Burn for You (2 page)

The sterile medical words roiled around in Mephisto’s brain as he sat at Clay’s bedside trying to make sense of things. Ruptured cerebral aneurysm. Stroke, seizure, death. The doctor spoke to Mephisto as if he might have expected this. The bulging vessel in Clay’s brain had been diagnosed almost two years earlier, at a medical center in New York. They’d had difficulty placing a stent. Didn’t Mephisto know about any of this?

No. All Mephisto knew was that almost two years earlier, Clay had called and asked him to look after Molly for a week so he could take a “business trip.” Mephisto remembered Clay making a flurry of abrupt legal preparations around that time. He remembered a strange conversation at a park afterward, a secretive expression clouding the man’s face.

If I die tomorrow, tell her you love her.

I would give her to you now if I wasn’t so selfish.

Why had Clayton kept this secret from them? Because he was a very unselfish man. He hadn’t wanted them to carry the burden of worry about a condition that couldn’t be fixed. Mephisto could have handled it, but Molly would have been beside herself with fear and anxiety.

Molly.

Mephisto looked at his watch and then buried his hands in his dreadlocks. It was nearly seven. Molly would be wondering where Clay was, why her Master wasn’t home yet. What now? He’d promised Clayton he’d take care of Molly in the event of his death, and he would, but Mephisto had never really thought past the general idea of the thing, and he certainly hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. Hell, of course he’d take care of her, but he’d never thought about the specifics, like how on earth he was supposed to look Molly in the eyes and tell her that her Master was gone. Then there were all the other things he’d have to help her with...funeral arrangements, dealing with Clayton’s family and his multi-million dollar estate. Clayton had multiple businesses and foundations, and real estate from coast to coast, all of it Molly’s now.

Later. Mephisto would think about all that later or he’d get overwhelmed. For now, he had to go to Molly, and he had to figure out what to say when he got there, because they weren’t the kind of words you could come up with on the fly.
Molly...your Master died today.
That part was easy, but what would he say then? He’d have to bring her to the hospital. She would need to say goodbye, even though it would be heart wrenching for her to see Clayton lying there lifeless. Mephisto was all too familiar with the still, unsettling face of death, but it struck deeper when it was a friend. For Molly...

Oh, God.

Mephisto stood and straightened his shoulders. He could finish his breakdown later. For now, he had to be strong enough for both of them. He drove to Clayton’s high rise, sitting in traffic beside other cars containing people going through the everyday grind. Going home perhaps, after a day of work. Looking forward to dinner or a night on the town. Fuck, it was Friday. He called Josh at the club, asked him to manage events for the night. It seemed bizarre that while he was driving over to wreck Molly’s world, everyone else was going about their usual business and the employees of his fetish club were showing up for a typical night of work.

Mephisto took the elevator up to Clay’s floor, took the long walk down the hall. He’d only been to Clay’s gleaming castle in the sky a few times. He stopped outside the formidable front door, rubbed his temple and took a deep breath. His knock brought the housekeeper. Mephisto couldn’t remember her name. She took one look at his face, though, and she knew.

“I need to see Molly,” he said.

The housekeeper stepped back and let him in. Molly was perched on a chair in the living room. He could see her from the foyer, her dark head bent over a book.

“Mr. Copeland died today,” he said to the old woman. “A couple hours ago.”

He’d spoken quietly but Molly looked up at the sound of his voice. For a moment, the most fleeting moment, she looked happy to see him, like anyone might look when they saw a friend. But then, perhaps from the look on his face, she understood something was wrong. She came to him and her sudden distress, her nakedness, none of it registered with him. Just that gleaming collar around her neck.

“Molly, it’s Clayton. Your Master. Your husband.”

He reached out to her, took her hand. Her voice trembled when she asked, “What? What is it?”

He couldn’t say anything more for a moment with the tension in his throat. He swallowed hard and squeezed her fingers. “I’m so sorry. He had a stroke. They took him to the hospital. He started having seizures.”

Tears filled Molly’s blue eyes. “Oh, no. Poor Master.”

He kept staring at her, too weak to say the next words. Her gaze begged for more information, but at the same time, she looked afraid to ask. “Well?” she finally managed. “Did they fix him? He’s okay, isn’t he?”

