Dark Rapture_A Disturbing Psychological Thriller

by Logan Fox

  “So, sex?”

  “Yeah!” Greg huffed out a short breath, shaking his head. “You should be so glad you brought this to me. They veiled this in so much legal mumbo-jumbo you’d have to have passed the bar to make any kind sense of it, man.”

  “What kind of sex?” Pearl asked, folding her hands in her lap.

  Greg blinked at her. “Seriously, man?”

  She shrugged. “Well, does it just say sex?”

  “Oh no. They’re quite fucking specific.” Greg’s eyes traveled somewhat reluctantly back to the file. He flipped through a few pages until he found the one he’d been looking for and lifted a finger. He cleared his throat. “Vaginal, anal, oral, bondage, collars, exhibitionism, pet play — whatever the fuck that is — dominance and submission… I’ll stop there.”

  “Oh,” Pearl said.

  “That answer your question?”

  “Yes, unfortunately.”

  Greg laughed. “Jesus, I can’t believe the nerve of these guys, man.”

  “You keep saying that but I only met like one guy. Owen. Uh… Morrison?”

  “Yeah, he’s not even on here.” Greg slid the page back into the file and closed it. “This is a contract between you and three other parties. All guys. All creeps, if this contract is anything to go by. Jesus.”

  Greg began chuckling quietly to himself.

  Pearl shrugged as she sank back into the couch.

  Well, what had she been expecting? A hundred grand for a few quickies and a blowjob or two?

  “How often?”

  Greg’s merriment vanished. “Pearl, man, you’re not seriously—”

  “Simple question, Mr. Lawyer. I paid you your five bucks. You’d better give me five bucks worth of counsel.”

  “Yeah… uh… that wouldn’t even have covered a phone call.”

  She glared at him and he hastily raised his hands.

  “Jesus, fine. Just… hold on.”

  He rose, went to the lazy boy and retrieved his bong.

  Pearl crossed her arms over her chest. “I feel I should object to my lawyer giving me legal advice while stoned.”

  “I’ve given you all the advice you want to take, man. I think you’re a fucking loon for even considering this, but it’s obvious you still are. So let me get blazed, then I can give you the unbiased feedback you so urgently require.”

  He delivered his monolog with his back turned and the bong poised inches from his lips.

  Pearl sighed. “Fine. Now bring that thing over here: sharing is caring.”

  Greg was smiling when he plopped down beside her. He took a hit from the bong and handed it to her, slumping back into the couch with breath held. Pearl took a hit and handed it back to him. When the bowl was finished, she put the bong on the floor and sank back beside him.

  The smoke itched at her lungs, clawing to be released. She exhaled slowly, sending a pale cloud into the air above her.

  “Your neighbors don’t care?” she asked.

  “I pay them not to.”

  “Why do you live in such a dump?”

  “I don’t need more than this, man. What’s the point? Would just mean I have to get back to work sooner.”

  “Back? Did you ever start?”

  Greg snorted. “Nah. Would have to, though.”

  She rolled her head to the side, studying him for a moment. He had a good profile: a tall forehead, a long, sloping nose.

  “So… give me the nitty gritty, Greg. How often are these jerks going to want to shag me?”

  Greg shook his head. “Jesus, man. I can’t believe—”

  She lifted a hand. “Greg…”

  Greg sighed enormously and sat back up. He took a page from the file, scanned it, and put it back down again.

  “Six days a week. Up to eight hours a day.”

  Pearl let out a giggling snort. “Sex for eight hours a day? In what fucking universe?”

  “Yeah… that’s probably with different guys, man.”

  “Oh. Right.” Pearl sat up, swooning for a moment. Greg’s weed was a lot stronger than the crap she bought down the street from her place. “Shit.”

  “Why’re you even thinking about this, Pearl? I mean, there’s not enough money in the world that can—”

  “A hundred thousand dollars.”

  “—make this worth…” Greg’s voice trailed away. “Jesus.”

