Grace: A Disgrace Trilogy Novel

by Dee Palmer

  “One night.” I mutter.

  “Just one? madam, it is such a beautiful city…the city of love…” The receptionist is trying to be charming, with a playful wiggle of his dark, bushy brows and his wide warm grin, but I just can’t.

  “One night,” I repeat, my tone harsh, clipped, and an awkward silence falls, as he finishes the pre-payment transaction on my card. Well, it would be awkward if I cared. I don’t. I just want a bed where I can collapse and sleep for a year…maybe two.

  Springtime in Paris is the best time to visit. Trees blossom all over the city rivalling the evening lights for spectacle in the City of Lights, another name Paris is famous for. I have visited on many occasions and this is my favourite time of year. It’s not too busy, and the evenings are sometimes warm enough to dine al fresco, perfect for strolling along the Seine, or up the Champs-Élysées and sitting for many hours watching the Eiffel Tower sparkle to life as the sunlight gives way to night-time. Breathtaking.

  These are memories; I haven’t left my room. My one night turned into three and counting. I have ordered room service and eaten just enough to keep from fainting. I haven’t so much as looked out of the window to check if it is day or night.

  I called Leon the morning after I arrived and told him I was safe, but that was all, and although I could hear the worry in his voice, I am in no state to deal with anyone else. In fact, as soon as he said ‘Sam, I think…’ I hung up. I don’t want to know what he thinks; I just don’t care. My heart is broken and I don’t know how to fix it. For the first time in a very long time I don’t know what to do. I don’t know who I am and I need to figure it out…because it isn’t just me anymore.

  It’s late when I ring the Club—Jason’s Club—one of the few numbers I memorized, and the phone is answered on the second ring.

  “Good evening, how may I direct your call?” asks the sultry voice of Stephanie from member services.

  “Hello Stephanie it’s Sam. Can you tell me if—”

  “Oh Sam! How was the wedding? How’s the honeymoon?” she gushes, and I just want to die. The pain is too fucking much, ripping my chest apart. I press my clenched fist hard into the bone between my breasts as if that will stop the pain. Stupid Sam. Nothing will ever stop this pain.

  “Sorry Steph, I don’t have long. Can you tell me if Charlie is in tonight?” I interrupt and she falls silent.

  “Oh sorry, of course…let me check. Hold a moment.” The line goes quiet, and I hold for a good five minutes before Stephanie returns. “I’ll just transfer you.” Transfer me? My heart actually stops beating when I think for one terror filled moment I am being transferred to Jason. I’m not ready for that call…one day, maybe, but not today.

  “Sam are you okay?” Charlie’s voice is damn music to my ears, and I let out a heavy sigh. “Sam?” Charlie’s voice is tinged with panic.

  “Been better.” I manage to say, not sure if it’s any reassurance, as understatements go, it fits the bill.

  “Leon told me last night.” She rushes to reassure me. “Not told me in a gossip way.” That’s sweet, however gossip is so far from my list of concerns, it doesn’t even register. “He’s been staying at my place, and we were in a session. I asked him to tell me something that could cause more pain than my cane. I’m sorry, Sam, really I am. What happened…well, it’s fucking shitty. Never thought him a douche, but if this game teaches us anything, it’s that you just can’t judge. And you know, if he didn’t own the Club I’d gladly tear him a new one for ya.”

  “I’m grateful you have my back, Charlie, but a girl’s gotta eat, and the Club is still the best in the city, so don’t go doing anything stupid on my account. I’m a big girl; I’ll survive.” The words are hollow, my voice holds a practiced calm, another trait mastered when playing our ‘game’.

  “You sure about that?”

  “No. But I don’t have a choice…Anyway, that’s not why I called.” I shake myself to try and regain focus.

  “Damn, please don’t tell me you want your client book back?”

  “I don’t…I’m still retired,,however, I do want Gabriel’s contact number, if you have it to hand.”

  I hear her let out an exaggerated breath. “Whew…for a moment there, I was worried. I’m not saying the clients aren’t happy with me, but one whiff of you back on the scene—”

  “Retired… Gabe’s number is all I need.”

