Burn For You

by Annabel Joseph

  Mephisto shook his head. “He’s not okay. He died around five o’clock this evening. I’m so sorry.” They were such inadequate words. He embraced her, meaning to comfort her, but she went wooden, rigid. She pulled back and shook her head.

  “That can’t be. He was perfectly fine this morning. There’s got to be some mistake.”

  “No, Molly.”

  “Another patient. Mistaken identity.”

  “It’s not a mistake,” he said. “I’ve just come from there. If you want to go see him, I’ll take you. You should probably go see him one last time.”

  Still she stared at him. She didn’t believe. He turned back to Mrs. Jernigan, standing near the foyer wringing her hands. The frail woman shook her head at Mephisto and ran away, into some back hallway. Molly stood like a statue, her hands pressed to her mouth.

  “I can’t believe it. No,” she said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No.”

  “I’m here to help you. I promised Clayton I’d help you if anything ever happened to him.”

  He reached out to touch her but she skirted his grasp, turning her back on him. He watched her draw in deep breaths, her slender shoulders rising and falling. She shook her head, a small, hypnotic movement.

  Denial. First step.

  “Honey.” He moved closer to her again. “Do you have clothes to put on? I’m afraid if you don’t see him one last time to say goodbye, you’ll regret it later. It’s up to you, but—” His voice cut off. He was giving her choices, which was probably the last thing she could handle at the moment, this girl whose choices were all made for her by the man who’d died.

  “Where are your clothes?” Mephisto asked instead. “Please get dressed.”

  “He has them,” she said. “My Master.”

  “In his room?” Mephisto set off down the hallway. Molly came after him, grabbing his arm.

  “He doesn’t let me in there. Not without him.”

  He stopped and turned to her. “Listen, Molly. Your Master left you in my care. I’m taking you to the hospital to say goodbye and sign papers and do all the things a wife has to do. You owe him this, to do things the right way.” His voice was sharper than he’d intended. She paled and stepped back while he continued down the hall. A moment later, he heard her behind him. He barged into Clay’s bedroom and paused. Pristine, as he’d expected it to be.

  Molly stepped aside as the housekeeper pushed through, the wrinkles beneath her eyes damp with silent tears. “I’ll get some things together for Mr. Copeland. He would want his best clothes. His favorite cufflinks and shoes.”

  “Thank you,” Mephisto said.

  Molly stood at the door, eyes wide, while the housekeeper moved around the room gathering items for Clayton.

  “I’m sorry,” Mephisto said. “I don’t remember your name.”

  “Rose Jernigan. I’ve been his housekeeper for twenty years. It’s not right, him gone so soon. He’ll be missed.” She clamped her lips shut then, running a lint brush over a black wool suit.

  “Mrs. Jernigan, I need to know where he kept Molly’s clothes.”

  “She’s got plenty of clothes in the second closet. Very nice things.” She pointed to a door adjacent to the bathroom. Mephisto found another full dressing room.

  He turned to Molly. “Come pick something out. What did he like you to wear? Did he have a favorite outfit?”

  Mephisto just wanted to give her something to think about besides the tears choking her, and Mrs. Jernigan’s somber work collecting Clayton’s clothes. Molly crossed to a bureau and took out panties and a bra, and smooth stockings with lace at the top. He could see her fingers shaking from across the room. Mephisto turned away and let her dress, helping Mrs. Jernigan pack Clayton’s things in a high-end travel bag. “Will you come?” he asked the housekeeper. “You’re welcome to come with us.”

  She hesitated and shook her head. “I’ll need to get the house in order for callers. Have you told his family?”

  “If you have their contact information, you should call them. They can call his lawyers and business partners. Everyone will need to know.”

  A stifled sob sounded from the closet. They both turned. The more Molly dressed, the harder she cried, and the bleaker Mephisto felt. She pulled a dark cardigan over a silk shell and fumbled with the placket. Mephisto crossed to her and fastened the row of small black buttons one by one. Then Molly went to an ornate wooden jewelry box and opened the lid. So many priceless pieces for a wife who probably only wore clothes a handful of times a year. Mephisto helped her put on a pearl necklace and earrings, thinking of Clayton and his love for her. It was so unfair. So unfair. Couples that loved so hard should have forever together.

