by C. J. Pinard
I hear him enter behind me, but I’m not ready to face him just yet. I need another minute, so I don’t turn. His steps are unhurried as he makes his way to stand behind me. He wraps his arms around me to intertwine his fingers with mine at my waist. With mock tenderness, he draws me back towards him and with a soft touch presses his lips to my neck. Out of obedience, not desire, I tilt my head to give him better access. I feel his lips twitch into a smile.
“Chance, you look lovely,” he mutters.
“Thank you.”
“Turn around and let me see all of you.”
I close my eyes and clench my jaw just for an instant before turning to comply with his wishes.
Conner Diamond, the heir to the Diamond fortune and owner of the casino in which I now stand, rakes me from the top of my curly blonde hair to the bottom of my gold shoes. The skin surrounding his sultry black eyes crinkles as he gives me his smile of approval. Conner – better known as Con by friends and enemies alike – from all outward appearances is a dashing man, as the noir movies from the 1930s I like to watch say. His dark hair and eyes give him an almost Mediterranean look. The black of his tuxedo and stark white of his shirt show off the innate olive complexion of his skin.
“Chance LaMont, you are truly one beautiful woman.”
“Thank you,” I murmur again.
With his hands on my shoulders, he draws me closer to him until I smell the familiar spice of his cologne and mint of his toothpaste. His lips are cool and demanding on mine. My stomach muscles clench as he plunges his tongue into my mouth and presses the intimate lines of his body against my own. I feel the evidence of his desire pressed against my belly.
“You are so delectable, I want you now,” he whispers against my lips.
“But, Con, the party…” I begin.
He reaches behind me to unzip my dress, pushes the faux-diamond straps off my shoulders, and watches as the gold dress pools at my feet.
“The party can wait. I am the guest of honor; and besides, it’s my birthday. Don’t I deserve a treat?”
He gives me his hand to step out of the gold puddle surrounding my shoes. In a semblance of tenderness, he runs his fingertips down the silhouetted sides of my bared skin.
Huskily, he commands, “Leave the shoes on.”
“Con, can’t this wait until after the party?”
A dark look crosses his features. I’ve gone too far. I’ve miscalculated the balance between his good fortune and his ravenous need to control and/or not be defied. With cruel intent, he snatches my wrist and pulls me roughly behind him to the bedroom where he tosses me without ceremony onto the bed. With slow movements, he undresses so as to draw out the anticipation of terror and pain to come.
Ω Ω Ω
From past experience, Con has learned to choose a dress which came with a matching jacket. While his personal preferences for clothing is always the skimpier the better, Con didn’t share. He’d not stand for any man seeing the bare flesh which belonged to his eyes, and his eyes only. His jealousy, which at first I thought endearing, was in reality a part of his insecurity, and is a constant trigger for his insane anger.
I’m thankful for the jacket, as the gold sleeves, while sheer, will cover the bruises covering my wrists, upper arms, and shoulders. I’m lucky that’s all I received from my misspoken words. Sitting at my dressing table, I look at the artificial reflection of the twenty-six-year-old woman in the mirror. Curly, blonde hair (compliments of my hairdresser and harsh chemicals) frame a heart-shaped face. Cornflower blue tinted contact-lensed eyes peer out of impossibly long, manufactured eyelashes. My naturally full, pouty lips are painted a crimson red. All the things Con liked. My lips tremble as I strive to maintain a grip on my composure. Once we’ve returned from the party and Con is asleep, then I can fall apart, but not now. It would make Con… angry if I fell apart now.
“Shall we?” Con asks rhetorically.
With as much grace as I can muster, I rise to my feet and take his outstretched hand. Together we walk out of the suite and stand at the elevator. As we wait, I glance at our reflection in the gold metal doors. We look like a perfect couple – he, tall and dark; me, petite and fair. But with my blonde hair and gold dress, I look almost invisible in the gold plating of the elevator doors; almost like it is in reality.
