by JR King
Rage kept gathering, an incredible pressure growing exponentially with each passing second. I lowered my eyes and focused on keeping the ice cubes in the tumbler still. It was an exercise in patience, counting wouldn’t work well with the distracting sound of violin and piano.
I could hear my pulse in my ears, staring at the ice, hating Mitchell. Should I provoke him to duke it out? Again, rage flashed red in my mind and I could feel my hand balling into a fist. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted to punch him. I wanted to stop his breath from reaching his lungs. I wanted to drag him on the stage by his greasy hair and stab his eyes and rip out his tongue in front of the world.
A swell of applause urged me to fix my stare on the podium. The ululation and clamor of a standing ovation distracted the lovebirds, too. I watched Elena regain her composure, smoothing down her hair, touching her lips. The scenario that kept playing in my mind after witnessing the god-awful French kissing was bloody. Dexter’s music played in my head.
“Alexander,” whispered Carina, looking at me as if I were a retard.
I tapped my foot quietly. That fucker had gotten inside my head. The redness was there, a curative distraction required, so I went for the medicine that was readily at hand. “Sorry, babe. Distracted by her asshole boyfriend. Wanna play later?”
Her eyes shot down to the floor, and she swallowed hard. “I have an early breakfast tomorrow. Daddy will be there.”
“That doesn’t absolve you of serving me here and now, or wherever and whenever else the mood might strike.” I chuckled. It was devilish. “I shan’t be too hard on you. I’m very flexible.”
“What will we do?”
I smiled the broadest I’d smiled in a while. “I want to hurt you.” I straightened her mussed hair. They were a rich shade of brown, flowing in waves around a glowing face. “When inspiration strikes, I strike back, hard.”
She laughed. “I understand, silly. How?”
My sadism surged, now a black river flecked with scarlet. “With my teeth.”
She gasped. “Not where I can’t cover up. Promise?” Her words brushed over my skin like the finest silk.
“Honest to God. Deal?”
“Yes, sir.”
With Mitchell intermittently kissing Elena and pawing at her body, she barely watched the rest of the show. All the while I saw red, its shade as clear as blood on a pristine white napkin. I wondered if there was a possibility to cut Mitchell’s hands off and shove the bleeding stumps down his throat without killing him. My reverie was broken as soon as they stood up and she slung her hand over his shoulder. After the lights came up, Carina and I wandered out of the opera house with everyone else. I urged her to go home.
I had no intentions of facing Elena, or Mitchell, for that matter.
Outside, the crispness of the cool winter air felt suffocating. I saw Mitchell first, who turned to look at me, leaning against a limo door. I looked at the stretch and wondered how hard it would be to blow it up. For the record, I’d never been insecure a day in my life. And just because when I saw Elena and Mitchell together I couldn’t decide if I wanted to puke or punch Mitchell’s fucking lights out doesn’t mean I’m jealous, does it?
Perhaps it does.
Before him, Elena’s arms hung at her sides awkwardly, she was preparing herself for a scruffy kiss, or maybe a hug. She wanted something from him. Mitchell jammed his hands into his coat pockets, and when Elena tore at his arm, he tried to shrug off her grasp. It was clear that he had the dominant role in their couple, the power to give her what she wanted, or not. Was she into kinky shit?
He didn’t give her what she needed; he didn’t even pay her mind. He kept staring at me, his eyes assessing me. The sensation of his cataloguing gaze both enraged and disgusted me. What I wouldn’t give to punch him in his smug little face. It was way too smug while I vibrated with rage.
Then it hit me. Not just cock-blocking, he was using her.
Using my little Elena.
A thought began brewing in my mind. I basked a little longer in jealousy before getting inside the car.
Back in her bedroom, I asked Carina, “Have you ever endured a good, hard bite, little one?”
Her marvelous, waiting-to-be-kissed red lips twitched in a smile.
“Figured it was worth a check.”
