Swanson said, “I’ve got some gel I can apply that might take the sting away.”
“I sting and I throb.”
Swanson moved to a tray set on the dresser with bottles of lotion and oils. She selected the appropriate one, flicked the top, and smelled it. She said, “If you’re good, you can prevent further need for application.” Her hands shone with the green gel she’d pumped from the bottle—she imagined it was aloe vera.
Pearl nodded.
Swanson began stroking her hands lightly over her backside, getting in between the cheeks even, and stroking down the backs of her thighs. She said, “And I can get you some aspirin.”
“For what?”
“For the throbbing,” Swanson said, and two of her fingers stroked down Pearl’s ass crack and over her perineum, very close to her girl parts. She clapped her butt cheeks shut, flexed her legs, and jumped. The effort shot a jab of pain straight through her.
“Ow,” she said.
“Relax—I told you, Pearl, I was going to be good to you.”
“No matter how much you’d like to do the opposite?”
Swanson was quiet for a few beats, and she swore the woman was smiling, then she said, “Only kidding, dear, we can joke amongst ourselves, can’t we?”
“We’re practically old friends.”
“Right, that’s right, we can share... I know what you did last night.”
“Do you?”
“A woman can tell,” she said, and Pearl was sure she was smiling again.
“Is Julian around?”
“No, he’s not, dear.”
“Good,” she said. She waited a minute, said, “Is the princess around?”
“No.”
“Are they away together?”
No answer now, just the smoothing of the gel on the places where that asshole man had smacked and ravaged her.
Why did she even care if they were together, anyway? She said, “Can I go down to the beach?”
“May. And, yes, you may go down to the beach.”
“I can?”
“Sure. We’ve disabled every means of transportation on the island since you seem bent on displaying acts of daring escape artistry. Go play on the beach and relax, surrender, because, unless you can turn into a helicopter like one of the Transformers or something—”
“I’m not leaving the island.”
Swanson smiled and offered the same conclusion, “You’re not leaving the island.”
“When, though? When is he going to let me go?”
“You haven’t learned by now? All decisions are his. I don’t know what to tell you, Pearl. Maybe you’ll never leave.”
Never? Just live in this cottage to get fucked hard every night, fed sweets and rubbed down, bathed and pampered, only to be fucked hard all over again? “Can you tell him I’m sorry?”
Chapter Twelve
It was five days; she was sure of it. Confined to her cottage for four sunsets; that would put her in the middle of her fifth day of captivity. Five days since she’d woken after being fucked into annihilation by Julian Mann.
And there’s been no sign of him since.
Julian had left the building. It was pretty damn possible she was going to be a permanent island resident. She could be here thirty years from now, sunburned and sagging, sitting on the beach drunk out of her mind on tropical cocktails.
Or one night Julian would fuck you into blackness, and despite the greatest medical care money bought, you couldn’t be revived.
That could happen. Nobody would even know. Locked away in tropical nowhere by one of the world’s most powerful men.
For the last four mornings, she’d woken to trays of her favorite breakfast entrées. For lunch, she could order whatever she wanted. Only thing was, she couldn’t go in the main house. Nope. She had her cottage, that was it, and during the day they let her out like a free-range little sex chicken to cluck around the property in skimpy bikinis. Yeah, skimpy bikinis. That’s right. Julian was selecting what she wore. It was strapping this little piece of nothing on that she wore, or going naked. She’d like to go naked just to defy him, but didn’t have the guts. Or the nerve anymore, to be quite frank.
So here it was, gosh, it had to be what?—Friday now. A whole week of school. Had the authorities come looking for her? Nope. Had they asked Marly what happened? Even if Marly had been ‘taken care of,’ what about her other friends? Would Shackelford have disposed of them, too? Not likely. Someone was bound to tell the authorities that young missing Pearl Armbruster was engaged in a tête-à-tête with Julian Mann, the famous billionaire. But then, just like Swanson had said, the man had homes everywhere, it might take the FBI a long time to pick the right one, get all the warrants, etc. Maybe help was just around the corner...
