by JB Duvane
Chapter Eight - Charlotte
Something soft and sweet was chiming beside me. It made me smile. Suddenly I was a little girl surrounded by white doves, lying under a flock of white, puffy clouds passing in front of the sun.
I turned over and grabbed the comforter so I could use it to cradle my chin. It was cold, but the mattress was soft like a bed of feathers—angel wings to go along with the music box that was still chiming beside me. I sighed and opened my eyes.
When I realized I was in a strange room, I whipped my head back and forth, taking in my surroundings like a rabbit smelling a predator nearby. I was lying on a four-poster bed with a white silk curtain artfully parted to my right. Beyond it was a jade vanity with an old-fashioned perfume bottle and an array of makeup sitting on top. To the right of the bed sat a music box with an ivory ballerina spinning slowly to the sound of Beethoven's “Ode to Joy.”
“Hey!” I shot up out of bed, revealing a white nightie covering my naked body. Someone had changed my clothes while I was knocked out. Someone had seen my naked body, and I wondered what else they had done with it.
“Hello!”
I flew past the curtain at the end of the bed and tore it down, throwing it to the side. Then I crawled down over a black, antique chest and ran toward the door.
It was custom-made, reminiscent of an Ottoman arch. I grabbed the door handle, swung it open, and panicked when I saw what was in front of me. A solid cinder block wall. I slapped my hand against the wall and screamed. “Let me out! Let me out of here! Let me out!”
Within seconds I realized that it was futile. No one could hear me through this wall, and if they could they certainly didn’t care. I fell against the wall and slid down to my knees, screaming, crying, begging whatever demented soul that had put me in this place to let me out. But I knew my crying and begging was just for me. No one was going to rescue me.
I had never in a million years imagined that something like this would happen to me. I had heard of girls being kidnapped and being held captive, but those were just stories. Things like that didn’t happen to me. All I had wanted was to go to Phoenix. I was supposed to start my new life. I was finally free of my father and I laughed out loud when I realized that I had run from one prison just to be placed in another.
I walked around the room, noting the props that had been placed around, seemingly for my benefit. There was a sewing mannequin in the corner. One like I had used when I created all of my costumes. And a painting done in the classical portrait style of an old noblewoman holding a lapdog.
I had seen that exact painting at a museum years ago and had a photocopy of it taped inside the cover of my journal. I had removed the picture from that journal and retaped it into countless others throughout the years and now it was in front of me on the wall of my prison.
As I looked up at it I thought about why I loved it so much. I wasn’t sure but I thought it had to have something to do with the sad look in the dog’s eyes. The way he was being kept safe but also seemed to be trapped in the woman’s arms at the same time.
Then there were fine silk curtains, golden crown molding, and a mahogany bed with sheer fabric on all four sides. In my journals I had written many times about the way I imagined my beautiful life and this room was almost exactly what I had described. How on earth did they know? Had someone been reading my journals? Had they peered that closely into my sad existence that they knew this much about me? Was this all a show? For what? To taunt me? To evoke some sick reaction? Who would do this? Whoever it was they must have had resources that they could build a dollhouse prison and send men to abduct me. But why me?
I ran my fingers along the velvety wallpaper and across the cold surface of the bricked-in doorway, trying to find something, a loose brick, a button, maybe some weakness in the green and black paisley walls.
After hours had gone by and I still had found nothing and seen no one, I curled up on the floor, idly scratching and tearing at a bit of loose carpet, my fingers growing raw. But the pain didn't stop me. The momentum building inside me could have easily lasted a century. I knew it wasn’t going to help me get out but I had to do something.
I shot up and kicked the vanity, shrieking. It rolled fast and toppled into the back wall. The surface snapped in two, and the mirror shattered, leaving tiny slivers embedded in the carpet. The wallpaper behind the vanity had been torn and I could see a gray wall through the strips of flocked paper. I walked over, ignoring the fact that there were tiny shards of glass that could easily stick into my feet.
My natural face, devoid of makeup with the sunburn still visible under my hair, reflected back at me through a triangular shard as long as my arm that was resting against the wall. The wall was hard, like the cinder blocks that barricaded the doorway. Probably even steel reinforced.
I'm going to die here.
I fell back onto the edge of the bed and stared at my ghostlike reflection in the mirror. I could see the life draining away as the seconds went by and the horror of the situation sank in. I was so sure that I was going to die when those men corralled my car onto the side of the road that I was continually surprised that I was still alive.
I figured that was the plan they had for me. Use me then kill me. Straight up death would have been a hell of a lot easier, because at least then I wouldn't have to suffer. I wouldn't have had to wait. I wouldn't be in yet another prison. I wished that the men would have just shot me there at the gas station and left me to die in the baking sun in my car.
But being confined meant having to be alone with myself. Having nothing but my thoughts and fears swirling around in my head and the image of my drawn face in the mirror. I crawled onto the bed, my arms and legs streaked with blood from the small cuts made my the invisible shards of mirror. I lay there with my feet dangling over the side while I let every aspect of what happened play out in my mind.