  “I can’t...I can’t do this,” she whispered. “I can’t do this. I can’t do this.”

  “You don’t have a choice,” Mephisto said, kindly but firmly. “I’m sorry, but you don’t.”

  Chapter Two: Choices

  At the hospital, Molly touched Clayton’s cold, still hand and drew away. It was only then, Mephisto thought, that she finally believed. She stared and cried, and stared and cried, refusing to leave but unable to get more than a foot or two closer. “I want him back,” she said to Mephisto at one point. “I want him back. I don’t want this!”

  Anger. Second step.

  And there was still a lot of disbelief. Molly stared as if she expected Clay to somehow revive himself. He was her all-powerful, unflappable Master, after all. Finally, Mephisto had to make her leave so the funeral home could come. One last time, Molly touched Clay’s hand. Still cold. Still dead. His heart ached for her.

  He took her back to the home she and Clayton had shared, and his heart ached harder. Molly’s whole life had revolved around serving Clay, and now that he wasn’t there, she floated like a ghost lost in the wrong plane. She wouldn’t let Mephisto come near, wouldn’t let Mrs. Jernigan comfort her either, although the old woman puttered around with tea and refreshments, none of which were touched. Molly finally settled on the edge of the couch, pulling at her clothes, looking at the door. Waiting.

  “Molly, I know this is terrible for you,” Mephisto finally said, “but he’s not coming back.”

  “I know that. I’m not stupid.”

  He and Mrs. Jernigan exchanged glances. He replied to her snapped retort with utter calm. “It’s late. I know it won’t be easy to sleep, but you should try.”

  “But my Master’s not here,” she said, as if Mephisto were an idiot.

  Molly needed sleep. She was stretched to the breaking point. Her mind was rebelling against a reality she didn’t want to accept, even as tears flowed down her cheeks.

  Mephisto stood. “Come on.” He held out his hand but she wouldn’t take it. She finally rose from the couch and went before him. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, took off her clothes as if in a trance, hung up the garments neatly. She took off her jewelry, placed it away with care. Then she moved toward the bed and froze.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I can’t. It’s his bed. He didn’t say I could.”

  Mephisto sighed. “Molly—”

  “You don’t understand. Every night, he told me, sleep here. Or sleep there.” She pointed to a pallet on the floor.

  “He’s not here tonight. He can’t tell you those things anymore. Just get in his bed, lie down and rest. That’s what he would have told you to do.”

  She climbed in, quickly, guiltily, like she was breaking some rule. She promptly burst into tears again. “It smells like him.”

  For half an hour more, Mephisto held her as she sobbed. She was conflicted, turning toward and away from him in dizzying changes of mood. She spilled out watersheds of words. It’s not fair. I don’t understand. What am I going to do? Who will plan the funeral? Where is his body right now? By the time he quieted her, Mephisto was exhausted himself. He pulled the covers up over her.

  “Where are you going?” She grasped at him as he stood.

  “No
where. Just back out to the living room.”

  “Don’t go. Don’t leave. I’m sorry.”

  He sat back down. “Sorry for what?”

  “You’re mad at me, I know. I’m sorry, I’m just—”

  “Hey, hey.” He stroked her arm, only to have her pull away from him—and then look guilty for pulling away. “I’m not mad, not even one percent mad,” he assured her. “I’m one hundred percent worried and sad for you, though, and I want you to sleep and let your mind rest. You’re going to need a lot of strength to get through the next few days.”

  “Don’t leave,” she cried again.

  So he stayed until she fell asleep, thinking back to Clayton’s words during their conversation a couple years ago. See, that’s the thing. I don’t think she’ll be fine. Not emotionally, or any way else.

  Jay, if I die, I want you to take care of her. I mean, watch out for her. You know what I mean.

