“Definitely not. I'll talk about anything else on the planet, just not that.”
“Okay.” I look around the room for an inspirational topic and my eyes land on the plate of oatmeal and toast that Jameson doesn't look like he plans to eat. “You know what I don't understand?”
He shifts his shoulders, lolling his head to the side so he can face me. “This should be interesting. What don't you understand?”
“All of this.” I wave my arms around the room. “Who pays for it? The house, the food, the clothes, I mean, it has to come from somewhere. Where's the money coming from?”
Jameson looks nervous as he picks at the corner of his toast.
“Oh, God, I don't want to know, do I?”
He shakes his head. “No, you really don't.”
I take my own tray and carefully position myself next to him on the bed. He barely winces as the mattress shifts beneath my weight.
“Tell me anyway.”
After a minute of watching me munch on the soggy toast, Jameson takes a bit of his own. I may be imagining things, but his color already looks better. He dips his spoon into the oatmeal, taking slow, deliberate bites, stalling for as long as possible.
When he sees that I haven't forgotten my question, he lays down his spoon and reaches for the coffee.
“Half of it comes from closet supporters,” he says. “Politicians, celebrities, people with way more money than sense. They're few and far between, but their donations are sizable enough to keep this place running comfortably.”
“You mean there are people outside of this building that know about this place?”
I thought it was completely isolated. Surely if enough people knew about it, it would be common knowledge.
“Oh, yeah. Quite a few actually, and most of them are well known. You'd be surprised.”
“I doubt that, Jameson. After this place, nothing will ever surprise me any more when it comes to people and how screwed up they can be. People are twisted and backwards and, in some cases, pure evil.”
“No argument there.”
“Okay, what about the other half?”
“What?” He stares innocently out the window, as if I can't see him grinding his teeth.
“You said half of the contributions come from those people, what about the rest?”
He shakes his head, hiding his eyes behind the coffee mug.
“Jameson, if you don't tell me, I'm gonna punch you in the throat. That's all I've wanted to do to your mother since I got here. It won't be as satisfying, but I think you'll make a nice surrogate.”
“Easy on the threats there. I'm injured.” He cracks a smile.
“I'm serious, Jameson. Tell me.”
He nods toward the window he was staring at and raises his eyebrows in that challenging way of his.
“See for yourself.”
Hesitantly, because I'm not sure what I'm going to find, I set my food aside and cross the room to the window, drawing back the curtains and glancing outside.
“All I see is that other house.” I shrug, looking around the grounds. “The nursery.”
“Yup.”
Stunned, I whip my head around, daring him to tell me he's joking. From the look in his eyes, he's not.
“No way.”
“The girls. The ones born here.”
I clutch my chest to keep my enraged heart contained. “What about them?”
“When they get to a certain age, they're given the option to leave here.”
“Leave the compound?” I ask. “Doesn't that kind of defeat their purpose?”
“No.” He shakes his head. “They don't go far and they're always under Joan's control. There's a place closer to town where they can go to work.”
He puts the last word in air quotes and raises his eyebrows suggestively.
I take everything back. I can be surprised.
“I get it. So, they can stay here, or they can go sell their bodies?”
“Well, it usually doesn't last long. It's not like a life of prostitution or anything. They live there for a while, they get pregnant, they come back. It gives them a taste of the outside world while still giving Joan and her minions what she wants.”
“Eww! They let strangers impregnate them? That's disgusting!”
He nods, taking another long sip of his coffee.
“Yup, and it's encouraged. If too many of the girls stick around here, it could get messy.”
“How so?”
“Inbreeding mostly,” he shrugs before wincing in pain.
“Ugh, okay, I can't talk about this anymore. Change of subject.”
“Okay.”
Thinking back to the dining hall, I realize one of the reasons I hate Jameson's mother is because I can't figure her out. Well, here's my chance to delve a little deeper into the enigma that is Joan.
“What's your moms story? I mean, everything about this place screams 'male', so why is a female controlling everything?”
He runs a hand through his tousled hair and pushes his head further into the pillow, readying himself for sleep.
“That's a long, long, long story.”
When he doesn't say anything else, I gesture for him to start talking.
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. What the hell else do we have to do today?”
He rolls his eyes, but doesn't immediately protest, so I know I'm about to get all the juicy details.
“Get me another coffee, then we'll talk.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
“So, Joan was married before she came here.”
“Wait, what? I figured she was born here!”
Jameson holds up his hands.
“Are you telling this story, or am I?”
I pantomime a zipper closing over my mouth and proceed to make myself comfortable. This is gonna be a long one, I can feel it.
“Keep in mind, the only reason I know any of this is because I'm a nosy bastard.”
“I'll remember that. Continue.”
“Okay. Joan was married, but her husband left her to come here. His brother was a sponsor or something and knew he was having marital problems, so he suggested it. Guess the guy really jumped in with both feet.”
“Having her as a wife? I don't blame him.”
“Exactly. Well, Joan refused to let him go. His name was Charles or Charlie, I can't remember which. She followed him here, all the way to the gate.”
