Chambers of Desire: Opus 1 (25 page)

“What?” Calvin said angrily. “Sabrina, everything that’s happened between us has been real. That’s why he was so angry on the phone. I told him that things changed, I had feelings for you and—”

I’m always somebody’s fool, aren’t I?
I thought, not listening to Calvin anymore. Rage and despair welled in me, warring for dominance. I gave in.

“
So that’s why you and Du Cheval tried to talk me out of it at first. And that’s why you were testing me and looking for reasons to send me home. Boy, the list of liars and traitors keeps growing larger by the hour. You make me sick!” I screamed. “You knew how much they’ve hurt me.
From day one!
I told you about them the first day we talked about the contract! You still went along with it. How
could
you!” I didn’t care how dramatic I sounded. I couldn’t
imagine
doing this to someone else. Brandon, my parents, Calvin. I felt like a Ping-Pong ball, being smacked around to suit everyone else’s mood.
Fuck all of them,
I thought.

 
“Listen to me, Sabrina,” Calvin implored, his deep voice strained. “I didn’t
know
you when I agreed to the deal.
I didn’t expect to sleep with you, and I certainly didn’t expect to feel this way about you.”

“So that makes it OK? You must have had a real good laugh with Du Cheval, stringing me along in all those interviews, making me think I had to prove myself to you.” I laughed harshly. “Joke’s on me, huh.”

His dark eyes looked pained. “Du Cheval was on your side. He thought you should have known all along and he was insistent on the issue.”

“
At least somebody has some integrity.” My devastation had given way to anger, full-blown rage.

“I thought you were special,” Calvin said quietly. “That’s why I agreed to it.”

“And I thought you were honest. I thought this was real. I guess I was wrong. I don’t know how I could have been so stupid.”

“Sabrina…”

“No. Don’t say my name. Don’t look at me. Don’t call me. Fuck all of this. I don’t want apologies; I don’t want to understand. I want to be left the hell alone.” My voice broke on his name, and I bolted from the room, not wanting him to see another tear.

Calvin called after me, but I didn’t slow down. Didn’t stop to see the receptionist’s smug smile or the black swans’ beady glares. The elevator waited patiently for me, and when the doors closed, I began to sob. The doors dinged open on the ground floor, and I drew a jagged breath.
Get me out of this building!

Sunlight flooded my vision as I barreled out the front doors where I tumbled into a crowd of angry New Yorkers. “Watch it, princess!” a suited man snapped at me, regaining his footing after I’d rammed into his shoulder. Several women in pencil skirts and pointed pumps frowned at me, annoyed that I’d interrupted the flow of traffic.

“Sorry,” I gasped into the mob, apologizing to the man, the women, anyone who would listen. The sidewalk moved under my feet, and I teetered, about to lose it completely. By the grace of God, I managed to collapse into a taxi and direct the driver back to my hotel, where there was—thank God—no sign of Brandon. Alone in my hotel room, the panic tightened its grip, a wave of nausea ripping through me.

How could I be so stupid? So naïve? I’d fallen for his act—hook, line, and sinker. Had everyone been in on it? Mr. Carmichael? Du Cheval? Juliette? My thoughts clattered noisily around my skull, each demanding attention, validation.

I needed to stop thinking. As if on cue, my stomach growled. I was starving. I sure as hell wasn’t leaving, and I didn’t feel up to even communicating with room service. I zeroed in on a bag of saltwater taffy we picked up on Long Island.
Just a few,
I said to myself, already knowing it was a lie. Whatever. Anything to shut my head up. After the first few, I became annoyed with the chore of unwrapping each before popping it in my mouth and unwrapped a dozen at once.

But my jaw ached, and although I wasn’t hungry anymore, I wasn’t ready to stop. The thoughts were gone, and my mind quieted as I concentrated on suffocating my feelings with food. Even in this zombie state, however, the sticky taffies were impractical.
Bet they’ve restocked since last time,
I thought, heading for the kitchenette. And they had. I pulled everything out on the counter and ripped open a bag of chips to counteract the syrupy goo from the candy. I crunched on them as I opened the fridge and pulled out a six-pack of Diet Coke. Fuck Brandon, fuck Chloe, fuck Calvin. How ironic that of all people Du Cheval would be the only one with an ounce of integrity. I kept eating.