But she was a hundred percent sure it wasn’t. No way. Her disappearance would be explained away. Problem with alcohol—poof. Problem with drugs—poof. Trouble at home. Ran away, maybe with a college professor. Or worse, she maybe dated somebody with a dangerous past, a sexual predator. Any talk of her engagement with Julian Mann would be laughed off as a crazy conspiracy theory—get out your tinfoil hats, everybody!
No, her future would be entirely determined by one man. One man who didn’t even have the guts to show his face around here. He’d fucked her, claimed her virginity, left her lying broken on a bed. On her bed. No, his bed. His bed, his prison cottage, his prison island, his end of the Caribbean, everything was his. She was his.
Things could be worse, though.
Right now the sun baked her skin; she was sitting face up in a teak lounger on a padded mattress, a parasol over top to shield the sun, if she wanted. She did not. The sun beat on her. The sun wasn’t her friend; she wasn’t much of a tanner. But the feel of the heat against her skin made her feel alive and safe even if she wasn’t.
The ocean view spread out ahead of her like long horizontal brushstrokes in the most brilliant vibrant colors the eye could register. A brilliant jewel blue sky, peachy clouds, hazy heat horizon, choppy turquoise water with a stripe of pale ultramarine at the horizon. The sunny air was warm. She had her knees up, the book she was reading spread face down in the sand beside her next to four empty Jamaican beer bottles. One bottle cold in her hand, topped with a wedge of lime. A voice behind her made her jump and drop her citrus wedge into the dirt.
“Oh, great, way to go,” she said, recognizing the voice. Didn’t even need to look up, could tell just by the Ivy League loafers. What guy wears loafers in the sand? An Ivy League schmuck, a stone-cold CIA spook interrogator, torturer, and probably executioner.
She said over her shoulder, “Fuck off, Shackelford.”
The man chuckled, said, “And here I was coming out to make friends.”
“I’ve got friends.”
“You might need new ones since you probably won’t see the old ones again.”
She looked to him, eyes going up his body as he squinted into the sun; the breeze ruffled his linen shirt. He held a beer bottle same as hers, though he was lucky enough to still have his lime.
She said, “Give me your lime, then I’ll let you be my friend.”
“Fair enough,” he said, plucking his from the mouth of his bottle and plopping it in hers.
Their eyes met over top his sunglasses, and she said, “You’re kidding, right? I’m going to go home sometime.”
The way he smiled was noncommittal, but it was pleasant. The guy was a master manipulator and while she wanted to be his friend, she knew she could never trust him. Everything was an act, and the moment you thought he was in your corner was the moment you turned your back and he slipped a forearm across your throat to choke off your air supply.
“There,” he said, nodding his chin to her restored wedge, “sorry I jostled your lime.”
“That sounded dirty,” she said, sat back in her lounger, and looked out at the beautiful view. She pushed the lime deep into the bottle where it plunged into the beer in an explosion of bubbles—but w
here it would remain safe. She took a swig. The humor was short-lived, a heaviness on her. She looked his way, saying, “Would you tell me about Marly, really?”
He chuckled, said, “If I cut off her fingers?”
She stared at him. “Did you?”
Looking out at the horizon, he shrugged. “I would if I had to.”
“But did you?”
He looked at her now, black aviator lenses blocking his eyes but his head angled toward her. He said, “All you ever want to talk about is business. I was inside the house and I saw you sitting out here, I just wanted to take a break for a beer.” He lifted the bottle and toasted her before taking a swig.
“I don’t think you cut off her fingers.”
Shackelford shrugged. “Good,” he said. “Why don’t you come for a walk with me? I wanted to stretch my legs.”
“Beer and a leg stretch break?”
“It’s these eighty-hour work weeks,” he said.
“Mayhem keeps you busy.”
“Mayhem keeps everybody busy, Pearl,” he said, “you know that yourself.”