  “Okay…do you want me to text it to you?”

  “No, I have a pen.” I tap it on the side of the phone, which won’t mean anything without a visual. Thank heavens for landlines.

  “A pen?” I can hear the confusion in her voice and it almost makes me smile…almost.

  “Yes, you know ‘mightier than the sword’, the thing people used to communicate before phones…slim cylindrical—”

  “Yes, yes, you’re hilarious…okay I have it…happy?” she quips.

  “Not remotely,” I mutter and take the number. I thank Charlie and endure her heartfelt well wishes only I can’t help feeling worse for hearing them. I then dial Gabriel Wexler’s number and pray I am not making a bad situation worse.

  The phone rings several times, and I know he must be looking at the number wondering who the hell this is calling in the middle of the night…from a Paris number if he even recognizes the international code. I will be lucky if he picks up at all.

  “Who the fuck is this?” His gruff tone catches me off guard. I have never heard this Gabriel. Although, I know him as a super rich and a ruthlessly successful banker, he would be neither if he conducted himself the way he does with me.

  “Sam.” My voice catches, and I hate that I have so little inner strength that I am physically struggling to make the simplest call. I cough to clear my throat. “Selina…Hello Gabriel.”

  “Mistress,” It’s his turn for his voice to catch on a sudden and audible intake of breath.

  “I’m retired, Gabriel…I am no one’s Mistress.” I close my eyes with a slow, sorrow-filled exhale.

  “You will always be my Mistress…How may I serve you, Mistress Selina?” He slips effortlessly into his role.

  “I need a place to stay, only I don’t know for how long.”

  “Too easy.” His tone is derisive and his words dismissive of my open ended request for a favour. “Anything Mistress, please let me do anything that would bring you pleasure.” His voice drops and has a smooth, deep timbre with an edge of pleading I am more than familiar with. I let out a short, bitter laugh.

  “Even I am not cruel enough to set you an impossible task, Gabriel, however, if you can offer me shelter it will be a great help.” I am in no mood to even pretend to play.

  “Of course.” He is quick to appease. ”I see you are in Paris. I have a penthouse apartment near the Louvre over looking the river or New York, if you prefer. Or maybe—”

  “Somewhere quiet. Don’t you have an island somewhere, with no internet and fabulous spa facilities?” I’m half teasing.

  “I have just the thing. My yacht is docked in Barcelona. It has a full crew to cater to your every whim…or not…your choice.” He offers heaven on a silver platter, and I almost smile. Thank heavens for Gabriel.

  “That sounds really good, Gabriel.” I look over to my unpacked bag and wonder how long it will take me to get ready to leave. Only moments.

  “Good, I will tell the captain to expect you and not to leave until you arrive.” His voice is light with misplaced excitement. This is not a holiday; this is a hibernation.

  “Leave? Where is he taking your boat exactly?”

  “He is taking my yacht…” He emphasizes his correction to my question with a groan of irritation. Boat/yacht, potato/po-tah-to, even if I knew the difference, at this moment in time, I couldn’t care less. “…to Venice for the Gathering.” His voice sounds a little incredulous at my question, and now I know why.

  “The Gathering…of course.” I hesitate. “But that’s not for a few weeks?”

  “I like to have her th
ere with plenty of time… The preceding days’ build-up is almost as much fun as the main event itself.” He chuckles, a deep throaty sound. “That’s a ridiculous statement; nothing is as much fun, I do like to spend a few days in the city though. The opera, the shopping and the Ambrosia is perfect for all the privacy I will need.”

  “Ambrosia?” I’m a little lost if this is code.

  “My boat,” he mocks. “She’s called Ambrosia, and she’s stunning, a little like yourself, Mistress.”

  “So I will see you in Venice then?” I ignore his flattery and cast a cursory glance at the mirror opposite the bed where I am sitting cross-legged. The dark shadow of the room obscures my face. I know I don’t look stunning…stunned maybe, shocked by the reflection of someone I no longer recognize…empty, hollow…alone.

  “Never miss it.” Gabriel’s excited voice breaks through my morose musings. I hear him clap his hands together with glee.

