by Gail Bridges
Josh’s eyes were huge. “Maybe it comes with the territory. With being…whatever he is.”
The laughter died off. We didn’t move.
Josh stared at me, his face working. “Angie, I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “Calling you by her name. That was so horrible! I don’t know what got into me.”
“Hedid—he got into you.”
Mr. Abiba’s voice came booming from the dining room. “Angela Taylor! Joshua Taylor!”
We stared over the banister, holding our breath.
“Time to stop playing and come to breakfast!”
I took a step back. Pulled my underwear up and patted my skirt down. Breathed in controlled gasps. Pushed the last vestiges of my apexes right back where they’d come from—Hell. I pushed away other things too. Hurt feelings. Embarrassment. Fear. Josh tugged up his pants and zipped, looking white-faced. We hesitated, not wanting to leave the safety of the stairs, not ready to join whatever was passing for merrymaking in the dining room. Besides, we were in need of a quick wash up, a touch of Mr. Abiba’s salve and new underwear. At the very least.
“Come along, dear hearts! We’re waiting for you.”
Josh took me by my upper arms and turned me toward him. “Listento me. Ignore him for a minute. Angie, I’m sorry. I’m apologizing to you. I never should have called you by someone else’s name. Never.”
I stared at him, unable to formulate a response. What could I say, anyway? That I didn’t mind having been called by someone else’s name? That it had been all right for him to call me Nikki when his fingers were deep inside me? Because it hadn’t.
“Angie, please. Say something.”
But Mr. Abiba’s voice cut through Josh’s anguished plea, squelching any answer I might have come up with. “Join us, my darlings! No need to hide!”
There was laughter again—a room full of it. Josh and I jumped apart, skittish. “What the fuck is going on down there?” Josh whispered, letting go of me, peering over the banister again. “Are they laughing at us? We’d better hurry.”
I felt defiant. “Not yet. Let’s go back to the room and clean up. Mr. Abiba can wait for five minutes. No, ten. I’m going to jump in the shower.”
Josh whistled softly. “Ooh. A bit pissed off, aren’t you?”
Ten minutes later we tiptoed back down the stairs, scurrying past the landing where we’d just had apexes. We gave one another a fortifying hug in the hall outside the dining room, gathered our courage and went in.
And then we stopped short, baffled.
We were late—very late. Way more than “ten minutes plus sex on the landing” late. The meal was well underway, almost finished. Half-eaten plates of food littered the table, the familiar platters of donuts and pastries and muffins all but empty. Our friends, leaning back in their seats, were enjoying a last sausage, a nibble of blueberry Danish, a fat dripping strawberry, a sip of coffee. They stared unabashedly at us, curious.
What on earth? Why hadn’t anyone told us the breakfast hour had been changed? If it was meant to throw us off, it was working.
Mr. Abiba lounged at the near end of the table. He’d turned around to see our grand entrance, his long arms artfully slung over the backs of the chairs to either side. He watched us through heavy-lidded eyes, looking pleased with himself, like a fat cat who thinks he owns the world after eating an entire can of premium cat food, the kind with gravy and niblets, the kind that costs more than a hamburger.
“Good morning,” he said, the edges of his mouth twitching.
He beckoned us closer, and timidly, Josh and I complied. Mr. Abiba stared at me, his nose twitching. “Angela Taylor, my sweet. Ah! You look…” He sniffed, long and deep. “Absolutely lovely. Ravishing, in fact.” Two spots of color rose on his cheeks, making his smile look ghoulish.
Josh stiffened at my side.
My eyes flew to Zenith, who was sitting at Mr. Abiba’s side. His arm was around her, hiding her hand. She nodded at me, her eyes shadowed, giving away nothing.
Zenith.
I felt faint. How was she? How was her finger? Did she know what Josh and I had been up to on the stairs? Did they all know?
Josh clutched my hand.
“So good of you to join us!” said Mr. Abiba, his eyes lingering on my thighs, my hips, my belly, my chest, my face. Did he realize my smile was fake? That I was holding on by a thread? That not fifteen minutes before I’d experienced lust such as I’d never known existed and that none of it, not one iota of it, had been for him? That what I felt for him was a cold morass of loathing and fear? Mixed with—I admit it—admiration for his joy in everything erotic and jaw-dropping awe of his sexual aids. I was a squirmy mess but Mr. Abiba didn’t seem to be aware of it. Or perhaps he knew my every emotion in great detail and he just didn’t care.
