together. Prenups, I get, but you have some nerve to be concerned about my plants after what you strong-armed me into yesterday. Do me a favor and don’t convince yourself this deal is real. I only agreed to it to keep you from destroying my family through me. The plants are the least of my worries. Yours too from now on.”
Camron knits his fingers behind his back. The plant becomes interesting to him again. “Giving up your life for your family’s well-being,” he breathes. “It must make you feel all self-righteous to practice what you preach.”
His memory is like an elephant’s.
“I’m no damn martyr, Camron. Any sacrifice I make for them is because of you.”
And then, his hard gaze is gouging my face. “Amari, I'm not your enemy.”
He’s that and more, a formidable opponent. Unbeatable.
“Says the man holding indentured slavery over my head,” I comment dryly.
And you’re going to lose much more to him than you ever intended to.
Stupid conscience always has something to add, as if I don’t have enough shit to deal with already, like dinner with Camron at my parents’ table.
“Can we get this charade on the road please? The fastest we get to my family’s house and outright lie to them, the faster we can leave.”
He looks off into the kitchen. “No. I’d like a tour of your apartment now.”
Good Lord!
“There’s no need for that. It’s not like we’re going to live here, which isn’t anywhere near the scale of the places you’re used to.”
“No,” he says softly. “It’s better. I can breathe in here. The other places are too polluted with the owner’s self-importance.”
I balk, not sure I heard him right, or want him familiarizing himself with my apartment, contaminating it with his ego.
He fans an open palm toward the dim hallway connected to the walkway I’m standing on, determined to have a walkthrough. Since I’m not getting out of it, wearily, I swivel on my heels. He quickly takes the stairs, to form a single file line behind me. We move toward the bedrooms. Halfway, I pause and push open the doors on each side of us and flip the light switches.
“This is the guest room to our right. Bathroom on the left. Both are decorated in mauve and hunter green, and this tour is so damn cheesy.”
He chuckles quietly behind me, while inspecting the small rooms.
I move forward, expecting him to follow when he’s ready. It’s not like he can get lost in my apartment, even with his eyes closed.
In the master bedroom, twice as spacious as the guest’s, I break beside the nightstand next to the real oak queen bed under a thick, floral comforter and a mountain of colored throw pillows. Matching tall armoire and dresser sit against the adjacent walls. My stiff posture displays in the mirrored doors of my closet sandwiched by the ensuite bathroom and armoire. I dislike the fatigue wrinkling the space between my eyebrows, so I stare at him as he catches up, finally. Couldn’t have been anything that fascinating about the guestroom and half bath to take him minutes to move on.
I point toward the bathroom that gave me a few moments of blissful ignorance from his vendetta yesterday. There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do to go back in time.
“That’s another bathroom decorated in purple, lavender, and peach, same as this room, which is the master’s and the end of the tour.”
He smirks. “You haven’t shown me the kitchen yet.”
“I’ll describe it to you on the way out the front door.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “Are you refusing me?”
Yeah, he’s so going to milk his time with me for all it’s worth.
And then some.
I charge past him to the last stop, where I plop down on a barstool hidden neatly under the low counter. “There’s nothing spectacular about the long row of white cabinets and farm sinks against the back wall, or the fridge on the right, nor the stove on the left. You’ll find nothing interesting on the other end of the room either but a little alcove behind the wooden doors for the washer and dryer. An ordinary kitchen for an extra ordinary woman.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.”
“I’m sure you will,” I mumble, while swiveling on my seat to stare off into the living area.
In my peripheral, he takes long observations of the wall fruit plaques and decorative pictures, then vanishes within the shuttered doors of the laundry room. If I didn’t know better, I swear he was taking notes. For what? Who the hell knows? But it shouldn’t take him long.
I prop my foot on the bottom rung of my chair, elbows on the countertop, chin in my hand to wait. Utterly bored. Can’t leave here fast enough. Should be vice versa, but Camron has a way of flipping everything on its head.
The next ninety days are going to be trial by fire. Nobody has to tell me that I’m not going to come out unscathed
or be the same afterwards. Not sure if that’s a good or bad thing though. To figure out which it’ll be, I’ll need to turn myself inside out. At least I’ll have lots of time on my hands for self-evaluating, but I’m not looking forward to it.
