Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire

by Aleatha Romig

  The only object of his conversation and attention would be the smiling young woman on the other side of the shiny smooth wooden slab.

  “Hey, handsome, do you need another beer?”

  Anthony lifted his gaze and looked into her emerald eyes. He had a handsome face and knew after many years of practice exactly how to use it; however, at this moment, his smile was genuine. She was finally talking to him. It had been a long, lonely road, but the destination was in sight. “Thank you, I would.”

  Sizing up the remaining contents of his glass, she asked, “Is that one of our custom wheats?”

  “Well, yes, it’s the La Bière Blanche.”

  She smiled sweetly and hurried away to fill him another glass. Returning with the amber liquid, she efficiently removed his empty tumbler, replaced it with the full glass, and a fresh Red Wing napkin.

  “I would like to start a tab,” Anthony said.

  “That would be great. If I could have your credit card, I’ll begin one right away.”

  Anthony opened his Armani jacket and removed the wallet from the inside pocket. He had so many things he wanted to say, but he had all night—hell, he had forever. Her shift wouldn’t end until ten, and he planned to spend the evening sitting right there. Handing her his platinum Visa, he watched as she read the name.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rawlings. I’ll return this to you in a minute.” Her smile or expression never wavered. She turned away toward the cash register. Anthony sat back against the chair with a brief moment of satisfaction. She didn’t know who he was. This was perfect.

  During the next few hours, Anthony observed as Claire chatted and flirted with customer after customer. Her attentions were friendly and attentive, but never overtly personal. Some of the customers were greeted by name as they found their way to an empty seat. Many knew her name before she could introduce herself. Anthony assumed they were regulars. Both men and women appeared pleased to have her wait on them. She moved nonstop, clearing away empty glasses and plates and replacing them with more of the same or checks in need of payment. She wiped the shiny wooden bar and smiled even when a comment deserved a strong retort. After so much time watching her from afar, being this close gave him a rush greater than securing a multimillion-dollar deal. Perhaps it was the knowledge of what was to come.

  *

  After tending bar on and off again for years, Claire Nichols knew how to read people. More importantly, she genuinely liked the little quirks that made them real. For instance, take Mr. La Bière Blanche, he’d been watching her for the last few hours, like a lion sizing up its prey. She judged that he was at least ten years her senior, but hid his age well, behind that perfect smile, dark, wavy styled hair, and amazing brown, almost-black eyes. Claire smiled a secretive smile—she was watching him too.

  “What time do you get off?” His strong, husky voice resonated above the clamor of the bar, patrons, and music.

  “Now, Anthony—isn’t that what you said your name is?” Claire’s chatty work tone contained the slightest of a Southern drawl, the kind of accent you pick up from being around it so much. Her roots in Indiana with a mother that taught English wouldn’t allow her to drag those syllables out too far—unless on purpose.

  Smiling a devilish grin and flashing those sensual eyes, he met her gaze. “Yes, that’s correct, and if I recall, your name is Claire.”

  “And, even though I’m flattered, I don’t usually see my customers outside this esteemed establishment.”

  “All right, what time do you get off? Perhaps we could sit in one of those booths, right here”—he gestured toward the dance floor—“in this esteemed establishment—and talk? I would like to know more about you.”

  Damn. He was smoother talking than any of the regular Joes that sat on these stools. And now that his silk tie was in the pocket of his Armani suit coat, and the top button of his silk shirt was undone, his casual business persona was incredibly sexy.

  “Now tell me again what brings you to Atlanta. You aren’t from around here, are you?” Claire said, leaning against the bar.

  “Business, and no, but I think I’m the one who wanted to ask the questions.” His tone demonstrated a playful quality and at the same time exhibited focus and control.

  Claire’s intuition told her that he was used to getting his way. Something made her wonder if that’s what made him successful in business. His appearance definitely said success. She pondered if that transcended to his personal life.

