BILLIONAIRE (Part 6) (5 page)

His
breath was foul, his hair dirty.  It took every shred of courage I possessed
not to close my eyes and all my other senses to this routine nightmare.

It
was a thin comfort to know that he wouldn’t fully take me.  I didn’t know why. 
I knew he’d spent time in prison and I wondered if he’d done that before, to
some other girl, and been punished for it.  He seemed content with this level
of torture: making me touch him and touch myself as he did what he did.

“Spread
your legs wider.  Open.  Use your fingers.”

He
stood between my legs, one of his hands found my own, touching me, moving my
fingers.  His other hand was on himself.  He was close to me, close enough to
touch me, to press against me but not deeply.  His pace quickened and his face
began to contort with his pleasure.  White foam spurted from him onto my
stomach as he grunted his relief.  With his hand, he rubbed his foam onto my
skin as though to mark me, to stain me.

“There
you go,” he said.  “Good girl.  Just like you like it.”

He
zipped himself up, took his belt and began to leave.  “Don’t blockade the door
again or I’ll whip you good.  Tomorrow I’m going to teach you something new,
and you’re gonna do exactly what I tell you.  And don’t forget, if you tell
anybody about our little secret, I’ll fucking kill your mother, like I killed
that rabbit.”

The
door closed.  And the lock clicked back into place.

                                                           
$

I
awoke with a start, groggy, naked, afraid.  It took me several seconds to get
my bearings, to realize that I wasn’t at home in the tiny, rundown shack that
had defined my sad childhood.  It was after that night, the one I’d dreamed of,
that I’d run.  I’d spent the next night in a chicken coop, and the next in a
train station, where I’d almost been stolen by a straight-looking commuter who
was anything but.  I’d learned how to hide, and I’d learned how to run.

But
that had been a long time ago.

Now,
I was in New York, in Alexander’s plush and airy penthouse apartment.

And
I was alone.

“Alexander?” 
My voice sounded weak and edged with panic.  It had been several years since
I’d had a dream like that.  I wondered why those deeply-buried traumas I’d
banished from my waking consciousness long ago would reoccur to me now.

I
got up and called to him again but there was no answer.  His computer was gone
and so was he.  I felt mildly riled by this discovery but it was
understandable, I decided: he had emails to answer and he didn’t want to wake
me.  He was just being considerate, I told myself.  He’d promised me he’d try. 
He’d left me to doze, then he’d be expecting me to join him in his office. 
He’d begin to teach me, and train me.

I
went to Alexander’s shower, scrubbing away the seedy, horrific memories.

After
drying myself with one of Alexander’s oversized towels, I grabbed a fitted knit
black dress and for some reason, even though it wasn’t particularly cold, my
fur-lined jacket.  I wanted something thick and buffering to wrap around myself,
for comfort.  I pulled on my boots and picked up my bag, slinging its strap
across my shoulder.  I would go to his office so he could make good on his
promise.  He could start training me today.

The
dream fringed my awareness darkly, stealing a degree of brightness from the
day.  I wanted to see Alexander, and reassure myself that he was real, and that
I was safe.  I walked to the door and turned the knob.

At
first I thought it was stuck.

My
heart skipped a beat as the cold terror bubbled up.  I tried again, twisting
frantically.

He’d
locked me in.

                                                           
$

I
might have blacked out for a minute, from the residual, billowing fear that was
a product of my upbringing.  The surging intensity of it, in fact, surprised
me.  It was the one thing I hated more than any other: that feeling of being
locked in with no escape.

It
unhinged something in me.

I
couldn’t believe Alexander –
my
Alexander – would do such a thing.  This
wasn’t a door to the outside world.  This was his bedroom door.  Downstairs was
his apartment door which led to the elevator and the hall to his office.  There
was a doorman and a locked, guarded front door of the building.  No one could
get to me here.  This wasn’t about my protection.

This
was about my entrapment.

He
didn’t want me to leave.  He wanted full control over my whereabouts, to such
an extent that he would
lock me up
.

It
was too much.

