by Eva Charles
He’s calm, and I’m feeling just short of hysterical. I want to shake him. “Why? Why did you agree to help? What could you possibly want from them?”
He doesn’t speak for at least a full minute, maybe more. It feels like hours slip away while we stare at each other. With each passing second the silence grows louder until it shrieks like a banshee heralding my demise. This will not end well for me. I can feel it in my marrow, and the wait is excruciating. “What do you want?”
He doesn’t answer right away, but when he does, it sucks all the oxygen from the room.
“You. I want you.”
I wait for the punchline. Maybe a cruel laugh, and him to tell me I’m not fit to carry his trash to the curb. And I wait. Surely, I misunderstood. But one look at his stony face and I know there’s no misunderstanding.
“Me?”
His gaze is penetrating. “I say what I mean, and I mean what I say. Always have. Nothing’s changed.”
Maybe he’s not talking about sex. Maybe I’ve let my mind run away. Maybe he wants to use the hotel for some half-cocked scheme. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
“What do you want from me?”
“Whatever itch I need scratched.”
Whatever itch I need scratched. Sex. He wants me to be his plaything. His whore.
My knees tremble until they can no longer support my weight. I grip the edge of the desk, and slump into the chair beside him. I’m done. It’s been a long, trying day, and he’s beaten what little fight I had left right out of me. I can’t bear to hear any more from him. From the man who once professed his love for me. From the man who promised to protect me from all the evil in the world.
The room whirls, and a sour taste tickles my throat. My face is damp and clammy, and I can’t decide if I’m going to vomit or faint first. Gripping the sides of my knees, I lower my head between my legs to stop the spinning.
He curses, and I hear the echo of my name and the faint rustle of his trousers, but it all seems so far away. I don’t know how long I’m hunched over before he crouches next to me, and pulls back my hair with a long, gentle sweep. “Take small sips,” he instructs, wrapping my fingers around a paper cup.
I sit up slowly and do as instructed. Small sips until the nausea subsides and the room stills again. JD sits beside me, his chair angled toward me, assessing quietly while I pull myself together. “Do you need to lie down?”
I shake my head and swallow the last drops of cool water, staring into the empty cup as though I might find some wisdom there.
“You want me? For—sex? You can’t. Can’t possibly. After all these years, why me?” I’m rambling. Barely managing choppy fragments between the short pants. My mind can’t process any of this. Or it won’t.
“It means exactly what you think it means.” I look up at him. He’s tapping his fingers on the arm of the chair, his gaze devoid of any compassion. I search frantically, but can’t find a single shred of decency anywhere in his face.
“But why me, JD?” My voice is louder now. Stronger. My thoughts more coherent. “Of all the women in Charleston. Of all the women who stalk your every move like you’re a goddamn rock star. Why does it have to be me?”
He slides his wrist along the chair arm, as though he’s polishing a scuff from the exposed wood. “Opportunity. Never been one to pass up a good opportunity, especially when it falls into my lap.” His icy eyes meet mine. “Maybe I want something familiar. Or maybe I like the challenge. Take your pick.”
He’s not joking.
I’m stuck in his trap. Snared without a single hope of freeing myself. My pulse pounds loudly in the silence while I search for an escape. “I’m engaged,” I plead. It’s a lie, but I’m desperate.
“Pft. Engaged. Don’t go there. Just don’t.”
I start to argue it’s true, but I don’t bother. It won’t take much for JD to figure out that Dean and I broke up. Gossip travels through Charleston like a tiny hamlet. In a matter of days everyone will know.
There’s no way my father would have agreed to terms remotely like this. He would never do that to me. But JD is manipulative and cunning, and I wouldn’t be shocked if he managed to trick my parents. I grip my seat, and push out the words. Mentally preparing myself to be ripped apart. “My father agreed to this?”
Please say no. Please. I fill my lungs and hold the breath while waiting for an answer.
He looks aghast. “Don’t be ridiculous.” I slowly release the breath, and relax my hold on the chair.
“Then why are you here?”
