Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire

by Aleatha Romig

  He was. Nathaniel said, “Jesus—Samuel, have you looked at these reports? Where are the figures on Hong Kong Industrials?”—Clawson handed Nathaniel the reports—“Since the exchange-trade options change of 1973, it’s a cake-walk to manipulate these options. We set our strike price. If the stock price starts to move out of the option near expiration, we set the cap.”

  Clawson smiled. The old man was finally getting it. “You have the capital to do that.”

  Samuel threw a report on the table. “It isn’t our capital.”

  Looking first to the suddenly disorganized stacks of papers, then to his son, Nathaniel’s brown eyes darkened. “Like hell it isn’t. It’s my Goddamn company. I built it from nothing. Do you think those employees you’re so damned concerned about would have a job if I didn’t work my ass off thirty years ago?”

  Who will tell whether one happy moment of love or the joy of breathing or walking on a bright morning and smelling the fresh air is not worth all the suffering and effort which life implies.

  —Erich Fromm

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‡

  A week after the barbeque, they flew to Chicago. Tony absorbed himself in his work and his laptop as Claire sat quietly and thought about the city. It had been a frequent haunt during her college days, with Valparaiso being only an hour and twenty minutes from the Loop. She and her sorority sisters would spend entire afternoons or evenings enjoying the sights. They’d shop, dine, or go to the theater and knew their way to all the best deals.

  Claire recalled the fun as they rode the L or the train around the city. Sometimes they’d go with guys to a baseball game—usually the Cubs. Since she’d never really been a baseball fan, she liked warm evenings with a group of friends, enjoying hot dogs and cold beer and watching people at Wrigley Field. They would all pile into someone’s vehicle and road-trip. It really didn’t get better than that. They were even known to blow off classes for a day at Wrigley. Claire rationalized it as academic research—her major was meteorology and baseball was outdoors—it all made sense.

  Friends made Chicago and baseball fun. To Claire, the guys, all from the same fraternity, were more like brothers. After a brief romance her freshman year, she decided to concentrate on school instead of love. Suddenly, Claire realized her reminiscing made her sad. She wondered where those friends were today. She’d become so busy concentrating on her career that she lost touch with most of them. Maybe if they’d stayed connected they would have noticed her missing last March.

  As the jet approached the private airport, Claire saw the skyline against the blue of the lake. She told herself to put the sadness away. Compartmentalize. She wondered—when driving there in an old minivan, she knew fun times were ahead—now leaving the private jet and entering the backseat of the leased limousine—what was in store?

  Eric chauffeured the limousine as they drove toward the lake at 7:30 AM. Claire could see the buildings, smell the exhaust, and feel the vibration of the road as the car turned north on Lake Shore Drive. She felt more at home than she had in months. She wanted to talk about everything they passed: McCormick Place, Soldier Field, and Grant Park. As they approached Millennium Park, she thought about the concerts which took place all summer long.

  Despite her new enthusiasm, she didn’t speak. Tony was occupied on his cell phone. He’d been in a conversation with someone ever since they landed. His voice sounded amicable, but she could see his body language. It told another story. Listening to Claire give a tour of Chicago wouldn’t help his disposition. She also worried he may not approve of her comfort level with Chicago. Originally, she didn’t want to join him on this trip, now she couldn’t wait to enjoy the city.

  The limousine pulled up to the Reliance Building and Tony gathered his briefcase, laptop, and cell phone. Eric came around and opened the door. Still talking on his phone, Tony nodded to Claire and got out. She found herself in the familiar situation—being chauffeured to a completely unknown destination.

  Before the jet arrived, Tony informed Claire she could rest at his apartment. He hadn’t mentioned the location or when he’d return. She took a deep breath and waited while Eric moved the car through the crowded streets. In a short time, the limousine idled in a line approaching the front entrance to the Trump Tower.

