Madame X (Madame X #1) (12 page)

Or the courage. That has been choked out of me.

I very intensely dislike being strangled, I am discovering.

Soft footfalls, huge, hard, heavy body crouching beside me. A hand extended to touch. Hesitant, gentle.

I flinch away.

The hand withdraws. “Fuck.
FUCK!
” The last word is shouted, sudden and frightening.

I jerk away, unable to bridle my instinctively fearful reaction.

“I’m sorry, X.” The hand, on my shoulder.

I go very, very still. Tense. Frozen. Eyes shut, jaw clenched, fingers fisted on my thighs. I do not even breathe until the hand and its accompanying presence is withdrawn. And even then, I take a slow, careful breath. Watch out of the corner of my eye. Harsh, angry steps. The door, jerked open. Slammed closed with such violent force that the door splinters and the frame cracks.

I hear the elevator door, and then silence.

I sit where I am for I don’t know how long. Eventually I hear the elevator again, male voices.

Len.

“Ma’am?” Beside me. Lifting me to my feet. “Come on. I got a guy that’s gonna fix your door for you. Why don’t you go lay down, huh? You want some tea or something?”

I shake my head, wrench free of Len’s grip, as gently solicitous and careful as it is. “Nothing.” I whisper it, my voice hoarse. “Thank you.”

I move into my bedroom, lie down on my bed, still wearing my dress. Len tints my window black, turns on my noise machine.

“You shouldn’t make him angry, ma’am. It’s not smart. You got a tiger by the tail, you best not rile him. Know what I’m saying?”

“Classic apologetics for domestic abuse, Len.” My voice is raspy again. I don’t think I’ll have bruises, though.

“I’m not apologizing, just saying.”

“Apologetics is—you know what, never mind. Thank you, Len. That will be all.”

“Okay, then.” A pause. “I’ll be by tomorrow, with the designer.”

“Designer?”

“The outfit, for that rich bastard kid’s event.”

“Jonathan, you mean.”

“Yeah, whatever. They’re all the fucking same.”

I don’t answer. I feel my eyes grow heavy. Ignore the turmoil in my heart, in my head, ignore the burn in my throat and the sting in my eyes.

I hear the noise of my front door being replaced, and then silence.

I sleep.

•   •   •

D
arkness. It is thick and raw and ravenous. A rumbling beast, with gnashing teeth. Red eyes, luminous orbs.

I stumble through the hungry blackness on bare feet. Stub my toe, feel a new stab of pain pierce the all-over agony as a toenail is ripped away.

Another beast, with glowing white eyes. Loud, roaring.

Howls, wailing, rising and ululating and deafening, all around me. So many monsters, iron-fleshed and fast, smashing heedless through the blackness, bright eyes and glowing red tails.

Stumble, my path in the darkness lit by lightning, my bones shaken by thunder, my trail erased by a deluge of cold rain. I am not weeping or screaming, because I hurt too badly to do so, because to weep requires breath, and I have no oxygen, no breath, lungs scorched from the hungry flames.

Flames.

They are somewhere behind me, still flickering and smelling of roasted flesh.

The beasts circle around me, roaring, flashing their too-bright eyes, claws reaching, trailing bandages and needles.

Squares, endless squares above me. Squares pierced with a
million, million dots. One hundred and ten thousand four hundred and twenty-four dots, black holes spiked into the white squares.

Voices, buzzing around me like echoes from a thousand years ago.

Words. Sounds that should be comprehensible, but aren’t. Words, words, words, that mean nothing. Nothing.

Loss.

Agony.

Grief.

Agony.

A face, over and over and over.

Dreams of flames.

Dreams of darkness.

Darkness.

No more darkness. Keep the darkness at bay! There are beasts in the blackness. They want my blood, desire my flesh.

I cannot breathe.

I am drowning in an ocean of darkness, and I cannot breathe.

“Breathe, X.” A command.

I breathe, drag in a long painful breath.

“Breathe.”

I breathe.

Hands caress my face; a body cradles mine. I find comfort even as dimly remembered fear pulses through me. “Caleb.”

“Just keep breathing, X. You’re okay. You were dreaming.”

God, the dreams. They ravage me, pillage my soul.

Awareness returns with a jolt like lightning striking a tree. “Let me go.” I crawl away. “Don’t touch me.”