“I don’t like mayhem,” she said, getting to her feet. She wore Julian’s skimpy bikini and kept her backside away from Shackelford because it was just a flossy strip that divided her butt cheeks. It was bad enough she was presenting her ladies in small satiny blue triangles. She grabbed her sun hat, plopped it on her head, and began to walk down the beach. Shackelford followed behind until they were side by side.
She said, “You’re here, but Julian’s not?”
“You’re such a snoop,” he said, smirking to himself, then plugging the bottle in his mouth and swigging.
“I just want to talk. I’m lonely.”
He considered it, sucked his teeth. He admitted, “I’m here, Julian’s not.”
“Is he away with the princess?”
He laughed out a loud bark, tossing his head back, brief and sharp. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Snoop.”
She grumbled, “Whatever.”
“Why don’t we talk about the weather, Pearl? It’s beautiful out, don’t you think?”
“Glorious. When is Julian coming back?”
“I’m not his travel agent.”
“Just his goon.”
He stopped walking, and she paused, turned to face him. He said, “I am. And you should know: you’re lucky he let you off easy.”
“Easy?”
He spread his arms out like wings and looked up at the sky; beer sloshed from the mouth of his bottle. He said very loudly, “You’re walking on a beautiful beach, you’re fed and pampered...”
“I’m a prisoner,” she returned, equally loudly.
He steadied his gaze on her, eyes peering over the top of his arrogant aviator sunglasses. “Honey, I’ve seen real prisoners. Men and women locked in cages, electrocuted, beaten with hoses, light deprived, broken ribs, pulled teeth, forced starvation, mutilation—”
“Alright, already.” She folded her arms, ran the cold beer bottle on the curve of her ribs.
“You’re not a prisoner.”
“Technically, I am,” she said, “but you want me to admit my good fortune.”
“You probably should.”
“So I’m his what?—concubine?”
“There’re worse things. Thank God he thinks you’re beautiful...” He looked her up and down, one eyebrow cocked.
She looked down her own practically naked body, scrunched her toes in the soft wet sand. A wave washed a tickle over her feet and up around her ankles. “You don’t think I’m beautiful?”
“I don’t look at my friends’ girls.”
“I’m his?”
“Tell me you’re not.”
It was true. “He owns me.”
“He owns every bit of you.”
They walked further without saying anything, but as they neared the main house, he stopped and she faced him. He said, “Well, Pearl, it’s been fun,” and handed her his empty bottle. “Pop a handwritten plea for help in there, cork it, toss it into the ocean, someone might come rescue you when you’re a shrunken, gray-haired woman.”
“Thanks, I’ll do that. Do you have a pen?”
He kept his eye on hers, smiling. He removed a pen from his shirt pocket and presented it to her, saying, “Best of luck,” then winking.
Such an asshole.
Before he turned away she said, “What if I take this and stab you right in your black heart?” She gripped the ballpoint pen nib side down, thumb curled over the end, holding it at her shoulder like it was a butcher knife.
Shackelford smiled. “Pearl, I would absolutely love for you to try.” He stood at the ready, posture still casual.
They stared each other down for a long time and she was sure the guy would knock her out with one karate chop if she made a move his way. At last she said, “Break time’s over, Shacky, get back to work,” letting her threatening pen hand fall to her thigh.
Shackelford winked once more, walked backward a few steps before turning and marching up the beach to the wood walkway that would return him to the main house.
She dropped to a crouch and darted away at an angle, heading for the shrubs at the side of the walkway.
Julian owns me?—No one owns an Armbruster woman...
* * *
One thing she learned sitting and pretending to sun herself on the beach was the behavior of the guards watching the doors of the main house.
Around this time every day, the guard who stood on the shaded balcony segment of the porch liked to smoke a cigarette. The man turned his back, and even though he still manned his post, staying around the point he was supposed to watch, he tended to drift, walking back and forth, smoking and looking out over the ocean. So now while Shackelford rose up the plank-way ramp, getting to the patio, she paused underneath a tall royal palm, hidden behind a boxwood shrub.
