Behind the Green Curtain (5 page)

Though she could feel her
uncontrollable trembling, she couldn’t grasp the cause, couldn’t get a handle
on her own emotions. Was she angry, or was she gratified? Disgusted, or
thrilled? Everything she could feel, she felt, until it all jumbled together
into a singular sensation.

Turbulence.

Climbing the stairs to her
apartment, her steps grew short when she saw the visitor waiting outside her
door.

“Hey.” Laura looked up at her with
a relieved smile. “Where’ve you been?”

“I...” Caton glanced back at the
stairs, helplessly realizing it was too late not to make her presence known,
and remembering in shameful detail why she didn’t want to face Laura at the
moment.

“You’re late,” Laura stated gently.

“For what?” Caton returned in
confusion.

“Movie,” Laura returned.
“Remember?”

“Oh, yeah,” Caton breathed, shaking
her head, trying to shake some semblance of balance into place. “Sorry. I got
held up at work.”

“Files desperately in need of
permanent placement?” Laura quipped, stepping out of the way to give Caton
enough space to unlock the door, though it wasn’t space enough for Caton to
breathe.

“Something like that,” she uttered.
“What time is it?”

“We’ll make it,” Laura replied.
“We’ll just eat after.”

She wasn’t angry. She didn’t even
sound reasonably perturbed. Laura was possibly the most easygoing human being
on the planet, a model of compassion and understanding. She was kind, she was
warm, and, as Caton turned to face her inside the door, she gave a dazzling
smile just before pressing her lips to Caton’s.

At the sudden sensation, the
turbulence inside Caton didn’t stop, but it did find focus. Maybe she knew how
she felt after all.

Hand curving around the back of
Laura’s neck, Caton deepened the kiss, feeling Laura’s arms slide around her
waist as she pressed closer. Tugging Laura inside, they barely got the door
closed behind them as they staggered toward the bedroom like overanxious teenagers.

It was never like this with them.
It never had been. There was always time to take. Urgency was never required.

Through the bedroom door, Caton
tore at Laura’s clothes, ridding her of the majority of them before pushing her
onto the bed to mark her body with her lips and teeth and tongue, and Laura
arched against her, pulling her closer, wordlessly capitulating to the frenzy.

Fingers sinking into warmth, Caton
closed her eyes. It was Laura who moaned and moved against her, but Caton was
back in the foyer. The heat she felt was Amelia’s, each touch, the veritable
caress of Amelia’s gaze. She was victim to the power Amelia wielded so
effortlessly over her with only a request. It was disconcerting, terrifying,
but there was euphoria to be found within the fear, like a free fall into a
black hole. She couldn’t know what was at the bottom, but the path down felt
like flying.

Chapter 10

In all outward appearances, morning
in the Halston household was as quiet and unaffected as ever. Standing at the
bar, Amelia dropped fruit into the blender as Sole moved around behind her,
providing assistance without being invasive. An illusion of perfect calm.

Inside, Amelia whirred with nearly
the same intensity as the blades that spun before her. Not once all night had her
mind stopped working, and her body was even more keyed up, reacting to
everything as if waking from a long, deep sleep. The world she inhabited was
full of beautiful people and casual flirtations, but sitting on the steps in
the foyer, watching Caton bear herself before her, something was different.
Something had been different. Caton was different. And the series of orgasms to
which Amelia had treated herself in the time between Sole retiring to the guest
house and Jack arriving home spoke for themselves.

When Jack entered the kitchen,
expression smug as if he was anxious to see what pleasures awaited him in the
day, Amelia barely glanced up in acknowledgment.

“Is Caton downstairs already?” he
asked, stopping across the bar.

Glancing toward the clock on the
convection oven, Amelia realized morning had gotten away from her. 8:50. Jack
was there. Caton wasn’t. Both of those things were off, and the realization
pushed the abnormally relaxed bend of Amelia’s shoulders back into their
regular posture. “Caton’s not here,” she said, words echoing hollowly in her
head as she wondered how she had failed to notice Caton’s arrival time roll by
without her appearance.

“Where is...”

