The woman said, “What is it now?”
“Do you have something better than soap?”
“Like what?”
“Do you have turpentine?” Something harsh enough to scold her traitorous body.
The woman answered with a dry no.
“Rubbing alcohol?—shit, bring me a bottle of vodka, maybe a lighter, too. I can torch myself...”
* * *
Tap shut off, she flicked water off her fingers, came to the lip of the shower stall, and folded her arms over her breasts. “Can I have a towel?”
The woman turned, looked Pearl’s nakedness up and down, handed her a huge and fluffy white terry towel. Pearl thanked her, folded it around herself, and began to dry. She said, “And a change of clothes?”
The woman said, “Back at the house.”
“Back at the house? What house?”
“We’re headed to his home.”
“Seattle?”
“He has more than one home, dear.”
“Yeah, I know. But you’re not making it clear, so excuse me.”
“The house in the Caribbean, precious.”
Precious?
She harrumphed. “Oh, the house in the Caribbean. Like I know what that is.”
“His private island. Come on, let’s get you seated...”
“What about my hair?”
“Tie it up in a towel.”
She enjoyed giving the woman another elaborate eye roll. Then she took another towel, wound her hair in it, turned it into a headdress and plopped it down her back. Now she wrapped a towel around her body, tied under her armpits. She said, “Seriously? I have to go out there in just a towel?”
The woman presented her with a pair of soft-looking house slippers, then dropped them on the floor at Pearl’s feet. She said, “The other option is naked.”
“Okay, fine,” Pearl said, slipping her feet in the wonderful slippers.
The woman gestured ahead, and Pearl took the lead, walking back through the sleeping quarters and eating area.
Shackelford and Julian sat in the leather recliners, both of them leaning close and with their elbows on seat arms and talking conspiratorially.
She approached them and stopped. “Am I interrupting something?”
Julian didn’t like to be interrupted. His face went to stone, and he regarded her coldly. “Just have a seat there and speak when spoken to.” He nodded his chin to a two-person leather bench across the aisle from them.
“Speak when spoken to?” Her eyes began a roll, and she closed them instead.
While the two men watched her she moved to the bench, smoothed her short towel under her bottom before sitting. Legs bare, both men regarded them and she shifted uncomfortably, wanting to cross her legs but not give away an accidental peep. Hands holding the terry against the backs of her thighs, she crossed one leg over the other and tightened the towel under her arms.
Shackelford looked to Julian, but neither of them said anything more. Shackelford said, “We’ll continue this later.”
“Back at the house?” She raised an eyebrow.
Julian said, “You think you’re very smart, don’t you?”
“I do get good grades.”
There was the hint of a smile on Julian’s face, and she hated the electric click it gave her to see it.
He reached for a glass of water, took a sip. When he set it down, he said, “You’re very lucky. When I’m done with you, you’ll be a changed person.”
“Thirty grand richer?”
He thought about it a moment, licked his upper lip. “Richer in spirit.”
“I can’t wait,” she said.
It brought another tiny tug of a smile to his handsome face. When he did it, there was a meanness that flashed through those gray eyes. She couldn’t swear it was true, but she also saw the tiniest amount of mirth in his mean.
She crossed her legs over the other way, going slow, watching the two men look at her bare legs again.
She watched as Shackelford’s eyes moved up past her knees and met hers. She said, “Did my friend betray me?”
Julian said, “What friend?”
Shackelford said, “Her friend Marly.”
“Did she?”
Shackelford looked at her. “Your friend was quick to give you up.”
“She was?”
“I only had to cut off two of her fingers.”
A cold ball of dread ballooned in her belly and she emptied her lungs, jaw dropping.
Both men watched her expression of horror then laughed honestly and heartily at her.
She murmured, “You didn’t...”
“Pearl,” Shackelford said, still laughing. “I’ve cut off so many fingers I can’t keep track of whose fingers I’ve taken.”
“You didn’t,” she whispered, feeling her jaw trembling.
Neither of them said anything and watched her with amused expressions. They had to be joking...
Julian’s head turned to the left by a degree to look out the window. “There we are, now. Isla Canaria...”
She leaned forward to see out his window. There below in the hazy turquoise water was a small island maybe a mile across. It was narrow, and it had a long path that she imagined was a runway. One end of the island was higher than the other, with a rocky outcrop. Scattered on the outcrop were buildings connected by shared roofs and covered pathways. Julian Mann’s Caribbean home was a compound. What did he have in store for her now?
* * *
Julian Mann’s private island home in the Caribbean was a sprawling mishmash of architectural styles. The structures reminded her of pictures she’d seen of Polynesia, the way they were set up on stilts on the rocky bluff. But they were modern retellings in steel with amber lighting from iron lanterns. The roofs were tall and steep, sheathed in thatched straw. From a distance the place would look like a natural island village, but up close you were surprised to find it was modern and steel and technological. The decks were wood with tree trunk supports, but the beams that formed the building’s structures were black steel; the glass windows were tinted smoky.
