I looked back at Constantine as Greer turned to carry me out the door. His eyes were blacker than coal. Shining pools of fury stared back at me. Not for Greer, but for the people who’d done this to me, I was sure. He knew what I knew, that they’d done much more than cut and bruise my skin. What he didn’t know was that they’d given me something in return—an awakening.
NINETEEN
My days were filled with the endless satisfaction of sleep. I was free. Nothing could touch me as I locked myself away under the warm cover of down feathers and the protection of my host. Nothing mattered but sleep and dreams. This was true bliss.
I woke each morning—although I really wasn’t sure where one day ended and another began—to Greer waiting at the side of the bed with a tray of food. Not knowing what I’d be hungry for on any particular day, he brought me everything from scrambled eggs and bagels, to French toast with strawberries.
“What are you hungry for today, Alex?” he’d ask. I never answered, but he never failed to ask. He’d feed me because the best I could do was chew and swallow. I was thankful for the aid in survival while I worked my way through the mountain of dreams that demanded my attention each time I slipped into sleep.
Sometimes I’d wake up and find Leda sitting in a chair next to my bed, brushing the tangled knots from my hair. If it wasn’t for her, I’d probably be bald from all the mats.
“Hello, Alex,” she’d say with her bright, beautiful mouth. “Is today the day that you tell me where you’ve been?”
Sometimes I’d manage a smile back, but my eyes would usually just fix on hers and silently gaze. If I ever resurfaced, I’d tell her what a good friend she was.
I must have looked pathetic, because I even managed to elicit something other than contempt from Sophia. “You must eat, bambina,” she’d say, pushing a spoonful of pistachio pudding to my lips. I made another mental note to thank Sophia, too.
There were days when Greer would carry me downstairs, against my silent protests, and lay me on the sofa.
“You need a change of scenery,” he’d say.
No. Take me back to bed.
“Not a chance,” he’d growl, still reading my thoughts, only now I could decide which ones he got to see.
He’d sit in the opposite chair for hours, watching me stare blankly back at him, or the room, or the ceiling. I wondered why he bothered. Wouldn’t it be easier to hire a nursemaid? Didn’t he have business matters to take care of at the club? Didn’t a man like Greer have other needs to sate?
In the early evening, he’d take me into the study while he read books or the mail. I never imagined him opening utility bills. People like Greer didn’t have to open bills any more than Oprah did. It was busy work, I guess. The silent equivalent of small talk.
“Alex,” he’d say right on cue, waiting to see if I’d respond.
I never did.
Sometimes he’d pour a glass of red wine and place it on the table in front of me. At the end of the day, Sophia would collect the untouched glasses. She’d look at me and shake her head in exasperation, and then shoot her eyes back to her employer for somehow being responsible for my state. Sophia was old world. She didn’t approve of him sleeping with me under his roof, especially in my present condition.
“Good night Sophia,” he’d say, dismissing her.
“Humph,” she’d reply, not a bit of subservience in her manner. “Fresh air, Mr. Sinclair. That’s what she needs.”
I wondered how long she’d been with Greer that he allowed her the confidence of speaking so frankly.
A giant plexiglass shell enveloped my mind. I could hear and feel, but those were the only senses that penetrated the thin membrane that separated me from the physical. The feel of his hands gave me hope that if I closed my eyes, I wouldn’t disappear. That I could feel. That I waited for.
The evenings were easier. I knew what was coming when the dust from the day settled and Greer and I were left alone in the house. I’d lie under the cool sheets, waiting to feel his skin as he slid behind me and molded his body to mine. He was my shield. But my sleep had gone from a pleasurable retreat from the realities of my new world, to a war against memories that had no context in my mind. These were not the things I remembered when I woke. These were the memories of someone else. I wondered if this was what manic depression felt like—dread that never went away and nagged at the mind until death was the only logical solution.
“Let me take care of you now,” he’d say before pulling the sheets back.
It was a necessary ritual Greer chose to do himself rather than asking Leda or Sophia. He would start by carefully removing my clothes. Greer was always naked himself before doing this, because once he had me in his arms, he wouldn’t be able to disrobe himself. My eyes never focused on his body, because I knew this was more difficult for him than me. I enjoyed feeling him raw and exposed against my skin. Each time he’d lift me and press me against him, I’d feel the rush of that first penetration, the one that set the bar for the rest of the act. These were thoughts I chose not to let him see.
Greer Sinclair was not a modest man. He showed no signs of shame or modesty for the heavy erection always present when we were naked. I wondered if I was the reason, or if a man like Greer was simply insatiable.
I wasn’t capable of standing on my own, so Greer would turn my back to his front and hold me around the waist. He always started with my hair and worked his way down. I suspect he did this for practical reasons just in case I objected when he moved to more intimate regions. I never did. This was the one place where no words were spoken, no goading for signs of life. Greer took care of my needs in silence, concentrating on every movement with the precision of a sculptor. His hand would move the soap over my neck before sweeping it over my shoulders. The next move would be down the outside of my torso, deliberating avoiding my breasts, letting the soapy water fall down on its own. My lower region wasn’t as easy to avoid. He’d wrap my own hand around the soap and then gently move it between my legs. My capacity for communication might have been diminished, but my nerve endings were just fine. Quite evident as I arched my back against him each time he reached beneath me, and cried out for him in my head. These were thoughts I let him see, but I suspect he could smell the lust on me, causing an equal response of his penis jerking against the small of my back. I needed this as much as I needed the daily dirt washed away, and he knew it.