One of the perfect patches of soft flesh to bite into is located halfway between the neck and the slope of a shoulder, where the tendon tightens to stress and dances to the heartbeat. I had a promise to keep, though, so I went for her shoulder. Sitting behind her, my arms draped around her waist, I pressed my teeth into her skin and listened to her breathe out the pain. Just like a tiger cub learns to endure its mother’s grip, she hiccoughed and went limp and trusted me not to let go. I didn’t, it was all very neat and precious. It wasn’t about sex, or worse, some crazy-ass dom-sub image, it was about trueness-to-character. Each breath I took from her, not only did I give it back, I also amplified it.
My mind quieted, and I took my time cleaning her shoulders from my teeth marks. She smiled, she seemed happy as I tucked her into bed. With ducks neatly aligned mentally, I reached for my iPhone and texted Jerry, hoping the revelation of what I wanted done didn’t scrape like the steel of a chair across a tiled floor.
I went to my home office and stared at the subject of my dilemma on the big screen, who lay stretched out on her tummy, arms hugging a pillow. I panned through data on several smaller monitors as to verify what Elena had done the night before. Turned out she was playing an online game, no well-defined goal in life yet, my very own Benjamin Braddock. Mitchell was using this girl, or else he would have insisted on her spending the night with him after an evening out.
I zoomed in on Elena’s current position. Lips parted just a bit, she was smiling in her sleep. A jagged pang of longing ripped through me. I smiled back and reclined on my elbows, stared at her sleeping for a while.
Alexander Turner
The Masquerade Ball—His
Not a big surprise, Jerry didn’t want Robert involved in dealings with Mitchell. He was exploring another avenue, told me to wait until the end of the day. In the meantime I was going to talk some sense into Elena.
Full with vim and vigor after a long steam shower, I applied antiperspirant and started shaving. This is the second daily ritual I truly enjoyed, sex being the first. Even bowing to narcissism as I stared at my own face during a few moments couldn’t beat lovemaking. Dad had taught me how to use both a straight and a safety razor. Straight razors were my second favorite; sharpening the blade annoyed me, and fumbling with an electric monstrosity or a five-bladed disposable was mind-numbingly tasteless. My iridium safety razor inspired me to focus, brush, and lather with purpose, angle sharply, and stroke with meditative gestures.
Finishing a stroke, I paused. This morning the meditation element was slightly off. I imagined Elena coming up behind me, but not sneaking up on me, she wouldn’t do that to a man with a razor in his hand. She hoisted herself onto the bathroom countertop and proposed, “May I?”
I cleaned the razor in the hot water and took a long swipe with it. I’d never let a woman shave me. It wasn’t a question of trust and, I knew I could teach the technique with success to Elena because she had a working brain. Shaving was my personal ritual. Yet right now the thought of her holding a blade to my throat had a spine-tingling thrill to it. My hand wavered a little bit with each stroke.
Finishing up, I managed not to cut myself. I hadn’t nicked my skin while shaving for ages, but I came close to it this morning. The ritual ended with me slapping on some aftershave and running a comb through my thick nest of jet-black hair. I chose a light grey shirt with cutaway collar and Ermenegildo Zegna black worsted wool crepe trousers. No suit today, the type of combination I put together brought about a brutality paired flawlessly with shyness.
Off I went to get the girl.
“You know that dress you liked in the window of Bergdorf Goodman’s? I’ll buy you Bergdorf Goo
dman’s.”
“You scared the bejesus out of me!” Elena was checking out a Louis Vuitton window display, the one at Copley. “I could have socked you. Don’t just creep up and surprise people like that.”
“I don’t mean to look like a groupie, I really don’t.”
“A cheesy line from my favorite show?” Motes of reflected sunlight set off a diaphanous, magical haze around her. “Is that all you got? Off you go then, you had better go harass someone else,” she barked her order, and with that she flung her head to the side, as if granting me permission to leave.
“Spill the beans. You miss me, Elena.”
She raised her eyebrows in surprise, analyzing me. “The other day, I was checking a Williams-Sonoma display.”
I backed her against the window case, inwardly cursing her choice of attire. I would give a million dollars for her to be wearing a skirt. “Then I’ll buy that too. Okay? Coffee?”
“How about Firestone and Parsons?” She asked this in a considering way.
