Finally, he yelled, “Shut the fuck up! You were out there because you knew I was coming home and you didn’t want to face me after what you did.”
Claire’s mind spun. “I don’t know what you mean. You told me you were coming home Saturday, this is still Friday”—tears infiltrated her words—“I haven’t done anything.”
Tony slapped her again. “Liar!”
Claire fought the sobs and fear, as she watched him methodically walk to the light switch illuminate the suite. Immediately, she noticed that his suit coat was missing, and his shirt and slacks were wrinkled. His chest visibly expanded and contracted with each labored breath, and his eyes were not only black—but violent. In the past he’d been upset—but in control. Tonight rage replaced self-control. Instinctively, Claire knew he’d crossed some invisible threshold. She just didn’t know why. She did know—the reason scared the hell out of her.
The room echoed with silence as he walked to her dining table and picked up papers. That quiet shattered as his booming voice demanded, “Then tell me—tell me how this is a misunderstanding”—he shook the pages in his hand while his words came too close together—“I jumped to conclusions last time. Tell me how I’m doing that now.”
Claire feared talking, but she did, “Tony, I’m sorry. I really don’t know what you are talking about.”
He threw the pages at her and they scattered on the floor near her feet. When he didn’t move, she bent down to pick them up. Although, her vision was now blurry from tears, she tried desperately to blink and focus on the pages. They were typed, and appeared to be from the Internet. The last two pages contained pictures: pictures of the two of them at the symphony—at some event she couldn’t distinguish—in New York—and walking down the street in Chicago, arm in arm. Then there were pictures of Claire in college—with friends—and one of her and Meredith sitting at a table talking.
The breath in her chest suddenly dissipated. Her eyes focused on the words:
Questions Answered—the Mystery Woman in Anthony Rawlings’s Life
Agrees to a One on One Interview.
Claire’s eyes grew wide and immediately overflowed with a flood of tears. She couldn’t believe what she’d read. Oh my God! “Tony! Oh my God—I did not agree to an interview.”
“So, you’re telling me that this picture of you talking to this woman”—he pointed to the picture as he stood over Claire—“is a print shop fabrication and just like at the barbeque, this is a colossal misunderstanding?”
His closeness filled her with dread. It was her talking to Meredith…She tried to explain, “It is me, but—” His hands picked her off the sofa and pinned her against a wall. Claire attempted reason, “Tony, I wasn’t giving an interview.” She hit the wall with enough force for a picture to fall. His grip hurt her arms; she tasted the salt of her tears as her ears reverberated with his booming voice and rang from his repeated slaps.
His face descended. “Then what the hell are you doing?”—he shook her again—“Claire, I trusted you! You told me I could trust you and I believed you! I sent you to a spa day! This is how you show your gratitude—by breaking all my rules—by public failure?” He released his grip; Claire fell to the floor like a rag doll.
Scurrying to pick up the papers, Claire asked, “What is this?”
“It’s an exclusive Internet release of an upcoming story. Shelly, my publicist, found it today and immediately forwarded me a copy”—he hovered over her before turning abruptly away. Trying to regain control of his anger and of himself, Tony went to the bookshelf, picked up a book, and threw it into the fireplace. His words came slower—“It’s scheduled to run simultaneously in People and Rolling Stone”—his eyes penetrated her soul—“I flew home as soon immediately.”
Claire wondered how long he’d been waiting and brewing in her suite. She desperately tried to read:
Byline: Meredith Banks
Well, you believe you know Anthony Rawlings, forty-five-years-old and self-made billionaire? Or, maybe you would like to know him? You may be too late. Since May of 2010 Anthony has been seen out on the town with the same mystery woman. Up until now we haven’t known much about Anthony’s special woman. That is until she agreed to sit down with old friend and freelance writer Meredith Banks. The woman in Anthony Rawlings’s life is Claire Nichols, twenty-six-years-old and originally from Fishers, Indiana, just outside of Indianapolis.
Claire graduated from Valparaiso University, Valparaiso, Indiana in 2006 with a bachelor’s degree in meteorology. Ms. Nichols and Meredith were in the same sorority from 2003 through 2006. It’s believed that this long-time friendship is why Claire finally agreed to sit down and discuss her relationship with one of the world’s top bachelors.
