Shades Of Obsession

by JR King

  “You’ve seen her, haven’t you?” asked a disembodied voice. “Has it started?”

  Goosebumps stippled across my clothed arms. Despite the earliness of the hour, I spoke swiftly and alertly. “It hasn’t started. Not yet.”

  “Now that you’ve met her, I’d like to meet her too.” I could hear the tension behind her words.

  I closed my eyes and spoke in a strangely detached tone. “I’ve seen her from afar. I haven’t met her, though.”

  There was a heavy silence. “This bullshit to keep her safe is making things worse,” she chided. “Conrad is too weak.”

  “She will get punished, I’m not letting bygones be bygones, Sophia. Trust me. Could you do that?”

  She didn’t return the feeling. Instead, the dial tone of a disconnected call confirmed she’d hung up on me.

  Rubbing a finger up and down the bridge of my nose, I opened my eyes and sighed again. The final rays of sunset cast an orange hue across my office, the light playing up wood and leather, making them stand out even more than usual. I connected to a videoconference and plodded through a few memos on my iPad, taking measures to go home early by postponing superfluous meetings.

  The door swung open and I listened to the confident, bottom-heavy footsteps of Meredith. “Fornicating Jane Wilkinson?” She posed the question in that tone she used on infants.

  “Am not, Meredith. There’s no need to give me the third degree.”

  “Then why’d she call your office at 6 AM third day in a row, asking for you?”

  “Jane called? What did she say?”

  “Her voicemail said you seem interested in some merchandise she has. She wants to know if you’d like specifics delivered to your suite at The Liberty Hotel.”

  Basically, it all boiled down to endorsing her husband in exchange for Elena’s full body snap shots. “Certainly, Meredith. Call the reception and have her deliver the package to my suite.”

  “Why so cloak-and-daggerish?”

  “Just being precautious.”

  “This better be considered the extra mile, boss.”

  The rest of the day was nothing short of hellacious. For it was in times like these that I highballed without taking breaks. My senses were attenuated, ten days was too long for me to go without sadistic sex. Being an impatient man and a perpetual thought-machine, I was rarely at rest. Sex was a self-help trick that helped turning my brain off in such a way that it relaxed me for hours, days, a week at most. Late in the afternoon I was catatonically daydreaming about Elena.

  Clouds brooded in a black line at the horizon, and lightning branched through the thunderheads as they neared the city. I spent another hour trying to mentally paper over her memory, answered emails, and rifled through presentations and facts regarding construction sites and real estate development. Every time my mind wandered off to Elena, it felt like needles pricked at my skin. And the harder I attempted to forget what she looked like, the more vivid the image became. By six o’clock, I’d withered down to a junkie jonesing for a fix, an addict looking for vapors of psychedelic mushrooms. With a stomach held tightly in a fist, irrational thinking tightened my chest. Unfocused because of my dry spell, I acted against better judgment. All’s for the best in the best of all possible worlds, I concluded. Using would prevent a girl from getting the worst of my anger.

  I felt the sourness rising in my veins as the sweetness of the adrenaline rush curdled. Feeling deflated and dissatisfied with one line, I called Ray.

  “Come get me,” I told him. My use of him for personal escort was rare, reserved for situations like these.

  “Be right there.”

  I hung up the phone and started pacing. Outside, the rain splattered hard against the windows. In minutes Ray appeared in my office. He always wore a black suit jacket and had triple-eyelet black oxfords on his feet, impeccably shined. With an uncharacteristically high forehead and pointy chin, he wasn’t the handsomest of bodyguards. There was a time, he’d told me, when he was extremely pissed off with that. At a young age, he started noticing just how much easier it was for his good-looking friends to have the girls and jobs they wanted. As he got older, he understood that easy, quick success had serious downsides. While he lived freely, his handsome friends were caught up in webs of expectation and duty. He watched them make compromise after compromise, their freedom thinning with each second. So, to his eyes, it turned out that being handsome was a trap in itself. He was dead on.

