by M J Marstens
When I finally found the entity stalking my private moments, I traced her energy. Now I could locate her anywhere. I decided to confront her today, in this icy hellhole she calls home. It makes my namesake look appealing. I wore the mask of a carefree, sexy, beach-lover to speak to her. . . to understand her motives better.
And.
She.
Turned.
Me.
Away.
I growl in frustration, still recalling seeing her for the first time in physical form. As an entity, she had no substance, no figure. I merely could feel her very marked feminine energy. With each encounter, my connection to her grew stronger, until about a week ago, I could actually trace her location. I toyed with simply appearing in her living room, but I wanted more time to study her. So I decided upon getting to know her better. . . as someone else. The airport seemed like the most innocuous place to ‘get a feel’ for her, but she sidelined me by showing up first in the Business Class Lounge.
I was not prepared to see her.
I was not prepared for her.
I felt a tug inside my solar plexus as I rounded a corner. . . and there she was, in the flesh. Soft, white skin. Long, wavy, light brown hair. Large, guileless, green eyes. Slender and so damned breakable looking. I almost lost it then. So, the innocent act when she was an entity also translated into the physical realm, as well, huh? A decidedly new look and pastime for her. Sweet is not a side I have ever seen her wear before.
I decided to fuck with her and flashed a quick reflection of my true self before turning back around and leaving. I waited until she exited the lounge, listening to her conversation with the attendant and then I watched, amused when she went running down the hall like someone was chasing her. At least she’s entertaining in this form. Too bad I’m going to kill her. And I do want to murder her; to strangle her soft-looking neck for causing me to feel anything after all this time. The lust I can forgive. She always has incited a raging passion inside me, but the intrigue- this bloody piqued interest- I have not felt this since she was in her first, true form.
And it feels like a betrayal to my own self. A betrayal to the others. But I must pace myself. Today’s venture has proven fruitless. She seems to be playing by a whole new set of rules and has changed the script of this drama called our lives. I have never- never- seen her turn down a man like she did to me today. Her ego has never allowed for it. Has she learned humility? I scoff. No, she has learned some contemporary tricks, is all. I must go prepare the others for this new mindfuck.
Her death cannot come soon enough.
CHAPTER 9
ZAHRA
As Mary promised, a car was waiting for me when my plane landed. A nice, nondescript looking man helped me with my bags and drove me to the hotel. Once settled into my room, I ordered a fruit platter and a sprouted salad. Fresh, good produce was hard to find in winter where I lived, so I was taking every advantage of being in the sun, wearing next to nothing (that was acceptable in public spaces), and eating a shit-ton of greens and juicy fruits while on this mini-vacay.
My flight here was smooth and unremarkable (exactly how I like my flights, thank you. I don’t ever want to have to use those oxygen masks or my seat as a floaty because I have never paid attention to the flight attendants explaining how to use them. . . and I would be screwed), but I did find one thing odd: Mr. California never boarded the plane. I know this because I sat in first class (I freaking love Mary!) and saw everyone board. Maybe he got hung up at the bar with a new interest and missed his flight?
That sucks for him.
No woman is worth missing out on a connecting flight back to California if it means staying in northern Minnesota.
Pushing aside these thoughts, I now stretch my body over the queen-size bed, enjoying the sunshine that peeks through the curtain tops. I missed real sunshine- not the fake sunshine back home. (I don’t mean fake as in ‘not real’, but merely ‘not warm’. The sunshine back home is weak and merely alludes to warmth, except there never is any. Huge let down.) I order a light breakfast of more fruit (the pineapple was to die for last night!) and take a long, luxurious bubble bath.
There is something about a jacuzzi tub that makes me want to touch myself. (What did I say about judging me?) Besides, a marble, inlaid tub bigger than my bathroom at home, equipped with jets (hello, no hands!), screams to take your life to the next level: full-tilt hedonism. And I want to be really relaxed for my interview. When I get too nervous or stressed, I overthink, over rationalize, and over talk. I also get gassy. My stomach can’t handle the butterflies.