  Claire listened and watched as Anthony’s eyes glistened. He was tall, and now that the coat had been removed, she could tell he was muscular, with a wide chest and firm waist. Most importantly, his left hand had an empty fourth finger. That would definitely be a red flag. Against her better judgment, Claire decided she wanted to answer his questions.

  “Okay.” Claire smiled charmingly. “But I will’ve been standing behind this bar for six hours straight. I can’t promise I’ll be the best company.”

  “Then I take that as a yes? But did you tell me the time? Or am I still waiting for that answer?”

  She found herself absorbed in his eyes.

  “Yo! Hey, sweetheart, how about you give us some service down here?” Claire’s attention was suddenly pulled away from the hold of those amazing eyes. The asshole down the bar needed more Jack and Coke. As she started to walk away, Anthony reached for her hand, which had been resting on the bar only inches from his. His warm touch made her skin tingle. He didn’t ask again, but his expression did…

  “At 10:00 PM—I get off at 10:00 PM.” She removed her hand from under his, shook her head, and walked down the bar, smiling to herself. She needed to find out what the asshole wanted.

  *

  The deep-red vinyl seats of the semicircular booth situated on the edge of the dance floor tried unsuccessfully to imitate fine upholstery. Music filled the air, too loud and too fast. In Anthony’s mind, it created the perfect climate, requiring him and Claire to sit close in an effort to hear one another. He also had a bottle of the Red Wing’s finest Cabernet Sauvignon. Looking at his watch for the hundredth time, he read the hands as they said 10:30 PM. It was then that he saw Claire walking across the empty dance floor toward his booth.

  This night was definitely filled with out-of-character behaviors. Not only did Anthony Rawlings not fraternize with regional associates, he never waited for anyone. Under any other circumstance, he would have been up and gone by 10:05 PM. His friends, associates, and employees all knew his obsession with punctuality. Tonight was different.

  As Claire eased herself into the booth, she smiled a fatigued grin and apologized, “I’m sorry for the delay. There was a problem with the cash register, but all’s well now.”

  He gently touched her hand. Momentarily, he was transfixed by the contrast—large and small. “I was beginning to wonder if you were standing me up”—his grin hinted toward levity—“But since I could see you across the room, I hoped I might still have a chance at friendly conversation.”

  Claire’s exhale and upturned lips told him she was relieved. Was it because he was still waiting or merely that her shift was complete?

  “Perhaps we could have a glass of wine, and you could enjoy sitting instead of standing.”

  “I believe that would be very nice.”

  Anthony poured the wine and noticed Claire’s expression relax. The transformation occurring before him was from bartender, to the real Claire Nichols. He watched as she took the glass, placed her lips on the rim, closed her eyes, and relished the thick red liquid on her tongue. Anthony fought the urge to think too much about her actions. “So what’s a classy girl like you doing waiting on stooges like us?” Anthony’s rich voice refocused Claire’s attention.

  Her eyes twinkled with emerald lights as she turned to face him. “Why, Anthony, I do believe that self-deprecating statement was a compliment to me, in a way.” Her intonation held the Southern accent far from her native Indiana cadence. He only arched his eyebrows in response, waiting patie
ntly for an answer. Claire shook her head succumbing to his charm. “I’m an out-of-work meteorologist. My news station was bought about a year ago. In their infinite wisdom they decided I was no longer needed—so this”—she said as she glided her free hand open above the table—“is my new glamorous life. Don’t knock it. It pays my student loans as well as multiple other bills.”

  His deep laughter was nonjudgmental. “Wouldn’t you rather be doing the weather thing than this?”

  “Of course, but honestly, this isn’t so bad. I have some great friends here. There’s always something happening, and I meet nice people like you.” Claire took another sip of the wine and leaned a little closer. “So that’s my story in a nutshell. Sir, it is your turn. You said you are here on business. What kind of business do you do?”

