Madame X, стр. 15
Which has been emptied of every book.
Except one, a new title.
Obedience to Authority: An Experimental View by Stanley Milgram.
SIX
A week with no books is an eternity. I have no television, no radio. No visitors or friends, save my clients. No late-night visits, either; a long and conspicuous absence. I am going mad. After my clients are done for the day, I pace. Walk the perimeter of my world, wall to wall to wall, window to window, corner to corner. I do not mutter to myself, but it takes considerable restraint. At night, I do not sleep. I toss and turn, stare at the ceiling. In the end, I always find myself at the window, forehead pressed to the glass, arms crossed beneath my breasts, hands cupping my elbows, watching. Watching.
Observe the foot traffic, as is my wont.
See her, down there? A young woman, not yet thirty. Less than that even, perhaps. It is hard to tell from this distance. This late at night, past midnight, she is dressed in a business power suit. Tight pencil skirt, navy. Matching blazer folded and draped across one forearm. White blouse, no nonsense, plain yet tailored. Three buttons are undone, though, revealing a bit too much cleavage for her to be going anywhere but home or the bar. A tan purse hangs from one shoulder, slim, small, nearly invisible strap. Dark wedge heels, either navy or dark gray. Hair in a neat bun. Yet the way she walks, it tells a story. Quickly, legs pumping swiftly despite the narrow confines of her knee-length skirt. Too quickly. And her face, buried in her cell phone. The set of her shoulders. She’s upset about something. She reaches the corner, pauses at the intersection, and stuffs her phone into her purse. Straightens her shoulders. Breathes deeply. Tosses her head, as if summoning indifference, courage.
Even from here, I can see the screen of her phone light up in her open purse. From this distance it is nothing but a tiny white glow. She hesitantly withdraws her phone, reads the message. Turns it off and stuffs it back into her purse without sending a reply. But instead of walking onward when the light turns, she remains at the intersection, waiting for something.
A sleek, expensive black sedan pulls to a halt on her side of the intersection, approaching her. Stops even with her. The rear passenger door is shoved open from within. She shakes her head. Steps backward. My heart pounds. She’s gesticulating angrily, finger stabbing, stabbing. She is shouting, clearly. Backs up another step. Another. The driver’s-side rear door is thrown open, and a tall man unfolds from within. My heart skips several beats. That hair, dark, artfully messy. That confident, arrogant, predator stride. Those shoulders.
It isn’t possible.
Yet my eyes tell me it is.
The woman backs up, almost out of my field of view. She is shaking her head. Speaking, head shaking. She holds up her hands palms out as if to ward off an attack, but I could tell her, should I be close enough to speak to her, she does so in vain. Those massive, powerful hands lash out with the swiftness of a striking serpent. Grab her shoulders. Tug her close, body to body. I see those thin, expressive lips moving, saying something. She shakes her head, but she doesn’t pull away. Why isn’t she pulling away?
Because she’s being kissed, full and furious, a demanding kiss. Even from here, I can see her knees go weak. All that’s keeping her upright is those brutal hands, clutching her backside and keeping her pressed hard against that firm, taut chest. Her hands clutch, grab, feather through hair, possess.
She is allowed to touch?
A kiss?
Those lips do not kiss me.
My hands do not reach up to touch.
What is this fury within me? This disgust? This fear? This confusion? I am nothing but a possession. I know this. I do not want to be kissed. Not by those lips. I do not want to touch, not that body.
I will this to be the truth, despite seeds of doubt.
She, clearly, is held to different rules than I.
Yet just as clear is the domination, the masterful knowledge of female anatomy and arousal, and how to manipulate until ownership is complete. I know that all too well. She is subsumed, there on the sidewalk. She is walked backward until her backside bumps up against the front passenger door of the car. She melts. Surrenders. The sidewalk is not empty; this is New York, and it never sleeps. No one is ever alone on the street. Yet the scene up against the door of the car is a private one, an erotic one. Over a wide shoulder I can see her mouth, hanging open. Hands dig beneath her skirt waistband. I know that touch. The arousal, the inevitability of climax.
Right there on the street.
I watch her come. She goes limp, held up yet again—or still. A moment passes. And then she is left alone, leaning back against the car door, skirt twisted out of place, hair coming free of the bun, blouse rucked and rumpled. Purse forgotten, hanging from an elbow. The rear driver’s-side door is closed behind that tall, powerful form. She hesitates. Straightens her skirt. Adjusts her blouse. Replaces the strap of her purse on her shoulder. Fixes her hair.
Takes a deep breath.
Walks away.
Good!
Run!
Keep going, girl. Do not be seduced, do not be ensorcelled.
Three steps, she makes it. And then, like Lot’s wife, she turns to look back. Unlike Lot’s wife, however, she does not turn to salt. But she is equally doomed, for all that. Her gaze locks on the still-open rear passenger door. She cannot resist. I can almost hear it, the siren song of a carnal god beckoning her closer, drawing her in, closer and closer to a dark, hungry, and merciless maw.
Closer, closer.
And then, the fool, she ducks, bends, and slides into the car. I see a hand reach, tug her off-balance so she falls forward, legs akimbo, skirt wide and showing too much leg, hiking up, baring a skimpy black thong. She kicks, fighting to sit up, and the hand whips down to crack against her backside. She stills, and the hand remains, cupping her buttock. Another hand, and the long suit-sheathed arm attached to it, reaches, grasps the door handle.
I watch, mesmerized, as a face I know all too well appears from out of the shadows of the interior, dark eyes lifting, rising, meeting mine. Lips do not quite smile, because gods do not grin or smirk. But there is a ghost of something like amusement or satisfaction on those beautiful and fiercely masculine features.
A moment, then, when I cannot look away, seeing and being seen.
Was all that for my benefit?
Orchestrated to prove a point?
I turn away, stomach lurching. I could vomit, but I do not.
• • •
Madame X. How are you today?” Your voice is smooth and polite as you enter, take a seat on the couch.
“I am well, Jonathan,” I lie, “and yourself?”
“All right, I suppose.” You shrug, but your voice betrays an infinitesimal hesitation.
“You suppose?” I query.
You’ve come a long way since our first meeting. Some of my best work, you are.
“It’s nothing.” You wave a hand, glance at my bookshelf, still empty but for that one title, which I dare not remove. Nor do I read it, though; my little act of rebellion. “Where’d all your books go?”
I hunt for a suitable lie. I can think of nothing. I did not expect you to notice or care. I shrug. Say the first thing that comes to mind. “I am having them replaced.”
You rise. Stride to the shelf, pick up the book, examine the title. Silence, then, as you read a few pages from the middle. “That’s fucked up, X.”
“Having my books replaced?”
You shake your head, lift the book in gesture. “No. This.”
I have not read it, know nothing about it. I cannot betray my ignorance, however. “Why do you say that, Jonathan?”