Mephisto shook his head. “He’s not okay. He died around five o’clock this evening. I’m so sorry.” They were such inadequate words. He embraced her, meaning to comfort her, but she went wooden, rigid. She pulled back and shook her head.

“That can’t be. He was perfectly fine this morning. There’s got to be some mistake.”

“No, Molly.”

“Another patient. Mistaken identity.”

“It’s not a mistake,” he said. “I’ve just come from there. If you want to go see him, I’ll take you. You should probably go see him one last time.”

Still she stared at him. She didn’t believe. He turned back to Mrs. Jernigan, standing near the foyer wringing her hands. The frail woman shook her head at Mephisto and ran away, into some back hallway. Molly stood like a statue, her hands pressed to her mouth.

“I can’t believe it. No,” she said.

“I’m sorry.”

“No.”

“I’m here to help you. I promised Clayton I’d help you if anything ever happened to him.”

He reached out to touch her but she skirted his grasp, turning her back on him. He watched her draw in deep breaths, her slender shoulders rising and falling. She shook her head, a small, hypnotic movement.

Denial. First step.

“Honey.” He moved closer to her again. “Do you have clothes to put on? I’m afraid if you don’t see him one last time to say goodbye, you’ll regret it later. It’s up to you, but—” His voice cut off. He was giving her choices, which was probably the last thing she could handle at the moment, this girl whose choices were all made for her by the man who’d died.

“Where are your clothes?” Mephisto asked instead. “Please get dressed.”

“He has them,” she said. “My Master.”

“In his room?” Mephisto set off down the hallway. Molly came after him, grabbing his arm.

“He doesn’t let me in there. Not without him.”

He stopped and turned to her. “Listen, Molly. Your Master left you in my care. I’m taking you to the hospital to say goodbye and sign papers and do all the things a wife has to do. You owe him this, to do things the right way.” His voice was sharper than he’d intended. She paled and stepped back while he continued down the hall. A moment later, he heard her behind him. He barged into Clay’s bedroom and paused. Pristine, as he’d expected it to be.

Molly stepped aside as the housekeeper pushed through, the wrinkles beneath her eyes damp with silent tears. “I’ll get some things together for Mr. Copeland. He would want his best clothes. His favorite cufflinks and shoes.”

“Thank you,” Mephisto said.

Molly stood at the door, eyes wide, while the housekeeper moved around the room gathering items for Clayton.

“I’m sorry,” Mephisto said. “I don’t remember your name.”

“Rose Jernigan. I’ve been his housekeeper for twenty years. It’s not right, him gone so soon. He’ll be missed.” She clamped her lips shut then, running a lint brush over a black wool suit.

“Mrs. Jernigan, I need to know where he kept Molly’s clothes.”

“She’s got plenty of clothes in the second closet. Very nice things.” She pointed to a door adjacent to the bathroom. Mephisto found another full dressing room.

He turned to Molly. “Come pick something out. What did he like you to wear? Did he have a favorite outfit?”

Mephisto just wanted to give her something to think about besides the tears choking her, and Mrs. Jernigan’s somber work collecting Clayton’s clothes. Molly crossed to a bureau and took out panties and a bra, and smooth stockings with lace at the top. He could see her fingers shaking from across the room. Mephisto turned away and let her dress, helping Mrs. Jernigan pack Clayton’s things in a high-end travel bag. “Will you come?” he asked the housekeeper. “You’re welcome to come with us.”

She hesitated and shook her head. “I’ll need to get the house in order for callers. Have you told his family?”

“If you have their contact information, you should call them. They can call his lawyers and business partners. Everyone will need to know.”

A stifled sob sounded from the closet. They both turned. The more Molly dressed, the harder she cried, and the bleaker Mephisto felt. She pulled a dark cardigan over a silk shell and fumbled with the placket. Mephisto crossed to her and fastened the row of small black buttons one by one. Then Molly went to an ornate wooden jewelry box and opened the lid. So many priceless pieces for a wife who probably only wore clothes a handful of times a year. Mephisto helped her put on a pearl necklace and earrings, thinking of Clayton and his love for her. It was so unfair.
So
unfair. Couples that loved so hard should have forever together.

