by Marata Eros
Where are you, Kandace?
Why did you run?
I'm chasing this Damon, but it's only a hunch. I have no record of Kandace phoning him. Of course, I had given her explicit instructions to never use the phone I gave her but for our interactions.
Then she dumped it in the trash.
I don't want to play dirty. I shouldn’t be using my immense wealth to find a woman who obviously doesn't want to be found. But something nips at the edges of my mind. With a past like Kandace’s, isn't there a small, albeit unlikely, chance that foul play has touched her life once more?
I'll kill anyone who harms her. The alley was only a precursor of my willingness to protect her.
Somehow, Kandace being in danger doesn't feel right. And though I've been given every advantage in life—highly educated, exposed to culture until I wanted to vomit—I've never let completely go of my primal side. I've hung on, clung to it against every obstacle that would have blanketed me in the civility of the society I was a part of.
I was sure Clarice had something to do with that. Her abuse made my strength most necessary to survival in a household that wasn't a safe haven.
I'm tapping into that now, and that instinct is telling me Kandace is with Damon Axton.
I won't kill him when I get my hands on him, but death will be close. And I'll rip his dick off if he’s fucked her. Of that I am sure.
Something cracks, the popping sound filling my silent office. I glance down and see that my hand has splintered the wood armrest. A fine fissure moves up to the seat of the chair. I stand, my arms dropping to my sides. and leave the chair rotating in slow spirals behind me. I move toward the windows.
My best thinking is done in this office that serves as my sanctuary. I'm merely a figurehead. The actual company management is run by Father.
It will be mine when I turn thirty.
Five more months. I don't look at the calendar. Before Kandace, I knew the time to the hour. Now she consumes my thoughts instead.
Especially now that she's run from me.
From us.
*
My Porsche’s engine roars to life, and I gun it. I rip around the loops in the underground parking garage, loving the tight maneuverability of the expensive machinery underneath me.
Takes my mind off Kandace.
I downshift hard into first as I get close to the security gate.
Adolph peers into my car, already assuming it's me. But I pay him more than market to study the inside of every car, no matter how obvious.
I roll down my window.
“Good evening, Mr. Sinclair,” he says in German.
I respond in kind. My mother was German, and like my father says, they were a hard people.
Are.
Adolph is one of the few carryovers from when my mother first immigrated to this country. Her old wealth streamlined Father's fantasies of technology, and together, with her unlimited wealth and his business acumen, they made an empire. Now she's gone. She died before providing more than one heir.
I'm it. The burr in Clarice's ass.
Adolph gives me a sharp smile and steps away from the car. He doesn't make the usual comments of how alike my mother and I are, perhaps sensing my black mood.
I smoothly pull away from Adolph and his station at our company, Sinclair Enterprises. I won't take out my rancor on him. It's not fair.
I'll take it out on the source when that source is located.
*
“It's ironclad, Mr. Sinclair. Short of an untimely death on your part, no one else will touch the wealth of Sinclair Enterprises and the peripheral holdings.”
I clarify, “Not my stepmother?”
A loud silence fills my secure phone line.
“Especially not Clarice Sinclair. The will has provisions for future spouses, ones which disallow interference from a legitimate blood heir.”
“Good,” I say curtly.
“Things are handled differently in Europe. Any blood relative, no matter how distantly related, will be bequeathed a portion of said estate. You are the sole heir, Mr. Sinclair.”
“Are there provisions for my father and Clarice?” I can't bear to say stepmother. It's too much ownership over what she's done and been in my life.
“Your father cannot be cut out, if that's what you're asking.”
Excised like a cancerous tumor.
I nod, realize he can't see it, and answer, “Yes, that's what I wanted to know.”
I feel my face tighten from irritation. “But Clarice, does she have anything—autonomous of Sinclair?”
My attorney, who works only for me, says, “No. If she were to leave your father, she would be destitute.”
Excellent.
Rylan sighs. “Mr. Sinclair—Chet—I urge you to consider your father.”
“No—” I cut in.
“He might have some kind of contingency.”
“You just got through explaining how I was it.”
“You are. Most certainly. However, choices you make could impact your inheritance.”
Seconds pound in my head. “What choices?”
“Marriage, schooling...”
“I won't be getting married. Ever.”
A low noise slides through the phone lines, so soft I almost don't catch it. However, it sounded like regret with a chaser of disbelief.
“Let's just say, for the sake of argument, that your father was able to make an amendment to a tiny loophole within the will itself. That he went through it with a fine-toothed comb and found a small error in wording.”
“You can't know this.”
“I have admitted to knowing nothing,” Rylan says in sage reply.
But it's there in his voice. Attorney-client privilege. He might not have laid eyes on every single portion of Father's bequeathed assets, liquid or otherwise, yet—he is giving me a warning.
It doesn’t matter though. Marriage is for other people.
An image of Kandace, as clear as though she was lying before me, floats to the surface of my mind. Like a delicate flower, she is spread, pink and perfect, for my perusal. Lush, dark eyes gaze up at me unblinkingly. Hair that trails to the dimples at the small of her back fans out across her bed after I fucked her on it.
