"X." My name, said thus, with such . . . not vulnerability, but something like it--I want to believe everything I've heard over the last few minutes.
I should say something, but what?
Abruptly, the weight is gone, and the cold statue-blank expression is in place. "I have to go."
I lie on the couch, naked and sated, confused, emotionally demolished. I watch the naked body as it is covered inch by inch with expensive clothes. Shoes, last, slipped on, tied quickly.
"Stay." I say it, hoping.
A pause. Hesitation. All I can see is a broad back, trim waist, strong legs. I cannot see the expression on that handsome, too-beautiful face. "I can't. I'll be back, though. You stay here. Don't put on clothes." A rumble, deep-chested, of some deep emotion too thick and male and tumultuous to express in mere words. "Just . . . stay. I'll be back. And X?"
"Yes, Caleb?"
"You are special to me."
I feel something in me twist and expand and bloom with hope.
Silver key, twisted. Elevator doors open, easy strides into the car, turn, and I can see a hint of the storm of emotions. There is much kept hidden, I'm realizing.
Still waters run deep, I believe the saying goes.
The elevator doors close, and I am alone.
Glance away, huge windows letting in the sunlight. Perhaps thirty minutes have passed since I entered this penthouse.
The space is mammoth. Exploring, I realize the entire uppermost floor of the building composes this penthouse, more square feet than I can count. Most of it is open space, divided here and there with half walls and paper panels, or sectioned off with long couches to create informal nooks of space. A kitchen, way off in the distance, all gleaming marble and stainless steel. A balcony, the walls themselves sliding apart and the ceiling sloping back and away out of sight to bare an outdoor area cut out of the structure of the building itself.
There, a set of elaborately painted paper panels inspired by Japanese culture, sectioning off the bedroom. Cleverly layered, three sets form a barrier so that the bedroom cannot be seen from without. A wide, low bed with a white comforter, neatly made. A nightstand on either side, empty of any effects. An actual wall forms the left side of the bedroom, and in it a doorway, leading to the bathroom.
I need a shower, I suddenly realize. I've not had one in a long time.
But when I get into the interior of the bathroom, there is a deep claw-foot tub, and I smile to myself.
I run the water hot, fill the tub. Climb in, skin scorched by the delicious heat, splashing water onto the floor. Sink down, submerged gradually until I'm immersed to my nose.
Immediately, I am assaulted by the chaos in my mind, the furious onslaught of everything I've refused to think about.
I ache between my thighs, and now that the source of that ache is gone, I feel shame, embarrassment, revulsion. Hatred. I fell for the sorcery yet again. Caleb has some way of weaving a spell over me, of making me forget all my objections and all my thoughts and everything that is logical or rational.
Caleb is a god, and gods are meddlesome . . . or so read the ancient myths. As a god, Caleb meddles with my rationality. Manipulates my body and my mind. Drowns my senses with masculine perfection, blinds me with beauty. Now, alone, I can only see the distinct parts that compose the whole, and the effect is not the same. The eyes, the mouth, the jawline; the arms, the hands, the massive musculature . . . these are Caleb. The anger, the coldness, the body heat and skillful touch, the way I can be melted down to nothing. These, too. But all together, it is more.
And I fall for it every time.
I let Caleb spin a web of words and touch, and I let--I allowed myself to be fucked, only a few short minutes after Rachel.
I am repulsed . . .
Yet also turned on.
The hatred is for myself.
And for Caleb. For twisting me around, for making me feel like I meant something. How can all my thoughts and protestations and objections be swept away so easily?
Did Caleb even shower after Rachel and before me? I doubt it. I didn't smell evidence of a shower. I lift up and twist, look behind me at the shower stall; it is dry, unused.
Do I have the mixed essences of Rachel and Caleb and me, all smeared together?
Disgust, and deeper than that, shame.
I fell for lies. Believed neat explanations and trite claims that I am special.
And yet, here I am, in this penthouse, in Caleb's tub, bathing, waiting.
The hot water pulls me under, makes me sweat, makes my eyes heavy.
Self-hatred is exhausting.
*
A noise jerks me awake, upright. I sit, splashing cool water everywhere, the ends of my hair sticking to my back. I wait, tensed, sure I heard something.
Footsteps.
