by B. B. Hamel
“Maybe I’ll leave you too,” he sneers at me. “Just like your mother left you. She knew you were pathetic garbage. Do you want me to leave you?”
“No!” I cry out, terrified.
“Good,” he says. “Play it again.”
I stand up and retrieve the violin. One of the strings is broken but I know I can’t say anything about it. I retrieve my bow and stand before him, ready to play. He nods and I raise my instrument.
He loves it. I can see through him in my dream, into his mind, and I know he loves this. He loves pushing me, prodding me, seeing how far he can go. Threatening to leave is his favorite little game, especially when he gets to tell me how my mother thought I wasn’t worth being around. It’s impossible to imagine what that does to a little girl, the sort of incredible heartbreaking sadness it instills inside of her. It’s the sort of madness that she’ll turn to drugs to numb when she turns into a woman.
But for now, all I know how to do is play. I strike the first note as my father advances on me, grinning his evil grin, stinking of gin and looking to humiliate me some more.
I wake up sweating and he’s there in my bed. I swat at him, trying to get away, terrified of him. He’s coming and he’s going to keep making me play.
“Aria!” His hands gently catch my wrists and I’m breathing so fast, but that’s not his voice, and I’m not a little girl.
I’m an adult woman. I’m in Ethan’s home, in his bed, and I’m safe. I’m far away from my father.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Shh, it’s okay.”
Ethan takes me in his arms and pulls me against him.
“Ethan,” I say. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s very okay.” He holds me and rocks me until my trembling slowly subsides.
“I heard you screaming,” he says once I’m calmer. “I came in to check on you.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I’m fine though.”
I pull back from him and wipe the hair from my face, trying to smile. He doesn’t need this sort of thing in his life, not with the kind of stress he’s under. He doesn’t need some pathetic girl with horrible scars screaming in the middle of the night and waking him up.
The dream lingers and part of me thinks I’m still that pathetic little girl destined to fail. But I know that I’m not. I ran away and tried to destroy my demons with heroin, but that only made the demons so much worse. In the end, I’m destroying my demons through hard work, but they’re not all gone. Not yet at least.
“Do you have nightmares often?” he asks
I shake my head. “Not for years. I... I used to.” I laugh softly. “I’m sorry. I’m really embarrassed.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “Really. For a second there, I thought you were being murdered.”
“I’m safe and sound,” I say more for myself.
He nods and studies me for a second, putting his hand on my face. It’s warm and feels good. I lean into it, smiling.
“Can I ask you what the dream was about?” I look at him, a little surprised. He quickly goes on. “That’s helped me, in the past. Talking about the horrible dreams.”
“You have nightmares?”
“I used to. Back when my company started growing faster than I was ready for. I was under a lot of pressure back then.” He laughs a little bit. “I used to dream about drowning every night. My peers and employees would be standing outside of a giant fish tank, laughing as I drowned. It was pretty bad.”
“Sounds awful,” I say.
“If you want to tell me about it, I’ll listen. I understand if you don’t.”
I pause, thinking. I’ve never told anyone about the dreams before. I’ve woken others up with my screaming, but I always just make some excuse and pretend like it’s no big deal. I thought I was past this, but apparently not.
“I shouldn’t have asked,” he says quickly. “I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me.”
“No,” I say. “I want to tell you.”
“Are you sure?”
I nod and take a deep breath. “I played violin when I was a little girl. My father, sometimes he’d get drunk and watch me practice. Once he made me practice for hours, the same song over and over until my fingers bled. He would tell me that I’m a disappointment and that’s why my mother died. I dream about that afternoon sometimes, and in my dream I know that my father wants to humiliate me and destroy me, but I can’t help it. I’m a little girl again.”
He shakes his head, frowning. “Is that true?”
I nod. “It’s true. It happened. It’s... part of why I ran away. Why I turned to drugs.”
“I’m so sorry,” he says softly. “That’s horrible.”
“I think he meant well at first. But as the years passed, he became bitter, and started taking it out on me. I was just a little girl so I didn’t understand. My father was a towering figure in my life. He was everything to me. When he said I was a failure, I believed him.” I look away from Ethan, trying not to cry. “I stopped playing violin after that afternoon. I refused. He never hit me, but he yelled a lot. The yelling was worse.”
“I can relate to that.”
I look at him, surprised. He pulls away and lies down next to me, hands behind his head, looking up at the top of the canopy.
“My father thought computers were for sissies and pussies,” he says. “His biggest dream in life was for me to join him working at the police department.” He glances at me and grins. “My father is a cop, by the way.”
“I had no clue.”
“I don’t talk about it. My dad was a grade-A asshole and still is. We don’t really talk much. My mother is okay, but she didn’t really do much to stop my father from being a dick. He was constantly talking down to me, constantly telling me that I was a pussy and a piece of shit for sitting in front of my computer all the time.” He sighs, trailing off.
“That’s hard. When your parents don’t believe in you.”
“There was other stuff, too,” he says softly. “He tried to toughen me up.”