Greer would sleep curled against my back, arms wrapped around my waist while I tripped through the endless land mines filling my dreams. I’d fall asleep to the rhythm of his chest rising up and down, waking occasionally from a heavy leg sliding possessively over mine. Maybe this was the reason I refused to claw my way out of that sphere. I needed this more than I needed the Arthur Richmonds of the world. But Greer was more than a shield; he was a wall of heat that kept me from freezing when my body knew no difference between hot and cold. My internal thermostat stopped working when I slept, creating a constant plunge of my body temperature.
We slept as naked as we showered. The hardness against my back was a constant reminder that underneath all the aloofness, he was very much a male determined to suppress his instincts to mate with the naked woman pressed against his genitals. No impropriety here. A lesser man would have responded differently.
My night dreams were dark, violent theatre, leaving me soaked in my own sweat, gasping for air. My reoccurring dream always started with a faceless pair of hands pulling me down into a pool of gray water. Not a gentle tug, but a violent pull that doesn’t even allow for a last breath to fill my lungs before going under. I thrash through the water like a cat caught by the tail, trying to see what’s got a hold of me, but there’s nothing under me. Seconds pass without oxygen, and an uncontrollable panic takes over as my survival reflexes kick in. My life is slipping away, but the water starts to congeal into some sort of gel, too thick to do me the kindness of letting me drown. I want to drown because that’s the only way to end it. That’s the only way to
relieve the panic of what it will feel like to suck the thick liquid into my lungs. I’m not sure which is worse: drowning in my dream, or waking up alive each morning knowing it will start all over again when night comes.
On this particular night, Greer laid me in the opposite direction facing the tall windows. Maybe it was the beautiful moon illuminating through them, or the sleet falling in slanted sheets. Whatever the reason, it was a beautiful thing to see. We were descending into the darkest part of the night as the wet sludge pummeled the window.
Snow was the only thing I missed about growing up in the Midwest. The brown fields would transform into white sheets with contrasting black skeletons filling in for the forest that stood at the edge. The only green was from the pom-poms of the pine trees sticking out from under the snow-capped limbs.
New York City had its own microclimate, so we rarely got any real snow. I remember watching the news and begging my mother to take me to it. The stuff filled up the TV screen, so I reasoned that it had to be just over the bridge. She never took me to the snow. Instead, she told me stories of the Snow Prince. She said he ruled over the billions of snowflakes that made up winter, and if we got too close to the snow, he’d show himself and turn our hearts to ice.
“That’s the Snow Queen.”
“No, baby, the Snow Queen is just a faerie tale.”
“But, when will it snow in the city, Mommy?”
“When the White Prince returns, baby. When the White Prince returns.”
I let go of the memory and watched the slushy mix accumulate along the window pane. Other than the driving sleet, I’m not sure what made this particular night any different from the rest. Greer and I went through our usual routine of caregiver and patient. Something was different, though. I was different.
Greer carried me into the shower and lowered my feet to the floor. I stood on my own but let my legs slack just enough to let Greer think he was the reason I was standing. Every touch was in complete compliance with my free will. Maybe he knew. If he did, he kept up the deception as well as I did. After we showered, he laid me on the bed and stood at the edge. My face was away from him, but I could feel his eyes watching me, realizing he was no longer my caretaker. Now, he would leave me. I waited for the sound of his feet retreating from the bed, but instead felt the mattress shift as he positioned himself behind me and moved his hand over my hip bone. His arm settled around my waist as we prepared for the battle that had become a nightly ritual for both of us—me the fighter, Greer the arbiter.
The dream started as it always did. I was sucked into a pool of thick gel, thrashing as I fought the reflex to breathe. The thought of inhaling the thick substance was worse than the idea of drowning. Either way I was dead, so it was just a matter of which option would be less painful. Even in sleep, I was aware of Greer’s body gripping down on mine, forcing my arms to my sides as the panic escalated. I knew the outcome. I’d fall asleep in the middle of my own nightmare, wake up in the morning, and wait twenty-four hours for it to begin again. But like I said, tonight was different. Something was in the background, cutting through the painful vibrations in my inner ear, speaking to me in muffled words. But as the voice got closer, I realized it was my own, and it was telling me to do something so simple it terrified me.
Just breathe.
I’d always wondered where people got the courage to jump off of bridges. Maybe the fear of living another day is worse than the fear of being smashed to pieces by the concrete water waiting below.
Someone recently told me to stop thinking, and that’s what I did. My arms went limp as my eyes closed, and without an ounce of forethought, I inhaled. The gel seeped into my lungs like a giant earthworm curling through mud. I gasped and pulled a second time while the purest surge of oxygen exploded through my bloodstream. The gel expelled on its own as I marveled at the discovery of my newly grown gills. It was over.