“I’m not interested in his money.”
“This has nothing to do with me. It’s between you and him.”
“Not anymore.”
“What if I don’t—agree to your terms?”
“I turn off the tap, and your mother doesn’t get access to the beneficial treatment.”
My hand instinctively flies to my mouth to cover a gasp. Of all the terrible things he’s said today, this stuns me most. “Even you wouldn’t be that spiteful. Not to my mother. You wouldn’t.”
“Don’t underestimate me.” He sits back in the chair, lifts his chin, and stares straight into my eyes. “I would hate to see her suffer. Your parents worked for my family for a long time. As far back as I can remember. They were always good to us, especially after the accident. But business is business."
2
Gabrielle
Business is business? His cruelty re-energizes me.
“Is that what you think? Is that how you think about life? About relationships? It’s all transactional? God help you.”
“I’ve never been a fool who turns to God for help.”
No, JD doesn’t believe in God. Not after his mother died. Praying to God is for the rest of us foolish mortals. I tuck a loose curl behind my ear, plotting a way forward. “How much does he owe you?”
“After all is said and done, I expect it will end up to be somewhere in the vicinity of three hundred and fifty thousand dollars. That’s a conservative estimate. It could be more.”
I gasp at the sheer magnitude of the number.
He’s right. There’s not even the slightest possibility my father will be able to repay him, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to either. Certainly not in cash. “This will take some time, JD. I’ll need a week. Maybe a month. Add additional interest to the debt. I don’t care. I’ll come up with the money.”
“And how are you fixin’ to do that?”
He’s smug and comfortable, his long legs stretched out in front of him. I hear it in the informal cadence of his speech, the way his Ivy League education yields to his Southern roots. He asks the question like he already knows the answer. But I suppose only a fool wouldn’t wonder how I expect to raise all that cash. JD is many things, but he’s never been foolish. Calculating and clever, but never foolish. I doubt that’s changed. “I’ll go to the bank. And my fiancé will help.”
When he says nothing, I glance up nervously. His body is tight and a storm is brewing in his eyes. “Your fiancé is a worthless piece of shit who has about drained his bank account, and given the opportunity, would siphon every dime out of this place, too.”
“You don’t know a damn thing about my fiancé, or our relationship. So just stop.”
“I know he hangs around sleazy bars on the dock looking for a game to lay a bet on, or a whore to stick his tiny dick into.”
I swallow the humiliation, and lift my chin. “I don’t believe you.”
“Suit yourself. You always liked fantasies.”
JD edges forward in the chair, his arm resting on his thigh, his face closer to mine. “Think about what I’m offering,” he murmurs. His fingertip trails a path from the crook of my elbow to my inner wrist, the calloused pad rousing the sensitive skin. He hovers brazenly over my racing pulse. “Nervous? Or is it something else?”
I shiver and jerk my arm away, rubbing my hand up and down over the place where his has been, hoping to wipe away the sensation.
JD gets
up and smooths his trousers with a ghost of a smile that mocks me.
He knows. He knows that no matter how much I hate him, my body hasn’t forgotten. Even after all these years. It both shames and angers me, so I do what any well-raised Southern woman in my situation would do. I take a swing. Not with my fists, but with words, delivered in a syrupy voice dripping with sarcasm.
“You want me to be your whore? That’s all you need from me? It really is no bother. Let’s start right now.” I make a big show of unzipping my boots, and flinging them across the office, one at a time. Then I take off my jewelry, piece by piece.
While I’m behaving like a woman possessed, he’s standing with his back toward me scrolling through his phone, completely unmoved. It’s not until I slam my ivory bangle onto the desktop, that he glances over one shoulder.
“Don’t push me unless you want to end up bent over that desk with your skirt around your waist. I don’t have the patience for it tonight. And stop acting like a petulant child. From what I remember, you’re getting the best of the deal.”
“Bastard,” I spew, from somewhere deep and ugly.
He swivels to face me. “Unfortunately for you, darlin’, I’m my father’s son. Inherited every one of his despicable genes.”
