Madame X (Madame X #1) (5 page)

You quiver. You want to bluff, you want to bluster. You have never been bullied or threatened before. I doubt you have ever even felt pain. Lily-white little pissant. But Len’s eyes, they are a shade of steel-gray that brings to mind razor blades and gunmetal. They are not just cold eyes; ice is cold, winter is cold. Len’s eyes? They are vacuum cold. Deep space cold. Zero Kelvin cold. They are not lifeless, because they exude threat, like those of a leopard stalking prey. They hold truths of a dripping-scarlet variety.

Len glances at me. “We can handle things from here, ma’am.”

I take that as the cue it is and return inside. Close the door. But I can’t resist standing with my ear to the door. There are sounds that make my gut twist. Thuds, smacks, crunches. The sounds gradually become . . . wet.

I shiver, and push away from the door.

Eventually there’s the
ding
of the elevator, and I am alone once more. Forty-seven minutes until my next client.

Hands shaking, I make a mug of tea. Earl Grey, a touch of milk. By the time I’m swallowing the final mouthful, the elevator
ding
s again, and my door opens.

The figure that stalks through my door is not a client.

•   •   •

F
ury turns dark eyes darker. Lids narrowed to slits. Chest swelling and compressing, fingers curled into fists.

“Are you okay, X?” Voice like thunder, rumbling on the horizon.

I shrug. “It was . . . unpleasant, but I will be fine.” My voice is steady, but raspy from being choked.

Hands on my shoulders, gently but firmly holding me in place. Eyes sweep over my face, searching. Flick down to my throat. “He bruised you.”

I touch my throat where William grabbed me. The flesh there is tender. I twist gingerly out of the hold on my shoulders, turn to the mirror on the wall above a small decorative side table. My skin is dark, the color of caramel, maybe even a shade or two darker. I don’t bruise easily, but there are fingerprint-sized bruises on my throat. My eyes are reddened. My voice is hoarse, raspy.

Presence behind me, hot and huge and angry. “That little fuck is lucky Len got to him before I did.”

That makes me shudder, because I’m pretty sure William will never again be as pretty as he once was. Nor as . . . healthy. “I’m fine.”

“He’s cost me money. You can’t work the rest of today, at least. Maybe longer. You can’t see clients with bruises on your throat.”

So much for concern, it would seem. I push away a knot of bitterness.

“Did Len check the tapes?” I ask.

“Why do you care?”

“I heard what he said to his friend. He should be stopped.”

“A report has been filed. The police are investigating.” It is not an answer, but then I know better than to expect a confirmation of the cameras and microphones.

I know they are there, but no one will outright confirm it. It is some kind of secret, as if I am not supposed to know that every move I make, every word I speak is watched and overheard. It is for my own protection, I do realize that. Today’s events prove as much. But most days, the utter lack of privacy grates, weighs heavily.

“I will be able to work tomorrow,” I say.

“Dr. Horowitz will be by later today to check on you. Take it easy for the rest of today.” A nose in my hair, near my ear. Inhalation, exhalation, slow, deliberate, with ever so slight a waver in the exhalation. “I’m glad you’re okay, X. No one will ever put their hands on you ever again. Clients will be even more thoroughly vetted from now on. That should not have happened. If you’d been seriously hurt, I don’t know what I would have done.”

“Trained a new Madame X, probably,” I say, recklessly. Foolishly. Stupidly.

“There will
never
be another Madame X. There is no one else like you. You are special.” This voice, these words, low, quavering with potent emotion, I do not know how to absorb them, how to react to them. “You are
mine
, X.”

“I know, Caleb.” I can barely speak, do not dare glance in the mirror, do not dare witness such vulnerability, such strange and alien passion.

Fingers, just the tips, the pads, brushing down my cheek. Tracing my high cheekbone. I finally must glance in the mirror, see the dark hair head-and-shoulders above me. Nearly black eyes, pinning me in the reflection. Fingertips, trailing down the side of my neck. Hand, twisting, reaching around my throat, fitting fingers one by one to the bruises, but gently, tenderly, barely making contact.

“Never again.”

“I know.” I whisper it, because it hurts to speak, and because I somehow dare not speak any louder.

I see the tableau, frozen in the mirror glass: Charcoal suit coat-sleeve, slim, tailored, molded to a thick arm. Coat unbuttoned, tie knot just barely visible over my right shoulder, a perfect triangle of crimson silk against spotless white. Dark, potent eyes on mine, a hand clutching my throat. Possessive, owning, yet somehow gentle.
A promise, not a threat. Yet . . . still a warning.
Mine
, that hand on my throat says.

A sudden, deep inhalation, and then I am alone at the mirror, watching a broad back and wide set of shoulders recede.