“Amari,” collides with the hazy edges of my awareness, startling the hell out of me.
I lurch back to reality. My hand smacks the flat surface, as I jerk toward the voice. An empty, ceramic canister springboards up then tips toward the backend of the countertop.
Camron, who’s standing a hair’s length away, saves the cookie jar from tumbling onto the walkway, while I gawk up at him, mainly at his mouth. Those lips have caused me enough trouble for the next year, and yet, I can’t stop eyeing them.
“Sorry for scaring you, Amari.”
His deep voice, closeness, and another rare, random apology from him should be more than enough to keep me alert, but they’re more like wind machines blowing my senses wide open.
My God, I want him… in the worst way.
Took you long enough to admit it.
“Amari.”
“Yeah.”
“Can I kiss you?”
The odd question drives me right out of my daze. Isn’t he supposed to take what he wants from me?
“Why are you asking, Camron?”
“Because I want to.”
He leans toward me slowly, giving me the impression that he’s waiting for me to shoot him down. I would if I could. The unidentified part of me that’s takes over when he’s too damn close won’t let me reject him. I surge forward, as if I’m starving for him. Our mouths collide. The heavens meet the earth.
Kissing him is an unwise thing to do—I was always going to find this out the hard way. Too late to undo my mistake. Tongues are already exploring warm nooks and crannies, when they’re not tangling together. He sips from the tip of mine, withdrawing something that I need, replacing it with something I want. I’m not sure if it’s a fair trade, but I’m positive his lips shouldn’t be this soft. Intoxicating. This damn demanding. Lifting me off my stool.
That’s not his lips, fool. It’s his hands.
Hard arms encase my waist and the bottom of my butt, maneuvering me into vertically straddling his erection. It’s wide. Long. Fitting within my thighs like a glove to hand.
Just right. Take advantage.
I hook my white, ankle boots behind him then wind my hips against his, satisfying the yearning in my core briefly. He groans. We revolve toward the living room. I cave against his chest, fingers circling around his neck for balance while I attack, then reattack his mouth. Already addicted to the essence of him—I knew I would be if I was ever where I’ve wanted to be, except, I wanted his arms around me years ago. Now, they’re the most dangerous place in the world.
Only because you want to be horizontal while in them.
Want. I should contemplate why my inner voice didn’t use that word in its past tense form, but I don’t care. Too busy craving Camron more than my next breath, more than I did when I first met him. The day of our first kiss isn’t supposed to have dawned. For all I know, I could be dreaming that’s he’s here right now. I’ve done that before, but there are a few annoyances keeping me firmly rooted in reality, prohibiting me from getting closer to him. My tan jeans and sleeveless, lacy blouse with attached bra take up needed space like chaperones, and there’s a relentless buzzing beneath my leg.
When he softly lays me down on the couch, depositing a knee beside me on the cushion, I shut down the kiss reluctantly. “What is that, Camron?”
“My phone, sweetheart,” he replies gruffly, with glazed eyes.
He looks high. I’m more than pleased that it was me who put that expression on his face. I shouldn’t be though, not with the shit show he’s pulled me into, but nothing else is making sense right now. Why should my unwelcomed desire to make love with him be any easier to decipher?
“I should answer it, or it won’t stop, and it’s important, baby.” His fingers extract the device from his front pocket. “Did you get them, Bailey?”
Who the hell is Bailey?
Better be his chauffeur.
I begin to shamelessly eavesdrop on his call he’s taking with a half-smile. He’s definitely talking to someone he gets along with quite well. Then the unmistakable husky giggle from a woman resonates out of his earpiece. My arousal dries up like the desert, chest hollowing out again.
I shove at his with both hands until he’s on his feet and I scramble off the sofa, angry more with myself than him.
Why the hell am I mad with him at all? He’s just being who he’s always been, himself. I’ve gotten what I deserve for backsliding on the pact I made while still working for him: never let Camron Powers get to me or my heart.
You didn’t specify your body though.
And that’s my fault. Lesson learned.
I speed-walk up the stairs.