The hair at the back of my neck prickles. His father is a monster, and we both know it. I understand exactly the message JD’s sending.
“Enough about me.” He reaches down and encircles my wrist with one hand, pushing up the bell sleeve of my dress with the other, exposing the fading purple bruises on my upper arm where Dean grabbed me. “This is what I want to know about.” Long embarrassing minutes pass while he examines each black and blue mark. The disgust on his face causes me more pain than the bruises.
“What happened?”
“I bumped into an armoire. It’s nothing.”
“Don’t you lie to me. Those are finger marks on your skin.”
I yank my arm in an effort to escape his hold, but he clenches my wrist tighter. Still, he doesn’t dig painfully into the flesh the way Dean had. “It’s none of your business.”
He lets go of my wrist and I sit behind the desk, putting some distance between us.
But JD isn’t finished.
He reaches over and unloops the scarf from around my neck, and before I think to secure it, it’s in his hand. There’s a long, angry hiss while he glares at the bruises on my throat. They’re fading too, more green and yellow than purple, but they’re still large and ghastly. I instinctively reach to cover them, but he swats my hand away.
His fingers skim my throat, lingering over each bruise. I squeeze my eyes tight, but a small tear escapes and slides down my cheek for him to see.
“Do they hurt?”
I shake my head. “Not anymore.”
“I don’t have all night and I’m not leaving before you tell me what happened.”
“You knew exactly where to look for the bruises, so you already know what happened.”
“I want to hear it from your mouth. All of it. The truth.”
“He had too much to drink. It was only one time.”
“Only one time? He choked you, Gabrielle. That’s one fucking time too many.” His voice is a whisper. A menacing whisper he’s fighting to control. It takes all the strength I have not to cower as the tremor of his barely restrained rage reverberates through the room.
“Did he hit you?”
My hands are trembling, and I clasp them on my lap to steady them. I didn’t do anything wrong, but still, I feel small and ashamed. “You’ve seen the damage. Does it really matter?”
“Did. He. Hit. You?”
“Yes,” I mutter.
JD takes half a step back, and brushes a loose curl off my cheek. His touch is careful, gentle and warm, and my eye lids droop with a heavy flutter. “Did he force himself on you?” His voice is softer and kinder now, too, and for a moment I feel like he’s the man I once knew and loved.
I shake my head. “No.”
It’s a lie. Another lie tumbling off the tongue of the woman who always chooses truth over lies. But I don’t dare tell JD the truth about that night.
“I cannot believe that sonofabitch had his drunken hands around your neck tight enough to leave those kinds of marks. He could have killed you.” JD growls like a grizzly caught in a steel-jaw trap, and stumbles back, running a hand over his head to the base of his neck. He squeezes the muscle a few times. Then swivels to face me.
“Tell me you love him,” he demands. “Tell me you cling to him and scream his name when he fills your pussy. Go ahead, tell me.” He’s looming over me now, both hands planted on my desk, disgust oozing from every word. “You won’t say it because you can’t bear to hear the filthy lie come out of your own mouth.” He drops the scarf in my lap. “And this is the man you expect to save you? This is the man you want to marry? What the hell is wrong with you, Gabrielle?”
My fingers find the scarf, rubbing the silky fabric between them for comfort.
“That relationship is over,” he fumes.
I’ve had more than enough of the paternalistic attitude. “What do you mean, it’s over? You can’t—”
“I already did.”
His words are final. Spoken as though what I think, what I care about, is of no importance. My anger mounts again. “What did you do, threaten to make him your bitch?”
He glares at me through squinted eyes, and dismisses my question as though it’s nothing. And in a way, it is nothing. Nothing more than an insolent remark requiring no serious response. I want to jab at him. That’s all. I want to hurt him the way he hurt me.
He straightens and buttons his suit jacket. “I have a victory party to get to.”
“Your father won?” The surprise in my voice is unmistakable. It was possible, but I never expected he would actually win. Not many people did. God help us all.
He nods, but his face gives nothing away.