When the door clicks shut, I can finally let the breath I’ve been holding rush out, can slump, shaking, hands on my knees. Step out of my bright red Jimmy Choo heels, leave them at the mirror, one upright, the other tipped onto its side.

I suck in a breath, let it out. Another. Shake my hand, curl fingers into a fist, a vain attempt to stop them from trembling. A sob rips out of me. I stifle it. Another, louder. I cannot, cannot. If I give in, that door will open again and I’ll succumb to the need for comfort. And I, at war with my disparate selves, need that physical comfort, that carnal reassurance . . . and I also loathe it. Hate it. Revile it. Feel a deep, secret need to shower and scrub the memory of it off my skin as soon as the door closes behind that broad and muscular back.

Yet I need it. Cannot fight my body’s reaction to such raw, masculine, sexual, sensual primacy.

I grab a throw pillow from the couch, cross my arms over it, bury my face in the scratchy fabric, and let myself cry. The camera is behind me; it will only see me sitting on the couch, finally processing the events of the morning. It will only see me engaging in a normal, natural reaction to trauma.

I shake all over, shaking so hard my joints hurt, sobbing into the pillow. Alone, I can strip off the armor.

It isn’t until I’ve nearly cried myself out that it hits me: That was the first time in recent memory that a visit came and went, and I remained fully clothed the entire time. An anomaly.

I let my tears dry, find my breath, find my equilibrium. Set aside the pillow. Stand up, shake my hands and toss my hair. No more weakness. Not even alone.

I glance at the clock; it is 7:48
A.M.
What am I going to do with the rest of the day? I’ve never had a whole day to myself. It should be a luxury, a precious gift.

It isn’t.

A whole day, alone with my thoughts?

I am terrified.

Silence breathes truth; solitude breeds
introspection.

Y
ou are a woman. I was not expecting this. The dossier listed your name as George E. Tompkins. Twenty-one, five-seven, only child and heir to a Texas oil baron’s rather significant fortune. George Tompkins. No photograph. I was expecting a Texas kid, all twang and “y’all” and a big shiny belt buckle and scuffed Tony Lamas.

Nine
A.M.
, because Caleb canceled my first few appointments of the day so I could sleep a bit later . . . and apply extra concealer over the angry black-green-yellow bruises on my throat.

Eight-fifty-eight
A.M.
:
ding . . . knock-knock
. “Madame X?”

A lady is never caught speechless. So I blinked, summoned my smile, and ushered the tall, lanky Texas kid into my condo. Speechlessly, but with the expected grace.

You are tall, lanky . . . with prominent breasts that can’t quite be hidden, even behind a baggy white button-down shirt. An actual bolo tie. Yes, scuffed Tony Lamas. And yes, a shiny belt buckle larger than both my fists together. Stunning green eyes, hair somewhere between
dark blond and light brown, expensively cut and styled . . . short, swept off to one side, parted neatly. A male haircut, not a pixie cut, but a true male style. No earrings, no bracelets, no rings, no necklace. No hint of femininity whatsoever, except those breasts, which I imagine are simply too large to hide, so you don’t bother.

You stride past me, back ramrod straight and stiff, a swagger to your walk, a sway/sashay that’s a strange mix of masculine and feminine. You peer around at my home, the Van Gogh
Starry Night
print on the wall, the Sargent portrait that is my namesake on another. The white leather couch, dark hardwood floors, high ceilings, exposed support beams crossing the ceilings made out of the same imported African teak as the floor. The built-in floor-to-ceiling bookshelf—more African teak—filled to bursting, stacked three deep in places, with books. Fiction of all kinds, biographies, translations of ancient classics, current literary novels, thrillers, horror, true crime, indie-published romances, nonfiction on subjects as far-ranging as biology, physics, psychology, history, anthropology . . . I read just about everything. It is my only pastime, my only form of entertainment. You spend several long moments in silence, perusing my collection of books.

“Must read a lot,” you say. Your voice could be masculine or feminine. High enough to be a woman’s, low enough to pass as a high-voiced male.

“I do.”

You eye me. Not just look, not just see, but
examine
. Intelligence shines in your vivid green eyes. Curiosity, nerves, confidence, defiance. Complex eyes.

I know what you see when you look at me: five-eight in my bare feet; long, thick, black hair, straight, raven black, glossy, hanging to midbicep when it is loose, which is rarely; I am built with curves, bell-shaped hips and buxom, but I am fit, toned, athletic, lithe—my
diet is rigorous, my exercise regimen strenuous and unforgiving; black eyes that I am told seem to see too much and give too little away; high cheekbones, full lips, delicate chin, classic heart-shaped face. I am exotic. I could be Spanish, or Middle Eastern. Even Islander, or Hawaiian, Filipino.

I am beautiful. Uncommonly beautiful, my features possessing the kind of symmetry and perfection that only comes along once in a generation. Exquisite. Breathtaking.

I know what I look like.