Amelia punched the blender on
harder than was necessary, and the room filled with the loud groan of metal
blades whipping against solid chunks of fruit. Taking her finger from the
button, she looked back up at Jack, who studied her with a look somewhere
between annoyance and amusement. “Where is she?” he finished his question.

“I don’t know,” Amelia shrugged. “I
guess she’s not coming.”

It didn’t matter. It couldn’t
possibly matter. There was no reason for it to matter. Knowing there could be
no good reason for her to be there, she’d wanted Caton gone, and Caton was
gone. Yet, she could hear the traces of disappointment in her own voice, and
was grateful for the fact that Jack didn’t care enough to notice.

“Why?” he returned. “What did you
do?”

Staring across the bar at him,
Amelia felt the antagonism set in, eradicating any residual pleasure. “I guess
I made it impossible for her to work here,” she replied.

“Why? What did you do?” Jack posed
the question again, and Amelia was on the verge of answering him in graphic
detail when Caton walked through the doorway.

“Did someone quit?” she asked, and
Amelia wasn’t sure if it was fear of Jack or of her that slowed Caton’s steps
and sent her eyes skittering away from both of them. “Sorry I’m late. There was
an accident.”

As Caton’s eyes at last flitted to
hers, albeit fleetingly, Amelia felt more than one emotion she hadn’t felt in
some time lurch within her. Fear, desire, and something she couldn’t identify
beyond the disturbing sensation that it was more.

“Well, good morning.” Jack made
even the simple greeting sound like a pickup line.

“Good morning, Caton,” Sole added.

“Good morning,” Caton responded,
doing an impressive job of ignoring Jack and keeping an eye on him at the same
time.

“Do you want some coffee?”

“It’s a little crowded in here.
I’ll come back for it,” Caton responded, sending another brief glance Amelia’s
way. “If you need me, you know where to find me.”

Then, Caton retraced her steps out
of the room, and Amelia heard the door to the basement open and close softly
from the foyer. Feeling oddly unbalanced, she put her hand on the bar and took
several deep breaths that did little more than fill her head with thin air.

After watching Caton, or, more
likely, certain parts of Caton, depart from the room, Jack turned back to
Amelia with a gleeful expression. “Whatever you did,” he prodded, “I guess it
wasn't enough to scare her away.”

Not sure if she was relieved at the
fact, or if scaring Caton away was exactly what she had intended, Amelia
returned her gaze to the blender. “So, it would seem,” she conceded, pressing
the button again and watching the tornado of color spin inside the glass.

Chapter 11

Triumph had come with so little
effort, Jack had to question it.

With few weapons in her arsenal,
Amelia didn’t win many battles between them, but she didn’t forfeit them
either. He had expected more fight out of her, another proclamation about what
an inconvenience it was to have Caton imposed upon her life.

Clearly, there was conflict,
though, if Amelia believed she had run Caton off, and conflict was exactly what
Jack was counting on. Caton being as disagreeable and sharp of tongue with
Amelia as she had always been with him would teach his wife a lesson she
wouldn’t soon forget about asking for things she didn’t really want.

That thought, above all, was what
put the smile on Jack’s face as he walked into the more casual of the club’s
two restaurants. Looking through the sea of sport coats and plaid golf pants,
he spotted Mr. Taylor at a table at the far end of the room, engaged in what
appeared to be a lively conversation with a man Jack had never met.

Exchanging greetings with other
club members as he passed them, Jack made it to the edge of the table before
Mr. Taylor’s amused eyes caught on him. “Jack, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you come
in.” Mr. Taylor rose to his feet to give Jack a firm handshake. “This is Mark.”

Upon his introduction, the stranger
stood too, standing inches taller and broader than Jack, his muscles pushing
against the fabric of a long-sleeved polo, looking so much the part that Jack
took his offered hand without second thought.

“Slater,” the man added. “Marcus
Slater.”

Recognizing the voice before the
name, Jack pulled out of the handshake, watching Slater try to cut an imposing
figure on another man’s turf.

