by Marata Eros
He is clearly with her. I should drop it.
I cannot.
“What is wrong?” My eyes still rove the woman, not giving the man my full attention.
The man turns. “Drunk.”
I look fully at him.
He winks; a deep sense of oddness surrounds the gesture.
Turning, he ushers her out. And I let them go.
Tallinn suddenly appears at my side. “What the fuck was that?”
I shake my head. “I am not sure.”
Tallinn stares after them thoughtfully. After a full minute has elapsed he says, “I didn't like that dude.”
Neither do I.
I stare at the empty space they had just occupied.
*
Greta
Brutal fingers grip my butt cheeks and pry me open. A hoarse cry escapes my cracked lips.
He plunges inside me again.
My muscles instantly tense around the intrusion, though my virginity is long gone.
Slick wetness covers my inner thighs to my knees.
Later I find out it is semen.
Sweat.
And blood.
His thrusting continues.
Silence is the only noise. The screams fill my head because my mouth is gagged.
Panting.
The only break in the quiet is the grunts of their ecstasy.
I'm unceremoniously flipped over onto my back. Four faces with masquerade masks loom above my warped vision.
“No,” I say in muffled agony for the hundredth time, lifting my forearm to cover my battered face.
One of the men hits me, smashing my face into the stained mattress.
Another lands on top of me, stabbing inside my wounded vagina. “Yes,” one of the assailants says as he uses me.
I slide back and forth on the mattress as he pounds into my unwilling body. Another pries my jaws apart, forcing my lips open. He jerks the gag out then thrusts his length inside my mouth.
Vile salty essence fills the space. My chin is jerked back and the hot liquid glides down my throat.
I choke.
He removes himself from my mouth and clamps it shut, pinching my nostrils together.
I have to swallow, or I won’t be able to breathe. My throat convulses, and he releases my jaw.
I scream as I suck precious oxygen, gurgling through his semen. “No!”
The next blow slams my other cheek into the mattress as my hips are lifted and a new man assaults me. His stabbing penis tears and burns where no one has ever been.
I can't live through this, I think.
But I do.
CHAPTER ONE
Paco
Two Years Later - Present Day
September 29
Francisco Emmanuel Lewis Castillo.
I set the pen down and lean back, regarding my good friend and co-conspirator.
It is terminado.
I've signed my soul over to the devil. He no longer chases me from the dark corners of my mind. This particular demon stands in the sunlight, taunting no more.
Zaire chuckles, running a hand through hair a shade of blond so dark that it flirts with being brown. He sets his ten-gallon cowboy hat on top of all that shaggy hair.
Clear hazel eyes regard me with amusement.
I say nothing.
Zaire Sebastian has been after me for the five years he's run the enterprise I finally succumb to.
Club Alpha.
He flat-palms the paper, spinning the sheets until they face him. His eyes flick down, and a fingertip stabs my signature.
“Careful, you might cause it to bleed, amigo,” I note softly.
Zaire laughs. “Always so cryptic, Paco.” He makes a low sound of chastisement in the back of his throat. “How long have I known you?”
Forever.
He reads my expression and nods. “It's just now I find out you have a hundred names?”
I dip my chin. “Just four.”
He grunts his answer and I'm struck by how different Zaire and I are.
He perpetuates fantasy.
I manufacture exotic coffee for exotic tastes, my own not excepted.
It is the taste for the very fine and my need for something extreme—a thing not within my control—that has finally driven me to Mr. Sebastian.
Zaire stands, offering his hand. “Are we clear on the terms?” He studies my face. “Humor me,” he adds as I give a single shake of his hand.
I spread my hands away from my body, enjoying the slide of my linen suit, which is tailored perfectly to never impede my movement, as though I’m wearing a second skin.
I lift my shoulder. “You wish for me to recount the particulars?”
“Hell, yeah, Paco. You're a particular kind of guy.”
True. I smile and Zaire grins.
“I will have three months for this fantasy to come to fruition. I have three days from the time of this signing to submit the twenty-page questionnaire about the things that make me—uniquely me.”
Zaire's eyebrows pop to his hairline.
“It will be an honest disclosure,” I say.
“Nice. I like how my telepathy always works well between us.”
Zaire's rough-around-the-edges manner is a fachada, a clever front for the smart-as-a-whip man who swims beneath the surface. He twirls his fingers, encouraging my continuation.
“I have agreed to a no-liability clause against you, even in the case of my death, pursuant to the… activities, which might or might not present themselves.”
“And?” Zaire runs his fingers down the brim of his hat, where the evidence of the habit is in the curvature of the rim.
“I will tell no one. I understand and have agreed to the non-disclosure.”
Zaire makes the universal symbol for money, moving his thumb against his four fingers.
“I shall pay half in the moment listed therein, and the remainder at the end of the three month term, regardless of the outcome.”
Zaire slaps his palms together. “Hot damn!” His eyes glitter at me like captured stars. “I look forward to putting you through the paces, Paco. I ain't gonna lie—I've been wanting to get you like a fox in a trap since the beginning.”