“How?” I ask, lying next to him. I put my hand on his chest.
“Beat the shit out of me,” he says. “He’d be hitting me, saying it’s for my own good, although I’m pretty sure he just liked doing it. But all that abuse just made me more driven to get the fuck out of there.”
“I can understand that,” I say.
“I got lucky. My company worked and shit took off for me. But if I stayed in that house much longer, my father would have killed me, or I would have killed him. There was no happy ending for me there.”
“But you got out.”
He nods and looks at me. “You did too.”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
He takes my hand and squeezes. “Hey. We both got out.”
“You’re right.” I curl up next to him, my head on his chest. “We did.”
I close my eyes as we lapse into silence. I don’t want to push him for more of his story, but I can imagine it. I lived some of it, I bet. It’s amazing that he ended up here and I ended up here too, but we took such different paths. Similar beginnings, but such different choices and events.
I can feel sleep tugging me down, and I want to resist it since he’s still here, but I can’t. All I hear is his breath and his heartbeat thumping slowly in my ear. It’s comforting, and when I finally go back under, I don’t dream anymore.
It’s just peaceful and calm. There’s nothing else.
19
Ethan
I glance at my agenda and sigh. The day is nearly over and yet I feel like I haven’t gotten a damn thing done. I’ve been feeling like this ever since Aria came into my life, but I know it’s not her fault. I’m just distracted by her.
Last night, I fell asleep in her bed. I told myself I wasn’t going to do that, but it happened. When I heard her screaming, I thought something horrible was happening.
Instead, I ended up opening up about my life. I never talk about my father, not with anyone. It’s n
ot that I’m ashamed, or not exactly, but I just can’t stand people feeling any sort of pity for me. I survived it and got the fuck out of there, and that’s all I care about.
I still speak with my mother maybe once a month. I paid off their house, despite my father asking me not to, and bought them a new car. But that’s the extent of it. I’d give them more, take care of them for life only because they’re my parents, but my father made it clear that he doesn’t want my help.
Too proud or too stupid, I don’t know, and I don’t care. I’m moving on past all of this.
But I understand what Aria is going through. I used to dream of my father and the beatings he’d give me, all for my own good, all because he wanted me to toughen up. Of course, he was beating on a fourteen-year-old boy, but that didn’t matter to him. I was a sissy because I was good with computers and I was smart, and no son of his was going to be a sissy.
As soon as I turned sixteen and hit a growth spurt, the beatings stopped. Mostly because I got big enough to fight back and defend myself. He didn’t want to risk getting hurt. But the emotional abuse never stopped, not until the day I left that house and never looked back.
I’m not a weak man. I don’t let that shit define me or hold me back. I’m not some fucking victim. But I can’t pretend like it didn’t happen. I was just a kid and I didn’t know any better. I shouldn’t be ashamed of it.
And I’m not, not exactly at least. I mostly just don’t want people defining me by my past. Everything I’ve accomplished since then is so much more important to me, and I don’t want to become the abused kid that made it big.
Maybe it was dangerous to tell Aria that story. She could easily turn around and sell it to some tabloid. The Syndicate would probably have something to say about that, but that wouldn’t really stop her, not if she was really determined. She could make a nice chunk of money and disappear.
But I know she wouldn’t do that. What she told me last night was real, very real. She couldn’t fake the screaming or the emotion that I saw plainly on her face. She understands what I went through, just like I understand what she went through, and I know she’d never betray my trust. Just like I’d never betray hers.
The unspoken bond between us sends strange shivers down my spine. I never imagined feeling... whatever this is. It’s an attachment, that’s for sure, a very powerful bond that I don’t entirely understand yet. There’s so much between us already, and we have so much in common, that I can barely believe it.
My secretary buzzes my phone suddenly, snapping me out of my haze. I hit a button. “Yes?” I ask, getting myself back into the moment.
“Richard Taylor on line two,” she says.
I pause. “Thanks,” I say, before picking up the phone and hitting a button. “Richard,” I say. “Hello.”
“How are you doing, Ethan?”
I pause, wondering how to proceed. Do I pretend like the blackmail never happened?
“I’m fine,” I say.
“Have you thought about our last conversation?”
There it is. I was waiting for that. I wonder how direct he’ll be over the phone.
“I have,” I say.
“And?”
“And it doesn’t seem like I have much of a choice in this situation, does it?”
“No,” he says, and I can hear the joy in his voice. “That’s the point though, of course.”
“Send over your next round of contracts.”
“I will. I’ll be reasonable, Ethan. I’ll go easy on you.”
“For both our sakes, Richard. Remember, you need this deal as much as I do.”
“That’s true,” he says, laughing. “That’s very true. Well, I’m glad you came to your senses. We’re both going to be rich and happy men soon.”
“I suspect you’ll be richer and happier,” I say.
“Of course. That’s the game, isn’t it?” He laughs and then hangs up the phone.