  What followed was a blur. I was hunched underneath an umbrella, making my way to the car. My limbs felt heavy, like wet clay, but I made it. The car door shut and I let out a sigh of relief. The drive to the hotel was faster than usual. Although there was some light flirtation with gridlock, the traffic kept moving. I found that a perpetual motion, even when it’s little more than a crawl, was far less exhausting than the stop-start alternative. When Hamilton—my driver—pulled into the hotel’s driveway entrance, it was ten after eight.

  I considered it a victory that I still had a residual amount of bounce in my gait left as I walked to the elevators. At the suite’s door, Ray’s arm blocked me from opening it. “This isn’t necessary,” I alleged heavily.

  He arched a shapely eyebrow at me, and then opened the door. “It’s my job, Alex.” He stopped and looked around before motioning me to follow.

  I dropped my Prada briefcase on a wingchair and slumped my Bottega Veneta jacket on its high back. It started pouring again within seconds, fingertips tapping against glass. As a rule, I never went for hard liquor after cocaine, but today the significance of the rule escaped me. Fuck the rules. I drank bourbon and watched the sky ripple with lightning and bursts of rain and wind. It didn’t matter how much it rained, nothing could cradle me into falling asleep. Another day creaking closer to a halt with a loud sigh, as if unwilling to be constrained by a burden any longer.

  Once more, I fixed my gaze on the quiescent world that was visible through the windows, wondering if I’d be able to fall sleep. I waited for the telltale sounds of dishware and plates from the dining area. There was no aroma of food either.

  “Ray? Why haven’t you allowed room service to set the table?”

  “In here,” he hollered back at me.

  His voice came from my bedroom. I began to loosen my tie as I walked to the door. It swung open silently on its brass hinges. I stared, my fingers still locked about the gold knob, digesting the decadent sight.

  “How’d she get in here?” asked Ray.

  I nearly fell off my chair. Well, I wasn’t seated, but you get the idea.

  None other than a delicious treat waited for me inside. A sexy little fuckpet, wearing the stuff that dreams are made of. I held my breath in the jarring moment as I tried to process the image, putting Elena in a new context. She was sitting propped with her back against the headboard, dressed in black lingerie. Basque, panties, and sheer nylon stockings with wide bands of lace at the top. I noticed that the basque’s cups weren’t full, they only had demi cups, therefore much of her breasts were revealed to my gaze. The soles of her black stiletto heels were pressed down against the handcrafted mattress. Ouch, both the Egyptian threaded sheets and the Swedish masterpiece they hugged were in pain.

  Since Elena was dinner tonight, I shouldn’t let her get cold before I start feasting, I thought.

  “My oh my. What have we here? A little treat?” Given the circumstances, Ray and I weren’t staring at purty girl in a slavish way. He was as outraged as I was. I turned my head to look at him, hoping my eyes didn’t glitter. “I think I know what’s happened.”

  He stared at me in bemused disbelief. “Whatever you say, moonbeam. What now?”

  “Live and let live?”

  “Want me to shoot from the hip?”

  “Always, Ray.”

  “We shouldn’t untie her.”

  Those sacred beliefs and rules that’d gotten me this far in life? The ones that’d made me an uncontested success in the business world and never failed me in my personal
life? Talk about defenestration. I was dying to throw them out the nearest window.

  Elena Anderson

  The Public Transport Conundrum

  The sunny Friday had broken with blistering breezes. A flock of mourning doves pecked at the ground. I tried to walk slowly, but the morning crowd was relentless and unapologetic as it pushed itself—and me—along. Unpredictable as Boston’s summers were, murky gray clouds were rolling around, building into high tipped mountains, blocking the sun. Unfortunately, the rush of humidity had awoken that dreaded natural curl. Things weren’t boding well for me.

  Before walking toward the entrance of the Prudential Tower, I tilted my head back and followed the line of the building all the way up to the sky. A few people brushed past me, but I ignored them. The sleek shaft of gleaming diamond piercing the clouds was earnestly impressive. Inside, the receptionists manning and womanning the bustling lobby had wide smiles. I made my way through the clap-clap of loafers and waited for the elevator. Men surrounded me mostly, looking smug and self-important in designer suits and briefcases. Posturing, I scrunched up my face to match their arrogant expressions.

