by Dani Stowe
I grin but keep it flat, as if I have no idea what’s wrong. I can’t give anything away. He looks at my lap, so I look down as well. I’m stroking his coat, petting it like a cat. I never do that!
He squints. Beady eyes more curious than angry now scan me over. He knows something’s amiss!
“Shaun,” he speaks into the phone. “I’ll have to call you back.”
Butterflies flutter in my belly as Nick hangs up still looking me over. He slides his phone into his left pocket, turns away to walk around his desk, and sits down. He leans back into his chair, cocking his chin up. He places his elbows at the arm rests and brings his hands together to tap his fingers. He stops tapping when he notices the envelope, which he sees through the tips of his fingers. He looks to his left, gauging the tumbler of coffee. He looks to his right, observing the empty spot where the tumbler should be. He looks at me.
“Where’s your clipboard?” he asks.
Oh fuck! The clipboard. And I don’t have a pen either!
I squeeze my eyes shut then drop my jaw to take a big breath.
This is it!
This is the moment.
I purse my lips to exhale slowly and I open my eyes.
“Nick,” I uncross my legs, squeezing my thighs together to face him squarely. “I’ve put a letter there for you.” I grin.
Silence. The air is stagnant. He doesn’t move. Nothing stirs—not even the dust from the air-conditioning blowing overhead. He just stares, completely unmoved.
He knows something’s up. Should I expect anything else? He’s extremely smart. Brilliant. As brilliant as the geeks he employs. I’ve told him so. Many times. Though, he’s argued that he’s not as smart as the company he keeps.
My toes taps uncontrollably. I don’t know why I’m so scared in this moment. My stomach is twisted. I’m beginning to feel nauseous. This is what I want. Right?
Nick sits up straight. He leans into his desk to reach for the coffee with his left hand, bringing it to his mouth and completely bypassing the envelope, as if it’s not there, and takes a sip.
He moves the tumbler from his left hand to his right hand and places it where it should go. Where it should’ve gone. Where I should’ve placed it.
He undoes the top button to his shirt. Then another and then another. A small hint of his smooth chest peeps out.
My chest rises and falls. His chest. My chest. I’ve always wondered what it would be like to rub them together bare. I’m officially staring through the open V of the light gray cotton. His biceps noticeably flex under his sleeves and his chest twitches. I suddenly feel like this might have all been a bad idea. Did he undo his shirt on purpose?
“Nick.” I interrupt the seduction before it gets me. It always gets me. It only takes a little. Just a little. A smile, a flex, a wink—and he’s got me. But not today. “There’s an envelope there for you. I think you should open it.”
“Oh yeah?” Nick’s drops his chin slightly to gaze at the white, unaddressed, but sealed No. 10 sized envelope. He picks it up with just his thumb and his forefinger to fan it and flick it few times against his other fingers until he puts it back down and slides it across his desk in my direction until it reaches the edge of his desk. “Opening mail is your job,” he says.
I quickly stand up, hanging his jacket across my forearm, walk over and push the envelope back. Why is he making this difficult? Does he know? Does he have x-ray vision and knows what it says? Has he been spying on me?
“I need you to open this and read it, please, Mr. Rohr,” I beg.
“Mr. Rohr?” he questions sarcastically, cocking his head sideways.
Nick leans back in his chair. I stand hovering over his desk but I don’t make eye contact with him. Instead, I adjust the envelope so it’s perfectly square and center in front of him again, keeping my eyes on the letter.
“Nick,” I correct. The heat of his stare is not visible but I can feel it. It’s making my blood boil.
Why can’t he just take the damn envelope!
Nick leans to his right to open the top drawer of his desk and pulls out a sterling silver Tiffany & Co letter opener with a personalized monogram of N.R. in uppercase block font engraved into the handle—the handle of which I’m sure he’s never gripped since he was gifted the item by some skank he had tied up in the Bank, which means he really bought it for himself.