“X—”

I scramble off the bed, hit the floor in a pile of limbs, huddle in the darkness against the window. A shadow rises in the darkness,
male shoulders, that face, angular and beautiful, angelic in its perfection, even in shadowed profile. My door is open, letting in a sliver of slight, a lance of brightness spearing the darkness, setting a too-handsome profile into relief.

“I’m sorry. You know that’s not easy for me to say, to you or anyone else. I don’t ever apologize. Not for anything, no matter what. But I’m apologizing to you, X. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that, and I’m sorry.” Beside me, crouched, pale arms bare, wearing nothing but boxer-briefs.

“I know.” It’s all the forgiveness I can muster.

“Are you hurt?”

“No.”

A finger, touching my chin, lifting my face so I’m gazing up into shadowed perfection. “Look at me, X.”

“I am.” Those eyes, so dark, so unknowable, so piercing, they are open and sorrowful and worried.

“Don’t be afraid of me.”

“I’m not.” Oh, I am a skilled liar, when I must be.

Lifted, I am cradled against a hard warm bare chest. I can hear heartbeats, slow and steady. Hands, running up and down my arms, smooth my hair away. I am still in my dress. I don’t know what time it is.

My heart crashes in my chest.

“Sara.”

“What?” I allow myself to sound as confused as I am.

“Her name is Sara. The girl you saw me with. Sara Abigail Hirschbach. Her parents are Jewish, prominent members of the Orthodox Jewish community here in New York. Her father is a business associate of mine. And Sara . . . well, we have a complicated history. An on-and-off sort of thing. She would like it to be more
‘on’ than I would, even though I’ve explained that I do not and will not ever care for her that way. Yet she keeps coming back for more of what I do give her. Which is purely physical.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I struggle to keep my voice neutral.

My question is ignored. “I’m going to be truthful with you, X. Never expect anything from me. What you know of me, it’s all there is. And the truth is . . . you know the real Caleb Indigo far more thoroughly than any of my other . . . acquaintances, let’s call them . . . ever will. They get less than you. Less of my time, and less of me in those brief moments. You . . . you are special, X.”

“How many are there?”

“How many what?”

“Ac
quaint
ances.” I let venom into my tone.

“There are many. I will make no apologies for who I am, X. The beasts in your dreams? I am like those beasts. Always hungry. Never sated, never satisfied. And the many, many girls whom I . . . visit, they are snacks. A bite, here and there. Enough to tide me over until I can
feast
.”

Hot, hot breath on my flesh. My dress is ripped open, top to bottom.

“Caleb . . .”

“
You
are the feast, X.”

Lips on my skin. Hands devouring flesh. Fingers seeking my wetness, my hidden heat. There is fear within me, but it only serves to excite. I fear, oh . . .
deeply
do I fear. I fear the prowling predator behind me. I fear the claws in the shadows, the ravening beast whose appetite cannot be slaked. I fear, but I shiver with excitement when I catch a glimpse of it, and I wonder if it is coming for me. And when I see the eyes and the gleam of moonlight on talon, I know it is coming for me. It will devour me, for I am but a soft thing, all underbelly and easily parted flesh.

But this night? This night I find I have claws of my own. “
No
, Caleb.” I wrest myself free, naked but for panties. Cross my arms over my breasts, my chest heaving with fear and need and anger and myriad tumultuous emotions too turbulent and intermixed to name. “No. You
hurt
me.”

Silence, fraught with tension.

Feet stab precisely through pants legs, shirt buttons are fitted through openings swiftly and without fumble. Socks and shoes slipped on, suit coat draped over a thick forearm. A hand slips into a trouser pocket and withdraws a phone, brief white glow of the screen, repocketed. Keys jingle, rotated around and around an index finger. “I’ll give you some time, X, if that is what you need. And I will say it one last time: I’m sorry I hurt you.”

There is a promise hidden between the lines of those words:
Your time to get over this is limited.

The question that boils within me as my front door opens and closes and I am left alone is very simple: Can I get over this? What do I do if I cannot?

Can I forgive? Should I? Do I even
want
to?

I fear not.

And I fear what that means for the coming
days.

Y
ou stand alone outside my door, hands stuffed in hip pockets, hair slicked back, wearing a sleek, slim tuxedo with a narrow bow tie at your throat. Handsome, young, confident. Debonair.