But it was over too fast, and the anxiety and turmoil were too much. I tore through the junk food as if I was a bottomless pit, but the second I stopped eating, the wave of thoughts came pouring back in. It was temporarily stemmed by purging, but even that couldn’t numb or exhaust me enough to shut off the torrent of emotion.
Now
,
I considered room service, but I couldn’t tolerate being trapped in here with my feelings long enough for the food to get here. I had to get out. Now.

What if Calvin came looking for me here? Suddenly,
nothing
was more important than getting out.
Everyone knows you’re here,
I thought. And I couldn’t face
anyone
right now. I grabbed my purse, slipped on shoes, and left as if the hotel were on fire.

***

Back in the street, I looked around, lost and disoriented. Where would I go? I forced my legs into motion, one foot in front of the other while I practiced breathing.
In and out.
A cool gust of air swirled around me, a moment of relief from the feverish panic.

I slowed as I passed a small boutique, eyes lingering on the oversized Gucci bag slung across the shoulder of the mannequin.
Don’t, Sabrina
, I warned myself, but before I knew it, I was inside, door handle jingling behind me as it closed.

Inside, the shop was pleasantly climate controlled, faint perfumes in the air, the quiet music of hangers clicking as the salesgirl arranged inventory.

“Can I help you?” The salesgirl gave me a polite smile, but a cautious one.
I look like hell,
I thought. Sweaty. Eyes bloodshot and face puffy from crying and purging.

I forced myself to smile back, tucking my hair behind my ears. The store was cool, air-conditioned, but sweat still poured off me. I already felt guilty, as if my bags were full of merchandise. It was only a matter of time, though, until I slunk out that door, pockets stuffed with designer T-shirts.

“Tough day,” I answered sweetly. “Just thought I’d browse a bit to cheer myself up.”

The girl grinned, “Nothing like retail therapy! Let me know if you need anything,” apparently reassured that I wasn’t a drunk or crazy person.
Little does she know,
I thought.

When I went into the dressing room, I’d hardly looked at what I’d grabbed off the racks. The scarves, blouses, tanks filling the room were unfamiliar, as if I wasn’t the one who had just picked them up. Instinctively, I began to rip the tags off the clothes, undressing, redressing, layering the clothes from the store carefully under my sweater.

One glance in the mirror told me I looked bulky, suspicious, but I didn’t care.
They won’t strip search me
, I reasoned. The store was too nice, too elegant. I hadn’t bothered to look for cameras; I didn’t have time, didn’t have the patience. I needed this. The only thing stronger than the panic was the surge of exhilaration I’d feel when I walked out with these clothes.

Last, I dropped a gold necklace, heavy with turquoise, into my bag, covering it with receipts and a hairbrush, making certain its glint was buried in the bottom. I imagined it around my neck, and I smiled. Already, I felt better. My vision was crisper, my thoughts clearer. Exiting the dressing room, I barely glanced at the salesgirl, making a beeline for the front door. I knew from experience that I didn’t need to amble; a fast exit was the best strategy.

As my hand touched the door handle, I felt a strong hand grab my arm. “Excuse me, miss.” The voice was harsh and accusing. I looked at the hand, following it up to a large shoulder, then a thick neck. Steely eyes met mine as I looked into the face of a weathered security guard.
Fuck
!
Fuck
!
Fuck
! How had I missed him?
Because you’re out of your damn mind,
I told myself.

“I’m
sorry, is there a problem, sir?” I asked, batting my lashes innocently. If I was lucky, he’d be too polite to accuse me of anything directly, and I could talk my way out of this.

“I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”

My hands grew clammy, stomach queasy. “Actually, I’m in a bit of a hurry,” I said. “I really don’t have time for this.”