He plants the letter opener on top of the letter, tilting the opener between his fingers to watch it glimmer for a few seconds.
“Take this shit back to your office and come back with your clipboard,” he orders.
I suck in my bottom lip and close my eyes. I squeeze them tight. I said I wouldn’t cry today. Today is supposed to be a happy day. A new day. A new beginning.
There are times I’ll try to argue back with him. Most times, I just deal. But today! After today, I won’t have to make those choices anymore.
Nick sighs. “I’m sorry.” I open my eyes to see him scratch his head. “I didn’t mean to cuss at you. I know I’ve been doing a lot of that lately. I don’t understand why, but I feel like I’ve been under a lot of pressure recently.” He shuffles in his seat and I make eye contact with him. “Lou, can you please take this stuff off my desk and go get your clipboard? I’d like to get through NIM’s morning business quickly today. I have an appointment I can’t miss this morning.”
“With one of your sluts?” I sharply cut in but quickly cover my mouth. I have no idea where that came from! Why would I say that? Why am I questioning him? Perhaps because I know this could be the end?
“No,” he leans back into his black throne with a single raised brow. “What’s going on? What’s wrong with you?”
What’s wrong with me? I tap my right foot. He wants to know what’s wrong with me?
“Open the letter.”
He looks at the letter and rubs his chin. “Why is this so important?”
“It’s from me. Open the letter,” I repeat.
He tips his head to the side with a purse of his lips.
“Nick, I need you to open the letter.”
He gives me one last look of disapproval before he leans forward. “Fine,” he says, picking up the letter opener and in one easy swoop he cleanly cuts the envelope open.
I step back. I’m not sure how he’s going to react. Nick can be irate at times and, although he’s never hurt someone without their consent (bullies not included), the fact that he gets off on playing rough makes him dangerous.
Nick slides the folded paper out of the envelope just as the back of my legs hit the chair. I gently plant my butt in the seat but not too far back in case I need to get up quickly. Not that I’m afraid Nick would hurt me. I don’t believe for a minute that Nick Rohr would ever physically hurt me, but he does know hurt and that is enough for me to consistently be ready at the edge of my seat.
The letter’s folded edges come open. Nick doesn’t say anything. There’s not much there—just the line addressed to him: Dear Mr. Nicholas Rohr, followed by four words with a period, and my name underneath—Taloulah Berkeley. It’s all been typed, with the exception of my signature, which I wrote in big bubbly cursive letters.
Nick starts shaking and I hear tapping. He shakes his leg with such ferocity, tapping his heel to the marble floors, it’s possible he’s about make a dent.
“Nicholas,” I mumble.
He yells, “Don’t fucking call me that!”
Nick jolts back, tossing the letter to the floor while pushing himself in his chair away from his desk and comes to standing. He slips both of his hands in his pockets without looking at me and heads towards the panels of frosted glass behind him. He walks right up to the window as if he can see out, which he can’t because there’s nothing that can be seen other than a few gray shadows of tall buildings made barely visible through the penetrating light.
“Nick,” I call out a bit louder this time.
“Only my friends call me by my first name,” he grits.
My heart
falls into my stomach. Blood feels like its pouring—pooling—into my gut, making me feel sick and nauseous while my heart muscles slowly decay away. It doesn’t matter what happens after this. I’m confident I’ll never have my whole heart. Not fully. Not ever. Then again, I’ve been living with half a heart anyway, so I figure its time to savor what’s left.
“I still want to be friends, Nick.”
He laughs, tilting his head back, like the dark prince he is. The dark prince who is really a light to his friends, to his company, and to the women who need him to fulfill their fantasies, along with their pocketbooks. The dark prince who would never laugh at any of those people, would never hesitate to share his dreams with them, and would never keep gratitude from any of them—his minions.
Except me. Not me. Never me—his most dedicated servant.