“My darlings! Do take a seat.”
He motioned for me to sit in the vacant chair at his side. That left a seat for Josh at the other end of the table, about as far away from me as possible. We shared a quick look. Why go to such lengths to separate us? Did Mr. Abiba know what we were up to? That we were planning to engage his Guides in active revolt?
“Sit down, I said.”
Reluctantly we sat.
Mr. Abiba took Zenith’s hand—the hurt one—in his own, lacing his fingers with hers as if he owned her. Then, for my benefit and for Josh’s, he held up their joined hands, making sure we were watching. We were. Lord, how could we not be? We couldn’t tear our eyes away. Zenith’s hand was unbandaged. Unbloodied. Unhurt but for a thin line of pale scar tissue near the tip of her little finger…which was clearly, undeniably intact. I shot a quick, horrified look at Josh, but his eyes remained glued on Zenith.
“All right then!” boomed Mr. Abiba, ignoring our dazed reactions. He let his hand and Zenith’s fall to his lap, his objective accomplished. “What a shame you missed our merry-making! We were telling stories for each other—rousing tales of our histories, of our accumulated sexual triumphs and erotic missteps. My goodness, such entertaining adventures!” He laughed loudly, throwing his head back, his chest shaking. “You simply must ask Geoffrey about the time he and Jonathan lost their minds over their good friend who… Ah, but I mustn’t spoil the punch line. Delightful. Delightful!” He stopped laughing then, as if a switch had been thrown. “But my dears, time is passing. We must move on to the next item on the agenda. Angela, Joshua—eat up! Zettia is already starting to clear the table.”
So they hadn’t been laughing at us after all? I frowned, confused and unhappy. The laughter wasn’t important, not really, not in the scheme of things. What I really wanted to know was what in God’s name had happened to Zenith’s finger?
And then a voice, gloating and boastful.
Angela. Oh Angela.
Inside my head, insistent, speaking to me and only to me. An invasion of my mind, an unwanted jolt of someone else’s thoughts where only mine should be.
You think you know me but you don’t.
Mr. Abiba. Of course it was Mr. Abiba. Who else could it be?
You have no idea what I’m capable of. None!
I held my breath, trying to force him out of my head. It didn’t work.
You want to play mental games with me? You want to engage me in a game of endurance, of strength, of passion? Then we shall play! I shall give the lady what she wishes for. Let it begin.
The presence in my head—Mr. Abiba—faded away. I was left gasping for air, wondering what had just happened to me. Like so many other things in this wretched inn, the words I’d heard were already starting to fade away, going dim in my memory. I was left staring at the empty plate in front of me, counting the tines on my unused fork, picking at the corner of my napkin, wondering if I were the insane one, not Mr. Abiba.
“Eat,” said Mr. Abiba in his regular voice, all smiles now. “We don’t have all day.”
I reached out and took the last blueberry muffin from a platter, feeling heavy, as if I were moving through breakfast porridge. Josh took an
almond croissant but neither of us made a move to eat the pastries we’d chosen. I didn’t feel well. My head hurt. My genitals ached. I couldn’t stop worrying about Zenith’s hand. I stared glumly at my muffin, trying to remember what the voice in my head had said. Why was it so hard to remember? And why did I suddenly feel so odd? I stole a baffled look at Zenith but she was studying a puddle of leftover syrup on her plate. Her face was carefully blank.
Mr. Abiba clapped his hands. “Today is special,” he announced. He looked slowly around the table, letting his gaze fall on each of us in turn. “It’s Wednesday, my lovelies. The halfway point of our journey together! And what a journey it’s been. Ah, the memories we have shared! The apexes worthy of heaven itself. The friendships, the passions, the sexual explorations.” He sighed long and loud. “It’s enough to make an old man’s heart sing. Indeed it is.”
I glanced at the others, thinking, But he isn’t old anymore! Haven’t the others noticed?