“We were just talking about you,”
Slater continued, and Jack’s eyes moved to Mr. Taylor as he sat back down. He
tried not to think about the kinds of things his old friend and collaborator
might have said that he shouldn’t. “What? You’ve had fourteen companies?”
Slater questioned. “Only two successful. And now you’re this big shot. That is
a heart-warming story. Truly. Amazing, how you managed to turn things around
like you did.”

“Some people just have a sense for
business,” Jack returned, hoping for a quick end to the conversation.

“Well, I’m sure it helped that you
had your parents’ money to bail you out,” Slater uttered. “You know, until you
found your true calling.”

Leaning forward in his chair, Mr.
Taylor seemed to suddenly realize the man who had happened by his table didn’t
end up there by chance. “Whoa, I didn’t tell him that,” Mr. Taylor stated,
though it sounded as if he agreed with Slater’s assessment.

“How did you know where to find
me?” Jack asked, need for pretense gone.

“Your assistant,” Slater responded.
“But don’t be too hard on her. I’m pretty free with the obstruction and
abetting threats.”

“I can have you removed,” Jack
declared.

“Is that really what you want to
do?” Slater asked, stepping closer to slap Jack on the shoulder as if they were
old friends. “Make a scene?”

“I’ll, uh... I’ll get another drink,”
Mr. Taylor said in a rush, hurrying from his chair and maneuvering off through
the tables, as Jack stepped out of Slater’s false affection.

Well aware that the best way to
handle a rat was to deal with it as expeditiously as possible, he took a vacant
seat at the table, watching Slater return to the seat he’d made his own,
looking pleased to have scored an impromptu conference.

“What do you want?” Jack asked.

“I want you to tell me what you’ve
done,” Slater returned without hesitation, just enough edge to his voice that
he probably thought he was menacing.

“I haven’t done anything,” Jack
responded.

“You have an awfully thick file at
the BRC, Mr. Halston.”

“And, yet, nothing has ever come of
it,” Jack replied. “So, I guess this may be the one time size really doesn’t
matter.”

“Agent after agent has believed
there is something not right about your business,” Slater stated, anger more
palpable, though his surface remained unruffled.

“I’m allowed to make money,” Jack
countered. “That is perfectly legal.”

“If you do it by the books,” Slater
returned, hand moving to the table to drum a loud, repetitive beat Jack
suspected was a part of his training. Glancing at the hand, he smiled in good
humor, though the noise did seem an annoyance to those at nearby tables.

“I do it by the books,” Jack
returned.

“In this country,” Slater
quasi-agreed. “You do most of your international work off-book, though, don’t
you?”

Jack wasn’t expecting the question.
No one had ever gone beyond the borders before. But, still, he barely wavered.
They had no jurisdiction - not Slater, not the BRC - and he was used to these
hero-complex types, boy scouts charging in thinking they were going to save a
day that didn’t need saving. “What I do outside this country isn’t your
problem.”

“Actually, it is.” Slater smiled
slowly. “When I called you, I was just testing the waters. I wanted to see what
you would say. We’re not the ones on you this time, Mr. Halston. Interpol has
requested our assistance, and, personally, I’m not interested in jurisdictional
disputes. I just want to see a really bad guy get what he’s got coming to him.”

Jacket suddenly too tight, Jack
unbuttoned it, leaning forward on the table, gaze steeled. He couldn’t manage
to completely discount Slater’s words, but he could appear to do so. “Well,
thanks for the warning, and for stopping by,” he said. “Next time you want to
talk to me, let me know in advance. I’ll make sure my lawyers are present.”

Smile never wavering, Slater got up
from his seat, appearing even more hulking from Jack’s lowered perspective.
“You sound like a guilty man, Mr. Halston,” he declared. “Or at least a man who
isn’t entirely sure he’s innocent.” Though Slater left room for response, Jack
had nothing to say. “Tell Mr. Taylor I’d love to get in that game of squash
sometime.” Slater smiled.

Following the path of his
self-assured exit, Jack knew he would never fall to whatever allegations the
cocksure agent tried to turn into charges, but it was the first time he had
ever been worried about the inquisition.

Chapter 12

If you need me, you know where
to find me
. Jesus Christ. She may as well have said, ‘I’ll be waiting in
the basement to strip on command.’

