by Kenya Wright
Love and friendship?
I checked out the lines again. Bronte had a simplicity with her poetry. Although she used metaphors, it all made more sense than others from that century. In the poem, Love represented the wild rose-briar; Friendship served as the holly tree.
The holly is dark when the rose-briar blooms
But which will bloom most constantly?
Yet wait till winter comes again
And who will call the wild-briar fair?
Surely, Bronte believed that love and friendship were significant in life. She presented the beauty of love blossoming and the longevity and sturdiness of friendship, when everything was cold. I had always taken this particular one as saying that love was good, but friendship stood the test of time, when love failed.
So why would he send this to me? Are you saying you want to be my friend? Huh? Is this an interview or are you courting me?
Laughter fled from my lips. There was no way he was courting me. There had to be another reason. Something else was going on that I couldn’t figure out. But still, my skin tingled and I didn’t really feel like spending time with my poet. Now, I wanted to get ready for London.
Why did Roman choose me to do an exclusive interview with?
Malcolm looked over my shoulder. “Who are the flowers from?”
I stepped away from him. “Uh. . .a friend. So. . . like I said earlier. I have to go on a business trip, but we should totally meet up, when I get back.”
“I would love to see you again, Emily.”
“Me too.”
He leaned down to kiss me, but that card’s poem stayed on my mind. Sadly, I stepped back and gave him a thumbs up. “So I’ll see you later.”
Malcolm got the message and nodded his head. “Okay. I gave you my number. Please use it.”
“I will.”
Once he left, I picked up my roses and headed into the apartment.
Love and friendship? Am I looking too deeply into this? Probably? He probably sent the poem because we had the same name. It’s probably nothing.
By the evening, I was browsing Roman’s file some more, trying to prepare some questions for him. The pictures and few gossip articles told me nothing about him. And staring at his pictures didn’t help. Instead, I ended up daydreaming about what his voice probably sounded like. Did it have a deep tone? Or had he been cursed with some scratchy noise? I hoped for the scratchy voice as I studied more of those half nude shots and wondered what the erotic nature of his parties could be?
By morning, I had more questions, but none of them could be used for a proper interview.
I really should have slept with Malcolm. I’m super horny this morning.
I might have spent more time than I needed to in the shower, playing with myself and thinking of him. I figured, I could let it all out. Get over that simple attraction now. I mean, I’d just seen some pictures of him. It was no need to go crazy.
So I fantasized about Roman. We made love everywhere—on the beach, him thrusting in me, as I lay on that same black sand in his photo shoot. He moaned my name and my body throbbed from just his voice—dark and deep and crumbling my soul.
He took me on his private plane. He was a millionaire. I was sure he could rent one, if he didn’t have it. We fucked right on the leather seats of his plane. He poured champagne over my naked body. Bubbles streamed down my stiff nipples and spilled into my hungry sex. And the entire time, Roman lapped the champagne off my pussy, taking long licks and making his tongue twist all over my clit.
I rocked into my vibrator as I would rock into him. I imagined his cock, thick and long. Big at the top, a size I could wrap my mouth around and suck for days. Oh holy fuck. I came hard in my shower. Steam fogged the glass walls, rising all around me as I moaned, “Roman!”
All the lust emptied out of me. It all poured away and ran down the drain. Panting, my breasts jiggled as I caught my breath. My nipples tingled, but that crazy burning inside of me was gone.
Okay. I’m good. I’ll be fine.
Later, Roman’s driver picked me up on time and took me to the airport. He had an interesting accent that reminded me of the middle east. The flight took seven hours and the ticket was a first class seat.
Roman continued catering to me. He had booked a top suite for me at Waldorf Hilton in London's West End. Dripping in luxury, the five-star establishment was only five hundred feet from The Royal Opera House. This was the first time someone had hooked me up so nicely. Usually, I got a cheap room in the rough part of town and had to use Wi-Fi at some local café.
