Killing Sarai (21 page)

Sarai

When I wake up the next morning the sun is bright through the massive window even though the curtains have been drawn. I’m alone in the bed, but I know I’m not alone in the house. It was Victor’s dress shoes tapping against the floors outside the room that woke me. My heart is exhausted, but my mind and my body feel refreshed. I can’t remember the last time I slept that soundly.

I don’t think I ever have.

I raise my body from the mattress, untangling myself from the sheet. I can’t believe I did that last night, but I did and it’s over with and I can either face Victor and not be ashamed, or hide away inside this room for the rest of my life.

I choose the realistic.

As I step outside of the room, I wonder why we didn’t get up before dawn to leave like he had planned.

He’s sitting in the living room alone when I walk in, fully dressed in his best suit with his usual bags sitting on the floor next to his feet, minus the bag with the money. There’s a newspaper in his hands and a mug of black coffee on the table next to the chair.

“Why didn’t we leave earlier?” I ask walking the rest of the way into the room.

He lowers the newspaper and then decides to fold it halfway and set it on the table next to the coffee.

“I thought you could use the sleep.”

My face flushes inwardly, failing at my attempt to not be ashamed of my sexual tirade, but really I doubt his answer had anything to do with that.

“Thank you,” I say.

I raise my eyes to him again. “Looks like you’ll have to buy me another pair of shoes,” I point out, pressing my bare toes into the cool, hard floor, my hands clasped together lying on my backside.

The shoes he bought me before had been left at Samantha’s when we had to get out of there in a hurry. I’ve not had the best of luck with shoes as of late.

“It has already been taken care of,” he says crossing one leg over the other and straightening his vest.

I gaze around the room, looking for department store bags or maybe some women’s clothes that had been left here for whatever reason.

A short middle-aged woman wearing a navy blue scrub uniform comes through the front door carrying a gaudy purse on one arm and several oversized store bags on the other. A set of keys jangle in her hand after she closes the door with her hip. She manages to drop the keys into her purse, twisting her wrist awkwardly to reach it.

“Oh, you must be Izabel,” the woman says bright-eyed. “I’m Ophelia. It’s nice to meet you.” I nod and introduce myself even though she apparently already knows my name, well the name that Victor gave me, anyway.

She drops her purse in the middle of the floor and walks across the large space into the living room towards me, the store bags still dangling on her arm and by the looks of it, starting to cut off the circulation.

“You were right about the size,” she says looking to Victor. She sets the bags down on the immaculate couch. “And I have a daughter your size,” she says looking at me now, “so hopefully I chose wisely. Meleena was a handful growing up, that’s for sure.” She gestures her hands dramatically. Rings adorn her fingers. “Of course, it was my fault for raising her on Versace and Valentino but she is the most envied girl when she walks into any room, so I suppose the shit she gave me and my bank account was worth it. Here, let me see you.” I try to conceal the awkward look I know I’m giving her as she pulls a cute sun dress of sorts from one bag and holds it up against me.

I decide to look across at Victor instead, hoping maybe he’ll tell me exactly who this woman is and what she’s doing here.

His eyes smile at me.

I do a double-take.
Did he just
smile
at me?

“Perfect fit,” Ophelia says.

But then she sets that dress aside and begins to pull other items of clothing from the same bag. The next bag is full of gift boxes where she opens each one and unwraps an outfit engulfed in extravagant tissue paper and tulle that probably cost more than it should. As she goes on and on about her spoiled, yet ‘deserving’ daughter she goes through each and every outfit, holding them up against me as if to imagine what I might look like in them. Or, perhaps, picturing what ‘Meleena’ might look like in them.

She is very odd, that one.

“Of course, after her father left us, I had to get a job,” Ophelia shakes her head and looks right at me as if her having a job is the most unfortunate thing ever. “So, to support Meleena and her expensive fashion sense, I went into the business. Here, try this one on. It’s a pretty day so you should wear something that suits it.”

“What business exactly?” I ask.

I turn around so that my back is facing them and then I slip off my shirt. I barely look at the dress Ophelia is holding out to me, more curious about her, really.

Victor sips his coffee and pretends to be reading his newspaper. Or, maybe he’s not pretending. I can’t tell with him half the time.

“Housekeeping,” she answers.

I’m a little confused and I’m sure she can tell that.

“You can…afford to buy Versace and Valentino on a housekeeper’s wage?” I ask incredulously. “No offense.”

“None taken,” she says, slipping the dress over my head. “But yes, I can. I only work for those who can afford to pay me. Celebrities, musicians; you know, people who have more money than they know what to do with. Wealthy people are quick to hire someone to do the pettiest of things just because they can. I profit from their
foolishness.” She glances back at Victor. “No offense.”

“None taken,” he says and takes another sip of his coffee.

“Ah, I see,” I say as the cool, thin fabric rolls down over my skin.

I turn around once I’m dressed.

“Yes, I’d say this one is just right,” she says, propping her hands on her hips, looking me up and down. “Though you should wear a strapless bra at least.”

Ophelia reaches inside another bag while glancing over at Victor. “Looks like you were right about her cup size, too,” she says and I feel my face flushing again.

I guess he would have a pretty good idea of my size, considering.

“The undergarments were the only pieces I had to stop and buy on the way here. Raided the rest of it from my daughter’s room. There’s a purse and a few other necessities in there too.” She puts the bra in my hand. “I bet there’s enough money in the stuff she’s never worn in her room to buy a Bentley.”

