by Kailin Gow
“There,” he says, as the fire crackles and burns before me. “Isn’t that better?” he smiles. “Now you can take off your coat.” He slips it off me so carefully, so delicately. He treasures every inch of my skin. His fingertips are velvety to my touch. I love the way he feels. I love how I feel when I’m with him.
Then he pulls off my shirt, stripping me bare. It’s such a graceful motion I don’t even notice that he’s doing it until my top is empty before him. He pulls me to the fireplace, towards the furs that line his sofa, and presses me into them. The feeling of the pelts feels so soft, so good against my skin.
I do not resist as he slips my jeans off my hips. Then he puts a finger against my inner thigh, trailing it upwards towards my panties, until he is rubbing the familiar moisture that fills him with such a sense of pride, of victory, and of his own desire.
He almost gasps when he removes my panties. “Every time I look at you, Staci – I swear – I think you’re getting prettier and prettier.” He smiles. “Maybe oysters can wait. I hope you’re not hungry yet. I just put in an order for delivery on my Smartphone. But in the meantime – you look far more delicious. I’m going to eat you all up.”
And with that, he kneels between my legs. At once my eyes roll back in my head as I become overwhelmed by the waves of pleasure crashing through me: louder and more powerful than the crashing of the sea against the cliffside outside his house. His tongue, his lips, his mouth all know where to go. He is inside me, against me, all the places that matter, drawing out my pleasure as he plays my body like an instrument. I am his, utterly, crying out his name as his tongue darts in and then out of me, as his lips find my clitoris and know just how hard to suck, just where to nibble, so that when I come I am pressing all of myself into his face, screaming his name.
But I am not spent yet. Now I am hungrier than ever: hungry to make him feel all the pleasure that I have just felt, that he has just made me feel. I undo his immaculately tailored trousers and let them fall onto the floor. He stands by the fireplace as I kneel on the furs, taking his hard, veiny member into my hand, enjoying how much harder I can make it, enjoying its beautiful, statue-like length as I bring it slowly into my lips, into my mouth. I love going down on him. I love feeling his fingers tendril into my hair, pulling tight as I start to make him lose control. I love moving my mouth up and down upon his shaft, getting closer to the source of him, to the smell of sweat and musk that drives me mad. I love hearing the things I can make him say: my name, over and over again, swear words, sounds that mean nothing to anybody but us.
When he comes, I swallow it all. I want all of him inside me. I want every part of him. Even this part.
We cuddle for a while in front of the fireplace, enjoying the warmth, enjoying the crackle and the slight sting when he gets too hot. But it is not long before he is hard again, not long before my thighs are moist, and then it is time for another round of this game which has come to consume both of us. Soon he is inside me again, thrusting violently, pulling my legs up and apart so that they are over his shoulders, filling me up with himself, and then we come for a second time together.
I am so lost in my obsession with this man that I forget everything else: the events of the day, Rita’s death, all my pain, all my struggle. I forget why I even called him in the first place. All I know is that I just want to be held by him, to be made love to by him, to be with him. I want to be his and I want him to be mine. That’s all I could ever want.
The doorbell rings.
“That must be the delivery,” he says.
“Let me get it.”
I get up, wrapped in the furs, and go to the door. There’s a bag of delivery from the local five-star French restaurant. But next to it, I also notice a note.
All is taken care of, Mr. Blue.
Strange, I think, but I ignore it, bringing only the delivery back.
We eat filet mignon by the fireplace and fall asleep in one another’s arms as the embers slowly die out. We don’t even make it to the bed. We just fall asleep on the floor, covered in furs. Like we’re camping, I think.
“I think I’m falling for you, Staci,” he whispers. It’s the last thing he says before we both fall asleep.
In the morning, I wake before he does. His arms are still wrapped so tightly around me. I watch the ray of sunlight dart across the floor. I feel like a lazy cat, I think to myself laughing, enjoying a spot of sun. But it’s time to get up.