They must have broken into my car and taken my gun. Otherwise it would have been there when I reached for it. And they knew things about me. They way this room was set up, it seemed like it was just for me. That means they planned this out, and they must have targeted me. It had to have been someone from the club. Someone who knew who I was. Someone who had seen me.
They must have followed me from Maddie's until we got close to the city, when the other cars were cued to help corral mine to the side of the road. This was planned and coordinated by a team of capable men. Was one man behind the whole thing? Was I scouted? In my mind there was only one reason for me to be here. You don't grow up three hours from the Mexican border without knowing what happens to abducted women and what men want from them.
I'd be forced down onto this bed. They'd beat me and use me for their sick pleasure. I wasn't just a prisoner. I was about to become a slave. A slave sitting in a fancy showroom. A doll house.
I grabbed the long piece of glass, careful to keep it from slipping along my skin. Then I wrapped it in several layers of silk and put it under the mattress where I could grab it when I needed it.
Chapter Nine - Raymond
“I won’t be needing anything else, Charles.”
One of my faceless butlers turned around, set his tray down next to me and leaned against the table, surprising me with his bravery. He had his opinions, and the way he dipped his head down to meet my eyes, told me they were strong. For a moment he looked like he might spit in my face but turned instead and muttered under his breath. “You sick fuck. People aren't toys.”
As I watched him move through the swinging doors that led out of the parlor and into the servant’s quarters I thought about what he had said. And he had said it loud enough for me to hear.
That’s what he didn’t understand. That was my whole point. People weren't toys. They’re spirits, life forces trapped in material form, so dynamic and beautiful that they deserve the utmost appreciation. Women weren't meant to merely act, they were meant to be loved, but I made a promise to myself and to Mama that there would be nobody else. No woman would ever have
my heart.
There were nights, thrashing through sweaty sheets with my cock so hard and red, screaming for a woman’s touch—that I would go out and find release. But I would never bring a woman back here. I would never love another. I was devoted to Mama and nobody else.
If I had taken up with all of the women I had been with, if I dated them and fucked them and eventually left them, then they would have been toys. But I chose to do things differently. In a way that allowed everyone a certain amount of freedom and dignity.
I thought maybe I could abstain altogether, but sometimes I couldn’t stop myself.
I didn't want to do it. I thought many times maybe I could just watch, sit in bars and look, but even then, I felt like I was going against her. Betraying her.
But then there was Charlotte.
From the minute I saw her I knew that she was the one. I needed her. I had to have her. After I found her I had no choice but to take her … and keep her. If I didn't I wouldn't be able to feed this demon that was growing stronger every day, and shut it up even if only for a few moments.
I had no idea what I was doing or how I thought this was going to work. I just knew that Charlotte was the only one who could save me from myself.
An ancient man, dressed in tight, pin-striped pants and white, slicked back hair walked into the parlor holding a small platter of flan and my evening bourbon. He set it in front of me and waited, staring directly into my eyes.
“I told my butler that was all. I don’t require your services.”
“The fuck you don’t.”
“What the hell is this? A servant revolt? I’m not interested in whatever you have going on back there. Leave me alone.”
He pulled a chair aside and sat down. Then he grabbed my bourbon and slammed it. I watched, carefully, conscious that I was in the presence of a man who'd lost all fucks to give.
“Are you going to replace that?”
“No,” he scoffed.
I met his eyes and swept the flan off the table. “Clean that up.”
He straightened his back and kept his eyes on me. “You do know that the state puts people like you to death, don’t you. You, young man, are a monster.”
“Are you saying that I’m a killer?”
“You're worse.”
His eyes, the way he tapped his fingers on the table. He was taunting me, acting solely for my personal torment, and I deserved it, but he had no right to confront me when I could barely confront myself. When I had no one and relied on his services.
“I'm old,” he said. “I know you expect certain things from us, that the rules give you that right, but right now I couldn’t give a shit. Put a gun to my head if you want and pull the fucking trigger.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a plastic shooter of vodka. “It'd be a relief at this point.”
“What the fuck do you want to say to me?” I glared at his pathetic, glassy eyes that were swimming in alcohol. “Spit it out! I don’t have time for your games!” My face felt hot and my collar too tight and I thought if this old fuck didn’t leave me alone I might just kill him. “Are you trying to point out things about this situation that I can't even bear to think about? You don't think I know how fucked everything in this place has been for over a century?”
The blow came suddenly but I blocked it without even blinking. He was old and pathetic and drunk and even in his youth couldn’t have come close to getting a good shot in on me.
The servant sat there like a sad lump until he finally gathered himself together and spoke.
“The staff is too disgusted to continue working. They want to be released from the contract. But they're afraid of what you'll do if they leave.” He leaned in and cocked his head to the side. “I have served this pathetic swamp of a gene pool for over fifty years. In that time, I've seen things that give me nightmares. Things that go on behind closed doors that make my skin crawl. You and every person that shares your blood deserves to die. Slowly.”