You could be Jay Gatsby.

“Madame X. Good evening.” You lean in, kiss me formally on both cheeks. “You look lovely.”

I do, truly. A stylist had arrived early this morning, pulling a rack stuffed to overflowing with garment bags. A short, stout man with artificially silver hair, wearing a woman’s pantsuit in pale peach with four-inch heels and offering me a quick, genuine smile, helped me in and out of thirty-six dresses before settling on the one I’m wearing now. The dress is some brand I’d never heard of, a designer whose logo is a single thick Z stroke. A student, maybe, or a new designer. Gem wouldn’t specify, saying only that the designer didn’t matter, not in this case. That I looked my absolute best was all that mattered. The dress is deep crimson, floating loose from my hips to brush the
floor around my feet, the skirt made of some light, gauzy material that feels like it should be sheer but isn’t. From the waist up, the dress is somehow sexy to the point of indecency without actually revealing much at all. The back is open, plunging down to the very base of my spine, showing the slightest hint of my tailbone. The open back cuts in deeply around my ribs, too, so that I am in effect bare from just beneath and beside my breasts to just above my backside. A triangular patch of crimson silk covers me from throat to diaphragm, offering not a single glimpse of cleavage, yet is cut to cling and drape to sultry effect, the triangle of fabric somehow supporting my not-insignificant breasts into mounded prominence. A thin, nearly invisible strap wraps around my throat, clasping at the back of my neck with a delicate hook-and-eye. Gem applied double-sided tape to the edges of my breasts where a hint of side cleavage is visible, keeping the dress from coming loose and revealing more than intended. I insisted on my favorite pair of black Jimmy Choo heels. Gem had brought a rather excessive selection of gaudy, diamond-studded shoes he wanted me to try on, but I insisted on my own, because if I was going to spend the evening nervous and worried and out of my element, I would feel better in familiar shoes. Hair, makeup, all done simply and to great effect, hair piled up on my head, a few wisps escaping to frame my face, minimal makeup, just a touch of eye shadow, some stain on my lips, some contouring on my cheekbones.

Your compliment is delivered with deceptive ease. But as we wait for the elevator, I feel your eyes on me, raking up and down, looking away, stealing back to me.

“Is everything all right, Jonathan?” I ask, my tone sharp.

“Just fine, just fine.”

“Then stop staring at me.”

You quirk an eyebrow and grin. “Can’t help it, X. You’re just so beautiful it hurts. I can’t believe Caleb”—you glance back at
Thomas, and correct yourself—“
Mr. Indigo
, I mean—agreed to let you come.”

Thomas. My bodyguard for the evening. A giant of a man, very literally a giant. Seven feet tall and enormously muscled. Skin black as midnight, head shaved to the scalp, eyes always shifting and moving, seeing, assessing, intelligent and cunning eyes that never look at me directly. He has not said a single word, and I do not think he will, unless absolutely necessary.

“It was a surprise to me, too, honestly.”

“What changed his mind?”

I let silence linger for a moment before answering. “He keeps his own counsel, Jonathan. I cannot speak to his reasoning, nor will I attempt to.”

I can see Thomas’s reflection in the elevator door; he looks almost amused, if so rugged and brutal a face could be said to have such a mundane expression. A
ding
announces the arrival of the elevator. The doors slide open and Thomas steps into the opening, gestures for us to enter with a sweep of a huge hand. I take the back corner diagonally opposite to Thomas, and you stand beside me. Too close. Your cologne is faint, distractingly delicious, light and citrusy and exotic. Your body traps me into the corner, and though you do not look at me, you are somehow still aware of me, and I am aware of your awareness. It is disorienting. I breathe out to tamp my nerves, and though I breathe shallowly, your gaze flicks to my breasts behind the crimson silk, you watch my breasts swell and retract. I tilt my head to the side, stare up at you with a scolding eyebrow lifted, lips pursed.

You blush adorably and shrug. I stare at you until you look away first. That wrist motion, though. There it is, extend the arm, flick the wrist, ostentatious, a broad gesture dramatically delivered to reveal a fantastically expensive watch. A Bulgari, pink gold and brown alligator skin.

“Don’t do that, Jonathan,” I say, without looking at you.

