Forbidden To Say No - The Billionaire's Plaything (An Erotic Romance Novel)

by Ashley Spector

  I don't even feel his hands leave my body. Moments later, I look around, and see nothing but black. The dingy blue glow of the set is behind me now, and I'm too scared to go back. I put a forearm over my breasts, and another between my legs, to hide the faint last bit of modesty I possess, and walk. I don't know where, I don't really care right now. It's cold, and I'm naked and alone.

  I stub my toe against something; hard, thick, and wide. I look down, squinting my eyes in the remorseless, guilty darkness, and see a trunk. Is this - yes, costume! I pull something out, without even seeing it first - a dress that feels just the faintest bit fusty and itchy - and begin putting myself into it, feeling for the first time the awaited tinge of sad, embarrassing anxiety over what just happened. God, what just happened?!

  I've been cast out of the billionaire's affections, naked, darkened, and alone. Even as I find the emergency exit, pushing the horizontal handle down with all of my weight, and feeling the beaming California Sun once again on my pale skin, I still feel blackened. Tainted. Dirtied. I look at myself - and the ridiculous, pink and white full-length dress I wear, complete with frilly cuffs and flowery patterns, looking like something out of the 19th century - and have to hold back tears. No, Chloe, don't. Not hear, you're stronger than this!

  I storm away from the studio lot as quickly as I can, barely making eye contact with the security guard as I leave. Barely-crying woman, dressed as a pirate bride, running from the premises; I'm sure they see it all the time in Hollywood.

  Even now, I can't rid my mind of the sight of those scars, snaking up and down his body. What haven't you told me Daniel? I don't suppose it's a question I'll ever hear answered. I don't suppose I'll ever see him again. Only when I climb onto the bus, walking dejectedly - my head slung low from my shoulders - do I begin to cry.

  Chapter Twelve

  "What the fuck are you wearing?" is my sister's only fucking greeting, standing in her old spot in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, blocking my only route of escape. For a moment I consider answering her, before the rushing, flooding surge of tears driven from my tear ducts threatens to overwhelm me once again, and I hold my tongue. Being a prosecutor, though, she's adept at finding evidence of guilt. "Wait, have you - have you been crying?"

  I charge - pushing past her with all my despondent might - and storm straight to my bedroom, a route I'm used to trekking by now. The door slams shut, and I resume my usual position, leaning against it with my back, my head in my hands, and my fingers in my ears, blocking out everything in the world but my own painful memories. But it's not enough.

  "Chloe? Chloe?" she calls from behind the door, reaching out to that last shred of sisterly love inside me, that hasn't been overwhelmed by this absurd infatuation with the billionaire. "I think we need to talk, Chloe."

  I nod to myself, battling back another round of tears.

  "I'll be out in an hour or two. Just - just -" I'm back to my old stuttering self, wracked by nerves, trembling with guilt, and radiating embarrassed heat from my blushing cheeks. "Just let me change."

  "Change?" she asks, oblivious to the fact I might not just refer to my stolen dress. After a moment, she gets the picture. "Okay. Sure. I'll be waiting."

  My head sinks back into my hands, and I set my mind to work. I need to snap out of this. Whatever just happened this morning is a blip. A momentary lapse in my character. I'm an actress, and an actress I must remain. I have to go back inside my shell. And stay there.

  ***

  "Okay. I think I'm ready to talk."

  "Good," she says, sliding over to the other side of the couch, leaving me a nice, inviting space to sit in. Something's different about this place. I didn't notice at first, but now that I look around, something's changed.

  "You tidied up" I finally blurt out, realizing the absence of pizza boxes, popcorn cartons, and empty tubs of hastily-guzzled ice cream. I feel another tinge of guilt that I didn't help out. It'll pass.

  "Sit down."

  I do as she says, dropping to the couch, still slightly distracted by the unusual cleanliness of our environment together. Maybe this is my chance to come clean; to tell her about the sordid sex games, the enigmatic billionaire, the strange and dangerous delights I've discovered in pain.

  "So there was a guy" I begin, planting my palms firmly upon my knees, newly clad in jeans, hiding as much of my burn-marked skin as possible.