Since the work she’d been given to
keep her busy, as Amelia had freely admitted, was the most mindless on the
planet, Caton had nothing but time to think. So, she thought about what would
have happened if she hadn’t given in to Amelia’s request, if she had never gone
up to Amelia’s office in the first place. It was what she needed to be
thinking, how to avoid further entanglements. She couldn’t undo what she had
done, but she could certainly make her time left at the Halston Palace less
complicated.

Mostly, though, as desperately as
she tried to force her mind in the other direction, she thought about what would
have happened if Sole hadn’t made her untimely entrance, and it was that inner
musing that drew Caton’s eyes to the doorway every few minutes.

Of course, Amelia never came. If
she was paying any attention to Caton at all, it could only be through the one-way
street of the security system, on which she could watch her subject without
having to engage.

Caton left without seeing Amelia
again. The next day came, and she left early to keep her promise to Laura.
Friday came, and Amelia was nowhere to be found.

It was as if nothing had happened.

Over the weekend, Caton tried to
forget about it, but those few moments in the foyer entered her thoughts more
often than she would have liked, especially when Laura was right in front of
her and Caton knew how unfair she was being.

Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Caton
fluctuated between relief that Amelia wasn’t using what had happened against
her and the overwhelming desire to track Amelia down and ask her who the fuck
tells someone to take her clothes off and then returns to ignoring her as if
she’s never seen her naked.

Then, maybe it just wasn’t all that
memorable for Amelia.

Though Sole had made her usual
efforts, Caton avoided their small talk and any unnecessary interaction,
keeping to her crypt, where she could suffer her thoughts in relative peace.
Every morning, she stopped in to say hello, and each night she said goodnight
on the fly as Sole was preparing dinner with the precision of someone who did
it every day and could handle the task without conscious thought.

Leaning into the
delightful-smelling kitchen after a full week of civil avoidance, Caton did
exactly that, saying her goodnight in a rush and turning to go.

“Caton,” Sole called, and Caton
paused in her fleeing, hand tightening on the strap of her bag as she glanced
back. “Do you want a cookie?”

When Sole gestured to the racks on
the counter with a smile, Caton instantly shook her head, self-preservation
compelling her to flee in a hurry. “No, thank you.”

“Amelia is out,” Sole added, before
Caton could make her escape. “Are you ever going to talk to me again?”

The powerful desire to save herself
superseded by an unexpected flood of guilt, Caton sighed. Feeling called out,
which she had definitely earned, she stepped into the kitchen, stopping across
the bar from Sole, slowly meeting her gaze. “I’m sorry,” she uttered, but Sole
looked more sympathetic than upset.

“Do you want a cookie?” she offered
again.

“Yeah, kinda,” Caton admitted, and
Sole grinned at her, grabbing a cookie from a rack and sliding it across the
bar top on a napkin. Settling onto her usual stool, Caton dropped her bag to
the stool next to her and took a bite, marveling again at Sole’s culinary
talents and glad for how much she got to indulge in them when the boss wasn’t
home. “This doesn’t really strike me as a cookie household,” Caton said, taking
another bite.

“Amelia does work with a women’s
shelter,” Sole explained. “She took most of them there. A little Halloween
treat.”

Forgetting her lingering
discomfort, Caton ceased to chew, moist cookie bits going suddenly dry on her
tongue. Licking her lips, she swallowed with substantial effort, and Sole
brought her a glass of water, as if she had taken a clairvoyant reading of the
humidity level in Caton’s mouth.

Taking a drink, the guilt amplified.
She hated the way things had been with Sole. Before the incident in the foyer,
talking to Sole had been the only enjoyable part of Caton’s day. She was so
afraid, though, of any topics that would point to the huge elephant hovering
just over her shoulder. As it turned out, Amelia was, indeed, the first topic
of conversation, and, as if to emphasize how absolutely self-centered Caton had
been over the past few days, it had absolutely nothing to do with her at all.

