Tainted Love (Book 1)

by St. James, Ghiselle

I watch a bit of TV in the TV room, but I’m still restless. I miss Ben, or I think that’s the reason for my restlessness. I get up and head for the leisure room, realizing then that something has been urging me there.

  Sitting around the piano, I begin to caress it. My fingers tingle with the urge to play so I open the lid. Suddenly, I’m playing – The Hymn of the Child on Awakening by Liszt fleeing from my fingers. It’s not a sad tune, but the large painting in the room inspires it.

  I’m surprised that I remember the piece. Even more surprised at how fluidly my fingers glide over the keys after not playing for almost four years. The last I played was for Jared after telling him a few details of my past. Hmm, maybe I should give Ben a few details as well. It’s the least I can do after he saved my life. That would be a big sacrifice for me though; letting him in like that.

  I tap out the last notes of the Liszt piece and I hanker to play more. I start playing the live version of Sacrifice by Elton John, my favorite modern pianist. It is the version he played at the Amphitheatre in Ephesus, Turkey in 2000. Playing this piece, I feel like singing. My father, Marshall Keyes, loved when I sang this song while I played. God, I miss him.

  We had a mutual love for Elton John. We had a mutual love for much of the same music: classical, oldies’ ranging from Ella Fitzgerald to the Motown Sound, Tony Bennett and old blue eyes himself, Frank Sinatra. As I play, I reminisce on days when Dad and I would dance our New York penthouse home down to Shake, Rattle and Roll; then waltz to Frankie’s Blue Moon. The Grammy’s were an event for us; one of the few times I was permitted to stay up late on a Sunday when school was the next morning – not that I ever went to bed early.

  Smiling, I close my eyes and strike the keys with passion, reciting the Bernie Taupin lyrics in my head:

  Cold, cold heart

  Hard done by you

  Some things lookin’ better, baby

  Just passing through

  And it’s no sacrifice

  Just a simple word

  It’s two hearts livin’

  In two separate worlds

  But, it’s no sacrifice

  No sacrifice

  It’s no sacrifice, at all.

  “You play?” Ben is at the entrance to the leisure room, shopping bags in hand, gaping at me.

  I stop playing immediately, my wits utterly shaken.

  “No, please don’t stop. I didn’t mean to frighten you like that.” He walks briskly over to me, dropping the bags from his hands. “I just…I didn’t think you played. That was beautiful.” He was now sitting alongside me around the piano, facing me.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Ben,” I say, looking down at my knotted fingers. I hate how he twists me up and gets me so nervous and self-conscious. Every time he’s close to me, my heart races and I have an overwhelming urge to tell him everything.

  “It’s not like I haven’t tried,” Ben murmurs. “But…” he continues quickly before I can raise any opposition. “I won’t force you to say anything.”

  He won’t force me, I know he won’t, and I’m grateful for that. He needs to know, though. Something. Anything. And, as we sit at the piano, silence stretching between us by the second, I sigh, resigned and decidedly.

  “The piece was called Sacrifice by Elton John, one of my dad’s and my favorite songs,” I reveal, taking deep breaths as I try to open up to him.

  “I knew it sounded familiar,” he mutters, resting his elbow on top of the piano and cradling his head. He wants to hear more and I’m going to oblige him.

  “I started playing when I was 14,” I continue. “I was a troubled child and my mother thought that learning classical piano would stem my wild ways. Before that, it was dance and then it was art. Nothing worked. I had a rebellious streak and it even played out in my musical years.” I smirk, remembering all the wild times Mr. Kissinger and I had.

  If Wilhelmina had known about our affair she’d have had a conniption! She was a great therapist, but sometimes she was just so clueless and much too overprotective of me. Could I blame her, though? She had every right to be overprotective considering my childhood, coupled with my wild, rebellious ways. I really did put that woman through the ringer. It was unfair. And here I am, putting her through hell again by disappearing on her. I shake off my introspection and I carry on with my divulgence.