TMI?
My apologies, I thought we were in the Trust Tree of Truth.
For once, I’m actually not wound from waking up. Usually, he taunts my dreams and I wake up an aroused mess. But I slept through the night. Maybe I was onto something when I thought my dreams might be an extension of my grief. . . maybe living in my parents’ old house was not healthy at this time in my life. . . I guess I would see how the following nights are.
I get dressed. I agonized over what to wear to this interview. I finally decided to be casual. I mean, the hotel is looking for a metaphysical specialist, which does not scream overtly professional to me. I wear a deep teal shift dress, with an O-neckline, ending just above my knee. An Amazonite mala necklace and some strappy, flat, leather sandals finish my overall Bohemian look. I toyed with the idea of wearing pumps, but eventually negated the idea since I was likely to either break my neck or accidentally slip and stab someone with the heel. (I would never get a lawyer to believe it was an accident.) I wear light makeup and my hair falls in soft waves down to the middle of my back.
I grab my mom’s briefcase and put in my interview papers. Hopefully, having this piece of my mom today will bring me good luck. I finish breakfast (the mangos are to die for, too!) and head to the lobby to wait for my ride. Although my interview is not until 10:00, Mary is having the driver pick me up at 9:00 to avoid potential downtown traffic and to meet with me first. The Arizona sun has only been up for a few hours, but it feels like midday already. I fucking love it. I was meant to be here. As the driver approaches the resort’s corporate building in downtown Tucson, the cars start to pile up.
“Snowbirds.” The driver grumbles.
Instead of putting it on the backburner to Google, I quickly look the word up on my phone. Snowbirds: northerners, mostly retirees, who come south for the winter. Hmm, maybe I should just look into retiring?
Oh, that’s right, student loans, bills, no money. . . . well, it was a nice thought, though.
But apparently these snowbirds are causing the roads to fill up with cars. When we are only a couple of blocks from the building, I ask the driver for directions and simply get out and walk the rest of the way. Not only will it be quicker, but I would rather walk- to feel the sun’s rays on my skin and smell the fresh air not laden with snow. I enter the ten-story building and follow Mary’s instructions to take the elevator to the suite of offices on the tenth floor.
The doors ping open and I walk into a spacious reception area with little seating and a large, wooden, semi sphere desk to my left. Behind the desk is a polished woman, probably in her late sixties (I usually don’t try to guess people’s ages, since most get mine wrong. I got fourteen from the lady sitting in first class with me. Fourteen. Good grief, I’m not even legal looking). She’s wearing the traditional business pencil skirt, buttoned-down shirt, and lovely, red heels. I also bet she has never accidentally stabbed anyone while walking in them, either. She smiles when she sees me and walks over to greet me.
“You must be Zahra! Aren’t you just lovely? I’m so glad you could come.”
Her eyes are sincere and when she reaches me, it’s for a hug. Her invasion of my personal space does not offend me like Mr. California’s did and I relax into her with a surprised, little laugh. She pulls back, looking me over at arms’ length.
“Yes, I think you’re exactly what we need. I’ll inform Mr. Al-Zahil you’re here.�
��
Mr. Al-Zahil? That sounded very non-Arizonian- but I was the white Zahra Delsol, so I had no room to talk. Mary walks behind the desk to say something into the phone and I look around. Behind her desk is a small door labeled ‘Powder Room’. Another door near the powder room is for the stairs and exactly opposite the desk are two massive wooden doors adorned with intricate carvings. On either side of the elevator doors are two chairs, and I sink into one to wait.
“Is there only one office on this floor?” I ask Mary when she hangs up the phone.
“Yes, this is the Presidential Office. There is a conference room inside it though.”
The Presidential Office?
Who am I meeting?
The head of the resort?
I know Mary is head of coordination, but to meet the Miraval Big Wig seems a little much. . . why isn’t human resources handling this? I’m pulled from my musing when the phone rings again. Mary picks it up and makes a clucking sound of assessment before hanging up again.
“Alright, love, it seems they are ready for you early.”