  Eric lowered the window separating the two compartments and gave Claire the first information on her destination. “Ms. Claire, Mr. Rawlings’ apartment is the eighty-ninth floor of Trump Tower. Security has your name and will allow you access. As you enter the main doors, walk to the left. You’ll see a security desk. They’ll help you reach the apartment. I’ll park the car and bring your and Mr. Rawlings’ bags up as soon as I can. The staff of the apartment will be available to assist you once you reach the eighty-ninth floor. Do you have any questions, miss?”

  “No, thank you, Eric, I’ll be fine.” Then she waited while he stopped the car and came around to open her door. After only having five hours sleep, Claire felt like a mouse placed in a maze. Would she be able to find the cheese?

  The cool lake breeze hit her legs as she stepped from the car and proceeded into the Trump Tower. She thought about her appearance—the blouse, skirt, sophisticated heels, and hair pulled up and back. She didn’t resemble the college girl who used to roam these streets with her friends.

  Today, doors opened and the bellman nodded as she passed. She looked like she belonged in a limousine. The guard at the security desk didn’t question her as she spoke with confidence, “Hello, I’m Claire Nichols. Please show me to Mr. Rawlings’ apartment.”

  “Yes, Ms. Nichols, we’ve been expecting you. We hope your flight was enjoyable. Please follow me this way.” The guard tried his best to make small talk, but Claire’s mind lingered six years behind.

  Once the elevator reached the eighty-ninth floor, Claire tipped the guard, thanked him, and entered the open door to the apartment. Immediately, a charming gentleman greeted her, “Hello, Ms. Claire, my name is Charles. I’m very pleased to meet you.” He showed her to Mr. Rawlings’s room. “Miss, would you be interested in some breakfast, coffee, or anything else?”

  Tony’s room reminded her of his apartment in New York, more of the masculine natural colors. The shades were drawn and the room felt dark and dreary. She knew on the other side of the shades the sun shone brightly and asked Charles to open them. The view, as he opened the drapes, took her breath away. The windows faced north toward the lake. Far above most of the city, she stood close to the window and looked down at the buildings. Just a little to the left she saw Navy Pier and out on the lake she saw boats. The beautiful vista hypnotized her. She loved Chicago—and there it was—eighty-nine stories below.

  “Ms. Nichols, will you be staying or going out?”

  Pulled from her trance, she knew her desire and reality differed. She and Tony hadn’t discussed her activities. “I believe I’ll be staying here—for now—and I’d like some coffee please.”

  Charles returned with coffee and their luggage. If she were back in Iowa, she could be on her way to her lake; instead, she was sequestered in Tony’s apartment. She lay down on his big luxurious cold bed, covered herself with blankets, and fell asleep. When she awoke the clock said 12:30 PM. Tony might not be back for at least five hours. If only she could contact him, find out his plans. Instead, she investigated his apartment.

  Not surprisingly, it was magnificent and apparently took the entire eighty-ninth floor. Like his New York apartment, there were floor-to-ceiling windows throughout the dwelling. She found an office that contained computers and telephones, no doubt Tony’s home office in Chicago. She opened the office door, looked around, and closed it. Under no circumstance was she permitted in his home office without him. There was no reason to believe the rules would be different here.

  It occurred to Claire that perhaps Eric would be able to contact Tony and find out his expectations. Charles informed her that Eric was with Mr. Rawlings. He didn’t know when they planned to return.


  Next, Charles served lunch, which bore a striking resemblance to her everyday lunches in Iowa. Knowing there were restaurants with various delicious foods only an elevator ride away, Claire’s appetite disappeared. She settled onto the sofa in the living room with a book; however, the stunning view and the undeniable yearning to be in the city made concentration difficult. Finally, at 4:30 PM, Charles announced Mr. Rawlings called and the two of them had dinner reservations for 6:00 PM and tickets to the 8:30 PM show of “Wicked.”

  Preparing for the evening, Claire opened her garment bag to a Nicole Miller taupe strapless dress with sequins. She’d never seen the dress before, but knew it’d fit perfectly. The matching Gucci shoes and handbag completed the ensemble. There was even a small jacket with matching sequins, just right for an autumn evening. She piled her hair on top of her head with large spiral curls dangling down her neck.