I stroke my chin, my fingers finding the cleft at the end and squeezing it together. “I am aware, Zaire.”
“Yet you still agreed.”
I nod.
“Why? You've signed, now I have to ask. Why would you take this kind of chance? Because I'll be straight with you. I don't care about your money.” He pauses, his eyes moving to the ceiling. “Yeah, I do. What I mean, buddy, is you have so much to lose.”
I shake my head. “When a man has every need met, and ones he did not think he had are satisfied, then he is left with a void.” I cock my head, moving my hands to the pockets of my slacks. “You act as though you would talk me out of our arrangement.”
Zaire shakes his head. “No. You said, and I quote, ʽYour heart beats, but it does not live.ʼ”
“Yes. I am familiar with contentment, but I am not on intimate terms with contentment's distant cousin, joy.”
A slow smile spreads across Zaire's face as a flutter of emotion skates across the deepest part of me. Unease.
I embrace the uncommon feeling. For too long, I have felt nothing besides the slow, rolling river of time's passage. I welcome any emotion that causes my soul to surface through the murky waters of my complacent mediocrity.
Zaire shakes his head, and a low chuckle breaks the seam of his lips. “You're going to make a fun subject.” He gazes around the room before his eyes land on the wide expanse of glass that flanks the entire wall. From this vantage point, seventy stories aboveground inside the Columbia Center, the clouds appear touchable. The gray Puget Sound churns like angry boulders of water beneath us.
I walk over to stand beside Zaire. Our heights are similar, though our heritage is different. “Why do you do this?”
Without turning, Zaire places a forearm on the glass. He gazes ove
r the city, at the raging sea beyond. “I know what it is to be rich. To be so rich you could park an incinerator in the house and burn money twenty-four hours a day.”
I say nothing, waiting for the point. Zaire Sebastian will have one.
He rolls his head on his forearm, facing me. “This isn't a game, Paco. Once we start, with the exception of the one-month markers, it's your new life. I have people everywhere. They can get to you anywhere in the world.”
I nod. I'm counting on it. I travel extensively to oversee the manufacture of my beans. I can be in Costa Rica one day and Brazil the next.
He straightens from his slouch against the window. “Your preliminary physical came back as outstanding, by the way.” His lips quirk. “My techs were making bets on how much time you spend on that build.”
“Oh?” My eyebrow hikes.
“Yeah,” Zaire turns and throws a punch toward me. I stiffen my gut and arch backwards, capturing his wrist and twisting as I dance into him.
“Shee-it!”
“And?” I ask. He struggles and I nestle his fist between his shoulder blades, cupping my opposite hand on his elbow.
I apply pressure.
Zaire taps my leg.
I drop his limb and step back, out of arm's reach.
We stare at each other.
“They said two hours—every day.” He's breathing hard.
I'm not at all. “They would be wrong.”
“How long, Paco? How much time do you devote to physical perfection?”
I cast my eyes down. Too much.
When I look up, he's massaging his arm. A wicked grin slashes the solemnness of his face.
“I don't worship my body; I use it. I have trained it to be used. There is a difference between doing one thousand sit-ups and forcing the body's compliance.”
“Have you forced it?” Zaire asks.
“Absolutely.”
Zaire snorts. “You realize I have you as a level-five risk on the form?”
For the first time since our meeting began, I get a thrill like an electrical current. Singing tension winds through me, causing my toes and fingers to tingle with anticipation of the unknown. “Yes.”
“That means you're rating at the highest level for hand-to-hand combat, knife play—”
My lips twitch. “There is no such thing as playing with knives.”
He stares at me for a moment before going on, “Stylized weaponry and a variety of martial arts background.”
“Yes.”
“Is that accurate?”
A beat of silence presses between us like a bomb before detonation.
“Yes.”
“I will personally oversee your submission and handpick the girl.”
I open my mouth then close it.
Zaire's wide grin angers me.
“Cat got your tongue?”
I'm unfamiliar with the idiom, though I speak several languages.
“You have utterly no say in this fantasy, Paco. This is what you're paying the big bucks for. This is a match-making enterprise of the highest order. We will find your love match.”
I believe love to be an impossibility for me. However, I remain silent about my skepticism. “You trivialize it,” I say and hear the sullen tone in my own voice. I can't shake it.
“It's not about what you can get, Paco. You could have a bevy of the finest tail on the earth. Hell, chicks smell money a mile away, they'd swarm you like bees to honey. That's not what's at stake here.”
Zaire strides to the door, and I stroll after him.
He turns and gestures sweepingly, using the arm I didn't leverage behind him. “This is about a wealthy man—or woman—knowing the one who says I do really wants them for who they are, not what they have. This fantasy is engineered to pull out every stop to prove their worth. No one can pretend through the circumstances I provide at Club Alpha.”
He meets my silence with his own.
“Three days, Paco. You have three days for dissolution. If I don't hear back, you can assume I've gone through your questionnaire, found it to be sound and withstanding further legalities, your fantasy will begin.”
“And your failure rate?” I ask, though I know.
“Zero.”