I stare at my receiver before hanging it back up. I feel fucking sick to my stomach all of a sudden, and although I have more work to do, I know I’m done for the day. It’s around five anyway, and there’s no shame in leaving at a normal time for once. I’ll go home, check on Aria, eat something, and then work from my home office for a few more hours.
With that plan in mind, I stand up and head out, trying to shake the sinking feeling I have in my stomach. Richard Taylor has me over a fucking barrel, and he’s going to take advantage of this. People are going to wonder why I took this fucking deal when inevitably I do, and it’s going to look very bad. This is a losing situation for me, and I have to find some way out of it.
The car gets me home quickly and I’m optimistic as I climb out and head up the stoop. I’ve been ignoring this Richard thing, or at least I’ve been trying to. I’ve been using Aria to help distract me from the fucked up shit that’s happening all around me, and she’s been doing a damn good job.
But as soon as I open the door, I know something’s up. The house is normally quiet, and usually Jenkins is there immediately to greet me. Instead, I hear hushed voices coming from the kitchen, and there’s nobody around.
I don’t mind if they’re busy. That’s fine. Hell, I don’t even care if they’re just standing around and chatting and didn’t know I was coming in. But that just never happens. Jenkins is always on top of things, probably because the driver normally calls ahead. This time though, as I walk down the hall and into the great room, I know something is amiss.
Jenkins is standing in the kitchen with a tall, thin, striking woman, maybe in her late forties. She has black hair pulled back in a tight bun and her red lipstick makes her pale skin that much more intense. She wears a loose black dress and her eyes flit to mine as soon as I’m in the room.
Jenkins, for his part, looks utterly embarrassed. “Sir,” he says quickly, rushing toward me. “I’m so sorry. I was distracted by this, this woman.”
“It’s okay, Jenkins,” I say. “But who is she?”
“Ethan Locks,” the woman says, speaking over Jenkins and walking toward me with her hand extended. “My name is Lucille and I’m with The Syndicate. We need to talk.”
I take her hand and shake, but the world feels like it dips and disappears around me.
I knew The Syndicate would come and check on Aria, but they assured me it would be discreet. They said they wouldn’t even be seen or noticed by me or anyone in my staff. They assured me that they’re professionals, and that they do this all the time.
If this woman is from The Syndicate and she’s here, in my home, speaking with my butler, then something is wrong. Something is very, very wrong. She shouldn’t be here.
I feel like the world is spinning around me as fear for Aria spikes through my body.
20
Aria
When I wake up, he’s gone. That doesn’t surprise me. But what surprises me is that he slept in my bed all night, and only left during the early hours of the morning.
I woke up when he left, but only briefly. He slipped out of the bed and for a second, I thought it was a dream.
But hours later, when I’m fully awake, I know that it wasn’t a dream. He really slept in the bed with me, our bodies intertwined and cuddling. That’s the most intimate thing we’ve done together, and I can hardly describe and explain how happy it makes me feel to know that he was willing to stay with me.
He opened up to me. I stretch, smiling to myself. He really opened up. That story about his father is horrible, and reminds me so much of myself. I didn’t know that we had this much in common, but clearly we grew up in similar circumstances. He knows pain and suffering in the same way that I do, which almost scares me.
But it shouldn’t scare me, I know that. I should be elated, and I am. This is what I want, what I’ve always wanted from a man. This level of intimacy was never something I ever pictured could happen for me. I assumed I was always doomed to push men away and to live my life alone.
Maybe that doesn’t have to be the case. Maybe there’s
something more happening here. He finally fucked me, finally held me, finally made me his. Everything should be perfect.
So why do I still feel like there’s something missing?
He still owns me. At the end of the day, that’s the truth. He owns me and there’s nothing either of us can do about it. No matter what happens between us, it’s only happening because he bought me. I don’t know what’s real and what isn’t.
Him opening up was real. And the way I’m feeling is real. But I don’t know what any of that means, how long any of it will last, because of our situation. It’s inherently messed up.
I wish I could just tell him that I want him to get his money back. Or that I will donate all my money to a charity or something, if it just means that we can have something beyond this exchange of value. I want him for real, not as some man that bought me and keeps me as his pet. I want something real.
I want whatever happened last night to keep happening. I’m afraid that it was just a moment of weakness for him, and as soon as we wake up, the spell will be over.
It’s impossible to say one way or the other.
The day drags on. Jenkins brings me lunch and I don’t hear from Ethan at all. I keep thinking about him, of course, but I just keep doing what I always do. I’m confused and trying to figure all of this out, but there’s nothing I can do.
I’m still stuck in this room, waiting for him to come to me. I know he will, or at least I feel that he will deep down inside of me. He’ll come and we’ll talk. And we’ll make this real.
I’ll give up the money. Forget about the money. Sure, it’s a life-changing amount, but I’d give it all up for the chance at something real and lasting and good.
It’s a crazy thought, giving up millions, but I can’t help but seriously consider it. Maybe if I told him that, he’d break the contract and we could try this seriously. I don’t know if he’d even want that, though. The whole point of buying me is that it’s temporary and there aren’t any feelings involved.
