Pursued

by Cynthia Dane

  Monica couldn’t rest during dinner. Her job was far from over, and she was aware that every time someone turned to her it was to either get her guidance or to ask a question. Of course, few people actually talked to her outside of the maids bringing food in and out. And they only talked to her because she made them tell her everything. They would lean down, whisper into her ear, and then depart again, their pristine uniforms fluttering in the air.

  Most of the patrons and guests didn’t know one another, but Monica partially arranged these meetings to fix that. Inspiration came from the old courtesan houses of Shanghai and beyond, back in the glory days of the early 20th century when Chinese and Western businessmen alike came together to drink liquor, ogle pretty girls, and talk business. How many professional relationships were forged in those dark and perfumed walls? Monica didn’t fancy herself a matchmaker of capitalism, but she did fancy herself a fantastic hostess, and one who could make all her guests feel relaxed, even in the presence of strangers.

  Sure enough, halfway through the first course, Mr. Carlisle introduced himself to Mr. Witherspoon, and the two of them ignored their girls for the majority of dinner to discover how much they had in common. The only time Chelsea got any attention was when she was asked to cut up Mr. Witherspoon’s food and feed it to him. Nobody thought anything of it.

  Well, nobody except for the man sitting between him and Monica.

  By some happenstance Mr. Warren – Henry – sat to her left, politely staring at the spectacle going on while a young woman fed an older man his food. A few other people caught on to his staring, and Monica was prompted to say, “Do you know where you are, Mr. Warren?”

  “To tell you the truth, Sam only said that this was where his girlfriend lived and we were invited to a party thrown by her, well…”

  “Oh, do tell what he’s saying I am.” Monica had been told many things. Madam, Mistress, Pimp. Those words didn’t come from the people one would assume, either. The neighbors called her Madam while the disgruntled clients called her pimp. The police didn’t call her anything but “treading on thin ice.”

  “He said you were like a mother.”

  Monica’s fork clattered on her plate as she held her fingers to her mouth and failed at hiding a chuckle. Haven’t been called that one before. Strange, since most ancient cultures referred to heads of such houses as one form of mother or another. Hearing it in English, however, was something else entirely. “I’m sorry if you were unprepared for my Château, Mr. Warren.”

  “I told you to call me Henry.”

  “Fine. Mr. Henry.” What? Monica was the head of this household and business. She had to keep some standards, no matter what guests wanted. Does he want a girl for the evening? Monica made a mental note to start hiring part-time girls for weekends and these sorts of gatherings. They lived close enough to the city that girls wouldn’t mind coming up the mountain a couple days a week to make nearly a thousand dollars. Monica hadn’t thought they were necessary until now. “The Château is for many things. For many fantasies.”

  He glanced at Mr. Witherspoon talking about stock prices while a pretty young woman fed him bits of steak and vegetables. “I can see that. Apparently my friend has discerning tastes.”

  “How nice of you to say so.” Monica would take even blanketed compliments about her girls to heart. “All our girls here are trained in various forms of pleasure.”

  “I see.”

  Monica put her utensils down and folded her finger beneath her chin. “Do you not care for these sorts of tastes, Mr. Henry? I would have hoped that Mr. Witherspoon informed you as to what goes on here before inviting you.”

  “Perhaps he did tell me, and I wasn’t paying attention. Regardless, it would be rude of me to say anything alarming.”

  “If you are uncomfortable, I can secure you a ride back to the city.”

  “That won’t be necessary.” Henry picked up his knife and stared at his untouched steak – medium rare, as requested. “Also, I can cut my own meat fine.”

  Suited Monica. She was neither Henry’s sub nor his mother. Been a while since I cut a man’s food for him. In her last relationship, that’s all she did some days.

  The both of them ate in silence for a few minutes while men chatted and women refilled wine and water glasses. When Monica spoke again, she directed her words right at Henry, who snapped his eyes away from his plate to look at her. “Are you married, Mr. Henry?”