I can't wipe the image away. It stays as though plastered to the interior of my skull. A thorn that sinks deeper the longer I can't assuage my need to be inside her, with her.
I clench my eyes shut, gripping the phone so tightly it squeaks inside my grasp.
“Mr. Sinclair?”
How long has Rylan called out?
“I'm here,” I smoothly lie.
“I thought I'd lost you—bad connection?”
Perfect connection.
“No. Would you repeat what you said?”
“I was saying that if you chose to ever marry, you may have a limited pool of women who could be the lucky lady. Families might be named. Only certain families.”
“Do you know this as fact?” I ask, the phone shrieking again under the pressure of my fingers tightening.
“It's all hypothetical,” Rylan answers.
But I know. If he doesn't actually tell me, he's not breaking privilege. He must give a shit.
Who the fuck would insert a clause about which woman I could marry? As though I would marry.
I ruthlessly shove aside the image of Kandace.
She's a dalliance. An addictive, forbidden distraction of a magnitude I've never known. It's just great fucking.
I hold the phone while Rylan carries on about the ramifications, but I'm not really listening.
“...excised from all inheritance.”
The image of Kandace laid out before me on the bed hits me a second time. Her scent and heat surrounds me, making me feel safe, perfect, aroused, and finally—finally—fucking whole. She collected those fractured pieces together like glue. And now she's gone.
I come back to the conversation and open my eyes.
Maybe I do give a shit. I hang my
head as realization sucks at my self-delusions.
Perhaps I care more about Kandace than I want to admit. If I do, and that's a big fucking if, it snuck up on me. When did the best chemistry in the world become more?
“... can't marry outside of these five families.”
He recites the five. Chloe is on the list. Of fucking-course.
“What?” I ask.
“In theory, if the parameters I've outlined hold true, those five families would be your only chance of inheriting your full bequeath. If you married outside of those bloodlines, your monies, and the receipt of such, would be null and void.”
“Who would be responsible for such an amendment?” I ask.
Papers shuffle. “These clauses are usually not included at the initial drawing of the will but are later additions.”
“Clarice,” I hiss. My whisper sounds like a knife over the phone.
“That would be a most astute guess, Mr. Sinclair. If this were an actual reality.”
My heart speeds, fueled by anger and the first brush of uncertainty I've had in years.
“Rylan?” I say to the attorney who has been my advocate since I was four.
“Yes, Mr. Sinclair?”
“Thank you.”
Quiet burns between us.
“You are most welcome, Chet.”
I hang up the phone on its cradle. I press the spine of a book, James Bond style, and the entire shelf holding the one phone on its ancient landline slides back behind false book bindings.
I step away, palming my chin, my face tight with my anger.
That cunt.
Clarice hooked up with my father then orchestrated a clause about my future marriage.
But why? How is who I marry advantageous to her?
Rylan has said what he can, so now it's up to me. However, I could just blow off the whole thing. It was good of Rylan to give me the veiled warning, but the reality is I have no plans to marry. Problem solved. I keep having my fun and not caring. That's gotten me through so much.
I pace the length of my private library for some time. I visualize my life without Kandace, just enjoying the empty pussies that present themselves so readily.
I have an endless supply. I can get off any time I like. High-class tail. Top notch. Never having to beg.
I hit the wall with my palms, and the slap against the drywall resounds in the open acoustics the twenty-foot ceilings provide.
I've never been much of a self-deluder. I don't want just anyone.
Being with Kandace isn’t just sex, though it began that way.
When I'm in her presence, I feel better about being alive, as though I am finally living. My humanity is no longer just out of reach. With Kandace, it’s obtainable. And that's far too much power for someone else to have over me.
Especially a woman.
I didn't get that feeling of empowerment from banging the hundred-plus women I've bedded. I remained detached, in charge. I told them the rules, and they obeyed—period.
I've broken every rule with Kandace.
I pursued her.
I dated her, for fuck's sake.
My fingertips grip the wide molding surrounding the window I gaze out of unseeingly.
And now I'm paying one thousand dollars a day for a hired assassin to find her.
I can't lie to myself.
I want Kandace. Need.
No one will take her away from me. No matter how big or how small.
I push away from the wall and stride to the elevator in my fifteen-thousand-square-foot mansion.
The gym consumes the entire second floor. A pool take up one third of it, with a view of Seattle and the skyline that stretches for miles.
I'll work out until I drop from exhaustion. My personal trainer will come over, and I'll give him the two words I need: Don't stop.
He's in charge of my health, supposedly, but I'm still his boss.
I know I'm running, but until I can find Kandace, I'll run from the truth—the fact that I care. It's the type of emotion that is beginning to resemble love. And that I can't abide.
THREE
Kiki
Ax is thoughtful enough to have considered my wardrobe. That is, my lack of one. A small T-shirt is folded neatly on the gym commode tank.
I step naked into the obviously remodeled walk-in shower, moving my palms together as if I’m praying. The hot spray sluices around my joined hands, and I spread them, allowing the water to hit my face, taking my horror over my decision to the drain and beyond.
