The Devil's Contract

by Claire Contreras

  “You look well rested,” he said, taking a sip of coffee.

  “I guess.”

  What did he want now? He never came to the house. Ever.

  “Take a seat,” he said, signaling at the chair across from his.

  Celeste walked in shortly after, laying a plate of eggs and toast and cup of coffee in front of her. Philip signaled Amara to eat, and she did, peeking up at him between bites.

  “I stay here sometimes,” Philip said, folding the newspaper in his hands. “Sometimes I get better rest here than I do at home.”

  Amara continued chewing.

  “You did well last night. I don’t want you to think you’re in any kind of trouble, but Samuel...”

  Amara held her breath, remembering Philip’s threat the night before.

  “He’s acting out. I’m afraid of what would come of Courtney if anything happens to him. Nothing can happen, of course. Not yet anyway. Our client would hang me by the balls if I did anything to his dear Samuel.”

  Amara’s stomach began to roil and she wished she hadn’t eaten.

  “Samuel offered me something in exchange for you.”

  “Oh?” Amara whispered.

  “Well, you’re part of the exchange. You are just one pawn in this game, but even a pawn serves its purpose for the bigger picture, Miss Maloof. If I hand you over to Samuel, I would be doing an injustice to our client.”

  “What is the bigger picture? Other than repaying my family’s debt and apparently acting like some sort of bait to whomever you’re trying to lure. Nobody wants me, Philip. I can assure you of that.”

  Philip smiled as he studied her face. “You think this is all about the debt. Don’t misunderstand me; I love money just as much as the next person, but this is about much more than just one debt. That debt, though, was the best thing that has happened to me in a long time, because you’re wrong, Miss Maloof. Somebody does want you.”

  “I’m not following.” Amara’s heart was thumping insanely fast.

  “I worked with your father in Iran. I was young. We both were money hungry. We had many, many things in common,” he said as he paused. “We became friends then, each working for the sultan in his own capacity, and we enjoyed life. For me, it was enough. I was making great money —had everything at my fingertips. I’ve always been a patient man. They say that’s a virtue, but to me, it’s salvation. Patience has kept me alive; it has kept me in check. Your father was a starving man who only had dollars in his eyes. When your mother became pregnant, he proposed to her. The sultan laughed—hell, I laughed—but your mother went with him. I helped them. I convinced your grandfather to give them enough money to buy a place in New York. I thought he would have refused and not given them anything, but he ended up giving him millions. Have you heard this story? Do you remember living in the slums?”

  Amara shook her head, wide eyed, and licked her dry lips. “I... I remember living there, yes. Not much of it, but I remember.”

  “Do you remember what it was like to feel like you were starving?”

  “No,” she whispered.

  “You wouldn’t, because unlike a lot of your neighbors, you never were. Even in the slums, you were taken care of.”

  Amara blinked her eyes rapidly, steadying herself not to let bottled up emotions poor out of her. “Why are you telling me this now?”

  “Because you deserve to know, I suppose. Courtney’s upbringing wasn’t as fancy as yours. That’s why, when the opportunity to model landed on her lap, she took it without ever looking back. She didn’t have to come to Europe. If she hadn’t, she wouldn’t have ended up in that nasty whorehouse I found her in, but she did, and here she is. You had a choice. You didn’t have to do this. This is an opportunity. At some point, you need to treat it as such. Tonight there will be a gala. You will go. Courtney will also go. Your dates are United States government employees. They are closet gays and need you as arm candy. This is important, Amara. The information they give you is not to be repeated to anyone but me. Do you understand?”

  Amara nodded.

  “Say it!” He slammed his fists on the table, causing Amara’s fork to clatter and her coffee to sway in its cup.

  “I understand.”

  “Good girl. Vivienne will handle your wardrobe.”

  He stood and left the room. Amara sat in her seat, looking at the chair he’d vacated until Courtney walked in and sat in his spot. Amara wasn’t sure how long she’d been sitting there staring, but it wasn’t until Courtney snapped her fingers and waved her hands around that Amara looked at her.

  “We’re attending a gala tonight,” Amara said, her voice monotone. “Vivienne is bringing our dresses. We need to be ready at seven.”