I endure your scrutiny without flinching, without looking away.

Another lesson learned early: to establish authority in any situation, wait out the silence, force the other person to speak first.

You concede. “I’m George.”

“Good morning, George. Welcome. Would you care for some tea?”

“Got any coffee?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t drink coffee.”

“I’m fine, then. Don’t really care much for tea.” You amble about the living room, peer out the window from a far enough distance that I suspect you’re afraid of heights. Yes, you shudder subtly and turn away, shrugging uncomfortably. Move to the Van Gogh. “This an original?”

I laugh, but kindly. “No, unfortunately. The original is at the MOMA. That is a reproduction, but a rather excellent one.”

You move to the
Portrait of Madame X
. This one captures your interest for a few moments. “This is interesting.”

I do not comment. I do not talk about that portrait, or its relevance to my name. I do not talk about myself at all.

Finally, you turn away and take a seat on the couch, extend your long legs and cross them at the ankle, fling an arm across the back of the couch. I perch on the armchair catercorner to the couch, a mate to the one in my bedroom. Knees together, legs angled to one
side, ankles crossed beneath, red Jimmy Choos on display. That’s a ploy, that display of my shoes. See if you look at them, notice them. You do not.

Time to take this appointment by the scruff. “You are not what I was expecting . . . Miss Tompkins.”

A scowl, then. Curl of the upper lip, corners of your mouth downturned. Disgusted, derisive. “Name’s George.”

“Explain.”

“Explain my name?” You seem truly baffled, then angry. “You first.”

Ha. Neatly parried. Point, Tompkins. “I am named for that painting.” I point at the Sargent.

“And I’m named for the state.”

“So your name is Georgia, then?”

You give me a hard stare, eyes gone hard as jade. “Last person who called me Georgia ended up needing dental implants.”

I smile. “Noted.”

Another long, awkward silence. “So. How’s this little program of yours work, Madame X?” A pause. “And do I really have to call you Madame X all the damn time? It’s a helluva mouthful.”

“Simply ‘X’ is fine, if you prefer.” I let some hardness enter my gaze. You don’t look away, but I can see it requires effort. You have backbone. “I’ll confess, George, that your case may require some . . . modification of my usual methods.”

“Why? ’Cause I got tits and a twat?”

My lips thin at your vulgarity. “Yes, George. Because you are a woman. My methods are geared for men, and my clientele are, exclusively—at least until now—men. Or rather, boys hoping to become men.”

“What is it you do, then? Dad was pretty vague. Told me I had to come to New York and see you, and do what you told me, and I didn’t have to like it, but I couldn’t fuck it up.”

“That’s all you were told?”

“Basically.”

I chew on the inside of my mouth and stare out the window, wondering, thinking. “Your father may have been confused about the nature of my services, in that case.”

You lean forward, drawing your feet together, elbows on knees. “What are your services?”

“Consider it . . . etiquette training, of a sort. Manners. Comportment. Bearing. Appearance, speech patterns, first impressions.”

“So you teach rich little assholes how to be less douchey.”

I blink and have to stifle a laugh. You really are funny. “Essentially, yes. But there’s more to it than that. Bearing comes in to play a lot. How you present yourself. How the opposite sex perceives you. How you assert yourself, even passively.”

“How are you supposed to passively assert yourself?” you ask.

“Body language, strategic silences, posture, eye contact.”

You stand up, pace away across the room, stand in front of the couch looking over at me, and then abruptly sit again. “And how exactly are you, a woman, qualified to teach guys how to be more manly?” You tilt your head. “I mean, that’s really it, isn’t it? Most dudes these days, especially the rich ones born with a silver spoon an’ all that shit, they’re just pussies, right? Not an alpha among ’em. They’re all just cocky, smarmy, arrogant, pushy, conceited, self-absorbed, entitled little douche-guzzlers. Couldn’t charm or flirt a girl into bed no matter how hard they try, so they rely on their wads of cash and fancy cars to do the work for them.”

“I sense bitterness, George,” I say, deadpan.

You laugh, your eyes brightening, head thrown back, a real belly laugh. You loosen. “You might say so. Been forced to pussyfoot around dickheads like that all my life. Dad had this idea that we had to fit in with the elite wealthy, since we have the same kind of
money. ’Cept, we ain’t like them. He’s a rancher, an old-school Texas cowhand from the ass-end of nowhere who just happened to stumble into the oil business. I do mean stumble, too. Gambled the pink slip to his old dually against a hand of Hold ’Em. Got damn lucky, and won the deed to some land that just happened to have oil wells on it. Bing-bang-boom, a few good investments and a whole hell of a lotta luck later, we was rolling in hundos. But he thought he could buy his way out of being blue collar, which meant stuffing his hick ass into tuxedos, and me into frilly bitch dresses, and us going to fancy-dancy soirées. Problem there is, you can take the hick out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the hick. So we stood out. Them high-society boys, they sniffed me out real fuckin’ fast. Knew I wasn’t the kind of girl they was used to. Knew there was just . . . something wrong with me. And I had long curly hair then, too, and girly-ass dresses. But they still knew.”