The casino floor is noisy and crowded. After a year, I’ve become accustomed – or immune is a better word – to the hustle and bustle of the place. The garish reds, oranges, greens, and golds in the carpet, to the pulsating lights up above, give the whole room a carnival atmosphere. It took six months before I realized the supposed excitement in the air was actually manufactured by most people to hide their desperation. I was one of the fools to fall for the excitement, glamour, and lights of Atlantic City. Now, instead of looking at them with envy or joy, I look past them with pity and distain.
As we walk, Con ensures my hand stays folded around his bent forearm, keeping me close. Again, in the beginning, I’d found this chivalrous, now I understand it’s for control. As we step to the double doors, he allows my hand to drop, and instead places his hand proprietarily on the small of my back. He leads me into a small banquet room set up in the far corner of the casino. As we walk through the tall off-white, gold-trimmed double doors, a chorus of congratulations fills the air. Streamers, confetti, and balloons fall from the ceiling at our entrance. A throng of excited people seem to rush us all at once. Con shifts me to his left side so he can hold my hand with his left – ensuring I’m kept by his side – and can shake hands with his right.
Up ahead, above the dais, hanging from the ceiling on chains, is banner which reads: Happy Birthday, Conner Diamond! As I glance around the room crowded with Con’s supposed friends, it would seem luck followed Con. He has the Midas touch more than anyone I knew. As lucky as he is, is a direct reflection of how unlucky I am. I know many would disagree with me and luck. But let them walk a mile in my strappy, gold shoes. Their opinion would be different, of this I am sure. Again, as my momma from the hills of Tennessee used to say, all that glitters is not gold.
A waiter appears before us and proffers a tray containing tulip-shaped glasses filled with the golden bubbles of champagne. Con is forced to drop my hand as he accepts a glass. He lifts his glass to me and I clink mine lightly against his, as expected. He tosses back the champagne and exchanges his empty glass for a full one. This is going to be a long night.
Slowly, we make our way to the front of the room to our table. The room is filled to capacity with people, some friends of Con’s – but most just wanting a piece of Con’s pie. The timbre of the room is broken with the tinkling of glasses and the sometimes boisterous spurts of laughter. As Con is pulled away from me by his celebrating throng, he catches the eye of his bodyguard, Russo Taggert, and points towards me. Tag gives an almost unperceivable nod of his head and comes to stand close to my table.
I don’t know how long I sit at our table, alone, sipping my champagne, but I can tell it’s been awhile from the increase of noise generated in the room. As the drinks flow, the music, talk, and laughter amplify. But I’m glad Con’s left me alone. I sit at my table, staring unseeing down at my glass. I don’t dare make eye contact with anyone or Con will begin to make assumptions – and I can’t afford for Con to make assumptions.
Lost in thought, I’m surprised when I feel Con’s grasp on my shoulder. I flinch at the pain his touch causes. But again, I don’t dare show him the pain. I lift cautious eyes up to him.
“Chance, there’s someone I’d like you to meet. He’s an out-of-towner, like you. I thought you could keep him company for me. Do you mind?” Con asks, as if I actually have a choice.
“Of course not,” I murmur graciously.
As I shift my eyes to the man whose shoulder Con has his hand on, my blood runs cold. A myriad of emotions crosses my face before I can slip my impassive mask back into place.
The man with Con is Trey Montgomery – a person from my past – a significant pe
rson from my past. Someone, who through his actions, unbeknownst to him, led me to this place. I know I have to be very careful in how I handle this situation or I’ll pay for it later with Con.
Rising from my chair, I lift a trembling hand to him. “How do you do?” I murmur.
“Trey Montgomery, I’d like you to meet my little gal, Chance.” Turning to face me, Con gives me an insincere smile. “Now, you take care of old Trey here. He’s taking me out on his yacht fishing tomorrow.”
“My pleasure,” I reply automatically.
Trey Montgomery grasps my unsteady hand and begins to smile, but it falters when he looks at me for the first time fully.
The smile on my face is frozen in place. The problem I have is two-fold: I have to sit here with Trey and pray he doesn’t recognize me; and I have to worry why Con brought him to my table. What was he up to?