  Courtney frowned at her. “Are you okay?”

  Amara didn’t know if she was okay, so she didn’t answer.

  To: Jasmine Oliver

  From: Nolan Underwood

  Subject: Sex

  So... you never answered me. Sexual position?

  -N

  To: Nolan Underwood

  From: Jasmine Oliver

  Subject: Re: Sex

  I thought we were going to wait to talk about it on our chat date.

  X,

  J

  To: Jasmine Oliver

  From: Nolan Underwood

  Subject: Re: Re: Sex

  Can you chat now?

  -N

  Amara gasped as she read it, and switched on the chat icon. It was just on the computer—he wouldn’t see her—but it was live, and it was right now. Something ignited deep in her core. Something she hadn’t felt in a while—, not since Colin. She really wished her mind didn’t remember him—at least not right now when she was talking to another guy and actually enjoying it. She felt guilty that she enjoyed her conversations with Nolan. There was no point in dwelling on it though—, she couldn’t collect the butterflies and squash them; they had already taken flight. She couldn’t prevent her face from blushing or the smile from spreading over her lips. She didn’t even know if she wanted to prevent any of it. Still, Amara reminded herself, Nolan is only a client. Just a client.

  Nolan: Hey, beautiful.

  Jasmine: Hey, yourself.

  Nolan: So, sex.

  Jasmine: I haven’t really thought about it.

  Nolan: Don’t give me that bullshit. Think about it now. If I put my dick inside you, what would make you wetter? If you’re lying beneath me? If I’m gripping your ass and slamming into you from behind? If I’m holding your hips as you ride me. Which one?

  Jasmine:... give me a moment to catch my breath...

  Nolan: You won’t be able to catch your breath when I’m fucking you.

  Jasmine: And when will that be?

  Nolan: We have to set some ground rules first, starting with this. How do you want me to fuck you, Jasmine?

  Jasmine: All of the above?

  There was a long pause. Amara wondered if the connection was lost.

  Nolan: Gladly. Which one do you want me to start with?

  Jasmine: Which one do you prefer?

  Nolan: Baby, I’m going to take you from every single fucking angle I can. I prefer your pussy on my face before I bury myself inside of you, probably from the back before we switch to you on top.

  Jasmine: Is it weird that I’m out of breath and we’re not doing anything?

  Nolan: You’re not touching yourself?

  Jasmine: I am now.

  Nolan: So am I. I’m picturing you straddling me right now. Are you wet for me?

  Jasmine: Yes.

  Nolan: How wet?

  Jasmine: Drenched.

  Nolan: Good. You’re moving slowly, taking your time with my cock, not wanting it to end too quickly.

  Jasmine: I don’t want it to end.

  Nolan: But everything must come to an end.

  Jasmine: Are we still talking about sex?

  Nolan: Yes. I want you to rub your clit until you come.

  Jasmine: What color are your eyes?

>   Nolan: Blue.

  Jasmine: Like the ocean?

  Nolan: Like a cloudless day. Did you come?

  Jasmine: I just did.

  Nolan: Lick your fingers. Tell me how they taste.

  Jasmine: Salty.

  Nolan: My favorite flavor.

  “MOM, HOW LONG have you known Philip?” Amara asked when she called her mother later that morning. She’d decided to take a stroll down the river, unconcerned about the stupid warnings that the house was being watched or that it may be dangerous to be out by herself. The only thing Amara was certain of was that she had to get out of there. Alone. Even if it was for a little while.

  Her mom was silent for a long time before answering. “A long time.”

  Amara bit her lip. She focused on the locks affixed to the fence near the path. Love locks. The entire fence had locks, actual locks, chained to it as a symbol of love. The area was filled with tourists looking at the display; some were adding their own, writing their initials and those of their loved ones as they took photos—selfies—of themselves kissing their significant other in front of the fence.