Nick has figured out the more you give the more you get, so he gives freely. And they all take it. To his minions, Nick is a savior of sorts. They take every bit of Nick’s power and, in return, they do his bidding. Where Nick leads with darkness, light follows. When he crushes, they concoct. When he cripples, they heal to become stronger. It is a demoralizing cycle really, but they love him for it and he loves them back.
But he’s never loved me. I am always kept in the dark. I am never allowed to feel empowered. I am only allowed to feel his power. Never his love. Never his touch. Not even his whip. Only a smack on the ass. That’s all I get. From the beginning, that’s all I’ve been given. And as much as I hate to admit that I’ve loved living under his shadow for so long, a new light has emerged and I’m finding it would be best to leave darkness alone.
I stand up. I’ve done what needed to be done. I’ve given Nick the letter and I need to leave.
Taloulah, you need to leave. Now!
I look at Nick’s jacket still in my arms and force myself towards his desk.
Just drop it! Just put it down and leave!
My eyes wander up to see Nick isn’t moving, so I fold the long length of Nick’s coat in three quarters, pulling out the sleeves to spread them across his desk then lifting the bottom and folding it back and tucking the sleeves behind into the bend. It is folded exactly how it had arrived packaged in the mail received just ten months ago. Nick likes gifts and I like opening them for him, which he doesn’t like to do. He never got gifts as a child—only money and that’s how he prefers to receive things.
But when he picks up the jacket, hopefully, he will be pleased. Hopefully, he will remember this is the jacket I picked out for him, and I was right—I’m usually right—thinking it looked comfortable, which he said it was. Nick’s coffee was on the wrong side of his desk this morning and I sincerely would like the rest of his day to go on comfortably for him.
This is it! This is really it. He’s not going to make a fuss about it. He’s just going to accept this. I’m not sure if I should be rejoicing or stabbing myself after finding my Romeo has truly been dead to me all this time.
I turn on my heels but trail my head slowly to catch a glimpse of Nick, his hands still in his pockets, his dark eyes still staring through a precluded view.
When I see Nick’s door, my breath hitches but I manage to take one step towards the exit—my escape.
Nick groans, “What’s his name?”
I stop.
What’s his name? I’m balancing on the tips of my toes between steps. Nick wants to know, What’s his name?
“Excuse me?” I say, nonchalantly.
Run for the door! The exit is right there. Go!
“Whatever the fuck his name is I’m going to find out. I’d rather hear it from your mouth.” Nick is still talking into the window and I can sense the window is about to crack.
“Nick,” I chuckle halfheartedly.
“First and last name. Give it to me—now.” His jaw tightens, stressing the now.
It’s been a dozen years since I’ve been filled with dread. Four words was all I put in that letter. Four words was all I typed because I didn’t want to give anything away: Please accept my resignation. But somehow, Nick saw right through those four little words.
Unless, it’s me? Perhaps he can see right through me. I figure there’s no way getting around this. I’ve tried to keep it a secret but Nick is onto me. Either he already knows or he can feel it—the other guy. Him.
I lift my chin high. “I’m not telling you what his name is.”
“Have you slept with him?”
The question triggers an uneasy feeling in my legs and my knees go weak. “No.”
Why am I even confessing this? Because I feel obligated? Because I’m conditioned to confess, to be honest in the same way Nick’s father conditioned Nick to always tell the truth about what he’s feeling even if it’s cruel? Who I date should not be any of Nick’s business.
“And... it’s none of your business,” I blurt.
“It’s all my business,” he growls. “I need a name, Lou.”
“Why? You don’t need a name, Nick. This is just between me and you.”
“That’s right. This is between me and you. Me and you, alone.” Nick wiggles the Bang in his pocket creating a tic-tac noise that I’m all too familiar with.
Oh fuck! “Nick, don’t go there. You don’t need that. Please don’t take that. You already know how I feel about you.”
“I do know how you feel about me, woman. So, give me his fucking name.”
