by JB Duvane
I hadn’t lied to Renard earlier. I had never killed anyone. But I would if it meant keeping Charlotte safe. And with me.
“Gerald,” I said into my phone.
“Yes, sir?”
“I want you to make sure all of our men are ready to go at a moment’s notice. I don’t trust the Beauchamps as far as I can throw that drunken bastard and I need to know we have a fighting chance against them in case anything starts up.”
“Yes, Mr. Valice. All of our men are on the estate and are ready whenever you need them.”
“How many?”
“We have ten men, sir.”
“Double that. And make sure everyone understands that they are all on standby. I’ll keep you updated.”
“Yes, sir.
I began making my way through the series of corridors and staircases that led to the renovated wing that would become Charlotte’s new home. I had a lot of work to do.
14
Charlotte
When I woke up the next morning, there was a buffet line of food that had been wheeled into my room along with a drink dispenser containing every juice and soda imaginable. I'd never seen anything like it. It was so strange that when I crept out of bed, I didn't fully trust it.
Raymond believed that I was acting to gain his trust so that I could leave, and had he not been such a compelling lover that's exactly what I would've done. But he was, and I wanted to understand him.
But I didn’t feel that I couldn't trust him either. I couldn't trust him after the way he brought me to this place and I couldn’t trust myself after the way he touched me. And I certainly couldn’t trust this buffet. Not that I thought he was going to drug me again. But I knew it meant something and I was going to die before I continued to play his game.
But now I understood that mixture of pleasure and pain he delivered, and that’s one of the reasons that, as much as I wanted to, I couldn’t get him out of my head. I kept thinking about the all-encompassing, overwhelming feeling of being controlled by him.
I didn’t understand why I should be drawn to someone simply because of the sex. Sex had never been all that to me. But with him, it was beyond words. I couldn’t even wrap my mind around the effect he had on me. But more than that, I knew there was something else. Something about his depth and sadness that drew me to him.
Maybe he really did understand me. Maybe he really could see the real me under all of the stage acts I put on for everyone I saw, and not just the customers at the club. But that didn’t change the fact that I wanted to get the grime of this whole situation off me and all the hot water and soap in the world didn’t seem to do a thing to help. I wanted to wash him away from inside me. I needed to get him out of my mind, and I needed to find a way out.
All I could do was sit at the foot of the bed, staring at the buffet and the light reflecting off of the silver on the table. I stood up and caught a glint off a bottle of maple syrup, real maple syrup, not the fake kind with a bottle shaped like a slave woman. No, this was the thirty-dollar-a-bottle stuff, sitting in an amber jug placed here just for me.
“Fuck you, Raymond. You can’t buy me.”
“Eat.” A voice sounded off through the speakers.
I jumped and looked around the room. “Let me out!” I yelled. There was no response. I grabbed the comforter and threw it over my head. “Jesus Christ! Okay, then this is what you get to see.”
He hated it. I knew he did. I climbed onto the bed and kept my entire body covered, but as I began to drift off again I heard the door open.
“May I come in?”
“Huh? You’re asking me?” I sat up. “What do you want, Raymond?”
“I want to see you so I can show you something.”
“No.” I lay back down.
He didn't say anything. Then he sighed and said, “Well, if you want to stay in this room all day …”
“Don't you walk out.” I was off the bed in less than a second.
“Get ready and eat.”
“Let me out.” I stared him down defiantly, but the man was like a rock, unwavering and too tough for me to touch. I was never going to get my way with him. I was just going to have to play his game. As I stood there staring up at him I imagined sticking him in a vat of boiling oil. Something in the way he smiled, just a little too wide and a little too happy, told me that he knew exactly what I was thinking. “You’re nothing more than a sadist.”
“I am not.” He laughed.
“Yes, you are. You love it. You know you can keep me locked up and let me out whenever you want.”
“That's not true.” He was getting defensive.
“Fine, then you’re a lunatic.” I crossed my arms over my chest.
He sighed. “Just get ready.”
“For what?”
“For a day in the mansion.”' He waved his hand behind himself at the open doorway then turned around and walked out. I refused to look at the buffet, even though I knew from the smell that there were waffles, bacon, and sausage. I even got a glimpse of white gravy and biscuits when I walked by.
“It's not going to work, Raymond. I know you're just trying to make me feel better about holding me hostage.” I pulled the comforter over my head and tried to ignore the feel of day-old liquid sex between my legs.
Raymond is still inside me, I thought as I crawled onto the bed. In more than one way.
I had washed myself before he’d had me on the bed, but since then I had decided on a nudity strike as well as a hunger strike. I knew that he had cameras in the room and must have them in the bathroom as well. And I decided that if he wasn't going to let me go, he wasn't going to get another glimpse either.
“This is bullshit, you know. I want some privacy. Even if I were dating you, which I most certainly am not, I would still need my privacy.”
“There are no cameras in the bathroom,” his voice boomed through the room again.
“You're full of shit,” I scoffed. “I know you're lying.”
“Believe me,” he said with an impatient tone in his voice. “I don't want to see that. You’ll feel better once you’ve bathed.”