I go to close the blinds and my stomach growls. Clearly sex has given me more of an appetite than I thought.
I know, I think. I’ll cook us both breakfast. A nice surprise for Xander. Almost like we’re real lovers. Like husband and wife, even.
I go to the kitchen and start greasing the pan for eggs.
Then I hear a buzzing. Xander’s phone.
Then another buzzing.
I can’t resist my curiosity. I look.
At once I wish I hadn’t.
Two text messages.
The first is from Terrence.
She knows about Virginia. It’s only a matter of time before she finds out about Roz.
The second, from “Gina.”
I got Mr. Tannenbaum. What do you want me to do with him now?
Chapter 4
I can’t believe it. I look at the phone in my hand, staring open-mouthed. It can’t be true. It simply can’t be. This person whom I’d trusted, whom I’d even started to love, is carrying on intrigues behind my back. I don’t even know what to say. I don’t even know what to think. Everything goes numb. I can’t feel my fingers. I can’t even feel the weight of Xander Blue’s phone in my head. Waves come over me: waves of sickness, of light so bright it blinds me, of darkness. I don’t even know what’s happening. I don’t even realize, until it’s too late, that I’m running across the light-soaked living room, with its glass fronted windows looking out over the cliffs and the sea, running up the chrome stairs to the bathroom, on my hands and knees in front of the toilet: throwing up. I am evacuating every part of myself. I am throwing up the food I ate the night before: the fois gras and the filet mignon, the delicate crème brulee Mr. X had ordered for me? I’m throwing all of it up. And I’m throwing up something else, too. My love, my trust, my weakness. Trying to get all that out of me. Trying to get every part of this weakness out of my body so that I can be safe again, so that I can be free.
I can’t believe it. Mr. X. is talking to Terrence about Virginia behind my back. It’s only a matter of time before she finds out about Roz, Terrence says. But what does that mean? What’s the secret about Roz I’m supposed to not find out? And what do I know about Rita – other than that she was Virginia? Other than that she’s dead?
And that’s just the first text message. The one that tells me I can’t trust anybody. A reminder of a lesson I should have learned long ago by now. I feel so stupid, retching, my body racked with pain and sadness, throwing up in waves of nausea and self-loathing. How could I have let myself trust Mr. X? He always made me feel so safe. Told me we were in this together. He was investigating Rita’s disappearance; so was I. But now it seems like he knew about Virginia the whole time! Then – what was I? What was he to me? Why lie to me at all? Unless it was to get me to trust him, to get me to give up some information…
But of course I didn’t have any information. I don’t have any information now. Every time I learn something, anything, a smidgeon of truth, a tiny kernel of knowledge, it’s revealed to be all emptiness. I’m always half a step behind. I always know less than these powerful people, this impossible Blue family, who hold my fate in their hands. Like discovering that Rita – Virginia – whatever the hell her real name is – was dead.
If she even is dead.
Gina. That was the name on the phone. The second texter to Mr. X. The one who said “I have Mr. Tannenbaum.” She has my dad. Does that mean she’s kidnapped him – or that he’s gone willingly?
Does that mean….?
No, it can’t be. Gina’s dead. Vir
ginia’s dead. Rita’s dead. I’ve buried her in my mind already. I have mourned her and suffered her loss already. I have missed her and known already how badly the missing cut into my bones, filled up my marrow with her loss. How agonizing it has been to miss her. But Gina – Virginia – could it be?
Could Virginia be alive?