  “What, it didn’t say that anywhere?” She shrugged. “Yup. There’s your reason. Unlike you—” she stabbed her thumb at him “—I have a shit load of debt. And I’m not earning nearly enough money to shovel my way out of it in this lifetime.”

  “But… you went to school and shit. Couldn’t you—”

  “Criminal record.”

  “Jesus, you?” Greg sat up. “For what, man?”

  “Stuff. Hectic stuff. Idiotic, completely mental stuff that I hugely regret.”

  “So it’s tough, right? Getting a job and shit?”

  Pearl sent another gust of air through her nose. “I’ve heard the term: ‘Not what we’re looking for’ so many times I can still hear it at night when I sleep. Well, during the day when I sleep.”

  That thought prompted a deep yawn from her, shadowed a few seconds later by one from Greg.

  “Damn… so you’re going to do this, man?” Greg tapped her leg with a knuckle. “This is a huge step up from being a dancer. You sure you’re up to it?”

  Pearl shrugged. “Only one way to find out.” She thrust her chin toward the file. “What does it say about backing out?”

  “Yeah… uh…” Greg got to his feet, taking a few beer cans and disappearing down the hall.

  “Greg?” Pearl’s heart did a quick dance in her chest. She sat up. That bad? Or was he just that stoned? “Greg?”

  He reappeared shaking his head. “It’s pretty ironclad, man.”

  Greg stuck his thumbs into the waistband of his jeans and shifted his weight to his right leg, studying her intently. “You gotta be really sure you want to do this, Pearl. Else you’re stuck there for thirty days, legally bound by a piece of paper that says random people can screw you six ways from Sunday… whether you like it or not. Sure it’s worth it, man?”

  Pearl collapsed onto the couch, staring up at Greg as she chewed the inside of her lip.

  One hundred thousand dollars.

  Thirty days.

  Eight hours a day.

  Fuck.

  Pearl’s hands were trembling when she reached The Plaza Hotel. Owen hadn’t given her a way to contact him except the telephone number on the business card, and when she’d tried to phone it the operator had told her it had been disconnected.

  So it had taken her until five minutes past twelve to make up her mind.

  She got out of the cab and climbed the steps of the Plaza, feeling incredibly self-conscious in her no-name-brand jeans and cheap shoes. The front desk clerk was different to the one that had been on duty last night and gave her an upraised eyebrow in greeting.

  “Hi. I’m looking for Owen Morrison? He lives in one of those apartments on the roof? The penthouse, I think?”

  The receptionist’s eyes grew wider with each additional question Pearl rambled out.

  “Is he expecting you?”

  “Yes. At twelve.”

  “I don’t have anything here, Miss…?”

  “Buchanan. Pearl. Just… could you call him and tell him I’m here?”

  The receptionist considered this for a longer time than she needed to decide whether to pick up the phone or not, but eventually, she did.

  “I have a Miss Buchanan here for Mr—” she cut off, her eyes flitting back to Pearl. “Yes. Certainly. Thank you.”

  The receptionist put down the receiver.

  “I’m afraid Mr. Morrison is not in.”

  “Shit,” Pearl murmured under her breath. It was probably half-past twelve already. “When will he be back?”

  “I don’t know.” The receptionist blinked coolly at her.

  “Could I�
�� leave these in his apartment or something?” Pearl waved the file at the receptionist. “He asked for them. I’m just a bit late delivering.”

  “You can leave them here and I’ll make sure he receives them.” The woman reached for the file, blue eyes narrowing when Pearl snatched it back.

  “Yeah… um… that’s not going to happen. I’ll just have to wait for him then.”

  Pearl swung around, scanning for a place to sit and wait.

  “You can’t wait here. I don’t know—”

  “Well, I kinda have to.” Pearl spotted an empty seat beside the wall. She strode toward it, but the receptionist hopped in front of her like an enthusiastic pogo-stick competitor.

  “Miss Buchanan, you simply can’t—”

  “What choice do I have?” Pearl snapped. “I can’t leave this with you; it contains highly sensitive information. And you won’t allow me to go up there and give it to his servant so—”

  The receptionist’s eyes grew wide. She gave her head a shake and Pearl hesitated.