  This is what Clayton had meant. As part of their consensual TPE relationship, Clay had taken away so much of her freedom, so much of her autonomy, that he’d known she wouldn’t be able to function when he was gone. This is what that looked like, this conflict and terror. Mephisto understood now why Clayton had been so worried. What a fucking mess.

  Once she was asleep, her face relaxed from the tension of grieving, Mephisto returned to the living room to drink Irish whiskey with Mrs. Jernigan and figure out what to do next.

  Mrs. Jernigan—Rose, as he called her now that they were drinking together—seemed to have shed most of her tears. She was all business, thinking over the most important matters, like who she would have to contact in the morning, and what she needed to do to prepare the house for family and guests. She took the phone calls as they came, making copious notes on who was arriving when, so Clayton’s driver could pick them up.

  “You’ll have to handle Molly,” Mephisto warned her. “Once the family starts to descend, I won’t be able to hang around and manage her through this transition. Not without causing a lot of questions about Clayton’s private life.”

  Rose looked skeptical. “I’m not sure I can handle that one.”

  “It’s just until after the funeral. Until his family leaves town. From what I understand they were never that close. I doubt they’ll stay long.”

  “They’ll stay long enough to make Mrs. Copeland uncomfortable. They’ll want her to take herself off, now Mr. Copeland’s gone.”

  “They can’t make her leave. This is her house now.” He topped off the housekeeper’s glass and then leaned back in his chair with a sigh. “Will you stay on here? You won’t leave her, will you? She’s going to need you, and not just as a housekeeper.”

  Mrs. Jernigan looked apologetic, but resolute. “I’m afraid I can’t stay. Not beyond the funeral. I’ll stay until Mr. Copeland’s laid to rest, until his family leaves, but then I’ll be off. I don’t know that she’d want me to stay anyway. I’d have left years ago if not for the generous salary. I never much liked how he treated that woman. Like an animal, making her go around naked and collared, and she putting up with it, so pleased with herself. I didn’t agree at all with how they got on together. I don’t care to stay around and see her with another just the same.” She slid him a look. “Will you be the next one, then?”

  Mephisto went still. Would he be the next one? Subconsciously, he supposed he’d been mulling over that question. He wanted Molly as much as he ever had, and Clayton had assumed Molly would go to him next. Hell, he’d practically pushed her into Mephisto’s arms. There’d been an understanding between them, but like everything else, the details were a lot more complicated than the general idea.

  “I don’t know,” he said to Rose, pouring more whiskey into his own glass. “I don’t know if I’ll be the next one or not. I guess that will be up to Molly.”

  “Agh, like she can make a decision, that one. If you don’t snap her up, someone else will, and she’ll go following after him like she doesn’t have a brain between her ears.”

  “She has a brain,” Mephisto said a little sharply.

  Rose nodded and waved a hand. “I know. Don’t get your dander up. Believe me, I know. That’s the most irritating thing about it. No, I won’t stay. Not past a week or so, to get things settled. I owe Mr. Copeland that at least. Then I’ll retire, thanking him for so many years of generosity.” She sighed and got to her feet. “I’m for bed. Will you stay tonight? There’s a guest bedroom down the hall from Mr. Copeland’s room.”

  “Yes, I’ll stay.” Mephisto wouldn’t dream of leaving Molly alone tonight. He wouldn’t stay in the guest room either. Will you be the next one, then? He couldn’t think about that yet. Like everything else, it was too overwhelming at the moment. Still, as confused and sad as he was, he couldn’t imagine what Molly was feeling in her grief.

  *** *** ***

  Molly woke up reaching for Master before she remembered he was gone. Her eyes ached, her throat ached. Her whole body ached with the absence of him.

  And Master Mephisto was lying beside her in Master’s bed.

  She bolted upright, clutching Master’s pillow to her front. The motion and noise shook Mephisto awake.

  “Are you okay?” he asked, reaching for her.

  She backed away from his hands and tumbled off the edge of the bed, then scrambled to her feet, still hiding behind the pillow. Last night, she’d wanted to be nude because her Master preferred her that way. Now she felt like Eve in the garden, horribly aware and suddenly ashamed of her nakedness. She didn’t want to be seen, not by him. “Why are you here?” she asked, voice trembling.