No, I tell myself. That’s crazy. The woman at the rehab center told me what happened, gave me Rita’s clothes, her things, the key to that safe deposit box she’d never have let me access unless Rita were truly dead and gone…
And yet…
That smell in the hallway, when my assailant had left. The second time I’d smelled that perfume. Rita’s perfume. Sure, it could have belonged to anybody, that scent, that smell. But did it? Rita had her own perfumes custom-made. It was her one little luxury, she said – even before the Blue Room meant she was raking in enough money to get a different scent for every day of the year. She liked to smell like nobody else. And that was the smell that had permeated the atmosphere of the Blue Room twice now: on two separate occasions, wasn’t it? Rita’s perfume. The smell I associated most with her, with our lazy winter days, with our summers together, with the love we shared that was in its own way greater than any other love I’d ever known. I cannot stand how much I miss her right now. My heart is breaking: wanting her.
And yet is that the same Rita, the “Gina” who has kidnapped my father? Or run away with him in tow? Or…something? What is the real connection between the Tannenbaum family and the Blues? Could Rita have betrayed me – grabbed my father and taken him away by force, maybe even at gunpoint? But why? And if she wanted to betray me, why not kill me where I stood? Why not shoot me down like a dog? I don’t know. The more I think about these questions, the more I try and figure out right from wrong, the more my head hurts. I can’t even formulate an answer, a feeling, a word beyond these waves of disgust that crest over me.
Gina….Rita…Xander….Terrence.
Who can I trust?
Nobody. They’re all in cahoots. They all know far more than I ever will. They all have power over me I am sick of giving them.
I can count on one hand the people I can trust. My mother – though even now I do not know whether her faith in my father was misplaced. She loved him truthfully and with all of her heart: but did he love her just as much? He seems to have tried to protect me…but if he hired Rita, or Virginia, or whatever she was then, that doesn’t mean he was necessarily successful.
That’s it, I tell myself, rinsing out my mouth with mouthwash. I look like a mess. The sweat and rosy glow of sex from the night before now makes me look haggard, old. Stress has sickened me.
Then I see it. Looking down in the sink.
Long hair.
Long blonde hair. Not my color.
The same shade of the woman I saw leaving my hotel room. The woman with Rita’s perfume. Rita?
She and Xander have a connection. But…is it a romantic one, too? Tears sting at my eyes as the nausea starts up again. I feel the need to stretch out a hand against the wall to steady myself. She and Xander – the two of them – having sex. I picture it, if it even is true: him inside her, his legs wrapped around her, her arms wrapped around his, her long hair, her back thrust in ecstasy, her screaming his name, his screaming hers…
And all those times he said I think I’m falling for you, Staci. All those times. Those were just lies. All those times he introduced me publicly.
And this whole time, Gina. This whole time, the blonde woman whose hair is in the sink.
But Rita wasn’t blonde – not originally. Last time I saw her her hair was the color of burnt caramel. But now…
Why is Rita changing her appearance? And is this even Rita?
I have to get out of here, I think. I have to head East, back to Vegas, back to the one person in this sick and crazy world I can still trust – and I know there are so few of them now! My mother. Who knows how much time she has left on this earth? Rita’s alive – or dead. Either way, the friend I knew is buried and gone. The woman I love is buried and gone. And before I lose someone else I love, I should just go back to her: back home, back to Vegas. I should escape with what little portion of my sanity is yet intact and see my mother. My father’s gone – whether he’s kidnapped or whether he’s abandoned her I hardly even know or care anymore. He’s part of a world that sickens me. This whole world of wealth, privilege, lies and intrigue sickens me.
I head back downstairs. I put on my coat silently, as quickly as I can. I stare at Xander, sleeping so peacefully. How handsome he looks in this light. How calm. Like someone who loves me. Like someone I can trust.
Funny, isn’t it, how deceiving appearances can be?
Well, not funny.
Pretty fucking sad.
Part of me still aches, looking at him. Part of me wants nothing more than to crawl back in bed with Xander Blue and pretend like nothing’s ever happened, like I never saw that text, like I still trust him. How happy I would be then! Maybe someone would kill me, eventually, the way they did Roz. But I’d die ignorant. I’d die happy. I’d die with at least one fucking second’s peace. I could live the lie, maybe. Fall for the fantasy. Even now, it would be so easy to curl up in those furs by the fire and live the rest of my life in relative tranquility
The tears are still pouring down my cheeks as I approach the door. I cast one last look back at him. I wipe away my tears. I stare at him and wish I could take him in my arms once again. I stare at him and whisper all the words I can never say.