I
thought of calling him but I was too angry.  He was the very last person I
wanted to speak to at that moment.  It didn’t matter that he was doing this for
his own peace of mind.  The bottom line was he didn’t trust me on some level. 
He wanted to control me and own me and dominate me, which was all well and good
when it was consensual and in the name of sexual satisfaction.  This was
something different.  This was beyond the scope of what I could tolerate.

I
picked up the intercom that buzzed down to Alexander’s kitchen.  I knew
Alexander would be in his office, but I thought Claude, Alexander’s chef, might
be here.  He worked some evenings, preparing food, cleaning and arranging
Alexander’s travel plans, if he had any.  I’d met him only once, in passing. 
“Hello?” I said into the speaker.

Nothing. 
The swirls of anxiety were surging through my veins like ice-fire.

“Hello? 
Claude, are you there?”  I could hear the shaded anxiety in the echo of my
voice.

A
crackle.  Then a voice.  “Hello?”  He seemed surprised to hear a female voice. 
Of course he would have been expecting Alexander’s orders, not mine.

“Claude,
it’s Lila.”  I almost screamed at him,
Let me out.  Please help me.  I need
you to come and let me out
.  I fumbled with a request that might sound
reasonable.  “Uh, I wondered if you could bring me something to drink.  Yes, a
drink.  Alexander said I could order anything I liked, if you don’t mind bringing
it up, that is.”

“Not
at all,” he said.  “Should I call Alexan—”

“
No
.” 
My answer was too sharp, too urgent.  I made a point of at least attempting to
smooth my panic.  “No, that’s not necessary.  He’s working and I’m waiting for
him in his room.  I’d just like a glass of champagne, if it’s no trouble.  If
you have some there.”

“Of
course.  We always keep champagne.  I’ll bring it right up, Miss Lila.”

“Thank
you.  Oh, and you’ll need to bring a key if you have one.  The door seems to be
locked.”

He
paused at this, then gave a stilted, “Of course.”  I could only hope he’d obey
my wishes and refrain from alerting Alexander.  But then he probably knew that
Alexander didn’t like – to put it mildly – to be interrupted when he was in his
office; this detail would be my salvation.  My release.  My freedom.

I
had to get out of here.  The panic continued to roll and to coil itself into my
gut.

I
paced as I waited.  My heart raced erratically.  I willed myself to calm down,
reminding myself that there was no need to overreact.  But my psyche didn’t
seem to want to listen.  It was too ingrained, this fear, too unruly.  Too
fresh, after the horrible dream.  As I paced, I realized that the sound of the
lock clicking into place would have summoned my subconscious fears. 
That’s
why
I’d had the nightmare, because Alexander had insisted on imprisoning me,
whether to stop me from working with him or just because he was an overbearing,
unreasonably-obsessive tyrant, I didn’t know.  I didn’t care.  All I wanted to
do was escape from this closed room, which seemed to be shrinking.  I could
almost feel the walls closing in.  My skin felt clammy and cold with sweat and
my mind whirled in full-blown panic.

A
soft knock rapped at my brain.  “Miss Lila?”

I
rushed over to the door.  I heard the key click into place.  Those few seconds
felt unfathomably long as Claude fiddled with the lock, finally releasing it. 
The relief I felt when that door swung open was indescribable.  I almost threw
my arms around Claude in a fit of uncontrolled gratitude.  Claude was tall and
thin, and mild-mannered.  His eyes were a clear sky blue, giving him a look of
cleanness, like he was a tee-totalling vegan or something, unsullied by sin and
substance.  He looked wholly surprised by the state of me, with my luxurious
coat and wild eyes.  His expression was wary, cataloguing his role in this
unexpected scene.  I could see the thoughts play across his face:
Should I
have unlocked this door?  Was it locked for a reason?  Will Alexander be
angry?  Will I get fired and lose my ridiculously fat salary considering all I
do is occasionally cook and clean for a filthy rich mogul with questionable
scruples and an imprisoned, crazed sex slave? 
Or some such.