  “You’re the host, Gabe; it’s your party.” I’m pointing out the bloody obvious.

  “You could be my guest of honour.” He tests the waters, and he is either feeling brave or reckless.

  “Or I could not.” I clip.

  “Of course, excuse me Mistress.” He is instantly contrite.

  “Sam, please call me Sam, Gabe.” I let out an exasperated sigh, which he must hear yet choses to ignore.

  “Never. When do you think you will get to Barcelona?” Back to business.

  “I’ll leave here tomorrow, and I will be taking the train, so say sometime late evening.” I yawn just thinking about a long day of travel. I have zero energy.

  “I will inform the captain. I can send my plane for you, if you would prefer. It would be my pleasure, Mistress.”

  “No, no I prefer the train.” I’m not a fan of flying and even less so now that I no longer have my own personal distraction.

  “Until Venice then. If you need anything, anything at all, I am, as always, your servant.” His voice drops an octave in supplication, and I hang up.

  I close my eyes and force what I know is a sad smile even if he can’t see it. I’m trying…I really am. He is being so kind. Even if he won’t give me what I want—a normal friendship—he might just be giving me what I need—a distraction.

  I have never actually visited Barcelona and if the taxi ride from the train station to the dock is an indication of its diversity, culture, and vibrancy, I feel I have really missed out and sadly, will continue to do so. I am in no mood to take in the tiny ancient streets of Las Ramblas or the numerous colourful markets that seem to pop up from nowhere, full of life, fiery smells and noise…so much noise. I shrink back into the cheap, slightly sweaty and well worn leather seat in the taxi. The half open window is a temporary barrier to the world outside, however, I know my soulless aura is much better equipped to physically repel the real world than a pane of glass. I’m counting on it.

  The captain welcomes me with a charming wide smile and a curious brow when I hand him my rucksack. I am not sure what Gabriel might have told him about me, I know, in my current state, I am, as far removed from the notorious Mistress Selina as Selina is from a hapless stow-away. My jeans are a marginal improvement on sweat pants, and it is marginal. In just a few days, I have lost some weight, and they no longer hug my curves so much as hang limply from my hips as they would from a washing line. My T-shirt belongs to Leon and does a decent job of hiding most of my body. I keep my sunglasses on, and I’ve even bought a baseball cap that I could pull fully over my face if I need to. This isn’t me; I know this, but it’s me right now, and I am coping as best I can, just.

  I forego the grand tour the captain kindly offers. Gabriel didn’t exaggerate; it is a stunning luxury yacht, smaller than the one where Richard held me captive but only just. I am shown to a guest suite that would shame any five-star hotel. Stylish, highly polished teak, cream leather, and gold fittings drench the interior in gaudy opulence that seems to work and is totally in keeping with the owner.

  Gabriel Wexler is the very personification of hedonist. He isn’t gay, or bisexual or straight. He abhors labels but adores life. He indulges in the pursuit of pleasure and considers that in itself to be an extreme sport. If there were medals, he would easily be an Olympic champion. The Ambrosia is just one venue for such activity.

  I throw my bag on the bed and wander over to the window. I release a slow, deep, pathetic sigh. For fuck sake, Sam, there are worse places to tend a broken heart.

  If he doesn’t open this fucking door, I swear to God I’m going to kick the fucking thing right off its hinges. I know he’s in. He’s been away all fucking week, but his secretary said he was returning to work tomorrow, and I have been parked outside Sam’s house for hours. I don’t know how I missed him, but I did. One minute his bike wasn’t there, and now it is. I haven’t slept all fucking week so it’s possible that I succumbed to my state of perpetual exhaustion and closed my eyes for a moment. It was obviously long enough. The living room light went on and I jumped in my seat like a shot of pure adrenaline had been stabbed directly into my heart. The first spark of life in over a week since Sam disappeared on our fucking wedding day! I have felt sick with a mix of rage and loss, but that ends now. I’m getting answers, if not from the horse’s mouth, then I’m getting them from the next best thing, her best friend.