Claire looked up and saw Tony on the sofa—watching. Her entire body trembled as nausea erupted in her empty stomach. “Tony, I went to school with Meredith; she came up to me the other day and started talking—I didn’t know she was a reporter—I wasn’t giving an interview—I didn’t say anything about you.” In desperation she added, “Your name was never mentioned!”
He didn’t speak. Instead, he nodded toward the pages—she continued reading:
Anthony Rawlings has long been considered a wonderful catch for that one deserving woman. In the past, he’s dated such women as supermodel Cynthia Simmons and recording artist Julia Owens; however, his previous relationships didn’t last long. That is until now—now that Rawlings and Nichols have been together. These two were first seen together in late May (see picture) at the Quad City Symphony not far from the large wooded estate of Anthony Rawlings. Since that time, they’ve been spotted by curious onlookers at various charity events, as well two of the nation’s largest cities—New York (see picture) and Chicago (see picture).
The question all eligible bachelorettes are asking—why Claire? What makes her the woman for a man like Anthony Rawlings? Perhaps it’s her youth, her beauty, or her style.
While Claire would neither confirm nor deny that she and Anthony Rawlings were involved. She didn’t deny living in the Iowa City area. Could that address perhaps be the same as Mr. Rawlings’?
Social Security records indicate that Ms. Nichols’ only employment has been as a bartender, since losing her job in 2009 at WKPZ in Atlanta, Georgia. WKPZ was purchased by TTT-TV, resulting in the layoff of many employees, yet despite this loss of employment, Ms. Nichols was seen shopping in Chicago at such stores as Saks Fifth Avenue, Anne Fontaine, Cartier, Giorgio Armani, and Louis Vuitton. It’s also rumored that Ms. Nichols spent the better part of the day enjoying all the comforts money could buy at one of Chicago’s most exclusive day spas.
Claire used to spend her days in Chicago (see picture) with many different men from Valparaiso University. Now it seems she is enjoying the better life with only one man. (see picture). The performers will be happy to know that Claire and Anthony enjoyed the performance of “Wicked.”
The final bit of evidence confirming their involvement came when Ms. Claire Nichols was ushered to the eighty-ninth floor of Trump Tower—the private city dwelling belonging to none other than Mr. Anthony Rawlings.
Emily Vandersol, twenty-nine-years-old, sister and only living relative of Ms. Nichols, was asked about her knowledge of Claire and Anthony’s relationship. Mrs. Vandersol stated that she’d recently spoke to Claire and she sounded well. Anthony Rawlings was not mentioned during their conversation, and Mrs. Vandersol had no further comments.
Sorry, ladies, it seems that Ms. Claire Nichols is holding on to Anthony Rawlings. What will she tell us about this private man? We are anxiously waiting to learn.
Claire’s hands trembled. Although she’d finished reading, she continued to look down as she searched desperately for something to say—some explanation. Finally, she set the pages on the floor and kept her eyes down. There was nothing to say. The article didn’t reveal any information, although the sensational title alluded it would. Tony knew that, he flew all the way home. He’d obviously read the ar
ticle multiple times. It was her in the picture—she was talking to Meredith—it wasn’t what it seemed—but in her head she could hear his voice.
Now, she heard him stand as he walked toward her. “Appearances, Claire—how many times have I told you? Appearances mean everything. There’s a picture of you sitting with her—the author. It doesn’t matter if what she writes is accurate; it’s believable because she’s seen talking to you.”
He wasn’t yelling, he’d regained some control, yet the aura of rage remained. Claire felt his penetrating stare and didn’t want to look into his black eyes.
“Get up.”
Claire knew she should—but she didn’t move—she couldn’t—her body was paralyzed with fear. She had no defense—she’d disobeyed his rules.
His volume increased, “Claire, get up!”
The tears dripped off her nose. “Please, Tony”—she sobbed—“I’m so sorry.”