They’d traveled from the airfield in two golf carts. She sat in the back seat next to Julian while a male attendant drove. She wore only her towel and slippers. It was still hot out, sunny, and she took her terry headdress off, shook her hair out, and let it bounce in the breeze. The carts came to a stop in front of the largest of the structures, what had to be the main house.
Julian exited the cart, and she followed, gathering the towel tighter around herself and scampered up the wide entrance stairs to keep up. He strode into the grand foyer and waited for Shackelford. She stood near him, her slippered feet on the polished teak floor the color of melted caramel. The ceiling soared above, paneled in wood with log and steel supports; ceiling fans spun drowsily, their blades moving slow enough she could see they were steel wrought into the shapes of tropical leaves. Potted palms stood either side of all the doorways, and bright flowers spread from vases on all the tables and counters; a large painting hung on the wall and she swore it was a Matisse.
Shackelford parked his golf cart under the thatched awning out front and trotted up to meet them. As if she were forgotten, the two of them moved away from her, close again, talking low and moving their hands in punctuation.
As he and Shackelford headed deeper into the house, getting near a set of descending stairs, Julian turned. “Swanson?”
The flight attendant appeared behind her, coming in up the stairs from Shackelford’s cart. She nodded.
Julian said, “Take Miss Armbruster to her room. Tell her to be ready for dinner.”
“I’m right here,” she said, extending her hands out and nodding her chin at him.
Julian ignored her, turned back to Shackelford, both of them dipping their chins and talking close together again, walking away and disappearing down the steps.
“You heard the man.” Swanson the flight attendant gestured her manicured hand down the hall.
&nb
sp; They traveled together without saying anything, the two of them passing under high ceilings, going out onto a deck that looked down over the ocean past a rocky cliff below, then through another building, down some steps, and across a manicured garden.
Ahead, the stone pathway ended at a cottage. It was built like the others, one floor, steel and glass with a natural-looking roofline in thatch that was twice the height of the walls. It was shored by gardens brimming with bright tropical flowers and it backed out to the cliff that looked out over the ocean.
“This place is mine?”
They mounted the two steps and paused at the steel door. “It is,” the woman said, and opened the door for her, motioning for Pearl to go ahead.
She did, and the woman closed the door behind her. An electric lock buzzed and clacked.
“Ah, shit,” she hissed, realizing she’d just fallen for the oldest trick in the book. The door was locked, and she was a prisoner here. She thumped the door once with a fist but knew it was futile, turned and lay her back on it, arms folded over her chest. There were no windows on the sides of the cottage, only at the front, and half the back side framed a walkout to a deck that extended out over the cliff face’s drop-off. An ocean breeze came in the open French doors carrying the salt of the sea mixed with the fragrance of all the flowers in the room.
The room was beautiful. Wooden walls that gleamed with polish, flowers on a mahogany table with geometric carvings at the foot of the king-size bed. Bouquets on the night tables as well. The bed was a four-poster, and the footboard was draped with linen bunting.
“Wow,” she sighed, then started when she saw what was on the bed.
Folded on the duvet were items she recognized. The familiarity took her aback. They were so familiar, they were hers, but what were they doing here? Arranged in a grid-work were: her folded university sweatshirt; crisply folded sweatpants; clean panties; clean and comfortable bra; her favorite stripy socks; her Birkenstocks, posed side by side (and she swore someone had polished the leather).
She stared at the items for a long time. These things had been pilfered when they ransacked her dorm room. Whoever had been to her room knew they would be needed. How long had Julian Mann known he would possess her? How long had he known he would bring her here?
* * *
If it weren’t for this business with Shackelford, he would spend the entire afternoon disciplining that lovely soft behind.
There was something about this one. He could see it in her eyes: a fire. Feisty—he knew she would be foulmouthed—but it was more than that. She had a strong spirit. Misguided, for sure, and that was what was so exciting: a wayward young woman with promise. A tenacious spirit equal to her master, one who only needed her master’s firm and guiding hand to bring much pleasure and bounty to her existence.
When he’d encountered her at his office, he didn’t know what to expect. A message from the front said someone had witnessed him on his beach this morning. He’d been filled with a vengeance and frustration—with so much going on, to have it dashed now by an interloper would be unfair.
He was surprised to find his blackmailer beautiful. Looking up at him with those sparkling eyes, the inspiring confidence in her posture despite her fearsome circumstances... And he made her know exactly how much trouble she was in. The more he applied menace, the more aroused he became at the girl’s reaction. Scrambling back on her elbows with that fearful look on her face...
In that moment there was a click of recognition, and it burned in his heart like a hot coal. Pearl had known how wrong she was to do what she did. He could see it in her eyes. This was a woman who would benefit from discipline. When someone couldn’t help their own bad behavior, there was nothing more exciting than giving them a guiding hand.
Now he and Jackson—who Pearl still called Shackelford—descended the steps, coming into the walled-off entrance of the control compound at the heart of his Caribbean home.
Nothing was ever pure pleasure. Anyone who was successful knew how to manage this. There was pleasure, but it was always the soft coating around business. All of his homes shared this feature: a central bunker, a private enclave where work could be done. Walled off from prying eyes and ears, organic or technological.