Style draped the space. Plasma-screen TVs hung on every room’s wall, even both of the private bathrooms, full of Edwardian marble and chrome sinks. My small dining area had the nerve to have chandeliers dangling from the ceiling. When I opened my window, I could see the greatness of London’s Westminster—high end shopping from Chanel to Burberry, top theaters, and manicured parks.
But that wasn’t the surprise of the day. On my lovely queen-sized bed sat a huge blue satin-covered box with big red bows. A smaller box lay next to it, done in black and white polka dots with another red bow on top.
This must be the dress and mask.
On the top of the biggest box, a card lay. I opened it, and again, he had written another poem. This one, I knew well. It was W.B. Yeats’ Leeda and the Swan.
A sudden blow: the great wings beating still
Above the staggering girl, her thighs caressed
By the dark webs, her nape caught in his bill,
He holds her helpless breast upon his breast.
How can those terrified vague fingers push?
The feathered glory from her loosening thighs. . .
I stopped reading and remembered what I knew about the poem. Although Yeats was talking about an innocent girl named Leeda, a god had seen the girl, shifted into a swan, and then raped her.
Why the hell would he pick that poem? These poems are getting weirder and weirder.
I opened the box. I gasped.
What lay within was a thing of immense beauty. I’d never seen anything more elegant so close up. The ball gown was all white satin and beautiful feathers. Like the poem, it looked like a swan princess would wear it—all flowing and fluttering. A hoop skirt came with it, resembling something more from the 18th century than from modern times. The top had a vintage look that was a corset with molded cups and light padding for support. I touched the inside and felt the boning within the soft fabric. On the front, crystals adorned the corset’s paneling and revealed a sweetheart neckline with rows of pearls. A jeweled butterfly lay in the center.
How much is this? Are these pearls real?
The back boasted double row hooks and closures that were hidden under more satin. The ball gown’s skirt was a mixture of taffeta, circular petals, and ostrich feathers that had to have been sewn on by hand. The job appeared too perfect.
My God. Am I supposed to wear this?
A giddiness rushed through me. I hadn’t dressed up since the prom. It was nice to finally have an interview that provided some luxury and elegance.
If this is how entertainment interviews go, I might do more. Luxury hotels, gowns, and poetry. Sign me up. I should’ve shifted from politics to entertainment long ago.
I opened the polka dot box. A white mask lay inside. Or maybe I should’ve considered it more of a headpiece. A swan’s face decorated the right side. The mask would show my eyes, lips, and cheeks but the rest of me would be covered. It was bigger than I thought it would be. Richly decorative, the whole thing was done in a beaded white lace. Crystals and pearls outlined the eyes. Ostrich feathers stuck high in the air on both sides like small wings. Gold made up the swan’s beak.
Goodness. How extravagant is this party going to be?
A knock came at the door.
I set the mask back in the box and rushed over, hoping it wasn’t him. I looked like hell. My afro had not been detangled yet. My hair usually did its own thing after I washed it, falling w
herever it decided to hang and curling in any direction it desired.
Someone knocked again.
“Yes?” I looked through the peep hole.
“I’m Gloria,” a woman said.” Mr. Meade sent us over. I’ll be doing your hair and make-up.”
“O-kay.” I opened the door.
Two elegant women strolled in. The other one waved. “I’m Frieda. I’ll be helping you get dressed.”
She walked over to the gown and mask as if she’d put it there herself. “You’ll find some of the parts in the gown and mask, difficult to understand. I can’t help you with much, but I’ll try.”
Huh?
“For example,” she whispered, leaned toward me, and picked up the mask. She turned it over so that I could see the back and still her voice remained super low. “There are things that may seem weird.”
Not getting what she was saying, I looked down to see what she was touching. A tiny ear bud stuck out of the mask’s back as if I was supposed to have it in my right ear while wearing it.
What would I need to listen to? What the hell is going on?