  "You should have said," she says, with a consoling hand upon my knee. She's close to touching one of my many wax-burns. Luckily for me she doesn't. "I just thought you were concentrating on acting. I didn't know you were, you know, on the prowl."

  She grins, and for a moment it's like looking into a picture of confidence; a mirror-image of all the carefree jokes and ease I wish I had. Black hair combed nearly around her shoulders, just like I wear my own, and eyeliner thinly applied, but still very noticeable. How is it that we're so different, yet look so very identical?

  "I wasn't. I don't know how I got into this. But now it's over."

  "Chloe, you know, it’s an old saying, that's put around a lot, and that never stops being so annoying and insulting, but it's true." I raise an eyebrow, questioning just where she's going with this. "But, there are plenty more fish in the sea."

  Not like this one there isn't. I sigh, and for a moment I'm transported back to the audition, to the restaurant, to the bland, characterless room in his penthouse, and the armoire. And to the final set: the cabin, as superficial and characterless as anywhere else. And then it hits me, the perfect way to describe my entire relationship with Daniel Grant.

  "It was superficial," I say proudly, looking through her, firmly in a world of my own, and trying to put the L word out of my mind. "All of it. No character, no personality. No feelings, and no history."

  I'm lying again. Of course there are feelings. But I know I'll never be anything but Miss Everett to him. The professional; the bland and characterless foil to his various sadistic impulses. I can't deny it: I like the sex. I like the tension, and the restraint, and the chance to give myself completely and totally to another human being. I like having my choices taken from me. And I like not having to rely on my own nervous, overly-anxious mind. I even like the pain. But I know what it is now.

  "What do you mean?" she asks, her grip on my knee intensifying, using that prosecutorial nerve to extract everything she can from me.

  "It's like a film set. It's designed, painted, and sculpted. Used, and then thrown away, never to be seen again but in memory."

  My entire relationship with Daniel Grant; a procession of meetings, pre-planned by himself to the minutest detail. Designed to stretch my boundaries and sculpt me into the person he wants. Painted with sexual tensions and sculpted with the promise of something more. But never becoming anything other than the ever-professional, utterly domineering sex. It's telling that the closest I possibly got to Daniel wasn't his cock inside me, but the coffee after 'work'. A pure look into his real personality.

  "You've thought about this a lot, haven't you?"

  I nod, resolute in my intentions.

  "Well, are you happy?"

  Of course I'm not. I miss him already. But then again, do I truly miss him, or the person he made me? I for once felt confident. Confident enough to rip off his shirt and expose a side of him that he didn't want to show.

  "I don't know."

  A knock at the door startles us both, sending me jolting upwards, and my sister looking around desperately, thinking to herself whether or not she'd invited anyone over today.

  "Fuck, whoever that is, they're leaving."

  She springs to her feet, and true to the venom in her voice, storms out of the room. I hear another eager knock at the door, and resign myself back to my imagination, delving back into the morning's events, and ashamedly feeling a spark of excitement between my legs at the very memory of those dripping beads of wax. And then I hear it: the very thing in the world I expected to hear least.

  "Chloe, please, can
I come in?"

  It's him; that voice, so deep, and so controlled, yet betrayed by a certain tone of sadness. I spring upright, every muscle in my body tensed. He's here? In my flat? For me?! What does he want? To apologize? To explain himself? My hands are shaking. My heart is thumping angrily. My mouth is dry. He called her Chloe?

  "Uhm, I'm not Chloe" my sister replies, sounding more than a tiny bit awestruck at the assertive body that stands at our door. "I'm Chloe's sister. Her twin. Are you -"

  "Please can I see her?"

  I never thought I'd hear Daniel Grant plead for anything, ever. All of a sudden I'm standing up - I don't even remember getting to my feet - and walking to the kitchen, possessed by some deep, dark impulse.

  "Carissa," I say, standing at the doorway, looking upon him again so soon. "It's okay. Let him in."

  She turns away from the door, and smiles at me giddily, realizing that yes, it's who she thinks it is. She'd always dig her head into the celebrity magazines more than I would. She might even know more about him than me. Then again, maybe not.