We live our lives like hamsters on a giant wheel, chasing the illusion of distance. But there is no distance from our fear. We either run from it while it exhausts us and nips at our heels, or we accept it with grace and let it flow through us. I was still that nine-year-old girl staring over the edge of a crumbled wall circling a dark hole, but now I welcomed what lived at the bottom. I could smile at my monster and say: go ahead, because my own power was bursting from the center of my soul like a seed reaching for the sun, and I was letting it grow right through me.
My eyes opened and I settled back into the powerful arms circling me, knowing that Greer was wide awake and monitoring my fight. Neither of us spoke nor made any attempt to remove ourselves from the embrace.
TWENTY
Grazie!” Sophia threw her hands and eyes toward the ceiling. She grabbed my head and planted a kiss on both cheeks. Not too long ago I was a step above a whore. Now I was being greeted like the Madonna.
I hid my surprise and headed straight for the refrigerator. Sniffing around her kitchen without an invitation might put me right back in the bottom-feeder category, but this catfish needed food.
“Sit down,” she ordered, “I cook you breakfast.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I was grateful for the offer and pleased that I was now in her good graces. I dreaded the thought of us going back to being adversaries under the same roof, because if it came down to it, I was sure Sophia would win.
For the next hour, I was pampered and served a breakfast fit for a queen. I guess it was habit by now, seeing how Greer had been ordering just as much food every morning since I regressed into a cocoon. Sophia was an excellent cook, delighting my stomach with eggs, sausage, and the most amazing breakfast food ever created—French toast.
“Thank you, Sophia. For everything,” I said around a mouthful of food. She waved the back of her hand, dismissing the gratitude.
We both looked up as Greer appeared in the doorway. I waited for the inquisition to begin, but he leaned against the wall and slid both hands in his pockets, watching us with that annoying poker face.
My eyes dropped when he pushed away from the wall, because I knew where he was heading. I stared at the marble island, but as lovely as it was, it was a useless diversion from the very large elephant in the kitchen. From my peripheral vision, I saw his left hip meet the edge of the island, giving enough proximity to demand my full attention. Against my better judgment, I looked up, because that’s what you did when Greer Sinclair requested your audience. My mouth opened, but all I could manage was a barely audible half syllable. Greer made me feel small, not because he was imposing, but because his ability to make me second guess my own instincts was brilliant. This moment was no different, as the urge to move away from him was squashed by some invisible hand holding me in place.
His eyes turned to Sophia briefly and then back to me. “Sophia, I’d like you to take the rest of the day off.”
Annoyance flashed across her face, but in those few seconds, it was clear she knew her employer quite well.
“Yes, Mr. Sinclair. I’ll be back in the morning.”
She looked at me, warning that Greer and I were about to have a come-to-Jesus moment.
Don’t worry, I’m way ahead of you on that one.
Her eyes trailed across the messy counter covered with dishes and leftover food.
“Leave it,” he said in anticipation of her protest.
While Sophia gathered her things and left, Greer never took his eyes from mine. Even after the door closed, he stared down at me and continued our silent conversation. I couldn’t speak, and the awkward silence was almost painful. There’s this point where you think you might explode from the rawness, and every reflex is telling you to bolt through the nearest door. Neither of us could run though, because whatever it was that afflicted us over the past few weeks either had to be addressed or ignored completely. That kind of intimacy has no in-between.
“What day is this?” I managed to ask, partly to keep my body from shaking, and partly because I really had no idea how much time I’d lost.
“January thirt
eenth,” he whispered.
I’d missed Yule—Christmas—and New Year’s. Not that I had plans for either. Part of me was thankful that I didn’t have to spend another Yule alone to remind me that I was an orphan, but there was something heartbreaking about sleeping through the holidays.
I blinked and he was standing directly across from me on the other side of the island. The spell had been broken.
“Where the hell have you been for the past twenty-three days?” he asked.
That was a good question. Where had I been? I’d been aware of everything around me. I knew exactly what was happening. The problem was I couldn’t figure out how to respond. The in was working just fine, but the out had a complete mental breakdown. What disturbed me most was that it seemed to be voluntary. I’m not sure how I knew this, but I did.
“I’ve been right here,” I said. “I just couldn’t…answer.” I looked for signs of acquiescence, anything that might acknowledge reconciliation of the past few weeks. “I just couldn’t get anything out.”
A cat-and-mouse expression rolled over his face. “So the inbound was intact?”
It might have been the relief that I was okay and my temporary blindness was really just an innocuous episode, but I suspected it was more likely his realization that I knew exactly what had been happening—day and night—for the past twenty-three days. He looked pleased with himself. I think he got off on the idea that we’d slept naked together, giving him opportunity to fuck me if he pleased, but he didn’t. Maybe it was the power of knowing that the decision not to was all his.
The Amulet Thief (The Fitheach Trilogy Book 1) Page 18