I gulp.
But I’m not ready.
Nerves rack my body for some reason. This morning’s orgasm has done squat to calm me.
“May I use the restroom first, please?”
“Of course! When you’re ready, just head on in. I have to nip in on the fourth floor to get something, but I’ll be back up here. . . if you need anything.”
I try to keep my face from falling. I was hoping Mary would come with me. Clearly, she’s in my corner.
“Ok, thank you. I’ll see you when I come out.”
She squeezes my arm reassuringly before breezing out the stairwell door. Wasting no time, I enter the very lavish powder room. Clearing my mind, I bring my dreams to the obverse, seeing my red Monster Man fuck ungodly beautiful women, while I’m watching. . . and enjoying. And then I’m the woman and I’m not just an outsider anymore.
I’m a participant.
I feel every thrust, slow and teasing, to hard and fast. He tries to keep his hands off me but cannot help himself. His thumb brushes leisurely strokes across my clit, driving me insane. My own hands mimic his like in my fantasy. Discontent with the pace, I envision him speeding up, his fingers now a quick tempo against my slick center. Faster, faster, his hips keeping time with his hands. . .
So close.
I see him tip his head back and roar as he comes and I’m undone. Weightlessly I float, seemingly out of my body. Euphoria fills me and a calmness settles inside me. This is what I needed. To be so far gone in a state of pleasure, no other emotion can be felt.
Now I’m ready.
CHAPTER 10
ZAHRA
I straighten my dress and give myself a quick once over in the mirror. I look relaxed. . . if not a little sensuous. My eyes are slightly hooded. I briefly wash my hands, although I love the musky smell of my own sex, and splash a little cool water to my face.
There.
Now I look more awake and less freshly-fucked.
Squaring my shoulders, I march out of the powder room and to the gigantic wooden doors. Do I knock? No, Mr. Al-Zahil is waiting for me. I tug open the door. Damn thing weighs a ton! Trying to keep my briefcase strap over my shoulder, I grapple to keep the door open wide enough to slip in. I’m somewhat out of breath- I hope physical endurance or fitness aren’t requirements for this job. . .
Inside the office is enormous.
Cavernous, even.
The left side is lined with pillars and seems to be a separate sitting area. In front of me stretches a rug, which leads to the back of the room. I would love to describe this place more, because it’s an architect’s dream, but my gaze is arrested by eight sets of eyes- all staring intently at me.
I repeat: eight.
And housing these eyeballs are some of the most magnificent examples of masculine beauty I have ever seen- bar none. They make the airport Surfer Dude look average. They even compete with figment-of-my-imagination Monster Man. The hormones still lingering inside me ignite into a forest fire.
So much for being relaxed.
To my left, seated on a bench (Which somehow still matches the upscale décor? Go figure.) are two identical males. Dark brown hair, glittering grey eyes, sculpted full lips. My insides give a squeeze. To their right, now going counter clockwise, is a man with the face of an angel. His eyes are like sparkling emeralds and his shoulder-length hair is so black, it appears bluish.
To his right sits a man with beautiful olive skin. His eyes are a warm and welcoming chocolate brown, as is his wavy, short hair. Devilry seems to dance in his eyes. To his right is a giant. I’m not joking. I think they used him to model the Jolly Green Giant. Except, instead of being the color of a string bean, he’s tanned. His eyes are dark, his hair is dark, and he definitely hails from some island. He’s like the Rock- only not bald and bigger. But everything about him speaks of peace. I feel calm looking upon him.
From Jolly’s seat is a space and then a lime green divan seat for two. Sprawled wide (whilst sitting- an amazing feat) is yet another man. . .
This place is a total sausage fest- a hot sausage fest.
This guy reminds me of a jungle cat. His golden hair seems to change color as it catches the light from the floor-to-ceiling windows at the back of the room. His eyes are hazel and like his hair, they seem to shift color from second to second. Everything about him, including his proprietary gaze on me, screams predatory. I stifle a shiver and force myself not to step back.
What did the documentary say about jungle cats I watched last week?
