You Don't Own Me(68)

I am wearing a duck egg blue taffeta dress that I designed and sewed myself. It has a tight bodice and a wide bow at the base of my spine, the ends of which trail lower than the hem of my mid-thigh, Honey Boo Boo-style skirt. Underneath are layers upon layers of gathered electric blue tulle and lace petticoats. Crinolines, my grandma used to call them.

I fluff them up. I love petticoats. In my opinion, life is way too short not to wear petticoats that stick out from under your skirt. I reapply my lipstick, press my lips, and leave the bathroom.

The corridor outside is deserted. Faint sounds of the party downstairs float up. As I walk down the carpeted passage I am suddenly and very strangely overcome by an irresistible curiosity. I want to open a door, just one, and see how BJ lives. I don’t know why, since I think him an arrogant beast. But just for those seconds, I want to see more than what everyone downstairs will see.

Oh! What the hell, just a quick look.

I open a door. The interior is plain; it’s obviously just a spare bedroom. I close it and open another. It, too, has an unlived-in appearance. Again, very plain. I try another door. It is locked. Okay, one last door and I’m out of here. I stop before another door handle and turn it.

Whoa!

BJ!

I take a step forward, close the door behind me, and lean against it. And fuckin’ stare. Two rooms must have been merged into one to make such a massive space. The walls are black and the words ‘No Fear’ are painted in white using a large calligraphy font. They glow in the light from a real fire roaring in the fireplace. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen real logs.

A large chandelier hangs from an iron hook in the ceiling; it looks more like a meat hook than a decorative accent. The bed is a huge, wrought iron four-poster, obviously custom, with deep red fleur-de-lis patterned brocade curtains that have been gathered and held together by thick gold and black ties. On the bedside tables that flank it are elaborate candelabras with real candles that have dripped wax onto the gilt handles.

Wow! So this is what lies inside BJ. His cold, cold eyes hide the soul of a seventeenth-century lord. It is dark and dangerous but I am strangely drawn to it. With some shock I realize that there is something irresistibly seductive about my discovery. It’s like walking into BJ’s private world or looking into his soul.

I try to imagine the room with the candelabras lit. The candlelight dancing off the walls. My eyes move to the bed and I see me naked and crushed under BJ’s large, powerful body, the light making his muscles gleam. The image is so erotic; it is at once thrilling and disturbing. I feel a flutter in my tummy.

I frown. I hate the man. And that is putting it politely.

And yet, here I am in his bedroom. A place I should never be. But, still unwilling to leave, I walk to the middle of the room, my petticoats rustling, the heels of my shoes loud and echoing on the hardwood floor. The fire crackles. It feels as if I am in a different world. Like Alice in her wonderland.

As if pulled by invisible hands, I head toward an antique, dark oak dresser. In a trance I stroke the metal handle. It is cool, smooth, full of all the events it has seen for hundreds of years, the squabbles, the trysts. A frisson of strange excitement runs over my skin. I pull at the metal handle. The drawer glides open with a whisper, smoothly, like it is on roller blades.

I stare wide-eyed at the contents.

Velvet boxes. Piled on top of one another. So many secrets. BJ’s secrets. I take one and open it. A tiepin with a blue stone glitters up at me. I open another. A tiepin with a black panther, obviously old. I open another box and freeze. A gold tiepin that reads ‘Layla’ in cursive writing lays there. It ends with a small diamond at the end of it. I lift my head and look at the mirror above the dresser. I look different, strange, shocked. I shouldn’t be here. This is wrong. I look into my eyes.

What the fuck are you doing, Layla?

But I don’t turn away and run out of the room like any sane person would. Instead, I do a truly strange thing. Something I have never done before. I feel the blood pounding in my ears. So loud I cannot hear the logs crackling anymore. I take the tiepin out of its box, open my purse, and… oops… it falls in. Freaking strange that! I am a good girl, brought up as a proper Catholic. I don’t take what’s not mine. But my fingers snap my purse shut. The sound is loud and makes me jump. I can hear other sounds now, the merry fire and, faintly, the sounds of the party downstairs.

Slowly, almost afraid of what I will see, I raise my head and look at my reflection again. What I see there is far more frightening than a thief. My reflection is no longer alone in the mirror. BJ is standing in the doorway. His huge, muscular body fills it entirely.