I hug myself to keep myself contained before I fall apart. I can’t keep my shoulders from shuddering as my eyes are welling up. Nick is powerful, a very powerful and often unpredictable man. A man who knows how to get what he wants. “Why? He’s no one. No one to anybody but me, so he’s not of any importance to you.”
“You’re right. He’s not important unless you love him, which I doubt you do.” Nick cocks his head. “But in either case, I need a name.”
Shit. Nick wants the name to run through his profile program, so he can do who-knows-what to the man, to him. Fear prickles up my spine. “Nick, he’s of no danger to you. You don’t need—”
“Goddamn it, Lou!” he roars, making me shake with a pierce in each ear. A tear escapes my eye. “This isn’t a discussion, woman. Don’t fight me on this.”
Don’t fight? When do I ever fight? Rarely.
I wipe my hot face, which is getting wet, with my palms and suck up a sniffle. “Why are you behaving so crazy? He hasn’t done anything to you.”
“Not to me, no.” Nick sighs. “But I’m guessing he’s already touched you, and if I find out he’s not clean in any way and laying his dirty hands on you, then...”
My stomach churns. “Then what?”
“What do you think, Lou?”
My lips quivers. “I don’t know.”
“I’m going to kill him.”
Chapter 2
Nicholas
A whack then a whimper. There were two sounds. The slap of something hard on skin followed by the intonation of a girl in pain. These were the first sounds I’d ever heard of someone other than myself receiving physical punishment.
It made me curious. Extremely curious. It even tickled my groin and I was ashamed of myself to be so turned on but, at fourteen, I was admittedly grateful that someone had taken a stick to the girl, because it was the first indication that Taloulah Berkeley existed.
Peeping in through a dusty cobweb ridden glass window, my curiosity got the best of me. Beyond webs were dancers—about ten of them—each very skinny, very long, and very poised in her demeanor. Except the shorter one in the middle, who I would officially meet for the first time the next day. She was not as lean or as developed as the others were. She had a square frame. Her black leotard pulled over pink tights did not reach as high above her hip bones as it should’ve, like the rest. She seemed out of place, like an ugly duckling among swans and her dance instructor, stick in hand, realized this as well.
A snap at the end of the stick landed on Taloulah’s fingers, which she continued to hold out to the side along with a s
traight left leg and pointed toe while her other set of plump fingers reached up to the ceiling. Taloulah blushed red. It was unavoidable to see, her brown hair pulled into a tight bun like the others. Her face winced with each whip of the long white stick that snapped against her body, one after the other on her fingers, on her shoulder, and on her bum as the instructor, a gray-haired wrinkly old woman in a ruffled gray dress, continued to correct Taloulah’s pose while constantly criticizing the young girl’s posture.
Shameful, I’d wished in that moment I was the instructor and then imagined what it would be like to be the stick. I was curious as to why the girl didn’t cry or yelp and I wondered what it would take to get a peep out of her.
Some of the girls were also wincing. Most turned their heads away, except one. One continued to watch as she was intrigued, as I was, both of us unable to turn away. It was soon that I would learn that girl watching was Nancy, who was without question the most gifted among all the dancers and Taloulah’s sister.
“Enjoy watching the humiliation?” my father said to me in his usual sarcastic tone and coming up from behind.
“Yes,” I answered honestly. I was conditioned to always be honest with him. My father had his moments and, as angry as he could get, I knew well enough to always obey.
“Perhaps I will allow the dance studio to remain.” He peeped in beside me to look inside though my father did not get too close. The suit he wore that day was of loose linen in an off-white color—heaven forbid he get it soiled with anything other than his own sweat.
The building was next on his list of purchases. The man was a real estate tycoon, although he dabbled in other business. The four-story structure fronted the main road and would be the first he planned to renovate in the town we’d just moved to. It was my mother’s hometown, a quiet little suburb not far from the city.
My mother had passed away almost a year prior and it appeared my father still wanted to hurt her. He decided to move us to her hometown, where I figure he believed he could continue to add to her demise even after her death.