I shouldn't have run.
I shouldn't be with Ax. My presence here sends the wrong message. Ax might think I'm interested in him. But the only man I'm interested in is Chet.
And he's fucking engaged to Ice Queen.
Hot tears join my remorse and run unchecked down my face to mingle with the water. My palms against the wall hold me up as I shake from sadness. By myself, I can own how terrible I felt having Chet's stepmom dress me down. It takes a lot to knock me down. I've survived a lot—and accomplished more.
I know the true nature of men.
They were the ones who only saw my tits and ass when I danced. I took their lust money and finished my first round of college, bought my posh pad.
How I could lie so deeply to myself, thinking that Chet was somehow a white knight, charging in to save me? How could I have been so wrong?
I go through the motions of bathing, using shampoo that smells like a guy’s. Soap too.
I rinse, step out of the shower, towel off, and find a new tube of toothpaste in a drawer. Brushing my teeth for five minutes, I avoid my reflection.
I think of my stolen glimpse of Shepard, and my anxiety deepens. What's that sick fuck doing here? Better question: why does he look so cozy with Ax?
If I'd ever really been Chet's girlfriend—scratch that. I suck in a shaky sob, get toothpaste backed up in my throat, and spit ungracefully into the sink. My hand shakes as I wipe a stray bit of toothpaste from my lips.
If I could have talked to Chet, then I'd have sought his council. I'd have said, Hey, rich boy, this fucking creeper that was married to Juliette and peddled virgins? Yeah, he's sniffing around my only protector from back in the day.
And that Shepard is so intimately linked to Roi? Dear old dead dad... well, that means something.
I don't know what, but I'm not beyond guessing it can't be good.
And what does it mean that Ax is connected to a guy who worked for my bio-dad? A guy who Ax made sure never found me.
Less and less is making sense, and my brain feels wrapped in cotton. I'm usually sharper than this, but Chet's rejection for that twat Chloe has me all twisted inside out.
I check out my yoga pants and sigh. I can't make myself presentable. Not with this skeletal wardrobe.
I move through Ax’s tiny apartment in just a towel. I slowly open his bedroom door.
Everything is perfectly neat—organized. It gives me pause. Not that Ax is incapable of this level of linear thought process and behavior. I just didn't have any idea how he'd turned out.
And here I am without any clothes but the ones on my back. Great planning, Kiki.
Between the two of us, he feels like the success, not me. I've totally let my emotions rule my actions. It wouldn't be the first time.
I touch random things on his dresser. A chunky dish, full of change, that looks like a girl's sits in the center. My fingertip rolls along the glossy edge of the mid-century, economically designed dresser and lands on a business card holder. I flip through a few.
I can't summon guilt for snooping—I won't chastise myself. I'm too low for that right now. Kiki's got her own back. That thought slaps a crooked smile on my face. I wonder if Ax might have entertained a female or two in his time. Maybe he has a spare slut dress or two.
I move to the closet, glancing at the lock, and I jerk the door handles to slide them apart. They don't budge.
Locked.
My brows cinch. Weird.
I clut
ch the towel tighter and scan the room.
My eyes drop on Ax's digital clock, the kind that tosses lighted numbers on the ceiling. I lightly gnaw my lip.
I tiptoe to the clock, flip it upside down, and find a key taped to the underside. It's gotta be a spare.
I tear it off and walk back to the closet, thinking about old habits dying hard. That was a fave hiding place back in the day. People hit alarm clocks to shut them up. Hardly anyone picks them up.
I insert the small key into the lock in the handle. It smoothly enters and turns when I twist it.
I open the closet, hoping to find a dress left by a one-night stand.
But the closet is filled with dresses.
My towel drops to the ground.
I step away.
My gaze flies over the inventory, and I see they're numbered by size like in a department store.
I'm no itty-bitty thing, running around a size eight most days if I'm lucky. I’m kind of full-figured for my height with lots of real estate on my booty. Move over, Kardashian. A smirk pulls at my mouth.
Chet seemed to prefer my shape. Athletic and curvy.
I swallow back sadness so sharp it slices me. Images of the movie theater he bought out dances in my mind, the taste of buttery popcorn on my tongue.
His cock buried inside me as I rode him still stretches me in my memory. In my mind's eye, I see Chet's half-lidded stare glazed with lust.
And maybe something more.
It was that more I was counting on.
Stupid, Kiki. I should know better.
With shaky fingers, I flick through dresses that begin at a size zero and end at ten.
What the fuck is this?
I pick up the towel and drape it over the footboard of his sleek birchwood bed. I move through the size eight selection, my shit-o-meter pinging with warning.
But I can't stand around naked either.
My hand hovers over a hot pink sequined number. I bite my lip and consider, for the first time, not wearing a flashy dress.
What's wrong with me?
Instead, I select an elegant, bright white wrap dress that goes to mid-thigh, the neckline so low my generous boobs will try to jump out. It ties on the side. After fetching my bra and new panties, I slip on the clothes. The dress smooths over my curves perfectly.