As they stopped at the steel door, he pressed his fingerprint against a small liquid black square on the wall. The door opened, and they bustled into the command center. His other guests would arrive soon and they had to be prepared.
Chapter Six
Dressed now in her comfortable cotton dorm clothing, she brushed her teeth. Sweatshirt and sweatpants freshly laundered, each movement of her arm as she jabbed the toothbrush across her choppers wafted the strong perfume of laundry detergent. She had trouble looking at herself in the mirror.
She spat out the toothpaste, holding her hair back with both hands behind her ears. The tap off now, she dried her mouth on a towel and gazed at her reflection.
Way to go, hotshot. You can’t say you don’t deserve this. You lit the match that started the fire, now enjoy its burn...
No one knew she was here. Marly was the only one who was aware of her predicament, and probably now all her clutch of friends at school. But Shackelford wouldn’t say what happened with Marly.
Her best friend at school may have turned Pearl in and sent Shackelford to find her—probably got a whopper of a check from Mann. Or maybe Shackelford had found Marly first, put a plastic bag over her head, suffocated her, maybe water-boarded her until she would tell where Pearl had gone... What would Shackelford have done with her then when she’d exhausted her value?
While Mann might be a psycho, would he actually murder someone—or have it done?
Stupid question.
A man with so much at stake might do desperate things. Especially for someone with so much power and wealth, the laws and morality of society blurred and became something for the common people to worry about.
But what was his fucking problem with this photo? That was the kicker. He looked good in it. Striding across the back concrete deck of his multimillion-dollar home, the edge of the cliff behind him, the crashing waves at dawn... His robe was open, white curves of morning light caressing his muscle. And the guy was hung.
You know what the issue is.
Some dumb college girl tried to fuck with him. The man didn’t like to get fucked with. And now she was being taught a lesson. That’s all it was. Marly was safe in her dorm room, probably wringing her hands together wondering where her friend was, classes would start again on Monday. But this guy was just going to teach Pearl a lesson, not murder anybody, right?
Her bottom still stung. He’d really let that leather bite on her.
Can’t say that you don’t deserve it though, honey. You’re a bad girl.
No one in her life had disciplined her. Her mom was just as fiery as she was. Dad was out of the picture, and if anyone was getting disciplined before he left, it was probably him. Her mother had a hot streak.
So she was left on her own growing up, left to her own devices and to find her own way. Somehow, without a guiding compass, despite how good a person she thought she might be, she found herself hiding in the bushes with this crazy idea she would make money off of a photograph that no one else could get. She got that photo, but instead of selling it, what did she do? Take it to the subject of the photo and frighten him with it. Only this man didn’t frighten. No, quite the opposite...
You made your bed, now you lie in it, sweetheart.
Out of the bathroom, she crossed through the luxurious cottage, hand running along the polished furniture, then heading to a small veranda out back, and standing on the covered porch with a view over the cliff and down over the ocean.
She rested her elbows on the polished coconut wood branches that formed an intricate railing and looked out over the water. The sun was going down now.
It had been a long and crazy day. Her back ached. Her wrists still bore the marks and the pain from where the zip ties had cut into her
. She had an earache from when that big cop had almost drowned her in the swimming pool. Her bottom still sang its complaints.
The sun would be down soon, maybe in an hour, and she worried what sadistic things the man who claimed he owned her may have in store.
But as her eyes scanned along the shoreline below, she saw something that gave her a pretty great idea of what she might do next...
* * *
It was a risky move, but given the circumstances it was worth it. It really wasn’t any less crazy than sneaking into a billionaire’s compound, hiding for three days in the wooded edge of his garden waiting to snap his picture. Sure, this one was more treacherous; she had an elbow hooked around the rail post of the balcony—on the opposite side, the waterside. Below her dangling feet was a thirty-foot drop to the waves, crashing in steady beats against the cliff face.
She probably wouldn’t hit the water though. No, if she were to drop right now, she would flail like a rag doll against the jagged face of the cliff first, cartwheel into the water, probably dead on impact—but were she to be semi-conscious it wouldn’t be long before a wave picked her up and heaved her against the cliff to finish the job. If there was any spark left in her brain, a lung full of ocean water would extinguish it.
The cottage she’d been closed in had no exit. The front door was locked. The key turned by that flight attendant woman with the cross tie. No windows, no other doors—only the balcony over the cliff. Not even a kitchenette with a spoon so she could Shawshank Redemption herself a hole through the wall. Plus, time was of the essence—Julian had left her alone now but who knows for how long that would be. Best to strike while the iron was hot. She was alone and unattended, and obviously underestimated.
Or are you overestimating yourself?
She was no athlete by any means. It’s not like she went to her college on a field hockey scholarship or something. Most spare time was spent under her duvet watching Netflix, and when she opened an ice cream carton, it was rare there would be anything left to go back in the freezer.
So now her legs flailed, elbow locked around the post as she tried to swing her feet to the cliff face. What a time to be wearing sandals. Probably the least reliable shoe in a situation like this. Why did she always choose comfort?
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