“Please have a seat,” I say, gesturing towards the far side of the table, as Con walks away after giving me a speculative look and brushing a kiss against my temple.
Trey signals a waiter for a drink and complies. Even with my eyes downcast, I can feel his stare. After several awkward moments, I look up and see him contemplating me with an intent stare. Trey Montgomery is even more handsome than when he was young. He still wears his blonde hair a little longer than conventional, and his green eyes seemed to delve into my soul. If possible, he’s even more muscular than when I knew him before. He looks tanned, fit, and rich in his custom-made tuxedo.
With a small shake of his head, he flashes me a quick smile of apology. “I sorry for staring, but you remind me of someone I used to know. Where are you from, Chance?”
“A small town in the Carolinas,” I lie. “How about you?”
“An equally small town, I’ll bet, in Tennessee. How’d you end up here?”
“Life,” I answer simply.
He sat for a long moment before his face broke into another devastating smile. “Yeah, me too. I have to know, how does a woman end up in a place like Atlantic City with a name like Chance? I can’t believe it’s a coincidence.”
“I’m afraid it is a coincidence, though,” I say, looking down at the glass in my hand to hide the truth in my eyes.
After a few minutes of awkward silence on my part, I look up to find Trey Montgomery staring at me with curiosity again.
Needing to get his mind off the past, I ask, “So what business are you in, Mr. Montgomery?”
“Call me Trey. The business of making money,” he answers without malice.
“What brings you to Atlantic City?”
“I was looking to invest in a casino, but Vegas is too far away. Besides, I came by boat – can’t dock in Vegas.”
I nod and look back down at my glass.
“Are you sure we haven’t met before?” he asks with a perplexed expression.
“I don’t think so,” I say without looking up.
“You just look so familiar… so similar to someone I went to… high school with. You look the same but different. Does that make sense? No, I know it doesn’t,” he mutters almost to himself.
Lifting my glass to my lips and still not meeting his eyes, I say out of some perverse need, “Tell me about her.”
I don’t think he’s going to answer, but in a quiet tone, almost as if to himself, he says, “Her name was Claire Monroe. She… I… we… went to prom together,” he says sadly on an exhaled breath.
“She must have been important to you,” I whisper.
With a slow shake of his head, he says. “I didn’t even know her that well. We were… friends, I guess. I… treated her unfairly – caused her… pain. She deserved better.”
I lift my glass and drink too quickly, causing me to choke and cough. Tears sting my eyes and I struggle to hold myself together.
“Excuse me, Trey, I just remembered something I needed to take care of,” I say, as I rise with a jerk from my seat.
Catching Tag’s eye, I point up with my finger, indicating I’m ready to return to the penthouse. He waits for me to rise and take a step, before falling in behind. We’re about halfway across the room when I see Con’s lithe form with his tongue down the throat of his latest dalliance. The tall redhead is still dressed in her showgirl costume – minus her feathered, mile-high headpiece – the costume exposing far more than it hid. I don’t know why he won’t let me go. This is far from his first indiscretion. The only difference now, is that he doesn’t bother to hide it anymore. Tag accompanies me through the crowd, through the casino, and up in the elevator. He only leaves me once he’s walked through the penthouse and declared it secure.
Alone, I slip off the high shoes and stroll to the bank of windows once more. The lights of the city, which at first I’d thought glamorous, now seem so garish and empty. Pulling the cord on the curtains, I close them as tight as possible, walk to the light switch, and plunge the room into near darkness.
Through cracks in the curtain, a small glimmer of light escapes into the room – enough to guide me to the black leather settee in the sitting room. I lean back on the settee and again wonder how I’d gotten here. When I’d been a young girl, no more than thirteen or fourteen, a carnival had come to our small Tennessee town. With the innocence and naivety of a girl that age, a group of my giggling friends and I decided to venture into the fortuneteller’s tent. The woman with the black hair and indiscriminate age had studied my palm for a long time before saying mystically, Luck doesn’t strike everyone.