Playing it cool, I cleared my throat. There was a reason the woman hadn’t just yelled it out. Did she not trust the other girl? Or had someone bugged my room? I’d dealt with some real scumbags in politics and was used to being spied on, when I got too close to a story.
Something’s going on. Roman sent two odd poems, that really don’t go together. One talked about how friendship was better than love. The other talked about a god raping a girl. And now he or somebody has an ear piece in my mask. What will I be listening to? Is this for the party or for something even bigger?
Exhilaration surged through my blood and drowned out my horniness. This was no longer some routine interview with a hot guy. This was getting mysterious and intriguing. There was a story here. I could smell it all over the gown and mask. Roman had something to say, and for whatever reason, he was going to great lengths to tell me, without truly telling me.
Why?
“Are you excited to meet, Mr. Meade?” Frieda tousled my hair as if trying to figure out what she would do.
“Yes, I’m very excited to meet him.”
“Good. I’m sure he won’t disappoint. No woman ever forgets an encounter with Roman Meade. I’ve heard stories.”
“I would love to hear some.”
Frieda and Gloria exchanged glances, telling me that they probably knew each other pretty well.
“Hmmm,” Gloria said. “We may not have enough time for that. It would take years, but we could try.”
And that was how I spent my first two hours in London. Lounging in an elegant hotel while two stylish women catered to me, detangling the mess that was my hair, decorating my face with expensive powders, helping me into my dress as if I was Queen Elizabeth herself, and filling the moments with gossip on Roman.
I had to admit, I enjoyed the whole affair, but in the back of my head, thoughts boomed.
What does Roman want? He’s prepping me for something. I can sniff a bribe a mile away. What do you need, Roman? You’ve hid from the press for so long. Why do you suddenly want it now? Are you going to reveal something? Did you commit a crime and it hasn’t come out yet, and you need some good press to soften the legal blows? What’s your story, Roman? Love and friendship? What answer are you looking for? Rape by a god? Who raped who, and how do I fit in?
CHAPTER 4
Roman
Are the caterers putting the food out? What about the staff? Are they checking on everything?
I paced in front of Hushinburgh Castle. It was a magnificent sight. Sixty acres of pink rose gardens surrounded the towering stone palace. A large pond was in the back right next to the stables.
The castle had stood the test of time through sieges—a French invasion, murders of kings and queens, and revolutionary imprisonments. Over four hundred thousand square feet, it had sixty bedrooms and even more bathrooms. One could get lost on any of the three floors. Dungeons lay below. A former knight had built it with Queen Elizabeth I’s permission and it remained here to this day, more glorious than ever.
Will she be impressed? Could this get her in the mood, before I hit her with my request?
I pulled out my phone and dialed Butter.
“Hello,” he said.
“Did the driver pick Emily up?” I asked.
“Yes, she’s on the way. She should be there within ten minutes. And she knows that you’ll be waiting by the steps for her with a silver rose.”
“Okay. What about the mask?”
“The girls said that she put the ear bud in without asking any questions.”
“Good.”
“Everything should work out fine,” Butter continued. “I checked your microphone in your mask. Emily should be able to hear any conversation that you have with someone else, no matter how far from each other you both are in the castle.”
“Okay.” I hung up, pulled out the long metal rose, and scanned all of the guests coming in. They all dressed for the part, sporting marvelous gowns, suits, and masks. For the past three months, designers from all over the world had requested information from me on the party and spent their weeks ordering expensive fabrics, beads, jewels, and feathers.
We have some real winners, tonight.
There were some magical creations out there. Stunning in more ways than one. It was a catwalk of fantastical imaginations.
Lathered in mysticism, fabric flowed and swirled around women’s legs like the underbellies of flowers swaying in the wind. Covered in dyed feathers, they sashayed toward the castle, floating birds within a tropical forest. Layers of tulle swung along hips. Volumes of silk spilled around bouncing bosoms. Rich and theatrical with gorgeous necklines. Dazzling corsets and beaded hemlines. Lace or satin. Sleeveless or wrapped in leather. The gowns shuddered as they strolled.
