Madame X (Madame X #1) (17 page)

I touch myself.

I put my fingers to my privates, slip them into my damp heat, and I make myself come, once, hard, immediately upon contact, faster than thought, and I see his eyes, feel his breath, taste his need. I stifle a moan. I writhe against my fingers and pretend they are his, swiping against my clitoris, circling it . . . thus . . . making me come again, harder, and I pretend these are his fingers, two of them, diving deep into my slit, curling up and in, dragging wetness over my clitoris, and they are his fingers, smearing my essence in ever-faster circles until I jackknife under the blankets, huffing wild breaths of hot recycled air, teeth clamped down on my moans of his name.

“Logan . . . Logan . . .” Whispered, desperate.

I have to breathe fresh air. I toss the blankets back to my waist. Wipe at my eyes with my free hand. The one not still caught between my thighs. I’m not crying anymore, but I’m so distraught I don’t know how to even feel it all, how to express it. I could scream. Energy boils inside me, my entire body afire with adrenaline and memory and heat.

I
need
Logan.

I need him. God, I need him. He makes me feel alive. I am free in him,
with
him.

I rush to the window. Yes! There he is. Striding across the road, gait loose, easy. Hands in his pockets. He reaches the other side, stops, turns. Looks up. Can he know my window from all the others? It’s but a single rectangle of dim light in a city of incandescence. Am I lost in the glow?

I put a hand to the glass, palm flat, fingers spread next to my
forehead touching the cool window. He sees me? He raises a hand, waves, once. And then, oh, then he puts his thumb to the corner of his mouth, as if wiping away a droplet of moisture. A gesture, repeated, mirrored. A sign?

Thirteen stories up, yet he sees me? Is it possible?

He turns away then. Descends the stairs down to the subway. Gone.

I quiver with the memory of his kiss, the aftershocks of my fantasy of his touch.

I’d do anything to make that fantasy reality.

Anything.

I know I will never sleep, so I go to my library and pretend to read, pretend I’m not thinking of him. Pretend I’m not machinating, hoping, dreaming—

Fantasizing of impossibilities.

I fall asleep in my chair in the library, lights on, in the silence, dreaming of blond hair and indigo eyes and lips that take me away from
here.

I
wake, disoriented, stiff.

And then I remember last night, and my fingertips touch my lips. I smile. I stretch, legs straightening away from the chair, spine stiffening and curling backward, arms tensed and trembling, a full-body stretch, feline and luxuriant.

Ding.

I blink in confusion; have I overslept? I am still in my dress from the previous day, hair messed and tangled and partially knotted, makeup smeared. I can feel makeup caked and flaking at my eyes.

The space of time between the arrival of the elevator and my front door smashing open is infinitesimal. A breath of a moment, less even.

A gargantuan black frame fills the doorway of my library. Thomas. “He sees the video from yesterday.” His voice is like the deepest bass note being electronically distorted lower. Impossibly deep, syrupy, and yet somehow smooth as silk.

I am slow, sleepy. “What? Who saw what video?”

Thomas takes three long angry strides toward me, towers over me, and the expression in his eyes is so terrifying I am shocked fully awake. “He
see
you and that man from the auction. With the yellow hair.”

“Caleb. He saw the tapes?” I’m starting to fathom the problem.

Thomas grips my arms, twists me, propels me toward the front door. “He is a madman. You must go.”

“Go?”

“Or I think you die. He is
mad
.” Thomas, with his thick African accent, does not mean
mad
as in angry, I realize. The implication is more frightening than mere anger.

I am barefoot. My shoes from yesterday sit forgotten, between the front door and the library. One, on its side. The other, upside down. I right them with my toes, stuff my feet into them. Shuffle to the door, untangling my hair.

Thomas growls in his chest. “No time for shoes, no time for fixing your pretty hair.
GO!
”

I let go my hair, take a step toward the door, and stumble out into the hallway, into the elevator, which stands open. The key is still in, twisted to the
13
. Thomas, in his tailored Western suit, looks fierce and wild, the whites of his eyes flashing bright, teeth bared. Even in the Western suit, he looks like an ancient Nubian warrior. I can see him with a lion skin, a round shield, and a long spear, dancing in the dust and the baking heat of the African sun.

I blink, and it’s just Thomas again, in a black suit with a white shirt, thin black tie, a curly cord trailing down behind his ear and beneath his collar. His eyes go unfocused for a moment, and he touches a finger to the device in his ear, and then looks at me. He reaches in past me, twists the key up to the
PH
—penthouse—and then pulls me out of the elevator.

“Down the stairs.” He pushes open what I thought was a fire escape. Locked, equipped with a siren or something.

Just a crash bar and the markings of an emergency exit. No siren wails when I push the door open. A stairwell beyond, grayish-white walls, metal handrails, blue rubber-treaded stairs in a descending square spiral. Shoes in hand now, I run down the stairs. I trip and miss a step, hear Thomas’s voice, can’t make out the words. Lurch and stumble down the steps so fast my breasts jounce painfully. I miss another step as I reach a landing, trip, crash into the wall opposite. Pause to catch my breath, arm, elbow, and hip aching where I smashed into the drywall. Below, I hear a voice.