  As she completed the finishing touches to her make-up, Tony entered the bedroom, greeted Claire, and went to the adjoining bath for a quick shower. She smiled at his chatty tone. It was as if other people were near, and his eyes were milk chocolate. When he emerged from the bathroom, the aroma of aftershave filled the bedroom, and he was clean-shaven, with wet hair, and a towel around his waist.

  Watching him, she momentarily thought about an ongoing conversation she’d been having lately with herself. It usually started with thoughts of him—pleasant thoughts. Then she’d think about the way he made her feel or how much she liked to see him happy. Then it would turn to questioning, something like: Are you completely crazy or only unstable. She didn’t know how she could feel this way about him. After all, he kidnapped her and hurt her—but when he was good…Claire tried to remember—there was a song or something that said—when he is good—he is so good—and that summed it up.

  She pondered the many puzzling sides of his enigma as she watched him in the mirror. First, looking at him as he removed the towel, her pulse quickened and she forgot about her primping. No one could deny his incredibly handsome physique. Hell, he was gorgeous. Despite the almost twenty-year age difference, she observed his defined muscles, broad shoulders, and firm abdomen. Momentarily, she fantasized about the feel of his skin against hers. Second, he was undoubtedly an extremely successful businessman who desired to keep his personal life private. Third, he utterly and completely believed in appearances. Fourth, he had an insatiable sex drive. In that arena Claire had come to terms with his varying approaches—anywhere from tenderness to domination. The side of Tony that bothered Claire the most was his unpredictability. His temperament could shift without warning—making an Indiana tornado seem docile.

  Due to his position, his desire for privacy and appearances were understandable. It was the swiftness with which he could go from serene to furious that concerned her. Nevertheless, as Claire watched him dress, smelled his cologne, and heard him chat, her body tingled in anticipation. She looked forward to being on his arm and enjoying Chicago’s nightlife.

  Their dinner reservations were for Sixteen a fine restaurant on the sixteenth floor of the Trump Tower. They were escorted to a premium table with an amazing view of the Wrigley Clock Tower. Tony ordered their wine, appetizers, and meals. The reputation for outstanding cuisine proved true; everything tasted delectable. They chatted throughout the meal, mostly about Chicago and its many possibilities. Claire didn’t complain about spending the day in the apartment, but she mentioned that after the spa she’d like to do some shopping. After all, wasn’t it Tony who kept encouraging her to shop?

  After dinner, Tony suggested they walk the short distance from Trump Tower to Cadillac Palace Theater. Having wanted outside all day, Claire thought his idea was fantastic and enthusiastically agreed. Feeling the warm city breeze, walking arm in arm down South Street through the crowds of people, gave her a rush of anonymity. They talked and laughed as the evening faded into night. Claire’s deprived senses filled with sounds of traffic, the feel of a crowd, and visions of buildings transforming into monuments of architecture as darkness descended and lights illuminated.

  Claire could have walked forever. Even the sensation of her shoes hitting the hard concrete delighted her, but their journey ended too soon. Upon entering the theater, she saw the show bill high above their heads. She’d long been a fan of the “Wizard of Oz” and immediately became excited about watching the performance of “Wicked.”

  Of course, they were seated in prime seats. Claire remembered seeing shows in the same theater, years earlier, sitting somewhere near the top of the balcony. Currently, they had an excellent view of the stage and orchestra. For the next few hours, Claire became lost in the performance: the acting, dancing, and singing. When Elphaba sang “Defying Gravity,” Claire was absolutely mesmerized. Her life disappeared into the performance. Every now and again she would notice Tony watching her—not the show. She chose to ignore his gazes and enjoy the show. She believed her behavior was appropriate and knew—without a doubt—if it weren’t—he would let her know.

  After the show they walked back to Trump Tower. Tony talked about Claire’s appointment scheduled for 9:00 AM. She had a massage, facial, and hair services scheduled, but if she wanted more she only needed to let them know. Everything would be billed to Tony’s apartment. Her only concern would be generous tipping, and he would give her all the cash she needed. The spa was actually in the tower and Charles would be available to help her find it. They would provide lunch if her services took that long, and they probably would.