They were futuristic Scarlett O’Haras or maybe even some space fashion inspired by the Elizabethan period. They were sea creatures gliding alone the stoned pathway like coral underwater or even jellyfish, glowing and rippling into a dance. Silk-organza mingled with chiffon. Textures fused together, cascading up the steps as women climbed toward the castle.
The designers made love with an enchanted palette. There were so many colors—blushing reds and silvery greys, voodoo blacks and blues as pale as the sky. Virgin white and whoreish red. And the jewelry was amazing—diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and others decorated them like queens. Hundreds of butterflies stuck onto headdresses.
The accessories made me give many a second look. A few had fans decorated in pearls. Embroidered velvet cloaks draped shoulders. Satin or leather gloves covered most of their hands. Diamonds dotted peacock earrings. Jeweled skulls dangled on the boldest ears.
Even the shoes delivered. Some were bold, others bizarre. Show-stopping, they were made of many things—wood or covered in feathers, leather or formed from glass. There were heelless shoes shaped like a horse’s hooves. Silver chained heels appeared more like cages than footwear.
But as I looked further into the crowd of amazing wonders walking my way, I spotted a beautiful swan.
Emily. Does she like the gown? What if she hates the color? Oh it doesn’t matter. I’m not trying to court her; I only need her help. This isn’t about romance; it’s about saving people’s lives.
I’d designed that gown from a dream about her, but she blew it away in real life. Made it flow and sparkle even more.
Damn.
In my dream world, she walked beside me in that same gown, giggling in a foggy forest where tons of others strolled elegant and in masks. I never heard what our conversation was, just that we both enjoyed it, a lot. That dream had inspired the ball as Butter and I came up with our plan.
Damn. She’s more gorgeous than I thought she would be.
Looking like a graceful swan or even a sensual creature from A Midsummer Night's Dream, Emily glided forward. The white satin and ostrich feathers intermingled with her rich brown skin. She had an
understated beauty. It disarmed me, but only after gazing for several minutes. Long lashes framed her eyes as they peered out of that lovely mask. Her skin was like silk over glass.
She surpassed the two-dimensional photoshopped models that strolled around her. Emily had more to offer and I bet everyone around her knew it. Even now, men and women gazed her way and whispered. Several gave her space to stroll forward as if not wanting to ruin her beautiful catwalk to the castle.
Probably unaware of her beauty, there was a shyness in her steps, although she held her head high and smiled at anyone that nodded her way.
I held my breath as soon as her gaze landed on me. She parted her lips and I wondered if that was a gasp or sigh.
I’d matched her in costume. My suit had been made from a blend of wool and silk. It boasted of exquisite tailoring, complimenting my body, but giving me room to breathe. The midnight silk gave it a dark shine. My black pants were vicuna spun with chinchilla. My cloak woven from the strands of mohair goats raised in the Camdeboo region of South Africa. Ostrich feathers outlined the bottom.
My mask was shaped like the ying yang symbol, but made of a black swan and white one. Head to tail they seemed to swim after each other on my face. A huge crystal served for the black swan’s eye. An Onyx represented the white swan’s eye. Their tails swooped along the top of my face black feathers on the right, and white on the left.
Our gazes met. And she bit her bottom lip. My cock liked that, although my brain told me to ignore it. I had to stay focused. Fucking her was not part of the plan, although I didn’t mind throwing it in there.
But later. Not now.
She made her way to me and curved those lush lips into a smile. “Hello, Mr. Meade.”
“Call me, Roman.”
She extended her hand. “Hello, Roman.”
I wrapped my fingers around hers and enjoyed the warmth. Part of me wanted to pull her into me, take a break from the plan, and have her lips on mine. “And can I call you Emily?”
“Most call me Emi.”
I licked my lips. “Emi.”