“She’s coming down the steps.” A male voice, nasal and unfamiliar. “Thomas alerted her, I think. Yes, sir . . . I’m on the way up from floor seven. Alan is on the ground floor. We’ll find her, sir, I promise. Yeah. I’ll update you when we have her. Unharmed, got it. Crystal, sir. Not a scratch.”

The voice is echoing from a few levels down and getting closer. Panic chokes me. I push through the door at the landing, marked with a black-painted
10
. A clean, modern corridor, pale gray walls, cream carpeting, abstract paintings on the walls. An alcove, men’s room, women’s room. I duck into the women’s restroom, grip the counter and lean, gasping for air, fighting sobs. What is happening? Why did Thomas warn me, help me escape? Does he pity me, worry for me? Where did he think I would escape to? Nothing makes any sense. And the fire escape stairwell not being alarmed puzzles me as well. Perhaps he meant only to give Caleb’s anger time to cool off. I don’t know. I just know I have to seize the opportunity that is presented. I cannot stay here any longer. Not after what I’ve experienced with Logan.

What do I do now? I glance up at myself in the mirror. I look awful. I take a deep breath, push down my panic.

Clear thought, rational decisions. Do not act out of panic or fear.

I use my fingers to free my hair from its knot, losing a few long
black strands in the process. The black stretchy hair tie has my hair tangled around it, and my hair is a matted disaster. I comb it out with my fingers as best I can and then twist it up into a bun, gathering all the loose strands, wetting it with the sink a little to smooth it all out. Tie it back. Hand soap and water, scrub my face clean. Dab dry with rough brown paper towel from an automatic dispenser—which took me a moment to figure out.

Face clean, hair neat. I straighten my dress, smooth out the worst of the wrinkles as best as possible. Adjust my cleavage. Tug the hem down. Slip on my shoes. Deep breath.

Exit, find the stairwell, glance back, debate trying the elevator. They’re looking for me on the stairs now, I assume.

As I’m internally debating, I hear static crackle echoing in the stairwell, a male voice. I move away, follow the corridor around a left turn, slip through a glass doorway into an office. There’s a desk, ornate, polished wood. Tall potted plants in the corners, pointillist art on a wall.

A young woman with a headset sits behind the desk, facing a computer screen. “Can I help you?”

“I think I got off on the wrong floor,” I say. “Can you point me back to the elevators?”

Her eyes narrow, flick over me. She’s looking for something. “May I see your security badge, miss?”

“I—”

She touches a button in front of her. “If you could just wait a moment, I’ll have security come up and we’ll get you a temporary ID badge.”

I turn and duck out.

“Miss? You have to come back!” Her voice is loud, then quieted as the heavy glass door swings closed behind me.

Back to the elevators, touch the call button. Wait, panic rising in
my gut. The elevator doors hiss open, and I step into the empty car. This is not the same elevator as stops at my door. There are buttons, dozens of them:
G
, a numeral one with a star beside it, and then numbers ascending all the way up to fifty-eight. My floor, thirteen, is missing. I look twice: ten, eleven, twelve, fourteen, fifteen . . .

I push the
G
. Garage? I don’t know.

Sensation of descent. Some instinct has me press the two, and the car stops. I get out on the second floor, suppressing panic. I assume there are security cameras everywhere, that the guards are only moments behind me. I have a thousand problems ahead of me, but all I want right now is to get out of this building.

As I step out, peer side to side, a security guard in a black suit, walkie-talkie in hand, strides around a corner, sees me, shouts. “Stop!”

I duck back in, press the
DOOR CLOSE
icon, jab the first number my finger finds. The uppermost one, fifty-eight. I hear a fist pound on the door outside, but the elevator is in motion. Up, up, up.

I abruptly punch the button for the sixth floor; the elevator stops, the door slides open, and I step out. Peer side to side, see no one. Lean into the elevator, touch fifty-eight again and let the elevator resume its ascent.

I look around: flat white walls, no decorations, bare concrete floor, industrial, raw, unfinished-looking. Exposed beams above, painted black, exposed pipes painted the same. The hallway extends some twenty feet without door or marking of any kind, then turns right. I follow it, and now there are doors on either side of the hallway, staggered so no door is directly across from another. Door after door. Plain entry doors, no peephole, the door painted the same flat white with large black numerals in industrial stencils. I count:
1, 2, 3, 4, 5 . . .
even numbers on the right, odds on the left. I count twelve doors.

I hear the elevator
ding
and the doors open. “Yeah, I’m in pursuit on the sixth floor. Copy that. One second.” The same nasally voice from the stairwell.

My heart thunders, my throat closes. I grab the nearest doorknob, twist, push. Oddly, it opens; I was expecting it to be locked.