  “I’m actually involved in many businesses. I came to Atlanta for an acquisition, and some associates convinced me to come here to your revered establishment to try the world-famous fried green tomatoes.”

  “Oh, they did—did you?”

  Anthony nodded. “Yes, I did.”

  Claire looked into her glass in an attempt to hide the snicker that escaped her lips. “Did you like them?”

  He likewise looked into his glass. “No, I don’t believe I’m destined for Georgian cuisine.” Unable to keep it silenced any longer, Claire’s laughter caused him to look up. “Why are you laughing?”

  “Because I think they are awful! Every time someone orders them, I want to whisper, ‘No, don’t do it.’ It’s just that they are so—”

  “Slimy!” They said in unison and chuckled.

  The conversation progressed effortlessly. She asked about his acquisition. Would his trip be successful? Anthony was honestly surprised at her depth and knowledge. It was a shame that her news station hadn’t kept her on. She deserved so much better than tending bar. Of course, that was what he told her. They discussed her career opportunities. Due to Anthony’s involvement in multiple endeavors, he offered the possibility of assistance with more profitable employment. Claire thanked him for his offer, but doubted his ability or desire to truly assist.

  “You know, your destiny could be as simple as an offer and a signature away.” He channeled every deal he ever made, which were more than he could count or recall. Placing a napkin on the table, he drew her attention to the center design. “Just imagine, instead of the swirly lettering saying Red Wing it was blocked and read, Weather Channel.”

  The bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon was almost empty. Claire closed her eyes and did as Anthony instructed—she imagined. Exhaling audibly, she said, “That would be wonderful. It would be the offer of a meteorologist’s dreams.”

  Closing in on the deal, he said, “Well, Claire, if this napkin were that contract”—he reached for a pen in his breast pocket and wrote at the top of the napkin Job Contract—“would you be willing to sign? Would you really give this all up for a job offer?”

  She didn’t blink. “In a heartbeat!” Removing the pen from Anthony’s hand, she signed, Claire Nichols next to the bar’s insignia.

  About midnight, Claire thanked Anthony for the lovely company and explained that she was very tired from her long day and needed to get home.

  “I’ll be in town for a few more days. Perhaps I could call you for dinner? It isn’t proper to offer a lady alcohol without food.”

  “Thank you, I’m honored, but I believe I’ll chuck this up to my brush with an amazing gentleman and go on with my glamorous existence. I fear that the Weather Channel will not be contacting me anytime soon.”

  Although her refusal surprised him, he didn’t let it show. In the long run, it wouldn’t matter, but he would play into her chastity. “I truly understand; dangerous man from out of town tries to learn your secrets and offers to help you with your aspirations. You’re wise to keep your distance.” Although his grin had sinister written all over it, he assumed she would detect the facade.

  “A girl can’t be too careful. Truly, I’m honored, and I don’t think you seem that dangerous.” She began to scoot out of the booth, but he caught her hand. Their eyes met, he bowed his head, and kissed the back of her hand.

  “It was wonderful to meet you, Claire Nichols.” With a smile, she retrieved her hand and slowly slid from the booth.

  The next minute, he was alone. He took the pen, signed his name, and wrote the date on the same napkin. He carefully folded it and placed it in the pocket of his suit jacket. Then he pulled out his phone and texted his driver:

  “PICK ME UP NOW.”

  He always used full words. Text language was a joke. Closing his eyes, he thought, yes—my acquisition is going quite well. Thank you for asking.

  To look backward for a while is to refresh the eye, to restore it, and to render it the more fit for its prime function of looking—forward.

  —Margaret Fairless Barber, The Roadmender

  Chapter Three

  ‡

  Claire contemplated her situation as she ate. She hadn’t taken the napkin discussion seriously. Anthony probably expected that. She didn’t prepare to move from her Atlanta apartment or even consider the possibility. His recollection of a document that legally bound them was a complete shock. Claire’s gut told her it wasn’t legal, but what recourse did she have to fight from this room? She’d searched high and low for a telephone, computer, or some form of communication—nothing.