That place was an Aladdin’s cave of jewelry. “For Firestone and Parsons…coffee won’t cut it.”
“Not dressed to go to work but to harass girls?” she snipped defiantly, referring to my flat front slacks, V-neck sweater, and wingtips.
“Coffee,” I murmured. “Please?”
“Get lost.”
A pit began to form in my stomach. The playful smirk threatening at the corners of my mouth disappeared, and my lips merged together in a tight line of anger. This had gone on too long, hadn’t it? Her Bambi eyes and her little hips and her pouty lips goading me. “This will get ugly,” I told her in a languorous manner.
Her eyes, fuming with hatred, seemed to assess my outfit again. “Give an inch and they’ll take a mile, huh?”
Instead of flying into a fury, I was suddenly overcome by a calm, patient charm. “For my part, I prefer give them a hand and they’ll take an arm. You know very well I wanted more the moment I kissed you for the first time. Look, sweetheart, you can be single by the end of the day. Let’s just pick up where we left off four months ago. I won’t push you around. Dinner? We can take it slow. Very slow.”
“If I say no?” She gave me a hard, bellicose look as she raised the bar.
I shrugged my shoulders nonchalantly, emanating arrogance. “Friends and family, think about ‘em, Elena.” I smiled in a neat way as to soften the statement.
Her eyes were particularly expressive this morning, and again spewed hateful fury. “My foot, you’re bluffing,” she hissed, her observation ringing hollow.
I suppressed my anger at the nerve she had, staring lustfully at her. “You’ve no idea what I’m capable of, little Elena. Be a doll and have coffee with me.” My strict tone made it clear that I would countenance no other course of action.
She made a show of examining her nails, her answer still a laconic, “No.”
I was violent with desire. “Someone will pay for this, and it isn’t me, baby.” My eyes were flat, devoid of warmth. I never brooked any dissent around girls who played hard to get.
If her eyes could vaporize incendiary dust, they would have. “Come near me or my friends and family again, and I won’t bother calling the police. I will go straight to The Boston Globe and such and such. Fuck off.”
I took a step backward, evaluating her silly taunt. “Point taken,” I muttered weakly. I almost smiled at her insult, and threat. At my age I was adept at channeling my reactions to injustice into significant deviant behavior, but I enacted in playfulness before punishment instead of melodrama. Trying not to put my foot in my mouth, I gathered myself and reached for my Cartier aviator sunglasses.
Hearing another insult, “You’re a total dick, you know that?” I became the sort of asshole I couldn’t stand. I would have this girl at any cost. She was mine, she just didn’t realize it. I’d do anything—utterly anything—to leave a mark on her body and make her mine. It was a strength of will thing, an absolute single-mindedness that should have frightened the fuck out of any sane, civilized adult. Right there I decided, fuck the repercussions. I would have promised her the moon and the stars if it meant she’d willingly live under my roof. If I had to keep her as a captive, I would, because I needed her like I needed fucking air. I might be regretting it later on, but then again, there’s nothing as patently decadent as guilt, don’t you think? It wasn’t just me; the scent of a tang of blood laced with guilt on a person’s breath did smell divine.
“You get your rocks off on stalking.” These words cut deeper than any knife and were more hurtful than any fists to the jaw. “Cease having me followed, will you? I could send you a set of worn panties, Mr. Turner. Sit witlessly in your tower and mansion and suite and sniff them?”
I laughed as I slipped my shades on. “That won’t be necessary. I want the real thing. If I want to smell your pretty little pussy, I’ll splay your legs to satisfy my olfactory sense.”
“Dream on, dream on…,”
I’d decided against a final ditch-plea. Walking stiffly down the sidewalk in the general direction of my parked car, I didn’t hear the rest of her blabla. Elena seemed to be enjoying her authority, toying with Turner Holdings’ boss even as his mood was already in the crapper. Let her, I thought, let her have this fun, soon she’d be tied up and crying.
I slammed the car door shut and revved up the engine, then shut it off. I could give her one more chance to redeem herself. Go back? Fuck her. This wasn’t the sweet girl I’d met at the masquerade ball. I cranked the petrol engine and, balls to the wall, pulled out.