  I stepped into the crowded elevator and shuffled, as politely as possible, to the back of the carriage, mindful that a great many passengers would alight before it passed the twentieth floor.

  A hand brushed my shoulder.

  “My apologies,” said a deeply masculine voice.

  I looked slightly to my left. Saw in the periphery of my vision that he had pitted cheeks, the legacy of a nasty case of acne when he was younger, a high forehead, flared nostrils, a wide mouth, and dark eyes.

  “I need my coffee,” he added in a low, apologetic voice. His mouth curved wryly.

  At a loss for words, I settled for a brief nod.

  When the bell chimed at my stop, a curl of anticipation tightened in my stomach. Before stepping out, I poked my head out of the carriage.

  Break a leg.

  “New here?” asked the guy who’d brushed my shoulder, walking past me.

  A trim, tanned blonde approached me in the lobby. “Ms. Anderson? Welcome to Accenture.” She was tall like a model, in her mid-thirties, dressed flirtatiously in a well-tailored wrap dress. She looked sharp and relaxed, her emerald eyes shone brightly, expensive haircut preventing any strands from straying.

  I shook her hand. It was one of those hefty handshakes taught in business school to suggest sincerity and leadership skills.

  We took the hallway to the left, all the way to the end, where we took a right turn and rounded a corner. Lo and behold, a corner office, and I was just about to introduce myself when my body froze.

  That’s when I recognized him.

  Tough luck, my interviewer was Mr. I-brushed-you-in-the-elevator. Maybe he had it in for me because I hadn’t verbally acknowledged his apology earlier. What a mincy mess, I kept dry-washing my hands.

  “Elena!”

  I turned in the lobby downstairs and saw a redhead chasing after me.

  That’s how the mess became worse.

  This woman who was elegantly dressed and properly made up knew me, I assumed, her sly smile and obnoxious behavior reminding me of the mean-spirited girls in High School. She was thin as a swizzle stick, with tanned skin and hair pulled back tight behind her ears, a cumbersome-looking bag on her shoulder.

  “Elena Anderson,” she repeated again.

  “Who’s asking?” I forced a smile.

  “Jane, remember? Lost the weight, colored my hair, dress less dowdy, bla bla. Boring stuff, really,” was her reply.

  I opened my mouth to react but nothing came out.

  She spoke with incredible self-confidence. “It’s been eternity, hasn’t it?”

  I managed to say, “Jane Mazer.”

  “Wilkinson.” She flashed her engagement ring and wedding band, inspected my head as if she were looking for nits. “Honey, you’re hardly wearing any spruce up. Do you wake up looking like this?”

  She spoke ceaselessly with that smart, aristocratic voice while I contemplated the past. Jane Mazer. The Mazers were friends with the Bergmans.

  I realized that being a person who dwelled on bitterness wasn’t going to get me anywhere. I spent too much of time in my life being angry, and I couldn’t really enjoy life walking around angry, could I? And if I enjoyed life, maybe something good could happen?

  Jane asked, “So, will you audition?”

  I blinked up at her. “Excuse me?”

  She watched me like I was the most fascinating specimen on the planet, or across the universe, which I was so not. “How much do you make at your cube farm? Five G’s a month with a sedentary job carried out in an open-plan system? Six?” She gave her fingers a snap. “I can double the scanty sum. Make things solvent.”

  “I was only here for an interview.”

  “And then?”

  “I’m also being considered by Putnam Investments, and Cross.”

  “This just in, private companies are house of cards, Elena. And the lack of privacy that comes with office cubicles, virtual or otherwise, is nothing but encumbering.” With that precept, Jane kept telling me how gorgeous I looked and how I should audition. Her modeling agency needed fresh faces for luxury brand products.

  She pressed her business card into my palm. “Give me a call to put you through your paces.” The elevator doors opened and she walked away.

  A week later, Cross Investments offered me a job.

  Of late, the student life I’d lived in California seemed to drift away from me as if it were a dream. All that was left of it was a diploma, one that’d catered a dream job. Listening to the staccato click of my four-and-a-half inch heels, unerringly I swung into the breakfast room for some fresh brew on August 30th. My very first day as an associate.