Claude
placed the bottle of champagne on ice and two glasses on the table outside the
bedroom door, clearly reticent about entering the room itself.  “I should
probably give him a call—” he began.

“
No
,”
I said quickly.  Too quickly.  But I continued, unable to stop myself. 
“Please, Claude. 
Please
.  Please don’t call him.”  Then, I tried my
best to smooth his concern, to lay whatever qualms he might have been having to
rest.  “There’s no need.  Alexander will be back any minute.  I’ll tell him how
happy I am that you brought me champagne.  And so quickly.  Thank you, Claude. 
Alexander and I are celebrating.  I start work on Monday.”

I
was babbling, I realized.  Claude continued to watch me with obvious
confusion. 
Who was I?  Was I really Alexander’s employee?  And if so, what
was I doing locked away in his bedroom?
  There were too many odd questions
floating around to work through.  It was easier to just ignore them, to let him
be on his way.

I
stood in the doorway, watching him retreat, making sure the door stayed open. 
I poured myself a glass of the cold, bubbling liquid as I stood there, and I
drank it in thirsty gulps, feeling better already.  I took the new iPhone
Alexander had bought me out of my bag and placed it on top of the empty glass. 
I didn’t want him calling me.  Or tracking me.

After
drinking one more glass of champagne, I closed the door behind me and walked
down the grand, curving staircase.  I didn’t have to enter the kitchen to make
my way to the front door.  Silently, I let myself out.

                                                           
$

It
felt strange to be back on the busy streets again, alone.  It had now been
several weeks since I’d been away from the company of Alexander for more than
brief separations.  The streets seemed dirtier than I remembered, and more
chaotic.  I’d grown accustomed to opulent order, after all, of an almost
complete removal from the real world.

I
also wasn’t used to the extreme attention I seemed to attract.  People noticed
me, and I wasn’t sure why.  Sure, I was dressed in obviously-expensive
clothing.  My coat and my boots were both to die for; these were the details
the women noticed.  Their eyes followed me as I walked past, taking in the
impeccable cut of my garment, the stylish boots, and my long hair, I couldn’t
help notice.  Blond hair and expensive clothes were hardly traffic-stopping in
New York City, but I continued to feel like a freakish spectacle as I walked
along the streets, with no particular destination in mind.

I
let my coat fall open to allow the late-afternoon air to cool me down.  Between
my anxiety attack and my hasty escape, I felt flushed, and spooked.  Several
men stopped in their tracks as I passed them, their eyes drinking in the shape
of me, the tight-fitting and very-short dress I wore.  I was almost amused by
their reactions.  Was I really
that
noticeable?  I’d run my fingers through
my hair after my shower but hadn’t bothered drying or styling it, so it was
long and loose, a little disheveled, like I’d just crawled out of bed, which,
come to think of it, I had.  Could they sense my vulnerability, and my newfound
sexual awakening?  Something about their expressions suggested to me that they
could.  That on some base, primitive level they were reading my femininity and
my fertility despite all the layers of civilization we found ourselves mired
in.  I might have been an unstable mess, but I was hot: this is what they
noticed.  I could see it in their eyes.  It was exactly the look I’d spent
years trying to avoid by wearing thick, unfashionable glasses and baggy, dull
clothes.  By stooping under the weight of books and never making eye contact. 
Times had changed.

I
stopped to look at the window display of a swanky furniture shop.  The couches
and chairs were exotic-looking.  Animal skins and leather.  Maybe this was
where Alexander shopped, I thought, a pang of confused despair seeping into my
bones.

Now
one step removed from the bad dream and the locked door, a glimmer of calm
sanity was returning to me.  But I was far from cured.  That horrible dream had
reignited hidden, painful cloisters of my past that I’d hoped were well and
truly behind me.  Something about the dream and the damage clung to me, like
cold, wet, invisible leaves.  Damn it all.  Maybe I needed therapy.  I thought
I’d managed to evade all that, to work through these issues myself through
study and hard work and convoluted avoidance techniques.  Why was it all
returning to me now?  When I thought I’d moved on?