Defenseless to stop his actions—her body rose as he lifted her by her arm. His voice exuded wrath, “The entire way home I prayed that somehow this was another misunderstanding. You wouldn’t do this after I put my trust in you—but I knew if it wasn’t a misunderstanding—if you’d truly disobeyed—there had to be consequences. There had to be a punishment for this blatant disregard for the most fundamental of rules!”
She saw his hand move and instinctively veered to avoid another blow. The miss of her cheek infuriated him—his control vanished—he swung again. This time, his hand caught her pearl necklace. The fine chain proved no contest for Tony’s anger and power. The pearl charm flew as the broken chain slid from around Claire’s neck. The next impact put her back on the floor, and she tasted blood. Claire started to reach for her face, to learn the source of the blood, when his booming voice proclaimed, “I believe some time away from people—some time alone—will help you remember who and who not to talk to.”
She pleaded for him to stop—she was sorry. She tried to turn and to twist, yet he continued to hurt her. She tried to yell—but sobs replaced pleas. Claire tried to protect her face and her body, yet she couldn’t get away. Time had stopped moving. She wondered how long this had been happening—it could have been only seconds—or maybe hours—Claire didn’t know.
Suddenly thrown backward by a forceful blow, his voice drifted far away. Though her entire body cried out in agony from the abuse—this was different—more—a sudden onset of intense pain. She tried to get up—to speak—but she couldn’t.
Then the stillness grew and everything—Tony—her suite—her tears—her fear—and the pain—all faded away into darkness.
Enjoy the little things in life, for one day you may look back and realize they were the big things.
—Author anonymous
Chapter Twenty
‡
She couldn’t remember why she was afraid—only that she was terribly afraid and alone. Then with time, the dark and cold that enveloped her being began to dissipate. She heard music and felt warmth. Keeping her eyes shut, the darkness continued, but the familiar music grew louder and more comforting. Bette Midler sang Wind Beneath My Wings. Claire remembered that her mom loved that song. She’d turn up the radio and sing every word. Mom used to say, “It isn’t about the sound of your voice, but the happiness that makes you sing.”
“Shirley, do you know where my wallet is?” Jordan called from down the hall.
“Mom, Claire, took my Pop-Tart.” Emily’s voice sounded different, so young.
Claire opened her eyes and saw a scene, like a movie, except she was there and not there. She also saw her mom, dad, and sister. Claire watched herself, but the Claire she saw was young—maybe five or six-years-old. Their small house was chaotic and full of affection.
She watched as her mom made Emily another Pop-Tart, scolded Claire, and gave her a loving kiss on top of her head. Dad walked into the kitchen wearing his police uniform. Claire couldn’t believe how young everyone looked, how warm and full of love she felt watching this scene from her childhood. Dad walked behind Mom and put his arms tenderly around her. She noticed Emily and Claire playing with one another and their breakfast. They weren’t seeing the devotion and adoration Claire now saw between her parents. Mom giggled as Dad kissed her neck, and she handed him his wallet from the kitchen counter. He whispered in her ear, Claire strained to hear. “What would I ever do without you?”
“Well, you aren’t going to get the chance to find out. I plan on sticking around forever.”
As they looked at one another, the two little girls at the table started to distract them with their giggling, bickering, and suddenly the spilling of a glass of orange juice. Little Emily and little Claire both became silent, neither one would tell on the other. Claire heard her dad’s voice, “Girls, see what happens when you mess around.” His voice wasn’t angry. He cleaned the juice with a paper towel and Mom helped with a wet cloth. “Try to be careful, you sillies.” He kissed their foreheads as he turned to leave, taking the time to hug their mom.
The scene began to fade. Claire didn’t want to leave the warm feeling. She took one last look at the sisters eating their cereal and laughing. The spilled juice is forgotten. The darkness returned—coolness—
“Ms. Claire—Ms. Claire, can you hear me?” Although the familiar voice teemed with concern, the warmth she felt from her childhood was gone. Claire didn’t want to go to the voice—she wanted to go back—she wanted more sleep, more tranquility…
“Come on, Claire, the movie starts in half an hour,” Grandma’s voice came from the bottom of the stairs.