“I’m not giving you a choice.” He hadn’t loosened his grip on my arm.

I laughed, hoping to sound carefree, but it came out strangled like a honk. “Exactly what is this about?”

“We have reason to believe you’re in possession of some items you haven’t paid for.” He began to drag me toward the back of the store. “The police are on their way.”

“Really, that isn’t necessary!” I said, red stinging my face. My breaths came in short, shallow spurts now.

Forcibly, he pulled me into a small office behind the register, closing the door behind us. “Empty your purse.”

My hands trembled as I began to reach inside the large bag. “No!” he barked. “Turn it over; dump it out.”

“Sir,” I pleaded, tears stinging my eyes. “Please. I can explain. There’s no reason to—”

The guard grabbed my bag out of my hands and shook the bag from the bottom, the contents flooding his desk. I watched with horror as he sifted through the tubes of Chapstick and candy wrappers, until he plucked the necklace from the pile, holding it between two fingers like a snake. His face was grave as he set it on the edge of his desk.

“I have no idea how that got in there, I swear!” I blathered. “Maybe it got caught on my sleeve in the dressing room. I didn’t mean to take it. I don’t even want it!”

I knew how stupid I sounded, how guilty, eyes wide, sweaty bangs matted to my forehead. “I’m sure we can work this out! It’s a simple misunderstanding.”

He picked up the phone on the desk and dialed a single button. “Body check,” he said, hanging up without waiting for a response.

The door opened a moment later, and a woman in a crisp white button-up let herself in. She stood in front of the door with her arms crossed.

“Are you the manager here?” I looked toward her desperately. “I’m trying to explain to the guard that this is all a big misunderstanding. I did not intend to take the necklace without paying. I did not intend to take it at all, really!” A hysterical laugh bubbled out of me.

The woman gave no sign of hearing me. “Ma’am, remove your shirt.” The security guard turned his attention back toward me.

“My shirt! Are you, crazy? No! This is sexual harassment!” The woman refused to make eye contact.

“Remove your shirt,” the guard repeated, his tone becoming increasingly stern. “If you choose not to, the police will search you…
very thoroughly.
”

I put my face in my hands. “OK,” I said. “I’m so sorry. Look, I can pay for everything. I can pay double, triple; it’s no problem. I don’t care. I’m just sorry.” I meant it too. Now that the rush was over, I just felt humiliated, embarrassed, and repentant.

The security guard wasn’t moved. “I’m going to ask you one last time.”

This was it. No more excuses, no more games. I lifted my arms out of the sweater, pulling off layer after layer of stolen items. When I was done, I sat down, empty and sick to my stomach.

The woman collected the items, one by one. “I’ll catalog the items so we can give the final sum to the police.” She looked at me with disdain. “This is definitely over a thousand dollars in merchandise. That makes this a felony. I hope you can pay for a good lawyer.”

I closed my eyes and put my head down on the desk. Now, there was only numbness, as if I was in some sort of strange dream.

Minutes passed slowly, dragging on for what felt like hours. When the police arrived—two young men, shiny-faced and cynical—I didn’t know how long I’d waited. They asked me to stand and place my hands behind my back, and then read me my rights.

It felt as if a thousand eyes followed me into the police car, tourists gawking at the petty thief getting her comeuppance. I kept my eyes on the sidewalk in front of me, ducking my head into the back of the squad car. I’d never felt so low, so worthless.

Booking was a long, torturous process, complete with mug shots and fingerprinting. No one looked me in the eye or called me by name. I was a criminal. Once I was treated to an extensive search, I was walked back to the main desk where I sat in front of a disinterested administrator.

“Sabrina Clarke. Your bail is posted at thirty thousand dollars.”

“Thirty thousand!” I said in disbelief. For a second, relief surged through me—I could pay that. Then, the image of the envelope with the check perching on the dresser in my hotel room popped into my head. Not deposited, not available.
Not yet, I can’t.