  He strides into the room, his thick and imposing frame as proud and forceful as I've ever known it, but his face a confused mixture of emotions. His hair is a mess; jet black tufts of hair sticking out here and there, and his eyes seem to have lost a certain sparkle.

  "I'll be in my room" says my twin sister, hastily leaving, and closing the door behind her. And once more, I'm alone with the billionaire.

  "I feel should -" he pauses, hesitating slightly, whatever he planned to say being caught on the tip of his tongue, before continuing: "- apologize."

  I turn around and head to the living room, and he follows. Moments later, we're sat side by side on the couch, each sat straight with our hands on our knees, staring forward at the unusual sight of a clean and tidy room.

  "It's tidy in here," he says, breaking the silence. I don't know what to say. I must admit, I feel the overwhelming urge to leap back into his arms. Superficial or not, I like it. I love it. But I'm stronger than that. Daniel speaks again: "I shouldn't have done that."

  "Done what?"

  "Throw you out like that. Naked." Funny, I don't even hate him for it. I guess when you've spent the last few days being tortured to within an inch of your pain threshold you'll make these curious allowances. "I panicked. I made a mistake. I shouldn't have acted so rashly. Forgive me."

  He's spitting words at me quicker than my nervous, surprised, and agitated brain can process them. I haven't quite gotten used to the sight of him here; here, on my very couch! For a second I lose my mind to the idle relief that Carissa tidied this place before he could see it in its full squalid glory. There I go again; too eager to please.

  "You know Carissa will recognize you?"

  "I don't care."

  We're sat only inches apart, yet it feels like a great expanse. He rests his chin on his palms there, dug neatly into his knees, and contemplates his next move. I'm used to seeing this from him, but the loss of that confident, controlled exterior is something remarkable.

  "Let's go for a walk. I've a lot of things to tell you."

  Before I can answer, he's already leapt to his feet, turned around, and extended a gracious hand out to me to aid my ascent. With aching knees and stinging wrists, I follow his lead, and try to keep pace as he flies out of the flat. Only when we're back outside, enjoying the shade of a deciduous in the courtyard does he stop, and prop himself against the trunk, reaching into that same black suit jacket for a pair of sunglasses. I stare into his stomach, mentally prizing aside the lapels of his jacket, delving deep into his hidden scars. I think he notices.

  "Not many people know what you know."

  Again, my self-righteous urge to please kicks in again; I grab the initiative and make my apologies.

  "I'm sorry Daniel, I was uhm -" Too big for my boots? Forgetting my place? "I was having too much fun."

  "What do you know about me?" he asks, completely ignoring my prior apology. Glowing orange rays pierce the canopy of trees above us, creating bright spots of gold upon his face, fluttering and dancing in the wind. His cheekbones are as prominent as ever, and his pearly white teeth are drawn to bite his bottom lip anxiously. His eyes, though, can't seem to look straight at me; always to my side, to the sky, or to the floor.

  "Uhm, well, I know you're the biggest movie producer in town."

  "But you'd never even heard of me beforehand, had you?"

  He's right. I had no idea. Otherwise I might have recognized the quiet, complacent figure in the corner of that audition just a few days ago. As it happens, I don't even know what attracts me to Daniel. His looks? His subdued charm? His domineering and sadistic ways? He inspires a spark in me that I can't explain.

  "No."

  Finally, he turns his head slightly and looks into me, those small blue eyes restrained by his sunglasses, but staring deeply into me.

  "I'm an imposter to this life. The fast cars, fast women, slow dining, whatever. It was never mine to have. It was never mine to live."

  I still don't understand. I narrow my eyes, and scratch my chin without realizing it, inching closer to him by the shade of the trees. Seconds pass, and I'm still stood staring blankly.

  "I haven't been completely honest with you yet, Miss Everett."