“Do what? I just looked at my watch.”

“You made a show of it. No one cares how expensive your watch is. Doing so only serves to draw attention to your shallowness.”

“Oh come on, X. It’s how I check the time.” You sound petulant.

“True wealth does not draw attention to itself. True power does not clamor for notice. Command it without seeming to seek it.”

“Got it,” you mumble.

“Speak clearly,” I snap. “You are not a boy to mumble when scolded.”

“Fine, I got it. Okay? I
got
it.” You shake your head and sigh. “Jesus.”

“This is your test, Jonathan. And I am with you, so your performance had better be flawless.”

“Then don’t get on my case about every little fucking thing. Makes me self-conscious, and that’s when I mess up.”

The elevator opens, revealing an expansive underground garage full of shiny and expensive-looking automobiles. You angle toward one, something long and low and sleek and black with only two doors, a trident logo adorning the nose.

There is a harsh rumbling noise from behind us, which takes me a moment to realize is coming from Thomas. It is a grunt, to get our attention. Thomas inclines his head to one side, indicating a different car. This one is long, low, sleek, and white. Len stands outside it in a tuxedo to match Thomas’s.

“Come on, kids. Time’s a-wasting.” Len slides into the driver’s seat, and Thomas takes three long steps—which cover something near ten feet—and opens the rear passenger side door, ushering me in and closing the door behind me as I sit.

“A Maybach, huh?” You take the redirection in stride, it seems. You wait until I’m seated and then circle around to the other side “Nice. Landaulet Sixty-two?”

“Sure is. Mr. Indigo’s own personal vehicle,” Len says.

I couldn’t care less what kind of car it is. The seats are luxurious, the air cool and comfortable. There is a sensation of smooth power, an incline, and then a bright, blinding wash of light as we exit the garage.

My heart hammers in my chest; I am outside, out in the world for the first time in a very long time.

I cannot breathe.

Your hand squeezes my thigh. “X? You okay?”

I force air into my lungs. Blink, curl my fingers into fists and force myself to breathe. In . . . and out. In . . . and out. I cannot answer you, and I am not, clearly, so it seems an inane question to me. Release my fists. Flatten my palms on my thighs, nudge your hand away. I cannot bear touch, not from you, not now.

Eyes open. Look out the window. The buildings are dizzying, rocketing hundreds of feet in the air, rising all around like a tribe of clustered titans. I am drowning at the bottom of a thousand glass canyons. Horns blare, loud even within the acoustically hushed interior of the car. The Maybach Landaulet 62, as you named this vehicle. Some sort of luxury automobile, I assume. I know nothing of such things and care even less. You seem impressed, which I suppose is the purpose.

The people. So many, many people. Crowds of them, an endless river of heads, hair, hats, and shoulders, swinging arms, blots of color, a black umbrella despite the clear, warm weather of the evening. A roar of an engine from a long, high truck with oversized wheels and vertical exhaust pipes spouting black smoke. A man in a suit darting between moving vehicles, running across the street, briefcase clutched under one arm. So much. It is too much.

“X. Look at me, babe.” You touch me. Fingers to chin, bring my face around.

I jerk my face away from your touch, but I look at you. And I breathe. A little, at least.

You smile. “Hey. There you are. It’s okay, X. It’s just Manhattan.” You frown, a subtle lowering of your brows, mouth corners flattening, lips thinning. “You really don’t get out much, do you?”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t.”

“Well . . . if you’re overwhelmed, why don’t you focus on me, huh? Look at me. Talk to me.” You take my hand, hold it palm to palm, fingers wrapped around the edge, as children hold hands. It is platonic, and strangely soothing. “This event, there’s gonna be a lot of famous people there. Except for that, though, it’s gonna be boring as fuck. Just so you know. Lots of standing around with fancy champagne and cheap scotch, talking about how rich everyone else is. Yachts and private planes, who owns which island and which estate where.” You take on an arch, pretentious tone of voice. “Have you tried the Lafite sixty-six? Positively divine, old boy. I have a bottle, you’ll have to come to my estate in the Hamptons.” You wave a hand in disgust. “Rich old windbags. The famous people are worse, I think. Just stand around and expect everyone to come to them, pay attention to
them
. Like anyone fucking cares. They
do
care, though, you know? That’s what has me in such a pissy mood about it. They all
do
care. Been to one of these, you’ve been to ’em all. There’ll be dancing, though. Proper waltzes and shit like that. Good thing I learned, right?”