I didn’t understand the strange woman’s words for a long time, didn’t really even think about them until the night of my senior prom. At seventeen, I was an average looking girl with brown hair, brown eyes, and an average figure. I wasn’t a cheerleader, I wasn’t a sports star, I wasn’t a straight-A student… I was just average. While in the midst of being average, I had all the same hopes, dreams, and desires most girls have. I wanted to be the type of girl who turned guys’ heads. I wanted to date the quarterback of the football team. I wanted to hang out with all the popular kids. But I was none of those things.
I’d resigned myself of going to prom with a group of other girls who’d also not been asked. I was very disappointed, of course, but I’d accepted the fact. I signed up to help decorate the gym for the prom, the theme being Arabian Nights. A lot of the really cool kids were also on the committee and I was happy to be a part of it. One of these cool kids was the head cheerleader, Bonnie Frost. Bonnie had it all; she was blonde, beautiful, and dated the quarterback. In the most basic sense, she had the life I wanted. But as my momma says, pretty is as pretty does, and Bonnie’s beauty was on the outside. She was whiny and felt entitled to what she wanted. Her boyfriend – the quarterback – Trey Montgomery, on the other hand, was much too good for her. He was kind, gentle, and always good for a laugh.
The trouble began when Trey and I were sitting together scrunching green tissue paper to make the branches for the palm trees needed for the mirage. I had glue all over my hands and wiped it across my cheek. Trey leaned over and wiped it off, inadvertently sticking green tissue paper to my face, we laughed at the mess. From out of nowhere, Bonnie stormed over to us, demanding Trey explain why he was touching me. A huge fight ensued and before long, Trey stormed out of the gym with a haughty Bonnie trailing after him. Rumor around the school the next day had been Trey had broken up with Bonnie. Personally, I was glad; Trey was much too nice for the likes of Bonnie Frost.
The day before prom began as any other day. I’d parked my car in the senior parking lot and walked to my locker to grab my books for my first class. I was surprised to see Trey leaning against my bank of lockers; I happened to know he shared a locker with Bonnie on the other side of the building. As I approached, he’d stood up straight and dug his hands into the front pockets of his jeans, looking somewhat nervous and unsure for some reason. I walked with slow steps to my locker and turned to face him.
“Is everything okay?” I’d asked.
“Uhh, Claire, I know it’s kind of late notice, but i
f you don’t have a date for the prom, would you go with me?”
Color infused my face, and with my heart pounding, I stammered, “Y..Yes.” To say I was overjoyed was an understatement.
It was while I sat in front of my dressing table with my mother arranging my hair in brown ringlets around my face, I thought of the fortuneteller and her strange words. Luck might not strike everyone, but it had struck me on this night. I was going to my senior prom with the quarterback of the football team. Most of my dreams had been realized. I felt like Cinderella going to the ball. My white, strapless, figure-hugging gown made me feel like a princess. I hugged myself with excitement.
Trey arrived in time for my mother to take the requisite pictures. He was so handsome in his rented black tuxedo. His long blonde bangs flapped into his sea-foam green eyes – the way girls loved, but parents hated. Trey was gracious and smiled down at me. He told me how beautiful I looked and my heart sang at his praise. He’d brought me a beautiful red rose wrist corsage, which I knew I’d keep forever. I was going to prom with Trey Montgomery! I kept pinching myself to ensure it was real. His parents had lent Trey their Corvette to take to prom. As Trey opened the car door for me, with light fingers I ran my hand over the roof of the car, again to ensure to myself the night and all its trappings were real. The night couldn’t have been more perfect – until we reached the prom.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I’d had a fantasy that Bonnie and Trey had broken up because Trey liked me. But the reality was, Trey had asked me to prom to spite Bonnie, not because of his undying love for me. This was obvious from the very start. Bonnie and her date, Kevin Mason, a boy from a neighboring school, along with those in Bonnie’s group, arrived after us. From the minute they walked in, Trey’s whole attitude and demeanor changed. He left me at our table and went to hang with some of his buddies. It was obvious they were drinking. Bonnie didn’t help matters, as she continually flaunted Kevin under Trey’s nose.