"Caleb?" I sound fearful. Naked, vulnerable, disoriented from accidentally falling asleep in hot water, dizzy from overheating, I am in no shape to fend off Caleb's sorcery.
The footsteps are not Caleb's, however. Shuffled, strange. I look around for a towel, see nothing. Crossing my arms over my breasts, I crouch in the now-cool water, waiting for whoever it is to show themselves.
Shiny black shoes, first. Pants leg, waist, suit coat. It is Len, edging forward while leaning backward, walking strangely.
Ah. An arm around his throat, shiny barrel of a handgun to a temple. I recognize the hand clutching the gun, and the golden forearm wedged under Len's throat.
"X?" I hear his smooth familiar voice, first, and then he and Len are in the bathroom, Logan not quite visible behind Len.
"Logan? What--what are you doing?"
"I came to get you." The gun nudges Len's temple. "He didn't want to let me, and he lost."
I am absolutely speechless, hunched over in the tub, cowering, dripping wet, cold, shivering.
"On your knees, fucker." Logan taps Len on the back of the head with the gun barrel.
Len hesitates.
Logan presses harder, draws back the hammer. "Don't make this messy, man."
My heart stops. Len blinks, squeezes eyes shut, shoulders lift . . . and then Len slowly kneels, a heavy, lumbering motion. Logan is visible now: distressed blue jeans, scuffed black combat boots, a gray V-neck T-shirt tucked behind the buckle of his belt with the rest left untucked, sleeves stretched taut around his arms. Black hat, brim tugged low to hide his face.
"Take off your belt, shoes, and socks," Logan instructs.
Len complies, unbuckling a thin, shiny leather black dress belt, sweeping it off, then sensible black dress shoes and argyle socks.
"Lie down on your side and put your hands by your ankles."
Once again, Len complies, slowly rolling and extending wrists together. Logan, the gun still in one hand pointed at Len, shoves the end of the belt between Len's ankles and the floor, draws the tip of it over Len's ankles and wrists, feeds it deftly through the buckle, all one-handed. Tugs it taut, and then harder, until Len grunts in pain. Only then does Logan stuff the pistol in the back of his jeans. A few quick motions, and the belt is tied in a knot. One sock gets balled up and shoved in Len's mouth, the other stretched around to form what looks to be a painfully tight gag.
The whole process of tying up and gagging Len takes Logan less than thirty seconds.
"You okay?" Logan takes two quick steps to me, kneels in front of me.
His eyes are on mine, and they are the indigo of the deepest ocean blue, calm, concerned.
I nod. "Yes." But then I glance at Len, and I start shaking. "No."
"You hurt?"
"No, I'm not hurt."
He glances around, as I did, looking for a towel. He sees what I didn't, however: a cabinet hidden in the wall. He moves like liquid, retrieves a thick white towel, holds it up for me. "Come on. Easy now."
I stand up, step out. Logan's eyes remain on mine, and though I am naked in front of him, I don't feel as vulnerable as I should. He wraps the towel around my shoulders, cocooning me in it.
"Can you walk?" he asks, his voice soothing and warm in my ear.
"Yes." I take two steps, but then my knees make me a liar. I am still dizzy, disoriented. I feel sapped of strength, and thirsty. Logan's arms are around me, catching me easily. "I'm sorry. I fell asleep in the tub."
"That'll do it. You're overheated." He moves with me, twists sideways out of the door, carries me across the room in easy strides. "I need to set you down. I won't let you fall, though."
I find my feet, lean against him. I feel stronger now, but his proximity is calming, and I'm confused, tired. I never take naps, and I feel as if I've fallen through a hole in the ground into some other place. Like Alice down the rabbit hole. Nothing is right. I shouldn't be in Caleb's penthouse, and Logan shouldn't be here either.
And I certainly shouldn't feel safe in the arms of a man who just bound and gagged someone at gunpoint, using his captive's own belt and socks.
But I do.
Logan produces a key--Len's, I assume--from his pocket. Inserts and twists it to activate the elevator, which takes a moment to arrive, and then the doors open.
Logan nudges me on. "That won't hold him for long. We gotta move, if we want to pull this off."
He brings us to my floor, his arm around my waist, holding me up, helping me walk, swiftly, but carefully.