“Good thing, yes,” I say, faint.

“Can you dance, X?”

I blink. “Dance?”

You laugh. “Yeah. Dance. Like the waltz or the cha-cha or whatever.”

I finally crack a smile, and feel a little better. “Cha-cha? I think not. I can waltz, however.”

You arch an eyebrow suggestively. “You’d probably cause a few
heart attacks if you were to cha-cha, I think. Those old goats and their pacemakers wouldn’t be able to handle it.”

“Handle what?” I ask.

You glance at me, look me over blatantly. “You, X. Doing the cha-cha in that dress. All their blood would rush south, and they’d all keel over dead.” You clutch your shoulder and mime a heart attack, then erupt in laughter.

“Not appropriate, Jonathan.”

You wave a hand dismissively. “Oh, lighten up, X. It’s a joke.”

I see Len glance at you in the rearview mirror, and catch a glimpse of Thomas in the mirror as well. They are both either amused or disapproving. I’m not sure how to interpret the look you are getting from them. You’ve been successful in distracting me from my nerves, however, and for that I am grateful.

Silence descends for several minutes, and then Len brings the car to a smooth halt outside a building. It is just like all the others, it seems to me, although there is an awning extending from the doorway to the street, and when Len stops the car, Thomas exits and holds open the door for me, and then you. You slide easily across the interior rather than exiting street-side. You’ve done this before. I have to focus on making each movement graceful as I rise from the low vehicle, adjust my dress, and wait for you. As soon as you’re beside me, you button the middle button of your tuxedo coat and offer me your elbow. Two uniformed doormen with long, tailed frock coats and bellman caps haul open two huge wooden doors with steel handles running from top to bottom, bowing deeply as Jonathan and I enter the foyer, Thomas striding behind us.

I feel a huge weight on my shoulder and turn to see Thomas staring down at me, broad face impassive, holding up a single finger.
Wait
, the gesture says. Within moments Len is entering as well, moving to stand behind Jonathan while Thomas is behind me.

“All right, gang. Time to go.” Len catches my eye. “Once we’re in there, I’m going to mingle. Keep an eye on you from out of sight. Thomas will be with you the whole time, though.” A glance at you. “And Jonathan? The only thing I’m going to say to you is remember clause three of the contract you signed, yeah?”

Your face tightens. “Yeah, I remember.”

“Good. That’s all. Let’s go have fun.” Len rolls his shoulder, fastens the middle button of his suit coat, and nods at the door.

Another pair of uniformed doormen bow as they pull the doors open, and we step through. A short, dark wood-paneled hallway leads to a lectern, behind which is a tall, elderly gentleman in a tuxedo with a red rose at his lapel.

“Sir, madam. Welcome. The name?”

“Jonathan Cartwright the Third, and guest.”

“Might I see some identification, sir? For security purposes, of course.” The host extends a wrinkled hand, and you hand him a card, take it back. “Very well, Mr. Cartwright, madam. This way, please.” A gesture to a third and final set of doors, manned yet again by two uniformed doormen.

As they open the doors, a low hum greets you and me—I do not say
us
, Jonathan, because there is no us. Merely two individuals sharing the same space for a short time.

I must remind myself of this.

A low hum of voices, quiet murmurs, polite laughter. A string quartet and a pianist play classical music in some corner, a microphone stand off to one side against the wall, waiting for a special musical guest, I imagine. The crowd is clustered in groups of four and six, sometimes as many as eight in a circle, all in tuxedos and gowns, expensive watches glittering, diamonds glinting. Eyes shift, heads swivel, subtly scanning for familiar faces.

I know precisely three people here, and they are all making this entrance with me.

No one remarks on our arrival. They notice, see that we are clearly not famous, and their eyes skip over us. Return to conversations and beverages. We are two steps into the room when a young woman in a tasteful but short black dress with an apron at her waist approaches us, tray in hand, bearing flutes of champagne. You take a flute, hand it to me, take another for yourself.

Len has vanished. Thomas looms behind us, close, but not suffocatingly so. A precisely measured distance, I think.