  “I couldn’t stand classical music. I always thought it was so boring, when really, it wasn’t that at all. When I played those pieces, it always brought a kind of engulfing sadness out of me. I think that’s what she wanted. I’ve always found it easy to express happiness, but my darker emotions I’d always tuck away.” I don’t look at him while I’m saying all of this. I am in a reminiscent mode, looking distantly at the keys of the piano and caressing them.

  “Oh, my gosh!” I exclaim, smiling as a memory comes clear to me. “I remember playing Chopin’s Nocturne 19 in E-minor, Opus 72 no. 1 and, from the middle of the piece to the end, I was in tears.” I stop, remembering what brought on those tears. It wasn’t just the deep sadness of the piece. It was the memory of feeling like I was in perpetual darkness as a child. My eyes water as horrible childhood memories flood back to me.

  I was eight when I was first raped by my birth mother’s boyfriend. She caught him, but instead of turning him in to the police, she took the money he gave her to keep quiet; and all the money after that, too, so she could feed her drug habit. Fiona wasn’t satisfied, though. She realized that prostitution wasn’t working out for her and her junkie habits – as she didn’t get as many high paying Johns. What she did realize, however, was that she got more money whenever her sicko boyfriend, Max, had a go at me.

  My mother pimped me out to different men for two years of my life; men who drugged me up and had their ways with me. But that was better than being completely aware of my surroundings. The worst times were when I was sober and I felt all the pain, the degradation. I wondered if she was ever haunted by my screams of mercy, my pleas for those men to stop.

  To ward off all the horrible memories, I start telling Ben about my dad and I – “Mr. Beal” – and how much we love music. I tell him about the Frank Sinatra dancing stories to keep his bloodhound scent away from my breaking heart; because no matter how good life was for me after I left, I always remembered what happened to me as a kid. My night terrors and violent flashbacks were sore testaments.

  I ran away from home when I was 10, not being able to stand the abuse anymore. I stole most of Fiona’s stash, two hundred dollars, and went to this home for girls. I had to sleep in the basement as I wasn’t supposed to be there in the first place, but I became friends with one of the girls there, Marissa, and she made sure I had food and warm clothes.

  That’s where I met Mrs. Wilhelmina Keyes. She was a child psychiatrist then, one of the five therapists on staff, counseling young girls who’d suffered abuse. She thought I was being counseled by one of the other therapists. We took on to each other. I was the daughter she couldn’t have. She’d met in an accident after her son was born and the internal injuries she suffered ruined her chances of ever conceiving again.

  Willy, as Dad affectionately calls her, loved me too much. She went in to check on my progress one day, finding out that I was not being counseled and that I wasn’t even a resident. When she confronted a ten-year old me about my fabrications, I spilled the beans about Fiona’s drug use, skillfully skirting over the more pertinent issues, forcing her to report the matter.

  After Fiona got pinched, she was given a twenty year sentence for possession, distribution and use – good riddance – while I spent three months in foster care. With no living relatives to take me, Willy adopted me.

  Wilhelmina Keyes is my lifesaver. If I didn’t meet her…

  “Your dad sounds really cool,” Ben interrupts my thoughts, and in good time too.

  I gather myself, taking deep steadying breaths, as the tears roll back. “Yeah, he is.”

  “How about your mom?” he digs deeper.
>
  “My mom? Well, she’s more of a reader and a talker. She didn’t dance with me, but she danced a lot with my dad. Sometimes I’d wake up to see them dancing to a Beatles song or something. It was fun seeing how much they related to each other. How much they loved each other.”

  At least that part is completely true. I smile remembering the way my parents loved each other; how much they loved Marshall Jr. and me, but, I can’t dwell on that or else those pesky tears will resurface and no doubt fall unrestrictedly.

  “So why did you leave then? I don’t understand,” Ben says.

  “Why does any kid leave their parents’ house? I was driving my mother crazy.” I was. “So it was either I bend to her rules or I move out where I would be the master of my own destiny. I chose the latter.” I shrug.

  “Would you make the same decision now?” Ben asks.

  If I’d never laid eyes on Rick, I wouldn’t have gone on with the sordid relationship we had, I wouldn’t have shot him, I wouldn’t have needed to run…Damn…I wouldn’t have met Ben either. This is a tough question.