I put on the strapless bra she gives me after ripping off the tag and she helps me to fasten it in the back since I seem to be having so much trouble doing it myself. Then she zips the back of the light pink floral lace dress against my back and I attempt to admire myself in it. It’s very short, stopping a few inches above my knees. And it itches around the high neckline. I’m not used to wearing things like this, at least not anywhere but a few hours at a social gathering where all I had to do was stand there quietly and look pretty. With Victor, I seem to do more running for my life than standing around quietly.

Next are the shoes.

“I-I don’t think anything with heels on them are a good idea,” I protest kindly as she opens the first box.

There’s no way I’m wearing those. Gorgeous shoes, yes, but it’s not happening.

Ophelia looks to Victor again. He nods to her as if telling her that it’s OK.

She closes the top on the box disappointedly and opens another one.

“Not exactly what I would’ve chosen to wear with this particular dress,” she says, “but they match at least.”

She places the cream-colored thong sandals on the floor in front of me and I step into them. The bra is uncomfortable—any bra likely would be after not having worn one for so long—digging into the skin underneath my arms. I try to fight the urge to adjust it, but lose that battle after six seconds. I know I must look very unladylike right about now, pulling at the tight elastic with my arms drawn up
and my face wrinkled by discomfort. When I think I’ve managed to fix it, I relax my arms down at my sides and stand here awkwardly.

“You look nice,” Victor says from the chair, the newspaper resting on his legs.

So do you….

“Thanks,” I say and look away.

I’ve never been so afraid to make eye contact with him before. The humiliation is stronger than I thought. The more he looks at me the more paranoid I get about what’s going on inside his mind right now. I don’t know what got into me last night. I went into his room with passion and lust in my eyes but at some point that I can’t possibly determine, I turned into a psychotic masochist.

But he
let
me. And I’m not sure how to feel about that. I know he didn’t get any pleasure out of it and I wouldn’t expect him to, but the only one of us who seems to feel awkward about it is me.

Victor stands up from the chair and leaves the newspaper on the table. He reaches into his right pocket and pulls out a roll of cash.

“For your daughter’s clothes,” he says, placing the money into Ophelia’s hand. “And there’s enough there to pay for your time as well.”

She drops the roll into her own pocket.

“So, I guess this is it then,” Ophelia says. “If you ever decide to move back into this area you know how to find me. My rates will stay the same for you.”

Victor nods.

“I will do that,” he says.

Ophelia turns to me with a big close-lipped smile.

“You keep him in line,” she says. “And just try the heels. You’d look fabulous in them.”

I smile back. “I’ll think about it.”

She pats me on the arm as she walks past, taking up her purse from the floor on her way to the front door.

Long after Ophelia leaves, I’m still looking at the door, not with her on my mind, but I can’t bring myself to look at Victor.

He walks around in front of me and fits my elbows in his hands. I stand with my arms crossed loosely over my stomach.

“Sarai,” he says.

I raise my eyes to look at him and before he can say whatever it was he had planned to say, I blurt out softly, “I’m so sorry for…Victor, I’m not crazy or…well, I’m really sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he says.

I just look at him.

“You play beautifully,” he goes on. “Have you ever considered playing professionally?”

Many long seconds go by before I manage an answer.

“I did think about being up on a stage somewhere,” I say and his hands fall away from my elbows. “But I really have no interest in anything like that anymore. I just like to play for myself.”

To avoid eye contact again, I walk over to the couch and start arranging the clothes in a neat pile on the cushion.

With my back to him, I go on:

“I don’t have any idea what I’ll do when I get to my aunt’s, but I’ll figure something out. An education of sorts and then after that maybe I’ll go into…,” I can’t finish because I don’t know what to say. I dodge it, fidgeting the fabric anxiously in my hands now. “At least I’ll look nice when I see her. Maybe she’ll accept me now that I’m wearing clothes that didn’t come from the half-off rack at the dollar store.”

“Can you promise one thing?” Victor asks.

I turn to look at him.

“I guess I owe you that much,” I say. “What?”

“Just that you’ll play for me from time to time.”

“What do you mean?”

He leans over beside a bookshelf and takes another suitcase into his hand. Then he walks toward me and sets it down on the couch, flipping the two latches on the sides.

When he opens it, it’s empty. He points briefly at my pile of clothes.

“Our plane leaves in an hour,” he says. “From here on out until I tell you otherwise, you are Izabel Seyfried and you are confident in your skin. You are strong-minded and sharp-tongued but you let me do all of the talking except when you feel the need to state your opinion on whatever matter you choose, even when it’s not asked for. You fear nothing, yet you exude a sense of vulnerability that you know, privately of course, will drive a powerful man’s need to know what it’s like to be the one to break you. You are wealthy, though no one needs to know where your money comes from, only that you have enough of it to wipe your ass with one hundred dollar bills every time you take a shit. And the only man in any room that can tame you is me, which we will, almost certainly, have to demonstrate at least once during this mission. So, keep in mind that whatever I do to you, play along accordingly. And whatever I tell you to do, do it without question because it could be the difference between life and death. Do you understand?”

I stare at him blankly.

“You’re taking me with you?” There are about fifty questions swirling around inside my head, but that’s the only one I could pluck from the disarray.

He steps up to me. “Yes,” he answers. “I’ll take you with me on one mission because I want you to see what it’s like. You need to understand that the life I lead is not the life for you.” He takes my hands into his and sits down with me on the couch, pushing the suitcase aside. “Hopefully, this will help you to be more accepting of a life out there instead; one with college and a job and friends and boyfriends.”