  That night Tony’s bed wasn’t cold like it had been earlier in the day. Claire believed his business in Chicago must be going well. That night he was generous, demonstrative, sensual, and erotic. Perhaps he felt apologetic for his quick judgment the week earlier. Whatever the motive, Claire loved the results!

  In the past, during the nights Tony stayed in Claire’s bed, it seemed like they slept on polar-opposite sides. Tonight’s finale concluded differently. They fell asleep with Claire’s cheek on his chest, his arm around her bare shoulder, and her arm over his tight abdomen. She felt his warmth as his chest hair tickled her nose. Her head rose and fell with each of his breaths, and the sound of his heartbeat in her ear. She inhaled his intoxicating scent and drifted into a deep, peaceful sleep.

  The next morning, she awoke alone. Due to the heavy draperies, the dark room made it difficult for Claire to assess time. The clock read 7:10 AM. She hadn’t heard Tony get out of bed, shower or dress, and had no idea how long he’d been gone.

  Putting on a robe, she went to find coffee. At home it would have been brought to her immediately upon waking. Then she thought—no, hoped—perhaps this room didn’t have the quality surveillance of her room in Iowa. In the dining room Charles poured coffee and informed her that Mr. Rawlings left thirty minutes earlier for his Chicago office.

  Sipping the rich bold liquid, Claire’s mind recalled the pleasures of last night. Not just the sex—which was great—it was the memories of his voice and expressions. Blissfully walking back to the bedroom, Claire told Charles she would wait until after she dressed for breakfast.

  Back in Tony’s room she found his note:

  I am sure you remember that your appointment is at 9:00 AM, don’t be late. I plan to be back to the apartment by 6:00 PM You mentioned shopping last night at dinner. I have left you your credit card and ID. There’s also ample cash for tipping and incidentals. After your spa day, Charles will help you with transportation to shopping.

  Do not forget my rules—I trust you know better than that.

  He never began his notes with a salutation or signed them. Claire looked in the envelope under the note. It contained her ID and credit card, as well as over a thousand dollars in different denominations.

  Claire thought it was unnecessary that Tony kept her ID and credit card. It wasn’t as if she had the opportunity to use it whenever she wanted, and the amount of cash seemed excessive, until she saw the small sticky note on one of the bills:

  $100 per stylist that assists you
>
  Claire decided maybe some instruction was helpful, she wouldn’t have considered tipping that much.

  She arrived at the Day Spa ten minutes early. They greeted her and ushered her to one of the treatment rooms. Instead of music, the air permeated with sounds of nature and the aroma of scented candles. Indirect lighting helped to complete the relaxing atmosphere. To begin her day of pampering they directed her to a large whirlpool tub. Once submerged, the assistant added a special mixture of oils and powders based on Claire’s answers to some preference questions. After the tub, Claire was led to the massage table, where they asked her to lie with her face submerged in a hole.

  Suddenly, besieged by a rush of unpleasant memories, she did her best to control her emotions and lie down. The masseuse began with Claire’s shoulders and commented on the tightness of her muscles. It didn’t take long for the combination of the bath oils, ambiance, and magic of the masseuse’s hands to ease the tension. At the conclusion of the massage, every muscle in Claire’s body felt loose and relaxed.

  Next, they proceeded to the hair salon. Apparently, when making Claire’s reservations a highlight procedure was requested. Never in all of her life had she colored her hair. The apprehension brought back some tension to her shoulders; however, she knew Tony was the one to plan her treatment, so the idea of changing it was more unsettling. While the color sat on her hair, they treated her to a facial which claimed skin rejuvenation. After they washed and conditioned her hair, the stylist began trimming and styling.

  When Claire’s chair spun around, she gazed at her auburn tresses which now contained generous caramel and light blonde highlights. It all blended beautifully, and the length hadn’t really changed. The result looked healthy, shaped, stunning, and different.