Sure enough, the guard watched, nodded to Shackelford and Shackelford disappeared into the house. Then the guard tugged a slim case from his uniform’s chest pocket, tapped out a cigarette, turned his back to the breeze and lit it.
She was gone, sprinting under the patio, crouched low, breasts bouncing all over the place in the flimsy hold of Julian’s skimpy bikini. She clutched her arms to her chest, squatted down and crouched underneath another set of stairs, and waited and listened.
The guy was walking, coming her way but going slow enough she knew he was probably just puffing away on a cigarette. When she heard the scratch of his boots on the wood above her head, she knew he was pivoting to pace back the other direction. His back would be to her, so now she sprinted further down the patio, dipped around the corner where she wouldn’t be seen.
She stood, peeked around the balusters of the raised porch and saw the guard, looking over the ocean and still smoking a cigarette. Now she hefted herself, gripping two balusters, throwing one bare foot onto the patio and pulling herself up, keeping her grunts of exertion as quiet as she could, eyes locked on the guard. The guy was oblivious, enjoying his cigarette, and she hoisted a leg over, squatted down, and hid at the corner edge of the house.
She dropped low because above were windows that looked into what she believed would be the parlor. She darted another look, made sure the guard wasn’t on to her, then walked on her hands and knees further down the segment of patio where she couldn’t be seen.
There was a door here, one that led to a small service entrance that fed off of the parlor. She looked around, saw nothing but birds in the sky. Now she fished Shackelford’s pen out of the back of her bikini bottoms where she’d tucked it between her butt cheeks.
* * *
Still squatted down, but up on the balls of her feet, she held onto the doorknob, examined the lock, then ran the tip of the pen into it, trying to figure what she would do. Not only could she hot-wire a jet ski or dirt bike, that same boyfriend taught her all kinds of other dirty tricks (though she’d never put them to use). So now she took the pen apart, withdrew the central plast
ic ink-filled column, began crushing down on it with her molars, chewing it and making it flat, shaping it the way she wanted with her canines. Blue ink filled her mouth and she spat and spat to clear it away.
With the custom-shaped key, she listened and went by feel, working it through until the tumblers pushed away. She tested the doorknob. It turned.
Deep breath held, cheeks puffed out and with eyes wide as saucers, she pulled the door open. She expected an explosion of alarms, but nothing came.
She slipped in and closed the door behind her.
It was a small room, almost like a bathroom or kitchenette with a small sink and a small fridge. A place where the servants congregate to prepare for guests gathered in the parlor. She ran water, cupped it in her hand and rinsed her mouth, imagining what her teeth would look like stained blue.
It didn’t matter—today she was getting off this island.
* * *
A minute later, she was tiptoeing through the parlor, watching the archway to see if she was spotted. There was a throw over the arm of the couch—she grabbed it, unfurled it, and shrouded it around her shoulders to protect herself from the feeling of nakedness.
Inside Julian’s mansion there would be a way off this island. It wouldn’t be keys, because she believed that they had disabled any motorized way out of here. Took away the ignition for the jet skis, boats, and the plane...? She was no pilot. They knew that. She might get in the plane, but there was no way she’d get that thing off the ground. What she was looking for now instead was communication. A computer, a tablet, a smartphone. Some way to send word to civilization. Some way to let her mom or her friends know where she was and to send help as soon as they could. Hell, there had to be a ham radio or something in this place, some way to get word off this sunbaked prison.
With the blanket cowled around her face, she pushed a shoulder into the archway and looked out to the main foyer. Holy crap, it was Shackelford.
His back was to her, and he was talking to someone, a pretty servant girl in a white uniform. The guy trying to put on the charm, with one arm up on the wall, his hand spread out, standing casually with fist on his hip. Mr. Cool Guy, trying to get a quickie from some poor girl assigned to bringing Julian drinks or something.
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