“Determined bitch, isn't she?”
“As right as you are, if you keep interrupting, I'm never gonna get through this before that pain pill kicks in.”
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I say, planting my hands over my mouth.
“Anyway, she was stopped at the gate and the guards told her to turn around. She wouldn't, so they took her inside. Long story short, they found Charlie, he was pissed, she wouldn't leave, so he offered her to The Children of Neutrality.”
I want to ask how that's even possible. I mean, it's a free country right? But then I realize I'm being held captive as well, so I keep my big mouth shut.
“I guess the Paramount at that time had a thing for redheads, so he accepted Joan.”
I hold my hand up, just the way I used to in elementary school. This is getting weirder by the second, and I'm thoroughly absorbed, but confused at the same time.
“What are you doing,” he laughs.
“Asking permission to ask a question.”
“Ask away.”
“What's a Paramount?”
“It's uh, it's a leader, pretty much. Joan is the Paramount right now.”
“Okay, go on.”
I'm on the edge of my seat. I really thought I had Joan pegged, but I was way off base. She's just as controlling as I initially thought, but her roots here aren't very deep, and that could be a potential weakness.
“James, the Paramount at the time, was a lot older than her, but she initiated as quickly as possible and didn't speak one word against him. She was loyal, obedient, quiet; everything that
was expected of her.”
I really want to interrupt so I can comment on his name. I thought it was unique and beautiful. Now I just realize that it literally means 'son of James'. That's lame, and a bit of a disappointment, but I stay quiet so he can continue.
“Rumor has it that while she was pregnant, James told her he loved her. He planned to change everything to be with her. Big no-no. Instead of standing by him, instead of protecting him, she went to the council. They didn't even confront him. Instead, they gave Joan an ultimatum. Him or her. He was a potential deserter, and she was expendable. Whatever she chose, they were keeping the baby.”
Jameson takes a deep breath, and I can tell the pain meds are kicking in. Before long his speech will get slurred or he'll lose his train of thought, or maybe he'll just pass out on me.
“What happened? What'd she do?”
“She... killed him in his sleep.”
“Okay, not surprising. So, because she killed him, she got to take his place? Is that it?”
“Nope,” he says with a sigh. “Nothing's ever that simple here.”
“Okay, so then what?”
“When you're a leader here, when you're the Paramount, you write out this... I guess you could call it a will. It says how you want your position to be filled in the event of your death. It's sort of a big deal. There's been some real creative crap in those things. Anyway, James, this bright fellow, wrote in that he wanted the men to fight for the seat. Not to the death, but last man standing takes it. Well, the last man standing was Charlie.”
“Joan's ex-husband?”
“Yup,” he laughs. I can tell the pills are doing their job by the dopey smile on his face. “Joan walked right up to him and smiled. They were both smiling, actually. He had dibs on her since my father was dead.”
“Ugh, that's archaic.”
“Agreed. So, she walks right up to him and he welcomes her with open arms, like everything was right in the world. She was huge and pregnant and she...”
He falls quiet, blinking so rapidly his eyes are practically closed.
“No, no, no,” I jump up and slap his cheeks to rouse him. He slaps at my hands, pissed but semi-alert. “She was huge and pregnant and she what?”
“And she stabbed him in the neck with his own knife.”
I shouldn't be stunned, but I am. Joan killed the father of her child, then turned right around and killed a man she'd been married to.
“She went into labor with me that night,” Jameson says. “Apparently, since Joan is a woman, she can't really be the Paramount, but she can hold the position until her son is able to claim it.”
“Able to claim it? What's that mean?”
I know I'm not going to like the answer. There's only one thing that could be keeping Jameson from being the Paramount, and I'm pretty certain I know what it is.
His sad eyes are unfocused as he tips his head to the side, avoiding my gaze.
“A man with no children can't be Paramount.”
And there it is... The reason Jameson isn't in charge. Why Jameson was so hesitant to go to bed with me. The hidden contraceptives, the hushed promises to leave, the careful and reserved way he touches me; I understand completely.
He refuses to produce an heir for Joan's fucked up kingdom.
“Well... shit.” That's all I can think to say.
Jameson reaches for my hand.
“My thoughts exactly.”
I let Jameson sleep for as long as he needs. When he finally seems like he's about to wake up, I head down to the kitchen to get his dinner tray. I leave mine behind. I have so much on my mind, I can't even fathom the thought of eating. Everything Jameson's told me is eating away at my insides, and it feels as if a swarm of yellow-jackets have taken up residence in my gut.
The dinner rush hasn't hit, and I don't run into anyone in the halls, so I'm spared having to speak to anyone. It's a good thing too. I'm drawn so deeply into myself that I wouldn't remember to smile and wave at the passerbys, let alone answer a simple question like 'how's Jameson doing?'
Returning to the room, I find he's doing much better than the first time he woke up. He has some color back in his cheeks and actually has an appetite. I sit back and watch as he devours a bowl of tomato soup.
“I have another question,” I say, interrupting his quiet meal.