  “Elena!”

  Aforedescribed redhead waylaid me again as she was attending Deuxave’s opening night too.

  From admiring the display of mirrors behind the marble-and-wood bar, I turned around. “Jane, we meet again.”

  “The duck’s absolutely ducky! You must. Oh, you must! Doesn’t this look lovely?”

  I wouldn’t call this place lovely. Fabulous was more like it. The interior was comfy, sleek, with mind-soothingly grays and dark woods and lots of brick. Up front, a curved banquette and highboy tables set off against floor-to-ceiling bowfront windows. Glass cubes full of blushing wine bottles flanked the entrance, library style ladders granting access to the shelves, and outsized chandeliers and a blazing gas fireplace tied the slick furnishings nicely together. Fab, really.

  “So, will you audition?” the record played.

  “I thought we were past this, Jane.”

  “You’ve accepted a position? Well, you could do this on the side. Model assignments pay big bucks.”

  In the spirit of Labor Day, I mused about helping Maria, to wit, one last time. As days went by, I kept procrastinating. Originally, I was determined to buy a new car, not one in mint condition, and not just any car. I wanted a Mini. Here’s the caveat, Maria needed lots of cash for a second abortion and additional surgery. Since she’d walked in on her boyfriend having sex with the Js, she became a neurotic person, developing a habit of accentuating her own anxieties by dating broke losers who fed into her insecurities. I could no longer stand the mortifyingly frayed mess of a girl she was, but abandoning her? Her family had welcomed me with open arms when I moved to California. The guy who’d gotten her pregnant couldn’t provide, so I’d stepped up. At best, I would postpone buying my car. At worst, I would ask grandpa for cash.

  I hadn’t made immediate plans to see Jane again, until one fateful Friday night a few weeks later. With a last quick check that I left nothing behind on my desk, I headed out of the office. It was nearly seven by the time I got down to the subway. I walked swiftly along the crowded pavement toward the car. Lugging my messenger bag, I counted the seventy steps to the carriage doors. That was from the entrance to the train. Seventy short steps, and fewer if I could make
them longer. It wasn’t that I counted them out of some idle curiosity, or that I’d entered them into iGym and was now doggedly achieving the modest goal of burning calories, it was more a cloying need that forced me to keep track of the distance. You see, if I didn’t concentrate on my feet—on the sound and the tenor of my heels, I’d begin to hear the steps behind me. The steps that weren’t really there, and yet they drowned out all the other noises. The footfalls of the man who’d snatched my handbag and diamond necklace three weeks ago.

  I waited anxiously, desperate for a hot shower and dinner. Supernatural’s sixth season would kick off tonight, and I’d bought candied apples to munch on while swooning over Dean as the brothers bantered. For any of this to happen, I had to summon the courage for the small odyssey of the subway. The revolting odors of urine, smoke, and detritus that the voyage often provided sickened me. I immediately stepped toward the crowd, well honed survival mechanism switching into full gear. There was heaviness. The air seemed laden with poison and the guttural filth of everyday movements. There was little love lost between fellow commuters and me, seeing them was always a mood downer.

  At one end, by the entrance to the stairs, a trio of corpulent nuns in dusty black habit with crisp-white collar wimples gossiped discreetly, so I went near them. I couldn’t stop looking over my shoulder, or analyzing men who got too close. Especially when I couldn’t make out their faces. Something about being stuck in this caustic pine-scented and pee-stinking narrow space always put me on edge.

  I shuddered and clamped my Kate Spade, ignored my iPhone when it buzzed. Taking it out while in the subway wasn’t a smart thing to do.

  A train on the other side of the tracks whizzed by, deafening and fast. I took a step back. My heel wobbled. I was off kilter. Felt incredibly vulnerable. I even tried to focus on an intricate, vulgar piece of graffiti on the cement pole next to me, which was a swirl of expressions I wouldn’t dare uttering. I recognized a few sexual references and it only served to make my goosebumps rise higher, almost painfully.