  “Hm? No. Afraid not.”

  “Afraid?”

  “That’s what I’m supposed to say, right? My family would like to see me married as soon as possible. I’m the only son in my father’s line.”

  “I see. So much pressure.” A common story. For whatever reason, the local bigshot families weren’t into big families. They also tended to be old fashioned, with daughters marrying into other families while sons strived to take over the family business, even if they weren’t suited for it. Monica didn’t know anything more about Henry than what he already shared. Maybe he was perfect for his family in every way but his lack of a wife. “And you aren’t into the lifestyle?”

  “Lifestyle?”

  Monica gestured to the way her girls doted on their patrons, making them happy and ensuring they would keep paying their monthly fees to call these girls their girlfriends. “Maybe not exactly like this… but something like it.”

  “You mean the whole BDSM thing.”

  “Why, yes, I do.”

  Henry neither bristled nor smiled as he ate his last piece of steak. “Question for the ages, isn’t it? What about you, Miss…”

  “Monica. Monica Graham.”

  “Ms. Monica. You into this sort of thing?”

  “Of course I am. Do you think I could run this sort of establishment if I didn’t understand the nuances of such relationships?”

  “I suppose not. Excuse me for asking.”

  Monica wasn’t ashamed of her tastes. She had been involved in the lifestyle for years. It was second nature to her, and her preference. Why not run a place like this if I have to run a business? There are far worse ways to make a living. She gave herself a warm bed, healthy food, and good company most nights. That was more than many women could expect in their whole lives. I’ve been through a lot to get here, but I’m here! She wasn’t ashamed. She refused to be ashamed.

  Dessert and more drinks were served in the nearby salon. More conversation flowed with the liquor, loosening up more than tongues. Monica finally relaxed a little. Things are going well. Soon enough the pairs of lovers would retire to the girls’ rooms, or they would go with their guests into other rooms to continue conversations, games, and whatever else they decided to get into that night. It wasn’t unusual for a patron to share his girl with a guest… sort of like Grace’s patron, who continued to rub his wife’s thigh and make her blush behind her glasses of champagne. It didn’t take long for the three of them to excuse themselves for the evening and head up to Grace’s room for their playtime.

  Soon the only three left in the room were the Witherspoon party. I’m jealous. She had watched everyone but Chelsea exit the room with men – and women – draped on their bodies, whispering sweet promises to be anything but sweet that night. It’s been too long. Monica’s last relationship ended months ago, and she hadn’t touched or been touched since. A woman’s heart began to ache a lot longer before that. Especially when that woman is in love.

  Around ten she got up and excused herself from the party. The trio of revelers bade her goodnight, and Monica finally had time to wash up for the evening and sleep. Or at least that was her plan until she caught a strange look from Henry, who sat on a chaise lounge with an empty glass in his hand. The glimpse he gave her stopped her in her tracks – as if his blue eyes personally bade her farewell.

  “Good night, Mr. Henry,” Monica said with a slow nod of the head. “Take care here.” He did not break his gaze as she left the room, latching the salon door behind her. She waited u
ntil she was alone by the grand staircase to shiver. Whether pleasurably or in fright from recent memories, Monica did not know.

  Chapter 2

  Lock & Key

  Perhaps Monica’s worst habit was her fixation on current events. No, not politics. No, not the economy – although she had to keep up with that one in order to know what her clients were talking about. No, she liked to read the police reports, the terrible crimes appearing on Page 1, and any sort of atrocity she could get her hands on.

  She picked up the habit late into her previous relationship, when things were dark and she wondered if she would make it another day without hurting herself in some way – or if her ex would kill her. It’s nice to know that other people have it worse than me. What a morbid thought. Monica couldn’t help it, however, as she sat at the table early the next morning, eating her breakfast of eggs and a bagel. Page 1 had a story about a man killed during an attempted robbery in his own home. “Was like my son,” his neighbor said. “Such a kind, charitable man. I don’t understand why something like this happened to him. Who would do such a thing?”