“I know she does good work,” Caton
said, voice weak, but it was all in theory. She knew Amelia handled Jack’s
charity work, he had told her so himself, and she knew Halston & Company
had ties to multiple charities. It never crossed her mind that Amelia might ask
someone to bake up homemade desserts and hand-deliver them. The information was
so incongruous with everything she had experienced with Amelia firsthand, she
couldn’t even begin to process it.

She couldn’t completely ignore the
mention either, or the warmth that spread through her in reaction, moving up to
her face where she was certain Sole could see. The elephant put its foot on her
shoulder and pressed. “About the other day...”

“Hey, you don’t have to explain
anything to me,” Sole cut in at once. “It’s my job not to see anything that happens
in this house.”

With a flimsy laugh that brought no
real relief, Caton watched Sole snag a cookie and bite into it. She could have
left it alone. She probably should have left it alone. Sole was giving her a
pass it would undoubtedly have been wisest to use. The not knowing, though, it
was killing her.

“Does she, um...” She tried to keep
the question light, glancing away as Sole looked up. “Does she do that with
everyone?”

“What?” Sole returned with such
shocked haste she had to catch cookie crumbs that tumbled from her lip. “Watch
them take their clothes off?”

“Yeah,” Caton responded with a
shrug, hoping it looked more casual than it felt and realizing how ridiculous
she had to sound. “Is it like a power trip for her or something, making someone
do something just to prove she can?”

Wide eyes narrowing to a point, one
of Sole’s eyebrows quirked up, and Caton knew she had been made. “I can say I
have never walked in on Amelia watching anyone strip in the middle of the foyer
before,” Sole stated. “And she’s certainly never asked me. Whatever that was,
it’s between you and Amelia.”

Eyes dropping to her water glass,
Caton closed her hands around it, the cold against her skin doing little to
alleviate the increasing warmth of her blush. Rolling the glass back and forth,
she tried and failed to make sense of it. Maybe it was better if she didn’t
make sense of it. Maybe it was better if she just never emerged from the
basement again.

“So,” Sole said, letting the small
utterance linger until Caton at last met her gaze. Though, for the most part,
Sole held her game face, Caton could see the smirk restrained only by years of
hiding her true feelings from rich people in order to keep her job. “Is that
what you wanted to hear?”

Feeling read like pop fiction, all
her secrets quickly and easily uncovered, Caton tried not to let anything else
show. “I should go,” she said quickly, standing up and pulling the strap of her
bag over her arm. “Thank you for the cookie. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Sole returned, and
Caton could almost hear the smirk break free as she rushed from the room.

~ ~ ~

Whatever Caton wanted, the dungeon
was what she had. Boxes and boxes of files, and drawers upon drawers into which
to shove them. Nothing more. Just a ridiculous amount of money for mindless,
seemingly never-ending work and the silence in which to drive herself crazy.

That was what she had for another
day and a half, at least, until Amelia suddenly alighted in the doorway like
she owned the place, which, of course, she did. The house, the room, and
everything in it. Caton wondered if that included her, for the bargain price of
seventy-five-hundred dollars a month.

Unlike the time Amelia had been
there before, the sound didn’t blend, and there was no mistaking who stood at
her back. Caton made no false attributions to the creaking of the house or to
her own imagination, sensing Amelia as surely as if she had her eyes plastered
to the doorway, just awaiting her arrival.

She was supposed to turn around and
acknowledge Amelia’s presence, she was certain, with a curtsy, perhaps, or
something equally deferential. Days before, in the wake of the undeniable
feelings Amelia had stirred, Caton might have done just that. Days before, she
might have been more delighted than she let on to see Amelia. Having been kept
waiting, though, intentionally ignored, without explanation or justification,
Caton wasn’t exactly feeling the loyal subject.

With scarcely a glance toward the
doorway, she grabbed more files from a box and flipped through them, coming
away with the fleeting image of Amelia’s casually-dressed outline and confident
stance. It must have been a powerful feeling for Amelia, she thought bitterly,
to know she couldn’t be completely ignored, but, still, Caton did her best.

Entering the room when she decided,
at the pace of her choosing, Amelia’s footsteps were different than normal.
Softer. Less pronounced. Caton could feel her drawing quietly closer, a
pressing threat, almost predatory. Trying to ignore the sensation, she flipped
a folder, shoving it into the metal cabinet with such vigor, the tab bent
beneath her hand.

