Madame X, стр. 31
This is a vignette, seen in a quick glance, and then Thomas presses me gently but firmly down and into the car, the door closes with a soft thunk, and then he is out of sight as the Maybach rounds a corner.
I see him still, though, his eyes on me through the veil of smoke, seeing me, searching me, wanting me as much as I want him.
• • •
At my door, accompanied by Thomas, Len, and you, and I wish only for a quiet moment alone, a word with you. Instead, Len and Thomas linger in the elevator doorway, blocking it open, making it clear you will not be going inside with me, but away with them.
“Thank you for going with me this evening, Madame X.”
“You are welcome.” I offer you a small, tight, sad smile. “Good-bye, Jonathan. And good luck with your business.”
“You, too.” Your fingers move in your right hip pocket. “Wait.”
I pause with my door open. You approach me, take me by the shoulders, turn me around. You stand behind me. I feel you, hear your breathing. Something cold and heavy drapes against my breastbone. I look down, see a huge sapphire. The antique necklace you won in the auction.
“Jonathan—”
“Not up for debate, X.” Your hands work at the back of my neck, fixing the clasp. You step back. “There.”
I turn, and you smile. Nod.
“Why?” I ask.
You shrug, and there’s that smirk, that insouciant grin. “’Cause I can. Because I want to. It looks perfect on you.”
“Why did you buy it, Jonathan? Not for me, surely.”
That shrug again, less easy this time. “Because Dad was there. To make a point.”
“You spent a quarter million dollars to spite your father, to show him that you could, just because?”
“Yeah, basically.”
“That’s childish.” I reach up to unclasp the necklace.
“Maybe, yeah. But it’s my childish decision to make. Keep it, X. My gift to you.” Something in your voice, something in your eyes convinces me.
I lower my hands. Lift up on my toes, hug you briefly, platonically. “All right, Jonathan. In that case . . . thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” You salute me, index and middle fingers together, touched to your forehead. “See ya.”
And you’re gone.
I won’t see you again. I feel more sadness at this than I’d expected to.
Alone, finally, I stand at my favorite window. Watch the taxis and the delivery trucks pass, watch the nearest stoplight cycle green-amber-red, feeling the memory of free air in my lungs, the sound of horns and sirens and voices, the smell of the city.
Indigo eyes.
Thumb on my cheekbone, lips on mine, some inexplicable knowledge of a secret forever passed in stolen moments in a men’s room, the feel of breath on my breath, a warm voice and strong gentle hands, the scent of cinnamon and cigarettes.
I want to cry for what I lost when I left that men’s room.
But I cannot, for I do not know what it was I lost, only that it is gone, and that it meant everything to me.
ELEVEN
I wake suddenly and completely, sensing a presence. “Caleb.”
“X.”
It is black, totally. But I smell signature spicy cologne, hear a slight breath inhaled, exhaled. The shuffle of a foot on wood.
“What time is it, Caleb?”
“Three forty-six in the morning.”
I don’t sit up. I remain on my right side, facing away. I allow myself a touch of venom in my voice. “What do you want, Caleb?”
“I’ve had enough of your attitude. I said I was sorry. It’s over.” My bed dips. A hand on my hip, over the blanket.
“Am I not allowed my own anger, Caleb? You hurt me. You frightened me. And over what?”
“You don’t speak to me that way. You don’t question me.”
“Or you’ll strangle me? Like William did?”
“Or I will be angry. And that’s not a good place for me to be, not for anyone. Least of all for you. I didn’t mean to hurt you, X.”
“Yet you did, and I’m not okay with it,” I say.
I wish desperately to push the hand away, yet it slides up my waist, and fingers hook in the blanket. Draw it away. I’m cold now.
Huge, hard hand, pushing me to my back. I don’t resist. Not yet.
“Come on, X. Let it go.”
“Don’t you think I’ve tried? I can’t. I can’t just let it go, Caleb.” I finally sit up, wishing I could draw the blankets up around my chest, but they’ve been tossed aside, and it’s dark, and I don’t dare risk making physical contact.
“Goddammit. All of this because of that stupid bitch Sara.” Anger, raw and rife.
“Sara didn’t put her hands on my throat, Caleb. You did.”
“And am I never to be forgiven for it?”
“I don’t know.” I remember the taste of come in my mouth, that day.
The way my sexual service was just . . . expected. And given, so easily, without question. I despise myself. I loathe myself for dropping to my knees and putting my mouth on that waiting erection, for doing what I was told without question. Why did I do that? What am I, to offer such ready subservience?
Maybe this is all a refraction, everything distorted by my memory of a so-very-different touch on my skin, the way lips touched mine.
“No.” I say this firmly.
“No?” Amused now. “No, you’re not going to forgive me?”
“No.”
Hands on my arms, groping, seeking, finding the back of my head. Pulling me. Heat and heaviness hovering over me. “I think you will, X.”
“Caleb . . .” I squirm, trapped, claustrophobic, feeling his oppressive presence crushing me down and down and down to the bed, until I’m horizontal and hands are feathering over my skin, scraping up the loose cotton of the T-shirt I wear as a nightgown, pushing it up around my throat, baring my breasts to the shadows. All is blackness, and heaviness, and my skin being touched. Palms, gentle but insistent. Fingers finding and tugging away my underwear.
“Caleb.” I find strength. “I don’t want this, Caleb.”
Lips, on my skin, at my belly. Hair tickling my hip. “Yes, you do.”
The problem is, my hormones remember what those hands can do. The damp slit between my thighs remembers what those fingers can do, what the erection I know is ready and waiting can do. I remember, and I feel the contradiction. The lies, tangled and mixed. I lie. I do want it. I know what happened was a moment of anger, isolated. And I know, too, that it may perhaps not be so isolated. Perhaps, if I ask the wrong question, say the wrong thing, wish for the impossible, maybe those hands that can offer such pleasure will offer pain once more. Pain as punishment. Another accidental moment of strangulation, even a fist, or an open palm. Who knows?
I remember also a stolen moment in a men’s restroom, and the sensation of utter safety.
Who am I, and what do I want?
Does it even matter what I want?
“See? I can smell you, X.” A nose, nuzzling my thighs apart, inhalation. “I smell it. You want this. You want me. You’ve always wanted me, and you always will. You know it, and I know it.”
I squirm, heels dig into the mattress, feel my hips lift off the bed at the wet swipe of a tongue. A thrill, lancing through me. Such pleasure, the tongue tip tickling and twirling at the precise spot where I’ll feel the most pleasure, zeroing in, flicking.
But stronger than the pleasure is the self-loathing. The hatred of myself for succumbing, for being weak, for giving in, for letting pleasure dictate my actions. For letting pleasure take away what little freedom I have.
I reach down, tangle my fingers in thick hair . . . and shove. “No, Caleb.” I twist, roll away.
Slide off the bed. Find the light switch, flick it on. Dark eyes, squinting against the sudden light. Mussed, imperfect black hair. A smear of my essence around the expressive mouth. T-shirt, suit slacks—tented.
Barefoot. Beautiful. Brutal.
How did I never see the brutality, before?