  He blinked, still coming awake. “You told me not to leave. I didn’t want to leave, in case you needed me.”

  She meant, Why are you here in his bed? With me? Not that Mephisto didn’t know her intimately, every inch of her. Master Mephisto and Molly had a long and complex relationship, to include a week of sex and training she’d never forget. She couldn’t be around him, couldn’t look at him without remembering. He had affected her that deeply, but she didn’t want to remember that right now. She respected Mephisto. She knew he was her Master’s closest friend, both in the scene and out. But she wasn’t ready to belong to anyone but her Master, not yet.

  But your Master’s gone.

  “It’s okay, Molly,” he said. “I know what you’re thinking.”

  With anyone else, she might have doubted, but Mephisto could read her better than anyone she’d ever known in her life. Yes, including her Master. She burst into tears. “I’m sorry. I don’t... I want... I know you’re just trying to help but I don’t want—”

  He held out a hand, but he didn’t come closer. Maybe he thought she’d attack with Master’s pillow. She buried her face in it instead.

  “I’m just here to help,” he said. “That’s all. I promised your Master I’d look after you. That means whatever you want it to mean.” His kind, calm voice somehow made things seem even bleaker.

  “I don’t know what anything means right now,” she bawled. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

  “You’re going to grieve for a while.” Mephisto got out of bed, approached her slowly. “Can I hold you? I’d really like to comfort you right now, as a friend. Your Master would want me to comfort you.”

  “My Master’s not here!” she screamed. As quickly as it flared, her explosion of rage died, and she clawed at the pillow in misery. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry...”

  “Shhh.” Mephisto put an arm around her, then another, and she was crying into his chest, soaking his dark tee shirt. “I’m just here as a friend,” he said. “For as long as you need me. You’re going to need a friend.”

  She backed away from him. “It’s hard to think of you as a friend, Master Mephisto.”

  “Don’t ‘Master’ me then. Just call me Mephisto for a while. How can I help you? Right now, what can I do? Do you want to get dressed, have some breakfast? Clayton’s family will show up soon. I don’t want to be here, but I can help you get ready. M
rs. Jernigan can help if you’d rather.”

  Still Molly stood, her Master’s pillow dangling from her hand. She hugged it to herself again. She didn’t know what to do, how to go on beyond standing there. Yes, she had to get dressed. Yes, she ought to eat, although the idea of it nauseated her. She would have to keep living, but it seemed an insurmountable task even to make her legs move.

  “Why won’t you be here?” she asked Mephisto. “You said you’d help me. They’ll try to make me leave. They’ll try to cut me out, separate me from Master.”

  “They won’t.” He shook his head brusquely. “Don’t let them. Clay left everything to you. It’s all in his will, ironclad. They have no right to anything, no right to even come in this house unless you let them. Remember that.” He moved closer. His dark eyes shone with kindness. Understanding. “I know you’ve been a slave for years now. You can be a slave again if you want to, in time. But for now, for this time right now, you need to be strong. You need to stand up for yourself and Clayton, and plan his funeral and settle his affairs. I know it sounds impossible, that you think you won’t be able to do it, but you’ll have help.”

  “You said you wouldn’t be here.”

  “Just for now, while his family’s around. I think I might scare them,” he said with a slight smile. Molly thought it was probably true. The large, muscular, pierced and tattooed black man would probably stand out a bit too much amidst Clayton’s lily white relatives. “Besides, no one can know about Clayton’s fetish life. You and I know, of course. The Seattle fetish community knows, but they’ll be discreet. His household staff knows but they’ll be discreet too. His family...” He pinned her with a direct gaze. “His family can’t know, so you can’t be the slave right now. You have to be the wife. Mrs. Molly Copeland. You’ll have help from his executors and lawyers. Lots of people will give you advice. Listen to them.”

  Molly felt sick terror in her stomach. “How will I know I can trust them?”