  A tremor rumbles down my spine, and I brace my frame against an appropriately chilling gust of wind, sending those golden spots of sun on his face dancing angrily once again. I wrap my arms around myself, as another gust of freezing cold wind bites against my skin. My wax burns still ache and itch slightly below my shirt, a cruel reminder of this whole fucked up relationship. Suddenly, he shivers too, his body wracked by trembling in the harsh, cold shade.

  "I've got a movie for you to watch."

  Okay, that's unexpected. He pulls a black, coverless DVD case out of his jacket pocket, making me wonder just what else he might be hiding in there. Pushing it into my hands, he seems only too happy when he's finally rid of the thing, and breathes a visible sigh of relief, exhaling deeply.

  "Watch it. You'll be surprised."

  I'm speechless once again; he comes here to apologize, and ends up giving me a free movie?

  "What is this?"

  "A home movie."

  I open the case, and find a blank, unmarked DVD inside; no print, no sharpie writing, nothing. Looking back at him, he's assumed my own pose; arms wrapped around himself, chin dug into the collar of his shirt. I guess it's getting cold out here.

  "Watch it."

  And with that, he leans in to me, and presses a kiss upon my forehead. I have a thousand questions; I want nothing more than to call his name, halt him in his tracks, and ask just what the fuck all this schizophrenic posturing is all about. I can't help but feel all of this is playing out like some bad thriller, and I'm the leggy brunette who's going to die in the end. He turns his back to me, and without dedicating another glance to my bemused expression, walks to the street.

  "Daniel!" I cry, losing myself to the melodramatic mystique of this entire situation. He opens the door of a parked car - black, and shining blindingly in the summer's sun - and peels off his sunglasses, looking into me with those blue eyes for a final time.

  ***

  I pull my bed sheets up to my cheeks, wanting nothing more than to disappear within them totally, before finally exposing one timid arm outside to grasp the DVD case once more. I toss over the possibilities in my mind; a secret recording of our times together? Would he really dare? Or perhaps a recording direct from his attorney's office, explaining the finer points of the contract I signed, and the various obligations I have to my employer. The contract; I'd forgotten about it until now somehow.

  Eventually I kick up the courage to retrieve my laptop from the corner of my room, and after a few more nervous breaths, put the solitary, unmarked DVD into the drive, waiting for whatever devilish revelations await me. Home movies? What did he mean by that?

  So far so good; darkness. No video, no sound. Two minutes of this, in fa
ct. You're really keeping me on the edge of my seat here Daniel. Then, my train of thought is derailed by a flash of text upon the screen, white and faded somewhat:

  Flowers Of Bosnia: Rough Cut (1993)

  Dir: Alan Wilde, Produced by Conrad Grant

  A rough cut of a movie? A movie produced by Conrad Grant? I pause it, quickly, pointing my browser to wikipedia, and immediately look up the names; Alan Wilde, a British documentary maker currently working in Europe. Conrad Grant is as I'd expect: the multimillionaire producer, who died some seven years ago, the avowedly reclusive father of Daniel Grant.

  I listen out for a moment, thinking I hear Carissa traipsing around outside my door. She isn't, but I enjoy the silence nonetheless. Why is Daniel showing me one of his father's films? And what the fuck does this all have to do with the horrific scars he's been hiding from all of us for so long?

  With more than a moment's hesitation, I drag my mouse back to the big 'PLAY' button in the middle of the media player menu, and draw my knees back up to my chin, wrapping my arms around them lovingly. It's too hot in here - the last shivers of California sun are rifling their way through my blinds, creating a sweaty, humid atmosphere in here - but not that I'd notice right now. I gulp loudly, and as the screen turns back to black, my mind begins racing once more.

  "The Bosnian War started little over a year ago," begins the voice-over, a deep and heavily accented tone. "There is no end in sight."

  Roughly shot scenes of battle; tanks, howitzers, and other such machines of destruction crawling across patchy, grass-strewn roads and grey landscapes. Grainy, under-lit scenes of women, children, and forlorn looking men, some staring straight into the camera, some staring right past it. Buildings aflame. Chunks of parking lots and tower blocks blown clean off in mortar fire, and debris scattered over tiled town squares. I've seen this kind of thing before; war documentaries on the History Channel, although I never dedicated much thought to them.