“And?”
“And this place needs to be burned to the ground.”
I laughed out loud at his suggestion. “Then where would all of your people go?”
He didn’t answer my question. “Let her go.”
“Don’t make me laugh. Do you really think you’re better than me? You really think what you do is more noble somehow? And that I don’t know exactly what you’ll do with her if I do let her go?”
“We clean up after you! What choice would we have? I know blood thirst runs in your family, and not a single one of you has been ignorant of what it was they were doing. Not your mother and not you.”
“Leave my mother out of this.”
“That’s another point I’ve been meaning to bring up. We want you to take care of that situation too.”
“I can easily lock you up too. You and your entire family.”
“You have no idea how many of us there are now,” he said with a sly smile.
He was right. I had no idea how many of them were living in the secret parts of this enormous house. After Mama died I took over the main house but what I didn’t know was that there were passageways and stairways that led to secret rooms that had never seen the light of day. And that’s where they all lived. Like a squirming pile of maggots hidden away under a cow hide.
I was losing patience, but the servants really seemed to be mutinous today and I didn’t know if they were going to stop. I figured I'd better listen to what he had to say and find a way to maintain some quality of life.
“If you don't let her go, they'll kill you.” It was stated as a fact.
I leaned back. “Bring my bourbon while I think this over.”
He slowly got up, his joints creaking, then walked back to the kitchen.
For years I had wanted to let them all go and bring in an entirely new staff, but that wasn’t possible. These people and their ancestors had been working for my family since the house was built in the early 18th century.
I knew they would go straight to the police. My sanctuary, where Mama raised me, and that held all of our family’s secrets, our priceless artifacts and manuscripts—relics worth more than money—would be laid bare and cataloged. Our most private secrets would be the subject of public scrutiny.
So-called pundits and brats with cell phones—everyone who came into contact with what had happened. They would all mock me for things I couldn't even face.
And the servants would kill me.
They had every reason to do it. I was surprised they hadn't done it sooner. They were bequeathed the family fortune, the house and estate, once the last Valice passed away, which was me. I had my own guards that were well paid, the men who brought Charlotte in, but they weren't all powerful.
The servants were the life of the house and I had no idea how many there were at this point. They walked through its hidden passages between the walls like blood pulsing through arteries. They knew the secret places, the little cupboards and hidden rooms that had long since been sealed.
I wished Mama would have told me more about the contract our family had with them before she died. I found out most of what I know from the ancient, yellowing books in the library. Mostly a bunch of superstitious nonsense. But the contract was there. The Beauchamps took the estate once the last Valice was dead. The only caveat was they couldn’t kill me themselves or the family would get nothing.
They would find a loophole, though. They probably already had.
“So then you choose death.” The servant’s voice came from behind me. He had entered through another door, most likely to show me how much control he had over this house. My house.
“Can’t we come to come agreement? You know your family can’t kill me.”
“Some agreement that doesn't involve forced imprisonment, I assume?”
“I need time.”
“You have one week to release her.”
“Is there a consensus on that?”
“There is now.” He declared. “The other servants are already past caring. T
hey just want you out.”
I thought about Charlotte. So beautiful and so perfect. Not her outfits or her makeup or any of the acts she put on. She reminded me so much of Mama. I had to have her. I locked myself in my room ever since I brought her here to keep myself from rushing in and taking her.
The man walked around to face me and knelt down. “Then tell her the truth. About yourself and this place, and see what she says.”
“From what I gather she wants me dead.”
“We all do.”
I sighed. I was suddenly so tired of all of the secrecy. “What's your name?”
“Renard.”
“Are you the head servant?”
“Yes.”
Renard Beauchamp. The oldest in the Beauchamp family. The rest of the servants would do whatever he said.
I would have to negotiate directly with him. I took out my phone and viewed the night cameras in Charlotte's room. She was in bed, curled up with the comforter over her head. She was scared, reacting violently, and clearly scared.
I had made a terrible mistake with her. A part of me had hoped things would be like they were with all the others. With the girls I’d fucked there were no feelings. Nothing tying me to them at all.
I actually didn’t think it was possible for me to have feelings for a woman. A woman other than Mama. But I guess I had been lying to myself all along. I had been watching her for a long time. I knew that she was special. I could see it in her eyes and in the way she displayed herself. So careful not to give anything real away. I was drawn to her the moment I laid eyes on her.
But I truly believed that I could watch her, see the woman for who she was without delving deeper. That could be so much more intimate than sex. That was before she was in my house. Before she was just feet away from me. Now that she was here I wanted so much more. The minute I saw her on the cameras and heard her voice I wanted her in my arms. I wanted to hold her and touch her and feel her skin in mine. I wanted to sink my teeth into her neck and feel the hot sting of my hand as it skipped across her ass. I wanted so much more from her than anyone. Even Mama.