“Amari,” he growls. “Bailey, let me call you back,” he says to my back. “That call isn’t what you think it was about, Amari.”
It wasn’t the chauffeur either.
“You don’t have to explain, Camron. Technically, you’re only mine on paper. Bailey was probably on the scene before I was, so she’s earned first dibs at you.”
Camron has already taught me the hard way that I’m not into sharing. His touch will make me forget she exists in his world. I don’t think he’ll forget her or not answer her call the next time it interrupts us either, and that hurts, much less than it will if I let myself fall for him completely.
“Can we go now?” I seize my keys from beside the canister he saved, their jagged edges stabbing the skin inside my closed fist.
The pain doesn’t compare to what’s blooming in my chest cavity.
Leaving my purse on the countertop before going out goes against every feminine habit I have, but I abandon it all the same.
He marches past me, silently. “As soon as you put the keys back, Amari, we’ll go.”
No wonder he didn’t push to explain who Bailey is. He’s gearing up for another battle.
"They're just keys, Camron, and I can't lock the door without them."
"I'll have your landlord lock the door."
"And leave my stuff in here for anyone to walk in and take?"
He's got to be kidding me.
He doesn't look like it.
A blank mask adorns his feature. "We’re not going to leave the door wide open, and you can try trusting me, Amari, or lose everything anyway. Your choice."
An eerie calm layers his tone, as if he’s not demanding I choose between losing my possessions and my family losing sleep over their future. How am I supposed to trust him when he puts me in constant bent-over positions? The decision I have to make is a no-brainer though, and Camron has found a way to be even more despicable to me. I won’t forget how he operates again.
Beyond enraged, I pitch the keys clear across the apartment. They somersault off the rim of the fireplace then botch the landing on the fragile top of the coffee table, scratching it up as they skate across it to the floor.
Cutting off your nose to spite your face, huh?
Better than me trying to slap him into next week, and my things will possibly be ransacked or missing before I come back for them anyway.
Twice in one day, I barge past him, going out the door this time while struggling to keep my temper at a manageable height. I burst through the opened elevator being vacated by more of my neighbors, with my world still wobbling on its axis.
Camron knuckles the button for the lobby before taking his place beside me. It would be more appropriate if he stood in front of me. Side by side means we care for one another. That is not the case when I'm being made to feel subordinate and toyed with at every turn.
"Tell me about your family, Amari."
Emotional overload is choking me while I’m concentrating fully on not giving him a front row seat to me cracking up. Everything that matters to me will be gone in a matter of months. Not just
my belongings either, if I'm not careful.
The lit number panel blinking out with each floor we descend becomes fascinating. A non-shining example of every light in me that will blow out each day I'm with him.
"Amari."
He doesn’t know when to shut up either.
"Why should I tell you anything? It's not like you give a damn about them. I can live without the chitchat."
"Are you refusing me?"
If you keep this attitude up, he's going to be asking that a lot, and you're going to be crying a lot. A match made in hell. Everybody will pay the price for it eventually, so suck it up, stop trying to buck his system built around you, and giving him reasons to void the contract. Material things can be replaced.
Got it.
After swallowing the lump in my throat, I share the bare bones of my family's structure in an automated drone. Enough of that voice, and he'll let me go with time served for good behavior. My monologue is over way before he waves the male chauffeur back into the limousine’s driver's seat, then opens the rear door for me. Installed dim-watt bulbs guide me to the front of the cabin. Luckily for me, Camron parks his rump at the back.
I shift sideways toward a heavily-tinted window then let cold detachment overtake me, voluntarily dying inside to exist pain-free. We merge with traffic. Camron tosses the first of harmless inquiries into the awkward atmosphere, usually requiring one-worded responses, or I fit the answer into one that sounds like absolute nonsense. Doesn't deter him from his objective to get to know me though. I'm not buying his sudden curiosity in my favorite color or movie. We're not a damn couple transitioning into the next phase of our relationship. Yet, getting our stories straight before he meets the parents is wise, so I cooperate... mostly.
The journey turns into an eternity in the snail-like traffic that I’d hoped to avoid. I doze off, until my head bobs to the side too far, wrenching me awake to Camron watching me sleep.