“Shoot,” he says, dipping the corner of a grilled cheese into the murky red goop.
“Where were you when you got shot?”
His hand freezes halfway to his mouth.
“I know you don't want to talk about it, but I need to know. You wouldn't tell me then, so I want you to tell me now.”
“I was in the woods,” he answers without looking away from his food.
“Uh, yeah, I got that much. I want to know why you were in the woods.”
Jameson carefully sets his spoon down and moves his food to the bedside table.
“Do we really need to do this right now?”
Why would he say a thing like that? Doesn't he know that's going to spur my curiosity further? Now, I absolutely have to know.
“Yes. What did you do, Jameson? You didn't just go out for a hike. There was a specific reason you left that night, and I want to know what it is.”
Jameson cracks his knuckles, something I've noticed that he does when he's nervous or frustrated. It's one of his 'tells'.
“C'mon, it can't be that bad, not after what you told me about Joan,” I tease, hoping I'm right. I hope to God his indiscretions don't stack up to the likes of his mother.
He whispers something that I don't quite catch and I shake my head, indicating I didn't hear him.
“You'll hate me,” he repeats, enunciating every word.
“I won't, Jameson, I promise. Whatever you did, I know it's because they made you do it. Just tell me.”
He has to know that we're in this together, that I'm on his side and I'll back him up no matter the consequence, because I will. I have that much faith in him.
He swallows hard before nodding. I curse myself, because I know this isn't good for him. It's purely an indulgence on my part. I shouldn't be forcing him to talk about anything unsettling, yet here I am, pumping him for information.
“Usually, it's Bradley, Bobby, and Marcus that go out. Marcus had something come up, so they asked me to go with them.”
“To do what?”
Jameson looks away, no longer able to maintain eye contact with me out of shame.
“To get a girl.”
My mouth drops open and tears sting the back of my eyes. I had hoped that wasn't the case, but that's what I get for hoping.
“A girl. Out in the woods camping. Just like I was.” I let a tear or two escape. “Please tell me you're not serious.”
Jameson turns his back to me. I know that must hurt with the hole in his side, but it hurts me even more. I don't want him to shut down on me, I need him to stay open and honest, but right now, I can't say I really blame him for turning away.
“I'm sorry, Tess.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
If I have one major fault, it's being a grudge holder. I could stay mad at Jameson for years if I wanted to, but I made him a promise. I promised him I wouldn't hold what he did against him, and I won't. I know the only reason he left that night was to do what was expected of him.
So, instead of holding a grudge, I decide to tease him mercilessly. It's just easier to bury all my frustrations under a mound of sarcastic comments and witty banter.
For an entire week we stay in the room. The only time I leave is to get our food, and the only time Jameson gets out of bed is to shower. He's moving around so much better. He's almost back to his old self, which means that we'll have to rejoin the rest of them soon.
“You wanna know something weird?” I ask as I'm brushing the knots out of my wet, freshly shampooed hair.
“I would love to know something weird, especially since you thought up whatever it is while you were in the shower.”
“Ha, no, nothing like that,” I say. “I think it's weird that you haven't had any visitors. No one's been by to check on you, not even Joan. And Lyla and Daphne haven't been by to say hi or anything.”
“That's not true,” he says, holding up a finger. “Lyla came by to take our laundry to the basement.”
“Uh, she was at the door for like two seconds, and she barely spoke to me, so that doesn't count.”
“What can I say? We're not a social bunch.”
“Obviously,” I mutter.
“Actually, we did have a visitor while you were in the shower.”
I don't like the sound of that.
“Who?”
“Omar.”
We cringe at the same time. I know exactly what Omar wants and Jameson knows how uncomfortable that makes me. It's amazing how in-tune two people become once they're forced to spend an extended amount of time locked up together.
“Soon?” I ask, not needing to spell it out for him.
“Yeah. You're supposed to go see him as soon as I go back to work.”
“Well then, guess I have that little visit to look forward to.”
He shrugs. “Just be glad they put it off for as long as they did.”
Not only do I not want to visit Omar, I also don't want to see Jameson go back to work. Jameson filled me in on his 'job'. In essence, he's a sergeant at arms. A sentinel. Whenever prospective sponsors come for a visit, or when someone from the compound needs to travel outside the gates to conduct business, he's always there, keeping the peace. It's fitting, really. He was born to be a protector.
After drying my hair and throwing it up into a messy bun and donning my favorite t-shirt and shorts from Jameson's dresser, I crawl into bed with him. He's reading a book I've never heard of, and seems really into it, so I lay my head on his lap and stare at the ceiling, trying to remember what life was like outside these walls.
“What are you thinking about?”
Moving my head back to look him in the eyes, I smile innocently, as if I weren't just thinking about life pre-Jameson.
“What makes you think I was thinking about anything? This thing is a void when I want it to be,” I say, tapping my temple.
“I refuse to believe that. Mostly because this little patch of skin right here” he moves to rest his middle finger between my eyes, “it wrinkles up when you're deep in thought.”
Loving the Cult Page 11