Oh yeah, don’t look weak and never show your neck. I quickly scrunch my shoulders up while trying to appear menacing (but still welcoming, so I can get the job).
I bet you can already guess how I look.
Wild Man is dressed like a cowboy that met Jeff Corwin. . . I actually think that just equals Crocodile Dundee. Unnerved, I look past him to the table lining the side wall. It’s filled with food and it all looks heavenly. At the end of the table, leisurely drinking something steaming from a mug, is another- you guessed it- gorgeous ass man. His skin is so dark, it almost blends in with his black business suit. His hair is equally shaded, sitting in tight coils against his scalp. His eyes are lighter than his skin and hair and are almost a buttery brown. His white teeth are blinding and off-set his skin perfectly. It’s a wicked grin. This one is trouble.
And last but certainly not least, in the center of the windows at the back of the room, is a man seated at a massive desk. Like the others, he’s large and inhumanly good-looking. The name plate on the desk reads ‘Mr. Al-Zahil’ and he definitely is not originally from Arizona. His skin is the dusky tan of the sands from the Middle East (where I assume he’s from. . . cue the song Arabian Nights from Disney’s Aladdin.). His hair is cropped, black, and precise.
In fact, everything about this man screams ‘perfect’. His every feature is groomed to specific exactness. As is his desk. I raise a brow- I think someone has an OCD complex. (My father once had a colleague like this. . . I liked to go into his office and move things around when he was teaching. I’m a hoot, aren’t I?) His eyes are deep, fathomless pools of liquid amber, surrounded by think, long lashes as lush as the hair atop his head.
(Another sidebar tangent: Why do men always get the best lashes?!
All they do is complain about them anyway!
End of rant.)
Mr. Al-Zahil has the look of wealth about him, as if he has never known a day of material suffering. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth and all that. I want to yank that spoon out of his mouth and replace it with my vagina.
Too vulgar?
It’s just called honesty.
And you honestly would want the same damn thing.
Realizing that we have been staring at each other for longer than societally acceptable, I make my feet walk forward. It feels like forever to get across the large expanse of the room before I’m at his desk. He stands and I imme
diately wish I had worn the heels. Potential homicide be damned. He looks at me like he knows me.
It’s . . . unsettling.
Trust me, if we knew each other, I wouldn’t have forgotten him. The familiarity in his gaze morphs to something more like mild condescension. As if I’m not fit to kiss his shiny shoes. Pretending his apparent scorn does not affect me, I extend my arm out to shake his in greeting, like a normal, nice person would do. He begrudgingly accepts my proffered hand but stops mid-shake to sniff the air. His brows snap together in obvious anger and there seems to be a murderous rage brewing in his eyes.
Alarmed, I take a cautionary step back- but I swear to god, a chorus of groans and growls sounds behind me and I’m now out-and-out scared. What the fuck is wrong with these guys? Trying to figure out which evolutionary stance I need to take, fight or flight, Mr. Al-Zahil speaks.
“Your. . . perfume. . . is too strong, would you mind washing it off? We are sensitive to smells.”
His speech is abrupt, clipped, and British, with a hint of something a little more exotic. Definitely was not expecting that, but I’m too baffled to bask in the deep, resonant beauty of his voice. Because firstly, I’m not wearing perfume and secondly, that doesn’t even begin to explain their bizarre-ass reactions.
“Ah, sure, but I’m not wearing any perfume. . .” I trail off thinking.
I did just wash my hands and the soap was a flowery, girly concoction of some sort. Definitely of Mary’s doing then. I raise my hands to my nose and inhale deeply. It doesn’t smell overpowering to me. To my left, one of the twins makes a strangled sound.
“There is a bathroom through that door and some scent-free handwash inside.” Mr. Al-Zahil tells me curtly.
Reminding myself I need this job, I barely give a nod of assent and march off to do his bidding. I have a bad feeling about this guy. Anyone who is that big of a dick within the first ninety seconds of meeting one another cannot bode well for me.
CHAPTER 11
SATURN