  “Butler?” Pearl amended.

  “This is highly irregular.” The receptionist glanced over Pearl, probably decided she’d lose her job if she didn’t get rid of her soon, and flicked her fingers. “Come this way.”

  She led Pearl to the ornate stairway and Owen’s private elevator. After holding a brief, hushed discussion with the doorman — elevator man? — she spun to Pearl with pursed lips.

  “Jeffery will take you up. I am in no way authorizing you to enter Mr. Morrison’s apartment. But if his butler decides to answer the door and let you in, then so be it.”

  The receptionist strutted away while Pearl was still forming a thank you.

  “Ma’am?” Jeffery held open the door.

  “Thank you.” She stepped inside and shifted from foot to foot as the elevator began to ascend.

  Was she really too late? Maybe this was Fate’s way of telling her to rip up her contract and relent to the fact that she would die consumed in debt and dying of airborne mold. Or the bubonic plague. Scurvy? Whatever it was that rats transmitted to humans.

  She let out a silent breath when the elevator halted. This time, however, it didn’t open automatically.

  “Hello?” a voice quavered from the slotted speaker beside the door.

  Pearl bent her head a little and replied, “Hi, this is Pearl? I was here last night with Ow—Mr. Morrison. I have some papers for him?”

  She waited.

  After eons, she added, “I’m a little late, I was supposed to be here at twelve, but there was this traffic jam—”

  The door slid open.

  Pearl hastily straightened, trying to swallow the ball of shock lodged in her throat.

  Owen stood in front of her, head cocked slightly to the side, wearing a golf shirt, slacks that came to his knees, tennis shoes, and an expression of bemused curiosity.

  “You’re late, sweetheart.”

  Pearl cleared her throat, tried to speak, cleared her throat again. Words still failing her, she stuck out the file in Owen’s direction, waving it at him until he took it from her with an infuriating slowness.

  He turned and padded into the living room.

  After a moment, she followed.

  The butler appeared, paused as Owen delivered a few unintelligible words into his bent ear, and then disappeared again.

  Magic.

  “Come.”

  Pearl’s gaze swung back to Owen, torn from their scan of Central Park during the day. It was beautiful — possibly even more beautiful than it had been at night. Natural light flooded the apartment, spilling from its massive, angled windows and skylights.

  The file dangled at his side, lightly gripped in limp fingers. Owen cocked his head toward the dining room. “In there.”

  Her legs froze up at this. Flashes of last night replayed autonomously in her mind.

  Can you be obedient, sweetheart?

  Would it all be like that? Day after day?

  Owen pulled out a chair for her — not the same one as the night before — and she managed a much better attempt at seating herself on it than last time. He sat opposite her.

  The butler arrived a few seconds later with two cups of steaming coffee and all the accompaniments that apparently went with it when you were a billionaire: sugar cubes, cream, golden teaspoons, biscotti, and gold-dusted truffles.

  Pearl took a cup while Owen studied the papers and absently devoured a truffle. He wiped his fingertips on a wayward napkin without lifting his eyes, leaving a trail of sparkling golden motes behind. Some motes had clung to his lips, mesmerizing her when he spoke.

  “Did you have someone look over this?”

  “Yes. My lawyer.”

  “You said you didn’t have a lawyer,” Owen murmured, not looking up from the pages. Greg had made her initial the corner of each page after he’d signed as a witness. After trying to talk her out of it again. After another round of bong rips. After making her promise that she’d call him if things went sideways. After fifteen minutes of giggling as they tried to figure out what the hell ‘petplay’ was.

  “I do now.” She wanted to add that Greg wasn’t actually practicing law, but would it really matter?

  “All in order,” Owen said. He slapped the file closed, added three cubes of sugar to his coffee, a healthy serving of cream, and turned to her with the cup raised to his lips. He blew over the hot liquid, studying her with unreadable jade eyes.

  “So… when do I begin?” Pearl asked. “My lawyer didn’t see a start date—”

  “I’ll send a driver to collect you tomorrow morning at seven.”