  “I don’t know if I can answer that. It’s…complicated.”

  “Will you explain those complications to me one day?” Ben requests.

  “Yes, I will,” I answer honestly. One day, everything will have to come out into the open. It would be on my time and my terms, but I know it will have to all be said at some point. I just have to prepare myself for that day.

  He smiles a smile that brightens his entire face; a contagious smile that I mirror. Yeah, Ben is going to be a challenge as it regards my feelings. I can see myself falling hard for him someday.

  CHAPTER 16

  “What’s in the bags?” I lean backward, eyeing the shopping bags he’d dropped at the door.

  “Clothes.”

  “Oh, I didn’t remember to tell Rachel to get me some. Did she send some over anyway?”

  “No, I bought those for you. Rachel and Simone helped me to pick them out,” Ben answers. He strokes his hand through his beautiful hair; an action so sexy that it makes my stomach dip and my core tighten with arousal. I thought I’d had enough of him earlier.

  “For me?” I mutter. “Why?”

  “Let’s go look at them,” he suggests, tugging me to stand.

  We walk back to the master bedroom, Ben carrying the bags. I am so excited. I love receiving gifts. I feel like a kid as I walk hand-in-hand with him in anticipation of what he’s bought me.

  “You cleaned up?” he asks, eyeing the neatly straightened room and laying the bags on the bed.

  “And washed the dishes…by hand,” I point out and his eyes widen at the mention of my manual domesticity. “I needed something to do while you were gone.” I shrug.

  “Well, then, you really do deserve to be rewarded.” He hands me the black Barney’s suit bag. I clap and squeal excitedly, taking it.

  Unzipping the bag, I am dazzled by the shiny material that unravels. I gasp as I pull out a black Alexander Wang panne velvet, long cami dress. I know this, because I’ve seen it, admired it, and planned to steal the fucking thing.

  “This is beautiful, Ben!” I exclaim, running my hand down the smooth, shiny fabric.

  “Beautiful? I was going for sexy,” he says wryly.

  “Well, you won’t know if it’s sexy until you see me in it. Why did you buy it?” I ask, holding it against my body.

  “I’ve got a gala dinner tonight and I want you to come with me,” he answers.

  “Really?” I scrunch my nose up in confusion. Did he plan to take me all along? “I don’t get it. What if we didn’t get back together, um, renew our arrangement? Um…I don’t know how to describe it,” I mumble.

  “I’d have gone by myself.” He shrugs as if going by himself is no problem.

  Right. I bet he’d ask Blondie to be his escort, I sneer inwardly. Gasp! Is that what I am? An escort? I don’t like that notion at all. Mark you, I’ve been one of those girls before, but, I just don’t want to be one with Ben. I don’t want a relationship, but I want to know that I’m more than just an eye candy for him.

  “What’s wrong?” he inquires. Shit! My expression gave me away.

  “Am I an escort?” I ask bravely.

  “No, you’re not an escort, Sullivan. Even though technically, that’s what you are since you refuse to be my girlfriend.” He raises an eyebrow expectantly. No I won’t change my mind on that, Benji.

  “But, no,” he goes on. “I don’t see it that way,” he clarifies.

  I let out a quiet sigh of relief and smile at him. Curious, I ask, “What’s in the other bags?”

  “Well, an outfit for your first day back to school tomorrow. The other big bag has shoes, both for tonight and tomorrow. And the smaller bag contains under garments.” Ben picks up each bag and hands them to me. But, I am more interested in the bag with the under garments.

  Opening the panty bag – because that’s what it is – I pull out two boxes. I open the first box to find a black, lace, over-bust, V-neck bustier with white undertones and garters, a matching lace thong and thigh high stockings. I look up at Ben whose eyes are burning with intensity. Oh, he wants to do more than see me in all this. He wants to fuck me in it.

  I lean against one of the posts of the bed as I’m left winded by his stare. I don’t bother checking the other bags. I can’t. I need him too much right now.

  “What do you want, my sweet girl?” Ben asks, rounding me then pressing his erection into my behind.

  “You,” I make out, falling lax against him.