  Monsters. Monica put her paper down and stabbed her scrambled eggs topped with spring onion. She would know something about monsters. That last lover – Jackson Lyle, one of the richest and cruelest men in the country – made sure she knew how many terrible people there were in the world. At least he didn’t have the chance to kill her. This poor man in the paper was dead. Killed by a stranger! What a way to go.

  “Ugh, I forgot where I was for a second.”

  Startled, Monica looked up and caught sight of a disheveled Henry standing in the dining room entryway. His suit was tussled, wrinkled in the wrong places and hardly pressed for an important business meeting. His shoes had smudges on them. His wristwatch – Rolex, of course – was upside down, and his hair… his hair! Where the hell was he sleeping? Those dark blond locks, once combed to perfection, now stuck up every which way. If Monica didn’t know him, she would guess that Henry was a vagabond lost without direction.

  “Mr. Henry!” She leaped from her seat, nearly upending the eggs. The newspaper with the awful story fell to the ground. “Are you all right? What happened?”

  He held up his hands before she could get too close. He reeks. Sweat. Alcohol. Possibly sex. All three were likely after a weekend night in the Château. “Please, I’m fine. I just need to sit down. I had too much to drink last night.”

  Hungover Henry sank into one of the dining chairs while Monica summoned a maid from the kitchen. A girl arrived with a fresh towel and a glass of water. Monica sent her back to the kitchen to get some oatmeal, bananas, something. “You certainly do not look all right. Did you fall asleep in the salon?”

  “I must have. I don’t remember it… the last thing I remember is playing charades with Sam and that friend of his… I don’t know where they are.”

  Probably in her room. It wasn’t unusual for weekend clients – let alone patrons – to spend the night. Monica had seen Mr. Carlisle slink his way through the Château an hour ago. “I can have someone find him for you.”

  Henry took the towel and water. “I appreciate it, but that’s not necessary. I’ll shake this off and be on my way in no time.”

  Still, Monica insisted that Henry use a guest bathroom to shower and freshen himself up. He was in there for a while, long enough for her to finish her breakfast and fret about the poor man left to pass out intoxicated on a salon sofa.

  How had nobody seen him? A maid or somebody should have secured him a proper guest room to sleep in. Somebody’s getting fired! Monica had that thought as Henry emerged from the guest bathroom, his suit not much better, but his face not as flushed and his hair much more manageable. “Thank you for the concern,” he said, sounding like the man Monica met yesterday. Henry joined her for breakfast, where both a grapefruit and oatmeal awaited him. “You’re quite the hostess… I’m sorry, what was it again?”

  “Monica.” Henry didn’t seem the type to be into calling her Madam or anything like that. The patrons liked that because it helped fulfill their fantasy. Henry, thus far, was devoid of that. “It’s my pleasure to be at your assistance. I don’t like the idea of one of my guests being passed out on a couch all night long.”

  “Must be in your nature, huh?’

  “Excuse me?”

  The man shook his head. “I mean… well… being subservient… never mind.”

  Monica couldn’t help but smile. “You can’t offend me, Mr. Henry. Not unless you mean to offend me.”

  “No, I certainly don’t intend to offend you. I find it fascinating, that’s all. How does someone get into this line of business?”

  She folded up the newspaper and left it on the other side of the table. “Not sure I follow you.”

  “Just a bit of curiosity. How does a woman as young as you become the proprietress of a place like this?”

  “Young? How young do you think I am?”

  “I wouldn’t dare actually guess your age.”

  “And you’re wise to not do so.” Monica was hardly old, but she was no spring chicken when it came to love and romance. Or sex. She definitely wasn’t a virgin of any kind. “To answer your question, there were a lot of strange circumstances that led me to this profession. I’ve been into the lifestyle since I was a girl. Things fell into place naturally after that. Well, that’s the short story.”