Who are you really, Xander Blue? And what are you to me?
And what am I to you?
Questions whose answers will never find me.
Questions whose answers I will never know.
I wipe away my tears along with the last of last night’s mascara.
Maybe I will never see him again, I think.
Can I bear it?
I have been through so much, I think. I can probably bear anything by now.
I walk through the door and pull it tight behind me. The noon sun looks so cold now. The sky looks so empty.
I start walking towards the highway.
Goodbye, Xander, I whisper as I go.
Chapter 5
I walk along the highway for a while, watching the light slowly head towards noon centrality above me. I’m not ready to call a cab yet. I don’t want to deal with cabs, with going back, with saying goodbye to the Blue Room. I need a few minutes to compose myself. Maybe I need a few hours; I don’t know. I don’t even know what to feel. I walk along the side of the highway, my hands in my jean pockets.
I must look like a mess, I think. Mascara all running along my cheeks. My cheeks sunken and my eyes hollow and bloodshot from throwing up. My hair stringy, unbrushed. I haven’t even showered. I’m a far cry from the beautiful Blue Girl that clients get advertised every day of the week: all air-brushed, nicely brushed, done up. That girl is gone, I know. This is the real me. Part of me enjoys it: enjoys looking like shit for a change. After the Blue Room, it’s almost liberating. I can look as terrible as I want and there’s nobody who’s paid money to see me looking very different. I can look like I just spent the night sleeping in a barn or a trashcan and there’s nobody who will care but me. Nobody cares about me but me. I tell myself that it’s better now, this way. I tell myself that this is what I wanted. Freedom from the Blue Room.
And I am free, in a sense. I know well enough now not to trust Terrence. I certainly know enough to never trust Mr. X. again. Small mercies, I think. It’s important to know not to trust people. It’s a lesson I used to think I carried with me. Apparently not. It’s one I’ll carry now.
I’ll be free, soon, I think.
A car pulls over as I walk along the highway. I barely notice. I’m looking out over the cliffs, at the beautiful sea. Wishing I could be in a little boat, cresting the waves, heading out into the gorgeous water. Wishing I could be truly free. But if wishes were horses – you know what they say. Beggars would
ride. And Blue Girls would sail.
“Hey…” says the voice in the car.
I turn to look at the driver. It’s a sweet-looking woman, middle-aged. She reminds me of my mother before she got sick: pleasantly plump, matronly, effusive in her kindness.
“Are you OK?” she asks me. A worried look comes over her face. “I don’t mean to bother you,” she says. Her hands tremble. “It’s only that…” she smiles vacantly at me. “Is there someone I can call to get you? Do you need a ride somewhere?”
I stare at her, my mouth half-open.
“Maybe a shelter or something?”
“Oh…”
She thinks I’m homeless.
Then again, what else would I be doing here: looking like a mess, walking along a highway like a crazy person without any bags or luggage.
“Uh, sure,” I say. “I could use a ride.” I’m embarrassed. I’m not sure what’s worse – letting her think I’m homeless, or revealing I’m not.
“Where am I taking you?” she asks as I get in. “Look – if there’s anything I can do to help…”
Her pity makes me rankle inwardly. It makes me decide.
“The Blue Tower Hotel” I say, curtly. I keep my back straight. I try to capture a little bit of that old Blue Girl magic, of that sophistication. I try to act like I’m the sort of person who regularly stays in those outrageously expensive suites. Like I’m just some eccentric millionairess whose idea of fun is wandering on the side of a highway.
She furrows her brow.
“Are you sure?” she says. She means well, but I don’t even know how to explain.
“Uh…my brother is staying there,” I say. “He’s come to fly me back to my family.”