  In contrast, protesters were trying to get people to sign petitions in order to take the whole thing down. Amara wondered why they would want it to be taken down. It was nice symbolism for love and the way it binds our hearts to another person. Without warning or consent, it just does. She never thought she would be bound to another, since she’d always been a bit of a loner under her extrovert façade, but there she was, connected to a man that was to be engaged to another and lived on another continent. And here she stood, twirling somebody else’s 1999 lock, wondering if they’d stayed together through the storm life had surely thrown their way.

  “Amara?” her mother said to her ear. She’d forgotten she was even holding the phone.

  “Yeah. How are you feeling?” she asked, shaking her thoughts of love away as she let the lock drop back to the fence.

  “Fine. Therapy is tough, but I feel fine.”

  Amara smiled. “Good.”

  “Are you coming to see me soon?”

  “I hope so.”

  AMARA SPENT THE rest of her day idly walking the streets of Paris, sitting down to eat lunch in front of the Eiffel Tower, sipping coffee in a small café, looking at art work when she spied nice pieces, and trying to ignore all of the happy couples making out in front of her. It seemed as if every corner she rounded, contained pairs of lovers shoving their happiness in her face. Every corner except for one, she realized, as she passed some cobblestone buildings on her way back to the house. She’d taken a wrong turn along the way and stepped into an unfamiliar alleyway.

  Amara could see the bank on the other side and figured it would be faster that way. She hadn’t counted on the skies going gray while she took the shortcut, or the large droplets of rain that began to quickly cloud her vision. She closed her jacket tighter and kept her head held down, watching her step, careful not to slip into a pothole. Her eyes were on her black booties when a pair of large men’s shoes appeared in front of her, blocking her way. She felt a body push up against her before she could register to look up and stop walking.

  “Sorry,” she gasped as her hands flew to her chest. “Désolé.”

  The man, a young Middle Eastern man with a beard, smiled. “Ne vous inquiétez pas.”

  Amara blinked at him and tried to sidestep, but he stood in front of her, blocking her way. Her heart began to go into overload as adrenaline kicked in. She tried to step to the other side, but he followed quickly.

  He asked her where she lived—at least that’s what she thought he’d asked. She didn’t respond, just tried to step again to the side, her eyes focusing on the end of the alley to the sliver of street she could see—the tiny bit of freedom she needed.

  Amara shook her head quickly. “No French.”

  “American?” he asked. His accent was thick with his native language.

  She nodded.

  “Where do you live?” he repeated. A phone rang in his pocket, and his eyes widened. She saw the struggle he was faced with, to pick up the phone or to ignore it. It rang again, and that time he chose to fish it out of his pocket. In the instant he looked down, Amara channeled all of her energy, stomped on his foot with the wide heel of her shoe, and ran as fast as she could through the rocky pavement and onto the sidewalk.

  She wasn’t sure if he followed her, and she refused to look back. Amara kept the pace up all the way home, continuing to push herself until she got out of the elevator in the third floor of her building. Only then did she let out a deep breath. Vivienne was waiting for her with a closet full of long dresses when she arrived back at the residence.

  “Where the hell were you?” Courtney yelled as soon as she saw Amara.

  “Out.”

  “You’re not supposed to go out on your own! Not from the house! At least take a driver somewhere!”

  Amara was still shaken, but refused to let her see it. She looked down at herself, raising her arms and her legs as if inspecting herself. “I’m back in one piece.”

  “That’s not fucking funny,” Courtney said, seething.

  “It kind of is, Court. I’m totally fine.”

  Courtney’s eyes began to fill with tears. “You scared me, you moron! You could have at least answered your calls!”

  “My phone died on the way back.”

  “God, Mara. You don’t get it do you?”

  Amara stared at her. “Paris is no more dangerous than New York!” It was true. The same incident could have happened to her in New York, she just wasn’t stupid enough to walk into alleys over there. Now she knew better.

  “It’s not about Paris! It’s about this fucking house! It’s about you leaving this house by yourself like that! It’s about you! It’s about Franny!”

  She frowned. “Who the hell is Franny?”

  “She wasn’t even one of us, she was the girl that washed the goddamn dishes, but she was a pretty girl. She looked a lot like you... and you know what happened to her? She went home one night and never came back. She was found completely mutilated a couple of blocks away from here, stuffed in a trashcan. Do you understand now?” Courtney was visibly shaken, and that made Amara rock back in her heels.