  “One of these days I should like to hear the long story.”

  Monica sat back, her eyes never leaving Henry’s watchful ones. He reminds me a lot of Jackson. It was those handsome good looks and the smell of old money. Oh, and the way he grinned when he thought he was being clever. Jackson’s hair was sandier, though. And he didn’t have the strong jaw that Henry did. Nor was he as tall. Monica fished for more ways these two men were different… she didn’t need reminders of her ex haunting her hallowed halls.

  Not like I get out of the house much as it is. It had always been that way. If there was a service she couldn’t get to come out to the Château, she didn’t use it.

  “I don’t tell the long story often. Too…” She searched for a neutral word to use. “Long. Much too long.”

  Monica was a master of manipulating her expressions. Queen Poker Face, an ex-lover used to call her. Most men didn’t want to know about her emotions. In truth, she didn’t want to share them, either. They are for me and me alone. The easier it became to push them down and put on a straight, pleasant face, the easier life became in turn.

  And yet, when she put on that poker face now to not betray the terrible memories flooding her mind, Henry Warren still cocked his head to one side, rested his elbow on the table, and said, “Must be a terribly long story.”

  Perhaps Monica should have let it go. After all, most people would have interpreted Henry’s words as being merely supportive. Small talk. A final word before they let things go. I sense something in those words. An understanding that she hadn’t felt in years. She had just met this man, and God knew their interactions were limited to his innocent questions and being hungover, but in that short amount of time Henry came across as more empathetic than the thousands of men Monica had crossed paths with in her life.

  I need to get out more.

  They didn’t see or hear from Mr. Witherspoon until an hour later, when he sauntered down the grand staircase as hungover as the friend he forgot and left behind. The two men exchanged curt words, Henry admonishing his colleague for being so self-centered, and Mr. Witherspoon insisting that he thought Henry would have found a companion of his own.

  “And who would it have been, hm?” Monica heard Henry ask. “All the women here are spoken for. Unless you count Ms. Graham in the dining room.”

  “Who, her?” Although Mr. Witherspoon lowered his voice, Monica could still hear him. “There’s a reason she does so well in this business. She’s untouchable. You never touch the madam, sir, especially when the madam is the soiled goods of Jackson Lyle. You know, the Jack
son Lyle.”

  “Jackson… wasn’t he the man recently bought out of his own business he founded?”

  “Certainly. The very one. Absolute smarmy little snot, but he was invaluable to a few investments going around and… well… I heard through my driver who heard from his brother who used to work at Lyle’s estate that Ms. Graham pulled a gun on him before leaving with a good chunk of his money.”

  “You don’t say. Well, woman is certainly gutsier than she gives off.”

  “You have to be to run a business like this, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Monica retained her poker face as the men entered the dining room, oblivious that she had heard either one of them speak so candidly about her. Everything they say is true. From the smarm, to the investments, to the gun… Monica had never shot a soul, and the day she held that gun between her and Jackson was the day she finally freed herself from the tyranny he fronted with compassion.

  Mr. Witherspoon stayed for breakfast, although Chelsea never came down to join them. Either he had left her to sleep or requested she stay in her room until he departed. Patrons had a habit of showing up in love with their girls before turning a cheek the next day. As long they paid for the privilege, and as long as the girls didn’t come crying to Monica, she didn’t mind.

  Before the men left, Mr. Witherspoon pulled Monica aside and requested to leave a gift for Chelsea. Of course, such things were encouraged, and Monica held out her hand to take the check on Chelsea’s behalf. Ten-thousand dollars. Half would go to Chelsea. The other half would be split between Monica and improvements to the Château. There was a vase for the dining table she had her eye on. This would help.

  “Thank you for your patronage, Mr. Witherspoon. I will be sure to praise Chelsea for a job well done so she will continue to be happy here… and so you will continue to liven us up with your presence, of course.”