I went back to Beacon Hill and worked from my home office, and wallowed in nostalgia. The confrontation with Elena had left a bitter taste around my uvula, yet I kept clenching smiles throughout VCs. After yet another successful virtual sit-down with an Asian business partner, I took a bathroom break. While washing my hands, my mind drifted to the famous masquerade ball.
*
A clap of thunder, then lightning streaked the sky. Like a giant faucet, the skies opened, rain tapping a staccato beat on the mansion’s roof as I reached for Tony’s cologne. One finger resting over the opening, I tipped the bottle of Muscs Koubläi Khän over and evenly applied cologne onto my favorite application points: behind my ears and the glandular points on my neck, never exceeding applications. Unlike the morning, when I had to make sure the application spread out to various parts of my body—wrists, neck, chest, thighs—for the scent to emanate slowly and relatively evenly throughout the day, in the evening I could take liberties.
The Grifone mask wasn’t flimsy plastic fare. It was solid and quite heavy, and closely matched the shade of my borrowed tuxedo. Glossy thin bands and quite a lot of round brilliant cut diamonds decorated the side of it, and gold filigree rimmed the eyeholes. I held it against my face as the stylist gathered the silk ties on each side and knotted them together behind my head. He held up a small hand mirror. The mask covered my face from mid forehead to the middle of my cheeks. Unrecognizable enough.
The door swung open. “You ready, princess?” Tony flashed a wink at me.
In the ballroom, prolifically masked invitees idly chatted, nibbled on hors d’oeuvres, and nursed expensive drinks. I made my way to the bar and ordered a double shot of Jim Beam Black Bourbon Whiskey. The bartender nodded approvingly at my order. My chest was tight, my stomach unsettled; the last thing I wanted to do was get buzzed and prompt a furore by making some stupid mistake like grabbing her, kissing her…or worse.
I nibbled on gougères—odorless French cheese puffs—while soft jazz lilted in the background, the room gradually filling with debutantes. Men were impeccably dressed in tuxedoes while women wore extravagantly designed evening gowns. I had too much nervous energy, so I tapped my left foot against the floor as I waited.
Even if masked you can tell heights and builds, so I recognized her the moment she walked in. Within the periphery of my vision, she seemed to glide around the room, comfortable with her appearance, almost celebrating it. I did my best n
ot to stare, but damn it, turning away was difficult. Nothing’s sexier than confidence in a girl while a smile pours through her eyes.
The cascade of dark locks, the piercing blue eyes, and the sensuous sweep of Elena’s body were off-limits for my eyes. Through a squint, I noticed that a woman in a sexy Versace dress repeatedly tried to grab my attention, the slit up the side of it exposing long legs. Out of exasperation, my eyes roamed to her face, accidentally making eye contact. She smiled, plucked a glass of champagne from a tray and made her way over to me. Her Colombina mask was lacquered black with silver scrollwork, grey ribbons and feathers around the edges, and curved downward over cheeks.
Eyes twinkling, “Familiar with our host?” she asked.
I nodded. “Is it that obvious?” My voice was off-pitch, the question sounding like a badly produced murmur.
Her lips curled at the edges. “A little. Tony’s absolutely delicious, and there’s only one man in Boston who can match that kind of anatomy.”
Her words ignited my curiosity, but not knowing who she was, I was at a loss for a reciprocal compliment. In its absence, I took a sip from my glass.
“Lana Whitman.” Her smile became toothy.
My face soured. Five-inch heels made it look as if she was only half a head shorter than me. Valerie’s stepsister. Engaged yet unaccompanied at an official event, a Frommer’s guide to disaster. “Enjoy yourself, Lana.” I drained my glass, patted her on the cheek, and rolled off the temptation faster than light.
It seemed wise to retreat to a tactful position. I was leaning against the wall near a far corner of the room when Aidan came up to me. Because the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes were visible through the holes of his curve-billed Medico Della Peste mask, I knew he was smiling all the way to his eyes. One of the most intimidating masks, this one, a full-faced disguise embellished with a long beak.