  She actually thought she would walk out of this twisted nightmare; however, it wasn’t a nightmare, twisted or otherwise. It was her reality. Her mind searched for a way to survive and escape.

  Claire relished the warm oatmeal, fruit, bacon, perfectly brewed coffee, and juice. Yesterday she’d hardly eaten. Today she was ravenous, devouring every ounce, even checking twice for more coffee in the carafe. At least starvation wasn’t part of Anthony’s plan.

  Standing for a shower, she moved gingerly, experiencing the same aches and pains of the day before—perhaps intensified. Claire wasn’t sure if she wanted to see herself in the mirrors as she cautiously stepped into the generous bathroom and slowly approached the dressing table. The image that reflected back looked scary, hair messed and tangled, face sporting various shades of red and blue. The worst image had to be her lips, swollen—looking as if she’d received Botox injections. This time, there were no tears; instead, she stared and considered.

  Grandma Nichols told her more than once she was an unusually strong young woman. In Claire’s mind, Grandma was always strong. Grandpa’s work in law enforcement took him away from home. Grandma never complained. Instead, she was the heart of the family—always there for everyone and often giving advice, such as, “It’s not the circumstances that make a person a success. It’s how that person responds to those circumstances.” Grandma believed every situation could be made better by the right attitude. Claire dropped the robe. Beholding the vision in the mirror, she believed Grandma never anticipated a situation like this.

  After the shower, Claire decided to not dress appropriately in expectation of an Anthony visitation. If he were to walk in her suite, he would find her in jeans, a T-shirt, and fuzzy socks. Furthermore, there would be no make-up and no hair primping. It may be a small act of rebellion, but Claire didn’t have many rebellious options. Every bone in her body wanted to fight. She tried to fight during the past two nights—but that hadn’t worked well.

  Entering the grand closet/dressing room, Claire realized that yesterday she hadn’t truly appreciated all it had to offer. First, she began to look for underwear, but remembered that it didn’t exist in any of the drawers. So, Claire searched for jeans. There were multiple pairs, different shades of blue with different leg styles. Wearing jeans must not break any rules; if it did, they wouldn’t be there. The brands she read on the labels she’d only seen in stores like Saks, Hudson, J Brand, and MIH. She never in her life tried on jeans like these. They were soft, amazingly comfortable, and fit perfectly.

  Feeling a chill as she removed the robe, Claire decided a sweater wou
ld be better than a T-shirt. The countless choices were equally as fashionable. She decided on a Donna Karan pink, fuzzy cashmere sweater. Before putting it on, she looked for a bra. Apparently, bras were against the rules too; however, she did find a drawer full of various colored camisoles—she chose pink.

  It was like a treasure hunt, as she searched the drawers and cabinets of the closet. Still rummaging for fuzzy socks, she found multiple drawers of lingerie. The silky black and red negligees in multiple lengths made her uncomfortable as they reminded her of a Victoria’s Secret fashion show. Finally, she discovered socks. Claire couldn’t comprehend that all of these lavish and extravagant clothes were for her. Truthfully, she didn’t want them.

  Driven by curiosity and boredom, she read the labels on the evening dresses: Aidan Mattox, Armani, Donna Karan, and Emilio Pucci. These dresses alone could pay her rent in Atlanta for six months. Fleetingly, she wondered about last night’s dress. Its tag would remain a mystery since it disappeared when the room was cleaned.

  Next, she inspected the shoes: pumps, sandals, boots, and slip-ons—most with four-inch heels or more. The brands were equally as high-priced as the dresses: Prada, Calvin Klein, Dior, Kate Spade, and Yves Saint Lauren. Never really a shoe person, Claire usually wore casual footwear, Crocs and sneakers—rarely heels and never that high. Of course, every pair was her size.