In the instant it took Caton to
glance back down at the pile she held, Amelia flattened against her, out of sight
and without sound at her back, and that Caton couldn’t ignore. The rush of
Amelia’s breath stirring the hair at the back of her neck, her smell was
invasive, the faded remnants of expensive shampoo and soap, masked by the
earthy smell of sweat. It should have been a turnoff, but goddamn if Amelia’s
sweat couldn’t have been its own high-dollar fragrance.

Caton tried not to drown in it, the
feel of Amelia’s body, her smell, the sound of her breath, but she was only
treading water. With the paralyzing sensation of Amelia against her, she
couldn’t swim away if she wanted to, but, of all the desires racing through her
veins, getting away was least amongst them.

Amelia pressed closer, fingers
grasping Caton’s hips to pull her more tightly into her, and the folders in
Caton’s hands fell to the floor in a mess. Whenever Amelia came into the room,
it seemed, she brought disarray along with her.

Overwhelmed by the heat engulfing
her, Caton didn’t move, didn’t breathe. She didn’t try. Not until Amelia’s
hands slid across her stomach and forced the breath from her lips. She had been
waiting. She could tell herself it was for an explanation, for clarity, for
apology, but this was what Caton had been waiting for, Amelia to finish what
she had started.

Hand sliding up Caton’s body,
Amelia’s fingers splayed across her breast, branding Caton through the thin
fabric of her shirt, palm teasing the nipple that had hardened the instant she
entered the room, before her hands dropped lower to grasp the bottom of Caton’s
shirt and yank it over her head. Then, Amelia was back against her, and Caton swore
the soft moan she heard wasn’t hers.

Not lingering or hesitating,
Amelia’s hands went for the button of Caton’s dusty jeans, flicking it open and
working the zipper down in what felt like one seamless motion.

Caton lurched as the tips of
Amelia’s fingers slid over her panties, stroking and pressing, forcing her to
react, and Caton could do nothing but react. Eyes closing, she reached out,
seeking the edge of the file cabinet, trying to hold onto reality, but when
Amelia’s hand retracted just long enough to bypass the barrier of her panties
and find her wet and open, Caton gave up on the real world and gave in to the
fantasy.

Gasping at useless air, she lost
herself in the sensation of Amelia’s fingers moving against her, reaching back
to snake her hand through tangled dark hair, clasping the back of Amelia’s
neck. It was a surprise, maybe even pleasant, when a groan sounded in her ear
and Amelia’s hand quickened its pace.

Caton wanted more. She felt as if
Amelia was only skimming the surface. Still, it was more than enough, and Caton
came apart under skilled hands, a technique perfected through practice. Maybe
Amelia wasn’t frigid after all, she realized, and the idea of Amelia lying in
bed touching herself like this was enough to send Caton toppling into the abyss
she’d been standing on the edge of for what felt like forever. The free fall
was every bit the flight she imagined.

When Caton’s knees gave out,
Amelia’s body provided support enough to keep her standing, and when the world
finally came back into focus, Caton collapsed back against her, upright but
depleted. She could feel her sweat sinking into Amelia’s shirt, could hear
Amelia’s softly discharged breaths over her own labored breathing.

Then, without warning, Amelia
suddenly pulled away, and Caton did find the file cabinet, pitching forward to
catch herself on the edge of it before she fell to the floor like the jumbled
folders at her feet. The same silent steps that brought her into the room
signaled Amelia’s departure, and, as they faded, Caton gave up her effort to
remain standing. Letting go of the cabinet, she slid to her knees on the cold
floor, hand finding her shirt beside her and holding it to her chest, shielding
her too late from cameras that had already seen more than enough.

When Amelia came in, Caton was in
no mood to acquiesce, or to even be polite. She meant to stand up for herself,
demand some decency. For the amount of pride and anger she managed to retain at
Amelia’s touch, though, she may as well have signed herself over to Amelia for
the duration of her employment, because as tall as she tried to stand, she
still ended up on her knees.