I have a sense of disorientation, déjà vu. This could be my condo, down to the flooring and the dimensions and the paint. The only difference is the artwork on the walls, and there is no Louis XIV chair here, but the couch is the same, built-in bookshelves are the same, a kitchen connected to the living room via open floor plan, a short hallway leading to the single bedroom with the en suite bathroom, a smaller office opposite the bedroom. Instead of a library, I see exercise equipment: a huge purple exercise ball, free weights, weight machines.

Out of habit, I close the front door behind me. It clicks loudly as it closes. Footsteps, bare feet on hardwood.

“Caleb?” A soft female voice, thin, high, a twang to it.

I have no hope of hiding or ducking back out; I can only hope this girl will be sympathetic to my plight.

Short, petite, with reddish-blond hair, freckles, pale brown eyes. Very beautiful. Heart-shaped face, delicate chin. Expressive, expectant eyes.

“You ain’t—
aren’t
, I mean—you aren’t Caleb.”

“No, I am most certainly not.”

“Who are you?”

I hesitate, infinitesimally. “I am Madame X.”

“That’s your name?”

“Yes. And yours?” I endeavor to seem confident.

Shrug, as if it doesn’t matter. “I’m Six-nine-seven-one-three. For now. But I’m gonna be Rachel.”

My heart twists. “Six-nine . . . what?”

A gesture, pointing at the door opposite. “Across the way, she’s Six-nine-seven-one-four.” A finger pointing next door. “She’s Five. Down the way are Seven and Nine, and across from us are Two, Six, and Eight. That’s all of us, for now.”

“I’m confused.” I have to lean back against the door. Something niggles at me. An idea, a horrible idea.

The girl is dressed in a shift; that’s the only word for it. It’s not a dress, not a nightgown. It’s plain white thin cotton, hangs at midshin. She is very clearly nude beneath it. Barefoot. Hair in a simple low ponytail, no makeup, no paint on fingers or toes.

“It’s my apprentice number. Who are you, and why are you here?”

“I work for Caleb.” It’s the truth and hopefully sounds authoritative.

“But why are you here?” The girl steps toward me, suspicion in her eyes. “Ain’t nobody ever—” She winces, starts over. “I mean . . . No one ever visits except Caleb. No one, not ever. So who are you, and what do you want?”

I examine the ceiling, the corners where the molding joins. “Are you watched?”

“Watched?” Six-nine-seven-one-three follows my gaze. “You mean cameras?” A snort of derision. “You got to be kidding me. This whole floor is off-monitor. This one, nine, fifty-eight, and obviously Caleb’s penthouse up top. Thirteen don’t exist, or there’s no way to get to it. Rumor is Caleb has a secret lair on the thirteenth floor, like a red room or something. But this floor, nine, and fifty-eight, there’s no security cameras or audio. Too much risk, I guess. Can’t have people knowing what’s going on, right?”

I shake my head. “What happens on these three floors . . . Rachel?”

The girl doesn’t answer right away. “I ain’t—I’m
not
Rachel yet. Haven’t earned my name yet. I’m just Three . . . for now.” Side-eyed
glance of speculation; a decision reached. “And if you don’t know, I probably shouldn’t tell you.”

I push past the girl, walk to the window, my favorite window, the same one, same place. Slightly lower view, but nearly as comforting. Watch the cars pass, pedestrians. Familiar, soothing. I can almost breathe.

Silence. Padding feet on the wood, I smell shampoo and soap. “You said your name is Madame X?”

“I’m his secret on the thirteenth floor,” I whisper.

“What do you do?” She leans against the window frame opposite me, assuming a familiar pose that suggests she spends as much time standing here as I do at my own window.

“If you don’t know, I probably shouldn’t tell you,” I said.

“That ain’t fair. I didn’t even know you existed. How am I supposed to know?”

“Exactly. I didn’t know you existed either, Three.” I turn, rest my shoulder against the window. “You said it was your apprentice number. Apprentice what?”

“Apprentice bride.” This is whispered. “That’s my goal, at least. First I have to make Escort, and then Companion. Then Bride.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Me and all the other girls on this floor, we’re the property of Indigo Services. We’re part of the apprenticeship program.”

“Property?” I can barely get the word out.

A steady, even look. “I signed up for it. So did all the others, so don’t you get no look of fuckin’ pity in your eyes for me. It’s better than being on the streets, and that’s where I’d still be if it wasn’t for Caleb. I’m drug free. No pimp. No debt. None of that bullshit. It’s a way out. I ain’t a slave. I know you’re thinking that word. You don’t know me, so don’t you fuckin’ judge me,
bitch
.”

“I’m not judging you, Three. I just don’t understand.”

“How can you not? Was you born on fuckin’ Mars or something?”

My instincts kick in. “‘Were you,’ you mean.”

Three snarls at me, upper lip curled in a sneer. “I don’t get what’s so wrong with the way I talk. Caleb’s always raggin’ on me about it, too.”

“Perception is vital. Proper speech creates the impression of class, Three. Proper grammar, lucid, concise syntax. No vulgarity. You wish to be taken seriously? Then you must act like a—” I was going to say
gentleman
, but I have to change tactics. “Like a lady. A woman of class.”