Neither one of us mentions some of the candidates have sustained injuries during their unique fantasy trials.
I've interviewed each one personally. Their answers are the same: they would do it again.
“I would never guess you were a lawyer in charge of fantasy matchmaking for the wealthy, Zaire.”
He gives me a hard look. “And I would never guess you were an exotic coffee mogul with a ninth-dan black belt.”
I wink at him. “I went… how do you say it? Ah yes, easy on you.”
The look we share is between two men wondering how it would be to give it a go.
“What art do you practice?” I ask.
“Jujitsu,” Zaire replies.
We bow at each other, eyes locked—as it should be. Never take your eyes off your opponent.
“Now,” Zaire says, straightening, “if you don't have any questions…”
“I have many questions.”
Zaire's eyebrow lifts, and the corners of his lips twitch. “Ones I can answer?”
“No.”
He opens the door, and I pass through. “Then we're through.”
I turn as he shuts the door. I halt the swing of the solid Douglas fir with the slap of my hand.
“I'll see you on Halloween.”
“Trick or treat.”
Zaire closes the door. It latches softly behind me.
In three more days, the games begin.
CHAPTER TWO
Greta
I look up at Gia in disbelief. “Are you freaking kidding me?” I gaze back down at the—I don't know—novel in my hands. I grasp the edge of the paper and let the pages contained between the folder slip through my fingers.
Gia smirks. With golden eyes like deep whiskey, rimmed with smoky-kohl eyeliner, she blinks at me like a satisfied feline. “You want thorough, don't you?”
I shake my head, and my hair, fresh from the blowout Gia insisted on paying for, slides over my shoulders.
I nervously smooth my hands over the tight crimson pencil skirt and look at question number one million:
Have you ever partaken in illegal drug use?
I swallow hard. “I don't give a hot damn about thoroughness. I—hell in a handbasket—I don't even know about this.” I tap the papers.
Gia saunters to where I sit at my desk at Roffe Enterprises. She puts one sculpted butt cheek on the corner of all that antique oak. “Listen here, Greta.”
Oh Jesus, wonderful. “I feel an epic rant coming on, Gia.”
Her full lips twist. “You better believe it. I've gone through every angle, point by point. My logic is irrefutable.”
“That's just it—it's your logic.”
Her lips flatten, and a nail tip taps her chin. “Your logic is working to death, having no life—hell, you have to make an appointment to poo.”
I roll my eyes, not because she takes practicality to a new level, but because she's right. I almost schedule bathroom time. Everything in my life is a squeezeathon—from the bathroom, to sleep, to the gym. I factor breathing in there somewhere, too.
I do make time to sigh in frustration at Gia. I love her, but she's such a pushy broad.
“I know that look,” she says, eyes narrowed at me.
“What look?” I ask innocently.
“The look where you're going to back out. I'm paying—I'm sponsoring you, Greta. There's no excuses. You've got—what? A billion vacation days built up.”
I scrunch my nose. She may be overstating things.
Or not.
I scan the paperwork for Club Alpha on my lap. I find what I'm searching for. “It says here my work can continue, that the fantasy incorporates itself.”
“It's organic in nature,” Gia inserts.
“Like a disease?” I
ask.
She pouts.
“Okay!” I shove the papers away. “You know I'm grateful. I understand this is like—I don't know—an intervention.”
Her face becomes solemn.
“God, I'm not that bad!” I say, folding my arms.
Gia goes uncharacteristically silent.
“Am I?”
She nods. “You're twenty-four years old, for shit's sake.” Her probing eyes capture mine in a gaze I've held countless times on the psych bench.
I grip the folder full of the stats of my life. Greta Dahlem, exposed. “But why do we have to go to this extreme? I can find a guy the old-fashioned way.”
Gia stands and walks away from the desk to pace in front of the bank of windows overlooking the Space Needle grounds.
I admire her sharp figure, not with envy but a sense of pride. Gia is her own thing. And I'm more because of our friendship, and what she has done for me.
I blow strands of my pale-blond hair out of my face.
She whirls, pointing a pen at me. “You—no. You couldn't find a man the old-fashioned way if your life depended on it.”
Probably right. I sulk, spinning in my chair.
My phone buzzes through. “Miss Dahlem.”
Gia meets my eyes. Her expression says, “See?”
I depress the button, giving Gia an eye roll. “Yes, Ashley?”
“Mr. Aros, line one.”
“Thank you, Ashley.”
I hold up a finger to Gia and she gives me the middle one in return. I suppress a giggle over her spontaneous lewdness.
“Hallo,” I say.
“English is fine, Ms. Dahlem,” Aros says.
“Fint, ja,” I reply and switch to English from my native Norwegian.
Gia waits through my upcoming travel plans. They revolve around the latest swatches of material for wind, water and temperature repellent outerwear for the extreme skier. Another foreign client would be so good for my resume, and maybe Mr. Aros will be he. We briefly confer about our upcoming meeting. The conversation winds to a succinct close.
“Thank you, Mr. Aros,” I say.
“Farvel,” he says and the humming international connection abruptly ceases.