At my door, he reaches behind himself, withdraws the gun, a black piece of metal that looks small in his hand, held naturally, as if an extension of his arm. He throws my door open, an arm around me, his body in front of mine. The barrel sweeps the opening, quickly and professionally. He sits me on the couch, waves at me in a gesture to stay, and then disappears into my bedroom.
Moments later he's back, a stack of clothing in his hands, shoved at me. "You have literally no practical clothes, X. You don't even have practical underwear."
He's chosen a set of black Agent Provocateur lingerie, shelf bra, boy short panties. A pale blue sundress, sleeveless, knee-length, red flowers printed around the hem. Strappy silver sandals, the smallest heel in my closet.
I shrug, take the clothes. "I don't purchase my clothing."
Logan's eyes narrow, but he doesn't remark on that comment. "Get dressed," he says, brusque but with a note of kindness. "We don't have a lot of time." He turns away, shoves his hands in his back pockets, the gun barrel stuffed diagonally in his waistband at his back.
I dress quickly. It's strange how having clothes on can change one's mind-set.
Logan turns, peeks at me to make sure I'm decent, and then turns around completely. He takes my arms in his hands, eyes sincere, warm. "All right, X. I'm only going ask you this one time, and you need to think hard about your answer." His hand goes to my cheek, brushes a lock of damp hair off my cheekbone. "I can take you away from here, if that's what you want. But I'm not going to carry you out of here over my shoulder like some barbarian. You can come with me, or not. It's your choice."
I swallow hard.
This is all I know. Caleb, Len, this condo. I glance to the left: my library, the door open, all my books waiting. My window, my view.
But upstairs, that scene. Bent over, a hard hand on my throat. The sorcery of Caleb's touch, as if my will is somehow subject to such easy manipulation. So easily left alone, no explanation, just an expectation that I'd be there, waiting, ready to do as Caleb instructs.
I don't know what I want.
I don't know Logan. The unknown is scary, and when you have no past, no identity, when you've but rarely ventured out of the small realm of the familiar, everything is unknown and scary.
But Logan is giving me a choice.
That, in itself, is enough to sway me.
The unknown is terrifying.
An eternity of the same few things I do know . . . that's scarier yet.
"Take me with you, Logan." I strive to sound confident, when I am anything but.
A very small smile crosses his lips. "I hoped you'd say that." His palm lifts, cups my cheek.
That touch, so gentle, so kind, hinting at strength held at bay; I nuzzle my cheek into his palm, and my eyes flutter, close. A moment, only, but it quiets the turmoil in my soul, if only for one fleeting moment.
As my eyes are closed, I feel his breath, his lips touching mine. Sweetly, softly,
He kisses me,
and kisses me,
and kisses me.
All in a moment.
I gasp as his lips leave mine, and then his hand tangles in mine, fingers twined, and he tugs me into motion. "Come on, honey. Time to go."
And he takes me away from everything I know.
FIFTEEN
On the elevator, Logan tugs his cap off his head and fits it onto mine, taps the brim lower over my face. He scrubs a hand through his hair, making a mess of it, the blond locks tangled. But even thus, with his hair in a snarl, he's so sexy my breath comes short at the sight of him.
"We're just gonna walk right out of here, okay? Right out the front door." He slips an arm around my waist, digs his other hand into his pocket, produces his cell phone and hands it to me. "Keep your head down. Pretend like you're engrossed in Facebook or something, yeah? Just act like you can't be bothered to look up."
I take the device in my hands. It's a big glossy black rectangle in a rubber case, with a single round button at the bottom. Logan presses the button with his thumb and the screen turns on, showing Logan with a large chocolate-brown dog, its tongue lolling out. He leaves his thumb on the button for another second, and the screen changes, showing rows of little icons in different colors with various logos. Behind the rows of icons is a stunning photograph of a spiral galaxy.
I have no clue what to do. I don't own a cell phone and have no knowledge of how to use one, so it's likely I've never owned one, either.
I just stare at the screen for a moment, and then glance up at Logan. "I don't know what to do."
He frowns down at me. "What do you mean?"
I lift the phone in gesture. "With this. I've never owned a cell phone."