He could be telling me the truth, but I had no idea what to expect from him. There was no trust, no rapport, just that one incredible moment, and it certainly wasn't enough. After what he did, I should have been fighting with everything I had. Instead, I was behaving like a disgruntled girlfriend.
Or a neglected daughter, I thought to myself as tears welled up in my eyes. What’s wrong with me? Why do I want to be with this lunatic?
I decided to give up and take a long, luxurious bath, but I kept my eyes peeled for signs of a camera or a peephole. I didn’t trust him one bit.
From what he said he hadn’t planned on fucking me when he came into the room. Why? He even told me to cover up when I started touching myself, even though it was obvious that he wanted me so badly that when he finally did give in, his pent-up energy turned him into a beast.
From the small amount of experience I’d had, I noticed that there seemed to be a couple different ways men showed discipline in themselves: ones who abstained from all of the pleasures in life and then the ones who drew their desires out for the sole purpose of making them better.
In theory, the man that fought his desires could be disciplined and principled. He could easily be the kind of man that abstained from drinking and smoking, who never committed infidelity and always remained loyal. I didn’t actually know any men like this, but I’d heard of them. Mostly on TV.
Raymond was obviously the type that drew out his orgasm, and fought it tooth and nail, knowing that it would be all the better when he finally did come. He also seemed like he would be the type to draw out his relationships with his victims, because he knew that when he did finally kill them, it would hurt his victims even more. Their shock would be sweeter, their anger would be more powerful.
Raymond had my entire life in his hands. He had a lifetime to show his true colors. He could slit my throat at twenty-five or th
irty, and I would never see it coming. But I had no choice. He was stronger. He owned this castle or whatever it was. He knew its secrets. He had a presumably formidable army of guards, servants, and men at his command that would keep me here.
I was trapped, and I had no idea what he was going to do to me. And yet I still wanted to understand him.
I walked out of the bathroom wearing a towel and began sifting through the diverse array of outfits in a wardrobe that stood near the bed. There were evening gowns in lavender, emerald, and ruby, some with what looked like authentic jewels. He had added pumps, stilettos, flats, and sneakers, as well as jeans and T-shirts.
I chose a pair of dark blue jeans and a dark purple top, along with a pair of sneakers. I was careful to choose something plain that showed as little skin as possible, but it looked like he had a thing for breasts—maybe a mother complex—because the shirts all had very revealing necklines. I tried to cover myself with a white scarf that looked completely ridiculous.
“You know, you've got some balls,” I said to the air, but I knew he was listening … and watching. “Kidnapping me and fucking me and trying to keep me here.” I picked out a piece of sausage from the buffet line. “I don't know what the fuck is wrong with you, but ...”
“I assure you, things are not what they seem. You are not a prisoner.” His voice was sympathetic, but not comforting in the least.
“When exactly do I get my freedom back?”
“All I ask is that you trust me,” he countered. “Aren't you going to eat some more?”
“What are you, a Jewish grandmother? Pushing food on me like that? I'm going to eat this one sausage. Now open the door, please.”
The door clicked and opened and Raymond walked in wearing a black t-shirt and jeans that showed off his incredible arms and his narrow waist.
Good lord, I thought as my eyes took in his strong, wiry arms and broad shoulders. I realized that I had been staring at his body for entirely too long when he opened his hands and shrugged at me.
“What?”
He was really built. “Sorry,” I said as I glanced away.
He stepped forward, an oddly sentimental look on his face. “What do you like to do?” he asked.
“Castration. Decapitation. Acid burns.”
“I mean what do you really like to do?”
“Dance and read.”
“I would know you were a dancer even if I had never seen you dance.” He seemed to straighten his neck but his eyes softened. “Impeccable posture.”
It was strange, feeling exposed and admired by this gorgeous lunatic, but that's what he did to me. He was like a child with a new friend, not a psychopath holding me prisoner. “Don't do that.”
“What?”
“You're too close.”
He stepped back, the softness immediately disappearing from his eyes. Somehow the change on his face made me want to rush up to him and comfort him. I was stunned by my reaction. How could I possibly want to comfort this man when he was violating my privacy and had taken away my freedom?
“I'm sorry,” he whispered.
“I don't know what to say to you. I wanna leave and you won't let me.”
“Can I show you something? Just … I know you're upset, but I think you'll enjoy what I have to offer you.”
“Probably not. Unless it's freedom.”
“It is!”
“You're letting me go?”
“Not exactly. Charlotte, I don't want fighting or resentment. I don't want any more bad blood. That’s not why I brought you here. I’m tired of the way my life has been going and I want to try and fix it.
“I wanted to give you a good meal and a day outside. I wanted to give you a surprise that I’m pretty sure you would appreciate … but this … all of the terrible things I've done … I just don’t know how to go back. How to stop everything from being ruined. How to hold onto what little connection I thought we'd made. Although now I realize that it was probably all just in my head.” His sad eyes finally met mine. I didn’t understand it, but we did have some kind of connection, and for some god forsaken reason it hurt me to see him upset.