  “What? Why?”

  “I don’t know, but I don’t ever want to go through that again. Especially not with you. If you leave this house, you take a driver. End of story.”

  The words mutilation, this house, and Philip marinated in Amara’s brain as she nodded in agreement. Add to that the experience she’d just had, and she was sure she’d never leave the house alone again. As she dressed for the gala and had her make-up done, Amara couldn’t imagine why anybody would just kill and mutilate another human for no reason. Not that murder was ever within reason. By the time the car was sent for them, Amara had vividly pictured her own death countless times. Courtney ducked into the car before her, both holding up their long gowns to avoid stepping on them. Two men were sitting inside of the limousine waiting for them, both dressed in tuxedos. One had dark hair, the other was blonde, both handsome in a pretty way that made Amara feel like she was competing with them more than she would be any other woman at the gala. The blonde introduced himself as Todd and said he would be Amara’s date and and that Jeremy would be Courtney’s.

  The ride over to the gala was quiet, and Amara alternated between plucking at the sequins of her gold dress and twirling the ends of the thick curls on the tips of her long dark hair. She didn’t normally wear it curly and wasn’t used to the bounce it provided, but she liked it. Courtney stared out the window the entire time. She looked elegant in her long black dress and her golden hair twisted into a knot. Todd and Jeremy were having a hushed conversation about investments in the Middle East that Amara was pretending not to listen to.

  “Yes, but we need Andon to accept our offer. We need at least five thousand new firearms to be sent to the base in Iran before the end of the month. We can’t offer him any more than we already ha
ve for this,” Todd said to Jeremy.

  Amara’s hands stilled on her lap and her eyes shot to Todd’s face. His blue eyes challenged hers, and she instantly knew this was what she and Courtney were there for.

  “Andon will not accept less than five million US dollars for five thousand,” Courtney said, startling Amara. “That is the only bargain he will agree to.”

  “That’s hardly a bargain,” Jeremy countered.

  Courtney tapped her fingers on her lap. “You are to give me one suitcase by the end of the night. Take it or leave it. Your deadline is Monday.”

  Todd exhaled harshly and mumbled a slew of angry words about Andon. Amara would have been offended—she should have been—but couldn’t think much past the name Andon. It was her grandfather’s name, and Philip had mentioned that he’d done business with him in the past. That was a long time ago, however, and her grandfather was an oil man; he provided oil to the biggest gas companies in the world, not weaponry. Not that she knew of, anyway.

  “We’ll go to this ball, make an appearance, and go back to Méchant. We need to speak to Philip about this,” Jeremy said.

  “Philip is only a messenger,” Courtney retorted.

  Todd rolled his eyes and looked out the window. Jeremy did the same, crossing his arms.

  “Where are you from, Jasmine?” Todd asked, looking at Amara.

  Amara looked at Courtney. She didn’t know if she was allowed to answer his question truthfully.

  “She’s from New York,” Courtney said.

  “Hmmm...” Todd responded. “And you?”

  “Kentucky.”

  “Home of the Derby,” Todd said.

  “Home of a lot of things,” Courtney said flippantly.

  “New York, huh?” Todd said, bringing his attention back to Amara. “Where in New York?”

  “Manhattan,” Amara said.

  Todd tilted his head as his eyes searched her face.

  “You’re a decent liar, but a liar is still a liar,” he said.

  Panic flooded Amara. Todd and Jeremy were government employees; that was the only bit of information she’d been given before they picked her up. The fact that he was trying to read her made her feel uncomfortable. She was thankful the car came to a stop before he could ask any more questions. Jeremy slid over to them and stepped out first, helping Courtney out of the car, and Todd did the same for Amara. They were both very tall men and towered over the women, despite the high heels they wore. Todd extended his arm, and Amara clutched on to his elbow as he led her inside. They stood in front of a large sign that advertised an opportunity for photos and when they stepped away, Todd greeted a gentleman he knew. Amara took the opportunity to look over her shoulder to see Courtney pausing for a photo with Jeremy, and noticed the content on the sign she’d stood in front of seconds before.