“And now, my dear guests, it’s time to thank you for all you’ve given me. Zettia, leave those dishes be. Bring in the gifts!”
Zettia turned, holding a donut platter and an almost-empty dish of those tiny sausages Logan adored. She smiled benignly at Mr. Abiba, shaking her head. “In a moment, Adi dearest. Must you always be in such a hurry? One must learn to wait for the good things in life.” She accepted a stack of dirty dishes from Rhonda-Lynne, a handful of serving spoons from Jonathan and a dispenser of fresh strawberry syrup from Vane. She stacked everything slowly and neatly, picked it all up and disappeared into the kitchen.
I shared a look with Josh. Was Zettia the only person allowed to talk back to Mr. Abiba?
Who is she? I wondered again.
In silence, Zettia bustled back and forth from the kitchen, graceful and tall, so very tall. When the table was cleared of each plate and napkin and salt shaker and stray blueberry and Mr. Abiba looked as if he were about to expire from fidgety impatience, she carried in the first armload of gifts, all shiny and perfectly wrapped in gold tissue paper and shimmering ribbons and fluttering bows. She set them down in the center of the table, then went back for more.
I was intrigued in spite of myself. Who doesn’t like a gift?
Mr. Abiba was smiling again. He held out an arm and caught Zettia’s hand in his as she passed by him. “You were right, my dear! As always. So much better to have a clean table to show them off. My darlings! Send the boxes my way, won’t you? That’s right—scoot them down the table. Let me pass them out! This feels like a birthday party. Oh what fun.”
Within a minute all the boxes were in front of him. Big ones. Small ones. Long, narrow ones. Several boxes so large that they sat on the floor beside him. Everyone at the table leaned forward, studying them, wondering what they held, trying for a glimpse of a tag. Mr. Abiba wasted no time. He took the nearest box—the largest one on the table—and glanced at Rhonda-Lynne. He smiled. “Ah, yes. A perfect gift. Delivered especially for you, my dear Embroidery Queen.” He laughed, delighted, like a child at a birthday party. “And I wrapped it myself.”
Rhonda-Lynne sucked in her breath. “You did? For me?”
Graciously—the perfect, benevolent host in every way—Mr. Abiba nodded. He nudged the box toward her outstretched arms. Rhonda-Lynne tore away the paper, her face a picture of radiant glee. I studied her, trying to remember how happy she’d looked when I got around to painting her portrait in the Fine Arts Room, forgetting for a moment that I had no intention of painting a single thing more, ever, for that monster.
Rhonda-Lynne shrieked. “A sewing machine!”
It was top of the line, spectacular, complete with hundreds of stitches and programmable embroidery patterns. “The machine will facilitate your finish work, if I’m not mistaken. Just as we discussed the other day?” asked Mr. Abiba, leaning forward on his elbows.
The look Rhonda-Lynne gave him was one of pure joy. “Yes,” she whispered, patting her new machine. “Exactly like we talked about. I didn’t know you were actually listening.”
“I always listen. Don’t you know that?”
“I do now.”
We all did.
He passed out gift after gift. Geoffrey received a personal note from a leading Hollywood director who promised to read his newest screenplay, take him out to dinner and introduce him to the right people. Logan received a camera with three scary-looking lenses. Tim received two tickets to Machu Picchu. And so on. Each gift was better than the last, each perfect in every way for its intended recipient. Soon there were only two gifts left. Josh’s, and mine.
Mr. Abiba lifted a large oblong package onto the table. “This one is special, even by my standards,” he said to my husband, his voice wavering, sounding suddenly shy. “Come—stand next to me. Open it in front of me, will you?”
My God. Mr. Abiba blushing? Would he never cease to amaze me?
Josh rose to his feet. He made his way to the head of the table and stood beside Mr. Abiba. I scooted my chair over to give him space. He reached for the box. Picked off a bit of tape. Pulled back a flap of gold tissue paper. Saw something that made him choke up, made his eyes fill with tears. “I can’t,” he whispered, patting the torn paper ineffectually back over it, shoving the package away. “No, it’s too much. I can’t.”
“Oh yes, you certainly can,” said Mr. Abiba.
Josh stood there, motionless except for his poor bruised fingers, which twitched and jerked and tapped on the tabletop, quivering, shaking, never stopping their frenetic movements, making me wonder what the gift was, anyway.