Claire opened her eyes and wondered where she was. It was her grandparent’s house. She must be staying over. Now she wondered if Emily was there too. She could see herself, no longer a child but an awkward teenager. Grandma called up the stairs again, “Claire, your sister said she’ll pick you and your friend up—hurry down.” Grandma’s expression reflected concern for Claire’s movie. The real Claire wondered if the teenage Claire would see Grandma’s distress.
Young Claire stomped down the stairs. “Fine, I’m ready, but I called Amy, and now she can’t go. I don’t want to see A Bug’s Life with Emily. John will be there. He’ll think it’s stupid.”
“Let’s call Emily, and we’ll tell her Grandpa, you, and I are going to the movies.” As Claire watched she prayed her counterpart would accept Grandma’s offer. She also wondered her age, probably fourteen or fifteen-years-old. Then she remembered Grandpa died when she was fourteen-years-old, so if he was going to the movies she had to be younger. Teenage Claire made a face at her grandmother’s suggestion.
“Where are we going?” Grandpa’s green eyes shone and his voice boomed jovially as he joined them from the other room. Claire’s heart ached to see her grandparents, yet at the same time it swelled with affection.
“To the movies,” Grandma said, smiling at Grandpa. Her grandparents were having an entire conversation through their sparkling eyes and facial expressions. Young Claire didn’t notice—too self-absorbed.
Grandpa put his arm around Claire. “Great, I’ve been trying to get Grandma to go to the new Lethal Weapon. You know I love me some police drama.”
Grandma smiled at him. “Oh no, that’s rated R. Claire would rather see Ever After.”
They were doing it—pulling Claire out of her funk. She wasn’t budging willingly—but they were doing it.
“Oh, no, Grandma, I don’t want to see Ever After—it’s a Cinderella story—that’s stupid.” Grudgingly, smiling at Grandpa, she said, “I want to see Mel Gibson’s butt!”
Her grandparents smiled at one another and continued the amorous charade. “I don’t think Shirley and Jordan will approve”—Grandma said as she grabbed the newspaper—“Let me look at the movie times for Ever After.”
Teenage Claire looked over her grandma’s shoulder. “Grandpa, Lethal Weapon starts in twenty minutes. If we hurry we can make it.” Her sulking forgotten, she believed she’d just gotten her way.
Claire filled with warm
th as she watched herself be lovingly manipulated.
Grandma next words surprised Claire. “Hey, I’m going too. I don’t want to miss Mel’s butt.”
Just before the scene began to fade, Claire saw Grandma winked at Grandpa. The last thing she saw was the three of them going out the door to the movie.
Claire wondered why she hadn’t remembered this before. Then she realized, it wasn’t unusual. She was raised by an amazing family with unconditional love and consideration. Somewhere along the way, she’d forgotten how that felt—a warmth which surrounded everyone within a happy aura. The darkness returned as Claire clung to the sense of serenity and warmth.
Gradually, the darkness intensified, and the warmth melted away. In the cool darkness she heard voices again. She waited.
“Claire, talk to us. Open your eyes.” It wasn’t a command. Tony’s desperate voice was requesting.
She didn’t want to open her eyes. She wanted to feel the warmth—to sleep.
“Ms. Nichols, Ms. Nichols.” The deep unfamiliar voice no longer spoke to her, but to someone else. “We’ll need to begin intravenous feeding if she doesn’t regain consciousness soon. The medicine to keep her unconscious should be out of her system. She’s responding to some commands, but we can’t be sure of her condition until she fully wakes. Sometimes the body will do this on its own—shut itself down to heal and to avoid the pain.” There were voices and then she heard the unfamiliar one speaking again. “Her pain seems to have subsided with the medication. It should help her wake.”
Claire didn’t want to listen to them anymore or know who they are talking about. She just wanted to sleep, to feel warm, and go back to her memories.
“Get up, sleepyhead. You have a room of your own.” Claire heard her own voice. It sounded happy and playful; however, she couldn’t see herself or to whom she spoke.
“But, I like this room better. I like this bed better,” the other voice teased and laughed.
Make Me: Twelve Tales of Dark Desire Page 20
