Just One Night, Part 2_ Exposed(24)

“You won’t need it,” Dave says decisively. “I want you to stay here tonight. Your obedience may be the only thing that saves you.”

I don’t argue this time. There’s no point. I simply stand there as he exits.

And in my mind my new fantasy is that he never comes back.





CHAPTER 8





I sTAND ALONE IN the foyer for seconds, minutes, a brief eternity of time as I try to decide on a mental journey that will take me away from this place. What shall I fantasize about now? Swimming through the mellow waves of the Mediterranean? Dancing in New York? But my mind stays stubbornly in the here and now. A few days . . . how many lifetimes have I packed into that small space of time?

I lean against the wall, suddenly dizzy. It seems impossible that I’m at risk of losing to such an unskilled adversary. I’m just not used to this kind of struggle. My opponents have always been my own desires and memories, the war an internal one. And even in that war, my opponents were the conquistadors. They overcame my defenses and occupied my mind with colonial ambitions, bringing me to this hellish reservation where subjugation and servitude are the most obvious means of survival.

I hear footsteps approaching outside of the door. What could Dave have forgotten? Perhaps an insult or threat that he had neglected to throw my way.

I back away and watch as the doorknob moves, just a fraction of an inch this way and then the other. Why doesn’t he just turn the key?

But as I watch the doorknob continue to jiggle, I realize I have another problem.

The person at the door doesn’t have a key.

The person on the other side of the door is breaking in.

I move quickly, not caring how high my skirt hikes up, not caring what’s exposed. As long as I’m able to keep this new nightmare at bay, the dress is inconsequential.

I reach for the deadlock, but it’s too late. The door swings open and I find myself backing up as quickly as I moved forward, wanting to run but knowing there’s no use.

But then the intruder isn’t a stranger at all. It’s Robert Dade.

He takes me in with only the quickest movement of his eyes and then he moves past me, into the living room, standing in the center, his fists clenched at his sides, his ferocious energy flooding the room.

“Where is he?” he asks.

His back is to me, which is fine. My anger, shame, and humiliation have me burning tonight and he looks a lot like kerosene.

“He’s out. How did you know I was here? How did you even know where Dave lives?”

“Your boss called me.”

Well, there’s an unlikely hero. I almost say it out loud but sense Robert isn’t in the mood for small talk. His posture reminds me of a stalking tiger ready to pounce.

“When will he be back?”

It’s not so much a question as a demand for information.

I’ve had enough of demands.

“I can take care of this, Robert. I don’t need you.”

He pivots, his fury slamming into my frustration.

“Go upstairs and get out of that dress. You’re better than this. You should know better than to accept the role of Dave’s slave.”

“I’m not a slave.”

“Take off the dress!”

I stand my ground. I feel a little like a student in Tiananmen Square standing defiantly before an oncoming tank.

He breathes out aggravation through clenched teeth but then, as his eyes shift, so does his focus. There, on the side table, he sees the framed photo. It’s of Dave and me in kinder days. He’s wearing a navy wool crepe suit with a quiet silver tie while my hair is slicked back into an intricate chignon bun. There’s an almost elderly sophistication to the jewel-necked suit I’m wearing, the light sheen of the fabric and the ruffled peplum being the only hint toward a softer form of femininity. Dave has his hand on my back and I’m smiling serenely at the camera. It’s an image that could have been ripped from the pages of Town & Country. We’re perfect.

Roman statues, that’s what Simone had compared us to, perfect and cold.

Robert picks up the picture, examines it more closely. “I’m not sure I know this woman.”

“I know her.” I move behind him, peeking over his shoulder to see the photo. “I just don’t know where she went.”

Robert puts down the picture frame. “Let her stay lost.” He then turns to me, the edges of his anger mildly blunted by concern. “I won’t let him do this to you.”

“I don’t think you can save me and . . . I’m . . . I’m not sure I want you to.”

A flash of pain flickers across his features. He reaches out, cups my cheek in his hand. “You can’t ask me to just let this happen. I won’t do that.”