And then I knew. The antique guitar. It had to be.
Josh’s mouth worked. Slowly, so slowly, he removed every shred of paper and ribbon from the gift and set them aside. The rest of us watched, captivated—could it be, could it be—as he revealed a leather guitar case of purest Raw Umber. A soft sigh went around the room. The case was an old, well-loved thing, scratched and mottled by time and use, one of its buckles bent and misshapen, a long shallow gouge on the top, a stain near the end. It spoke of times gone by, of a cherished instrument with a long history of its own. Josh caressed the leather, his eyes almost closed. “I can’t,” he said again, but I knew he would.
Mr. Abiba waited.
Josh flipped up the latches—snap, snap, snap—then lifted the top. His shoulders hunched almost to his ears as he leaned over the open case, studying tuning pegs and frets and strings and nail marks and the minute, precious details of the rosette. A gentle almost-whistle escaped his lips. He gingerly plucked a string, tentative, as if he’d never played a guitar before, as if he hadn’t performed a small recital on this very instrument. He plucked it again, rich and soft. The low E? The A? I didn’t know. I didn’t care. It was beautiful. Josh dampened the sound with the palm of his hand.
“Well?” said Mr. Abiba.
Josh, his hand still on the guitar, turned to look at him. “I accept. And with all my heart, I thank you.”
Mr. Abiba nodded, smiling gently. “And with all my heart, I say you are most welcome.”
“It’s too much.”
“No, it is not. I know you, Joshua Taylor. I know you will cherish it. I know you will do it justice. And I know that one day you will pass it along to another young musician, one who is as deserving as you are.”
Josh didn’t answer. He patted the guitar one last time, closed the case, buckled it, then lifted it from the table. Then he went back to his chair at the far end of the room and placed the case at his feet with his hand draped over it as if it were a beloved pet. I watched, frowning, hoping I might be able to resist Mr. Abiba’s gift, whatever he had in store for me. What game was Mr. Abiba playing? Why torment us then turn around and shower us with affection and gifts we couldn’t refuse?
Did he enjoy making us squirm, making us struggle?
Worst of all, why did I so very badly want to like him again?
Mr. Abiba turned to me. My turn. I gasped. Already tensing up. Already struggling.
“Angela,�
�� he said, his face somber. He spoke slowly, enunciating every word. “My dear. Why are you so furious with me?”
I sat there, dumbstruck, my mouth working, no sound coming out.
“Come now, Angela,” Mr. Abiba said, “stop prevaricating.”
What could I say? I couldn’t accuse him of having hurt Zenith because, obviously, he couldn’t be trusted not to do it again—not to do something worse. And I couldn’t let on that Josh and I were trying to escape, or that we were set on getting help from the other Guides. So…what? What could I tell him? The longer I wallowed in speechless confusion, the worse it was and the guiltier I looked. So I threw up my hands and blurted out the least dangerous accusation I could think of. “Fine. Fine! You’re right! I ampissed off. You tricked Josh and me—just now, on the stairs.”
He banged his hand onto the table, making it rattle, making me jump. “I knew it! Your eyebrows were scrunched up in a most unbecoming manner, my darling.”
I tried to unscrunch my eyebrows. I couldn’t do it, which made me even more furious.
Mr. Abiba made a concerned clucking sound with his tongue. “Then you must grow a thicker skin, my dear. Everything we do here is in good fun. No one is out to get you.”
He moved to pat my shoulder but I twisted away, feeling more surly than I had in my entire life. I couldn’t let him mangle the truth so blatantly! “All in good fun, Mr. Abiba? Bullshit! You manipulated Josh and me into it!”
“Ah. The lovely handjobs.”
I didn’t answer.
“What is the harm in a bit of tomfoolery? Who was hurt by it? Hmm?”
“That’s not my point.”
Mr. Abiba spoke in low, calming tones, a teacher now. “It’s a beautiful thing, Angela, to try new ways of apexing. To practice the sexual arts my Guides have been teaching you—sexual arts that I myself have codified and refined and made available to all. Apexing is a bountiful, life-affirming thing, truly it is. Do you not agree?”