  “Kneel. Now,” he commands. And like a lamb to the slaughter, I kneel before him.

  I’m in Ben’s dressing room, getting ready. Yes, dressing room. It’s basically a vast walk-in closet, with a large white and gold vanity and four mirrors – two in front and the other two on either side of me – so I can have a complete look at myself. Really, no one needs this much clothes, or this much space, but hey, it’s his money.

  “I’ll be out in the leisure room when you’re dressed, okay?” he says from the bedroom. I didn’t want him to see me while I was getting ready. I wanted him to be surprised.

  “Okay,” I shout.

  I slither into the size 12 dress and I am amazed at how well it fits over the bustier. Ben will be pleased. The dress accentuates every last one of my curves. In high society, voluptuous curves are frowned upon, but I don’t care. All this is for Ben anyway and it makes me hot just thinking about his reaction.

  I had straightened my hair, which took me almost an hour, and scooped it over my right shoulder where a shadow of the bruise I’d gotten, when Ben was fucking me outside his brother’s restaurant, was still visible.

  I apply a sparse amount of powder to my face – I hate wearing makeup – and just a little blush and smoky eye shadow. The diamond earrings that Ben bought me go well with the crystal drop necklace that has long silver diamonds trailing down my naked back. Somehow it feels like a collar, but I shrug off that notion.

  Spraying myself with the sweetest perfume I’ve smelt in a while, I take one final glance at myself in the mirrors. The silver stilettos completes my ensemble and give me the last bit of sexy I need. Grabbing the black wrap that came with the dress and my silver purse with just my cell phone and lip gloss, I head to the leisure room where Ben awaits me.

  I hear Ben’s sharp intake when he turns around and sees me. He is absolutely breath-taking in his tuxedo and black bowtie. One hand is tucked into his pocket while the other holds a glass of dark liquor. Resting the glass on the piano, he shoots to me and kisses me savagely while pressing his pelvis into me and I feel his semi-hard length hardening as the kiss gets deeper.

  Ben pulls away from me with a growl as though it had taken everything to leave my warmth. Of course he leaves me winded again and I wobble as I lose my bearings. He steadies me and laughs, then, he’s serious again; looking at me with those searing, panty-wetting, green eyes of his.

  “Shit, Sullivan,” he makes out and sighs heav
ily, adjusting himself. “You look so damn sexy and beautiful, and, damn it…” He kisses me hard once more and pulls away quickly, once again leaving me winded. “Let’s get out of here. I’m imagining how you look under that dress and it’s making me even harder; and if I give into what I’m feeling right now, we’ll never leave.”

  He tugs me forcefully from the room and we head outside where Simon is waiting for us in a black limousine. I don’t think I want to be reminded of limousines right now. A flush captures my face as we sit side by side and I am catapulted back to last Thursday night and all that unfolded in Brandon’s limo, especially the parts with Ben growling orders in my ear.

  Ben reaches for my hand and kisses it then says, “Yes, that night was very intense.” It’s like he’s reading my mind.

  I blush and look away, fixing my mind for the night ahead. At least he’s taking the events of that night in a lighter tone.

  We arrive at the gala to a bevy of photographers. Stepping out of the car, they approach us and start snapping pictures. This is what I’d feared most. The publicity.

  I try as best as possible to keep my head down as we pass through them, but Ben stops when we get to the doors of the ballroom. Damn it!

  He tugs me to his side and stares at me lovingly, riveting my movements. I am momentarily lost in his eyes.

  “Beautiful, guys! Now can I get one of the two of you smiling for the camera,” one of the photographers says, pulling me out of my trance.

  Ben faces the camera and so do I and we smile as though we are the “it” couple of the night. The idea is fleeting as fear rises inside me that someone (Rick) might recognize me from New York and come and find me. I breathe, slow and steady. I can’t afford to have a panic attack right now. I can’t embarrass Ben that way.

  A bright light flashes in my eyes and I hold my hand up to block the blinding glare of it. I look out into the crowd and I see a lone figure among the photographers, no camera in hand. The trench coat looks awfully familiar and my mind races back to the night I’d ran from the house. No!