“Knew what, George?”

You eye me. “Don’t play, X.”

“You either.” I eye you right back.

You lift a shoulder in faux-laconic dismissal. “They knew I’m a dyke.”

“Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Say what you mean, George, and don’t be vulgar about it. That’s the first lesson.”

“Whatever.” You sigh. “They figured out I’m a lesbian. That clear enough for you? They could tell I’m a true-blue rug-muncher from Dykesville, Lesbiana.”

I roll my eyes. “You make jokes at your own expense, George. It’s unbecoming.”

“Who’s coming?” You quirk a corner of your lips up at your own joke.

I harden my eyes. “George.”

“All right, all right.” You hold up your hands palms out. “I know what unbecoming is. And yeah, I do make jokes at my own expense.”

“And not just at your own expense, but that of others who also have chosen your lifestyle.”

Your eyes blaze, and I realize I have erred. Your lip curls, your chin lifts. “Shows how much you fuckin’ know.”

“My apologies, George, what I should have said was—”

“It ain’t a
choice
, you prissy bitch. You think I’d have
chosen
this? You think I’d have chosen to be gay? A gay girl from Lubbock, Texas? Really? A gay country girl from one of the least tolerant states in the damn country?”

I let out a breath, slowly. I don’t smile, exactly, but I let my eyes show my contrition. “I’m sorry, George. It’s not a choice, and I know it. I merely misspoke.”

“You know what it was like, for me?” you ask. I shake my head. “No, course you don’t. You
couldn’t
. I never came out, not outright, you know? But they knew, even before I stopped playing dress-up for Dad. They knew, and they talked. I’d go to the parties and the get-togethers at the country club, and all that, and they’d hit on me. Like, what the fuck? Why? They knew I was gay, but still they hit on me? One of ’em, he cornered me in the ladies’ room after a party one night, and he—tried to force his self on me. He was gonna fuck me straight, he said. Well, he was a pussy, and I grew up roping steer and breaking horses. Let’s just say that it didn’t go so well for him.”

“You dissuaded him from his efforts to force you into heterosexuality, I take it?”

“I beat his ass into hamburger, is what I did. Knocked his teeth in, and I do mean that literally. I also stomped on his balls so hard I popped one of his nuts. And I also mean
that
literally.”

I cringe. “Rather effective, I suppose.”

You smirk. “Yeah, they gave me a
real
wide berth after that.” The smirk fades. “Dad and me had a talk, after that. Guess he had a feeling something was different about me, but was hoping I’d meet the right guy and forget about it. Like it was a phase or some shit. Still half-hoping that even now, I think. That I’ll suddenly go, ‘Whoops! Guess I don’t like pussy after all! Bring on the dick!’”

I can’t help another snicker. “George, be serious.”

“I am serious. That’s what he thinks, back of his head. Ain’t gonna happen, though. I told Dad, after I turned Rapey the Straightener into Toothless the One-Nut Wonder, I told him I wasn’t gonna play his games no more. I wasn’t a normal girl, and I was done pretending. He couldn’t handle me just coming right out and saying I was gay. He’d have had a heart attack. So I just . . . told him I wasn’t playing around no more, and he got it. Stopped wearing dresses, cut my hair, started going by George ’stead’a Georgia. But I was happier after that, and he could tell. I started showing an interest in his business, in the company. I’m all he’s got, you see, since Momma died years back. And he ain’t so young anymore. Wanted me to take over for him, and while I was playing at being good little straight girl, I wasn’t havin’ any of that. Now that I’m more or less out of the closet, I’m willing to help him with the business.”

“So why are you here, George?”

You shrug and shake your head. “Hell if I know. I for real thought it was like corporate sensitivity training, or something like that. Like, how to turn down the butch when I’m around the bigwigs.”

I let out a breath, stand up, pace away from you, past you to the window, stare out at the passers-by thirteen floors below. “I’ll be forthright with you, George. I don’t know what I can do for you. I suppose it depends on what
you
want. Normally, I don’t pay a single thought to what my subjects want. They aren’t really my clients, at the heart of it, you see. Their parents are. I am paid by the fathers
of these—as you call them, cocky, arrogant little . . . pricks.” I never swear.
Never.
But something about you has me twisted into a shape I don’t recognize. “I am paid by the fathers to train the sons to present themselves in a more palatable package. I am not a miracle worker. I can’t force a tiger to change his stripes, meaning I can’t change the basic nature of my clients’ children. But I
can
help them learn to disguise it, I suppose. A dishonesty, but one I am paid very well to engage in.”