  “Open the fucking door, Leon!” My fist pummels the frame, rattling the glass and echoing off the walls in the hall and ricocheting up the stairwell. It’s not late, yet there won’t be a soul in this building and the next, who can’t hear my hammering. My knuckles start to seep with traces of blood, I only pause my relentless banging when the door swings wide. I draw in enough oxygen to curse and rip Leon’s head clean off, the uppercut punch to the underside of my chin though, catches me way off-guard and knocks me back but not down. Oh good, I get to fight.

  I steady myself and step into the next punch because I just know it’s coming, I can see it in the flare of his wide angry eyes. I will match that and then some. I’m full of rage and hurt, but at this moment, undiluted fury is coursing though my veins. Sam might not thank me for beating the shit out of her best friend, only she’s not here, and that’s the fucking problem.

  I duck his next swing and strike my fist hard into his side, catching him full in the ribs. He curses and lashes out, landing a punch on my shoulder. He throws his whole weight onto me, and we tumble back and crash into the wall. I get several hits to his stomach, and he does the same, punch for punch. It’s an even match, although his breathing is more laboured than mine. I have a shit-tonne of adrenalin that will easily keep me going for hours. I feel like the fucking Energizer Bunny on crack.

  A moment of hesitation and he catches my jaw, snapping my head to the side. My arm was already pulled back and strikes an instantaneous retaliation square in his face. My knuckles are numb from the fight, even so I feel the crunch of cartilage. Leon stumbles back, a dazed, glazed look in his eyes before the pain hits him and his hands fly to the blood pouring from his face.

  “What the fuck, Jason?” His muffled words are angry and loud enough to be heard through his cupped hands. “You broke my fucking nose!”

  “She broke my fucking heart.” I rest my hands on my knees and draw in some deep calming breaths, still keeping one eye on Leon. I doubt he’s up for a second round, but he struck first so I’m not taking any chances. He looks a bloody mess, although he doesn’t look like he wants to keep fighting. He actually looks confused.

  “She broke your heart?” He spits a mouthful of blood onto the floor beside his foot and holds his sleeve to the underside of his nose, which continues to spill a river of red. “She didn’t leave you at the fucking altar. She took the fucking fall for all of us with your damn mother, not that I give a shit what your mother thinks of our little foursome but Sam did. She stood there…on her fucking wedding day…no groom in sight…and let your mother call her a whore! So tell me: Whose broken heart are we really talking about?” His voice started calm, quickl
y escalating to full volume, and he was now yelling in my face.

  “I. Was. There!” I shout back, and the plea in my voice is clear because Leon’s brows furrow with uncertainty. “I mean, I wasn’t there in the morning but I hadn’t left. I just had something to do.” I stare at him, holding his uncertain gaze, my volume softened, but my tone is deadly serious.

  “What was so fucking important you had to deal with on your own wedding day, hmm?” He swears under his breath and winces when his fingers lightly touch the bridge of his nose. He spits more blood onto the ground, only this time, I think it’s for effect. It lands perilously close to my shoe. I slip my phone from my back pocket and swipe the screen. I select the email with the screenshot that left me with no choice but to leave that morning. His eyes take only a split second to register the image.

  “Jason, what is that?” He snatches the phone from my hand, his brow furrows and the colour drains from his face. He looks sick, and I happen to know he feels it too…sick to his stomach because I felt exactly the same. “You better come in.”

  Leon steps aside to let me pass but doesn’t return the phone. His grip is white knuckled, and I can see the tension and fury in his clenched jaw.

  “I’ve dealt with it.” I state as a cold matter of fact. His eyes flick from the image to mine, and he gives me a curt nod, his shoulders drop a little and he lets out an audible breath of air.

  “Let’s talk.”

  He turns, and I follow him through the hallway into the kitchen. His suitcase and travelling debris are dumped just inside the doorway, his wallet, keys, and passport on the kitchen worktop. I really hadn’t given him five minutes to settle from his trip, and I don’t really want to be ‘talking’ now, but I do want answers. He tears off a wad of kitchen paper and holds it to his streaming nose, then grabs two glasses and a fresh bottle of Jack. He uncaps the bottle and starts to pour when I hear it—running water. The shower!