  “Seven? But I only—”

  Owen lifted his finger. Pearl stopped talking, pursing her lips as he went on.

  “I’ll send someone to The Doll House tonight and advise them that you are taking a few weeks’s vacation.”

  “I’ll lose my—”

  Again, his finger lifted. A flash of irritation tightened the skin around his eyes, and Pearl took up her cup, sipping it as Owen dropped his finger.

  “The location of the Fox Pit is not general knowledge. You will, however, be allowed a phone call on arrival to let someone know that you’ve arrived safely. I assume it will be either your lawyer friend or a friend from the club.”

  Pearl opened her mouth and closed it again without speaking.

  Owen shrugged. “You needn’t bring anything with you but if you feel compelled to do so, we allow only one carry-on suitcase—” he pointed to the wall behind her “—and no more.”

  Pearl turned, her spine stiff, and stared at the sleek black suitcase propped against the wall.

  “You knew I was coming back,” she said, more to herself than to Owen.

  “Now I’m assuming your lawyer friend explained the details of this contract to you. What you will be required to do? The extent of your service agreement while you are employed at the Fox Pit?”

  “Yes,” Pearl said, turning back to him. “He did. Will… will that all be happening every day?”

  Owen took another languid sip of his coffee before answering her.

  “There’s something you have to fully understand, Pearl.” His eyes left her, fixing on the view of Central Park. “You will be under the direct supervision of four individuals whilst employed at the Fox Pit.” He tapped the table, each tap corresponding with a new name.

  “Tanner Stark is the owner of the venue. His instructions supersede all others.”

  Tap.

  “Caden Davis is Tanner’s Executive Assistant. He’s also a member of the Fox Pit, so he would occasionally enlist your services while he’s in residence.”

  Tap.

  “Seth Hatfield will be your handler. You’ll be dealing with him on a daily basis. Most of your instructions will be coming directly from him.”

  Pearl nodded slowly. Not that she would ever remember all those names. She frowned.

  “Those are only three. Are you the fourth?”

  Owen took a last sip of
his coffee and paused to pop another truffle into his mouth. “My stays at the Fox Pit are sporadic and short-lived. My main focus is acquisitions.” He set his coffee cup down. “The fourth is new to the establishment. I haven’t been afforded his name yet.”

  “And he’s in charge of what? Making sure I do a good job?” Pearl regretted the snap of sarcasm as soon as it left her mouth.

  Owen pushed his cup and saucer away with a finger and clasped his hands in front of him on the table, leaning toward her.

  “No. That would be Seth.” Owen drew a deep breath, tapped the file, and fixed her with a blazing stare. “Pearl, once the driver has collected you, there’s no turning back from this. You’ll be bound under contract to perform the minimal amount of services stated herein.” A tap on the file. “This should be something you want to do, not something you have to do because you need the money. I need you to understand that distinction.”

  He drew back slightly, lifting his index fingers from the mesh of his hands.

  “This is a rare opportunity. We treat our foxes exceptionally well. But they are also expected to perform exceptionally well.”

  They stared at each other, Pearl’s eyes darting to each of his, his gaze auguring into her.

  She nodded slowly. “I want this.”

  “That’s what I thought.” Owen cocked his head. “Now, unless you have any further questions…”

  His eyes slid to the distant door as he took another truffle and brought it to his mouth. Pearl glanced at the table, licked her lips, and looked up at him again.

  “Just one.” She pointed at the file. “There was a section there about disclosing important information and stuff.”

  Owen nodded.

  “Well… I was convicted of… stuff… when I was younger. Shoplifting and stuff. I just thought you might… that they would—”

  “They know, Pearl.” Owen shrugged. “They know.”

  6

  Signed, Sealed & Delivered

  The driver fetched her in a Bentley. She’d crammed as much of her own clothing, cosmetics, and personal items into the small suitcase as possible. She’d briefly hesitated over packing the last of her weed and then figured a place that sold human flesh for the amusement of the wealthy wouldn’t care and packed it anyway.