Unless things have changed dramatically, JD has little use for his father. But still, I would have expected him to be more pleased about the outcome of the election. Instead of poisoning just South Carolina, the Wilders can now spread their special brand of misery all over the country.
Before he leaves, I need to put an end to this. And I make my final stand with as much bravado as I can muster. “I will not be your whore.”
“I don’t expect you to be my whore. You’ll get as much pleasure from our arrangement as I will. Maybe more, if you can manage to stop snarling and calling me names long enough to enjoy it.”
I don’t know what I ever saw in him. He’s nothing more than a vile, self-righteous hypocrite dressed in expensive clothing. And I want at him. I want it in the worst way.
“Lay it out, JD. Go ahead. You can stand there all high and mighty, but you’re no different than Dean. You might not leave the kind of bruises that are visible to the eye, but don’t think for one minute you’re any better than him.”
As soon as the words tumble off my tongue, he’s towering over me, one hand gripping the back of my seat. He’s trembling. I feel his rage through the bones of the chair. My heart thumps wildly, and I know the instant he spits out the first word, I pushed too far.
“Your mother gets the care she desperately needs to stay alive. Your father’s debts are forgiven.” He leans over, so close his breath heats my scalp, but it’s not a soothing sensation. It’s biting and bitter, like his words. “In exchange. You. Are. Mine. To enjoy as I like. Take it or leave it.”
I glance up when he quiets. His face is screwed up with a fury I don’t recognize. I’m the one trembling now, not in anger, but with fear.
Before I can calm myself, his shadow recedes, and he strides toward the door. My hands are balled so tight, the white-tipped nails leave bloody crescents on my palms.
He turns in the doorway. “The offer stands until tomorrow evening at eight.”
I don’t respond, and JD doesn’t leave. Instead, he stands there, appraising me, as though he has more to
say. I’ve already heard plenty from him, so I open my desk drawer and begin organizing the gel pens and index cards, sorting each by size and color.
“Gabrielle?” I glance at him, and immediately wish I hadn’t. “If you breathe a single word about this to anyone, you’ll watch in horror as your mother’s body is ravaged by disease. You have my word.”
For the first time in my life, I’m truly afraid of him. Terrified of the rage I unleashed. I knew better than to push and push, to compare him to a man like Dean, but I did it anyway.
“Antoine will meet you in the hotel lobby tomorrow at eight. We’ll have supper at Sweetgrass and discuss the terms in more detail. I’ll answer any questions you have. If you’re not interested in what I’m offering, just send word with him and I won’t bother you again. I’m not forcing you to do this. Come willingly, or don’t come at all. It’s entirely up to you.”
He saunters out of the office as though he hasn’t just dropped a bomb on my world. As if I actually have a choice. Without thinking, I pick up a bud vase off my desk and hurl it at him through the doorway. It misses, hitting the corner of Georgina’s desk. The vase shatters dramatically, and water splashes onto his elegant suit, but he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t flinch. He just keeps walking.
3
Gabrielle
Once I’m certain he’s gone, I grab a small trash bag and get down to clean the wet shards from the rug, trying to concentrate on picking up glass without pricking my fingers. It’s an impossible task. Each time I think I’m done, another sliver winks at me.
Somehow, I’m always left with a colossal mess to clean up when JD’s around. So this should come as no surprise.
I would love to blame it all on him, every bad idea we indulged, every risk we took, all the adult-themed parties for two we threw for ourselves. But I did it all willingly. Sometimes it was me who led him astray. Me who seduced him into the darkness.
I was fifteen and he had just turned seventeen the first time we ventured into the shadows, playing games that neither of us were anywhere near ready to play. He was the teacher, and I, the compliant student, eager to show off everything he taught me. Eager to use my hands and mouth in ways that elicited desperate gasps and shudders from the all-powerful JD Wilder. Eager to submit fully, while he stripped me bare and tethered me to a hitching-post, stroking my body with colorful ostrich feathers until a damp sheen covered my skin and nothing but muted whimpers and pleas for more escaped my lips.