I shocked myself by placing my hand on his shoulder and slipping my arms around his neck, giving him the embrace I promised myself I would never give him. “Show me,” I whispered into his ear. “I want to see.” When I looked back up into his eyes the softness was back, and there was a sweet smile building in the corners.
Raymond put his arms around my waist and lowered his lips to mine. I felt my breath catch in my throat as I melted into his arms, my head swimming with a warm, fuzzy feeling that was spreading to the rest of my body. I couldn’t deny what was going on between us and I couldn’t stop the feelings he brought up in me. There was more than a connection between us. What I felt was deeper than anything I’d every experienced in my life. I knew right then that I would never be able to say no to Raymond again.
15
Charlotte
When I pulled away, awkwardly, with my stomach jumping and my heart pumping, he looked down at me with his intense but sweet eyes. How did he do this to me? How was he getting away with this without me even fighting him? Instead, I was giving in. I was giving myself to this madman.
“Here.” He gracefully motioned toward the door. “Come with me.” This was the first time I'd even had a chance to see what was outside. The hall outside the cinder block door was a simple, red brick, but worn away over what appeared to be decades. But then again, it could have easily been centuries. I followed him out, almost warily, down the dark corridor that was lined by small white globes.
“Are these gas lights?” I asked.
“I’ve never wanted to switch them out.” He slowed so we were walking side by side. “I love the soft glow they give off.”
“How long have you been here?” I asked, shocked.
“The house was built in 1829 and my family has owned it since then. I grew up here and have never lived anywhere else.”
“And nobody has switched the lights out in the last century?”
“Almost two.”
“Two centuries? Jesus, where are we?”
“A few hours from your hometown. We’re still in Arizona.” He pressed his hand against a black lever to the left of the thick steel door at the end of the corridor. “I realize that this place may seem odd compared to the adobe and brick buildings you see everywhere, but I’m used to it. Come over here.” The steel door in front of us opened and we walked through.
“We're going to have to go up a very old, rickety staircase.”
I took his hand and looked past him. The staircase in the room ahead looked like it was as old as the bricks in the hallway, only warped and not very stable. When we took our first steps, the stairs creaked and I could feel the actual structure moving under me. It wasn't enough to send me flying off, but the thing was clearly wobbling.
“Why haven’t you had this fixed? It seems very dangerous.”
Raymond just shrugged then pushed me up the stairs ahead of him. “It’ll hold.”
It spiraled upward toward an arched doorway, similar to the kind in my room with a distinct Islamic style. It was made of shiny white and black bricks. The colors were almost macabre, set against the red brick and gray mortar; a design that felt too exotic. People back then used uniform styles, architecture that had been passed down through the generations, but this house seemed to be all over the place.
“What kind of place do you imagine I live in?” He stopped and blocked the entryway to the next level.
“Something with a neo-modernistic design. It'd have to be perfectly sterile, right down to the microbial level, with metal beams and glass walls.”
“But that's so fake and arrogant.” He frowned. “There's nothing aesthetic about that at all. If there's one thing I know, it’s that you treasure beauty.”
He grabbed my hand, and a shock rolled through me. “I think you know a bit more about me than that.”
“Look,” he said
as we entered a long hall. I felt a burst of air hit my cheek and watched the light crawl over the wooden floor of a long corridor, similar to the one we'd passed through, only it was lined with mahogany brocade wallpaper and golden crown molding.
He led me down the hall toward a large room where everything opened up. I couldn't see much at first, just a window—twice as tall as my dad’s trailer—that was overlooking the desert. Then as my eyes adjusted and I looked up, I noticed the edges of a domed ceiling with light shining down through a series of stained glass panels, reflecting a soft light off of a center table on which sat a marble bust of a woman with a round head and hair that was pulled up into a soft bun.
As I looked around I was uncertain if what I was seeing was real. It was a classical library with books from wall to ceiling, some of them ancient, older than the house. There was an actual ladder that had been placed on a track and could circle the room, and the ceiling—I could've cried it was so beautiful. A single rose was etched in stained glass, throwing pinks and greens about the classically furnished Edwardian library.
“This room is almost two hundred years old?”
“Yes.”
“But it all looks so clean and new.” The rugs looked like they'd just been spun, and the thick velvet curtains had none of the characteristic soot marks from the time. There was no mud, no dirt, not signs of wear, but the furnishings appeared authentic. I turned to a practically giddy Raymond.
“I had it all redone when I was younger. After my mother died.”
“And her?” I stepped closer to the bust. He was watching me closely with wide eyes, almost as if he were holding his breath.
“That’s my mother.”
“I see.” I didn't want to go over my Norman Bates theory again and sully something as sacred as his bond between him and his mother. Whether it was unhealthy or not, and I suspected it was, this was something that he was giving to me to make up for what he'd done.
He'd abducted me, and he couldn't take it back. It was hurting him, and as monstrous as what he'd done was, I was having a hard time seeing him that way anymore. His eyes … they were so sweet and sincere. There seemed to be so much going on inside his head. I wanted to know more about him. The little that he had told me so far just wasn’t enough. He really did seem like a good man, at least parts of him were, and this place … it was magnificent.