His eyebrows rise. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you?" He touches the screen with his index finger and swipes left, pulling the screen full of little icons to the right. He finds one icon, taps it, and it expands to reveal a hidden set of icons; he taps one. "Tetris. It's easy. Just fit the little pieces so they make a straight line across. Tap them, and they'll rotate. It's like a moving puzzle."
A couple more taps, and the screen resolves into something like graph paper, lines marking off the screen into tiny squares. A bright yellow square appears, dropping slowly from the top of the screen to the bottom.
By the time the elevator reaches the lobby, I understand the basic object of the game, and I'm engrossed. I intentionally allow myself to become absorbed into forcing the various shapes to fit with others so the line vanishes. Otherwise, I'd be terrified. I am terrified; I'm just pretending, even to myself, that I'm not. A video game can't erase my panic at leaving the condo, my fear of being discovered and returned, and punished.
I'm leaving.
With Logan.
I'm leaving everything I know, with a man I've met twice.
And I'm playing a video game.
I could laugh from the absurdity of it all.
Logan's arm slides more tightly around my waist, and I lean into him, let him guide me. I keep my focus on the cell phone in my hands, tapping at the squares with both thumbs as I've seen my clients and Caleb do on numerous occasions. Pretending like I'm doing something more important on the device than playing a game.
I am tensed, barely breathing, heart hammering; I expect a hue and cry at every step. I hear voices, faint music, the ding of the elevators reaching the lobby and opening. I hear the doors ahead open, letting in a brief slice of the noise from outside, and then they close, returning stifling quiet to the lobby.
I have never seen the lobby of this building before, the few times I've left having entered and exited via the garage, and then always under heavy guard, hustled from the car to the
elevator and vice versa as quickly as possible. I want to look around, but I don't. I see the floor underfoot, shiny black squares of marble veined with streaks of gold.
I feel Logan's torso twist and shift as he leads me through the doors, heavy slabs of glass with silver handles. Road noise, blaring horns, engines, squealing brakes. The old panic surfaces, and now my heart rate increases to a dangerous speed, thumping so hard in my chest that it's physically painful. My breath leaves me, my lungs frozen. I can't blink, and my legs won't move.
These panic attacks are why I stayed in Caleb's tower for so long.
Logan drags me, essentially, his cell phone dangling from my fingers.
"You okay, honey?" His voice in my ear, buzzing, warm.
I try to force oxygen in, and sort of succeed, enough to rasp out an answer. "Panic . . . attack."
A man in a suit sweeps past me, accidentally slamming his shoulder against mine, not slowing to even glance at me. I shrink away, my shoulder slamming against the building, and I feel like I'm trying to huddle into the stone, collapsing to my knees. Someone else passes, a woman scantily clad in shorts that barely cover her buttocks and a tank top that leaves little of her cleavage to the imagination; she glares at me, disgust and contempt in her gaze, as if I've personally wronged her somehow. I watch her, stare at her, unable to look away. Has she never witnessed a panic attack before? Why would someone I've never met look at me with such hate?
"X, you gotta pull it together, sweetie. I've got you. No one's gonna hurt you. You're safe with me. You just need to walk two blocks with me, okay?" He's kneeling in front of me, hands on my face. I blink, and his deep, deep blue eyes fix on mine. "That's it. Look at me. You're fine. You're okay. Breathe for me, all right? Deep breath in, ready?"
I nod, grip his forearms with desperate fingers, focus on his blueblueblue eyes, drag in a lungful of hot Manhattan summer air.
He smiles, his face kind and patient, his eyes not wavering from mine. "Good, honey. Good. Another. With me, okay? Deep breath in through the nose, out through the mouth. Keep it going. Good. Just keep your eyes on mine."
I'm breathing, staring up at him, and my heart rate slows a little. Another moment or two of deep breathing, and then he's tugging me to my feet, hand tangling in mine. I've got his cell phone in a death grip in the other hand, squeezing so hard now my fingers hurt. I lean into him, his hard bulk at my side reassuring, his scent on his T-shirt filling my nostrils, fabric softener and the faint whiff of a cigarette. His stride is loose and easy and unhurried, although I notice him glancing in the windows as we pass them, and then when we stop at a red light, he angles to face me, adjusting his hat on my head, but his gaze is down the sidewalk behind us, watching for pursuit.
Madame X Page 19