“I can’t...I can’t do this,” she whispered. “I can’t do this. I can’t do this.”

“You don’t have a choice,” Mephisto said, kindly but firmly. “I’m sorry, but you don’t.”

At the hospital, Molly touched Clayton’s cold, still hand and drew away. It was only then, Mephisto thought, that she finally believed. She stared and cried, and stared and cried, refusing to leave but unable to get more than a foot or two closer. “I want him back,” she said to Mephisto at one point. “I want him back. I don’t want this!”

Anger. Second step.

And there was still a lot of disbelief. Molly stared as if she expected Clay to somehow revive himself. He was her all-powerful, unflappable Master, after all. Finally, Mephisto had to make her leave so the funeral home could come. One last time, Molly touched Clay’s hand. Still cold. Still dead. His heart ached for her.

He took her back to the home she and Clayton had shared, and his heart ached harder. Molly’s whole life had revolved around serving Clay, and now that he wasn’t there, she floated like a ghost lost in the wrong plane. She wouldn’t let Mephisto come near, wouldn’t let Mrs. Jernigan comfort her either, although the old woman puttered around with tea and refreshments, none of which were touched. Molly finally settled on the edge of the couch, pulling at her clothes, looking at the door. Waiting.

“Molly, I know this is terrible for you,” Mephisto finally said, “but he’s not coming back.”

“I know that. I’m not stupid.”

He and Mrs. Jernigan exchanged glances. He replied to her snapped retort with utter calm. “It’s late. I know it won’t be easy to sleep, but you should try.”

“But my Master’s not here,” she said, as if Mephisto were an idiot.

Molly needed sleep. She was stretched to the breaking point. Her mind was rebelling against a reality she didn’t want to accept, even as tears flowed down her cheeks.

Mephisto stood. “Come on.” He held out his hand but she wouldn’t take it. She finally rose from the couch and went before him. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, took off her clothes as if in a trance, hung up the garments neatly. She took off her jewelry, placed it away with care. Then she moved toward the bed and froze.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t. It’s his bed. He didn’t say I could.”

Mephisto sighed. “Molly—”

“You don’t understand. Every night, he told me, sleep here. Or sleep there.” She pointed to a pallet on the floor.

“He’s not here tonight. He can’t tell you those things anymore. Just get in his bed, lie down and rest. That’s what he would have told you to do.”

She climbed in, quickly, guiltily, like she was breaking some rule. She promptly burst into tears again. “It smells like him.”

For half an hour more, Mephisto held her as she sobbed. She was conflicted, turning toward and away from him in dizzying changes of mood. She spilled out watersheds of words.
It’s not fair. I don’t understand. What am I going to do? Who will plan the funeral? Where is his body right now?
By the time he quieted her, Mephisto was exhausted himself. He pulled the covers up over her.

“Where are you going?” She grasped at him as he stood.

“Nowhere. Just back out to the living room.”

“Don’t go. Don’t leave. I’m sorry.”

He sat back down. “Sorry for what?”

“You’re mad at me, I know. I’m sorry, I’m just—”

“Hey, hey.” He stroked her arm, only to have her pull away from him—and then look guilty for pulling away. “I’m not mad, not even one percent mad,” he assured her. “I’m one hundred percent worried and sad for you, though, and I want you to sleep and let your mind rest. You’re going to need a lot of strength to get through the next few days.”

“Don’t leave,” she cried again.

So he stayed until she fell asleep, thinking back to Clayton’s words during their conversation a couple years ago.
See, that’s the thing. I don’t think she’ll be fine. Not emotionally, or any way else.

Jay, if I die, I want you to take care of her. I mean, watch out for her. You know what I mean.

This is what Clayton had meant. As part of their consensual TPE relationship, Clay had taken away so much of her freedom, so much of her autonomy, that he’d known she wouldn’t be able to function when he was gone. This is what that looked like, this conflict and terror. Mephisto understood now why Clayton had been so worried. What a fucking mess.

Once she was asleep, her face relaxed from the tension of grieving, Mephisto returned to the living room to drink Irish whiskey with Mrs. Jernigan and figure out what to do next.

Mrs. Jernigan—Rose, as he called her now that they were drinking together—seemed to have shed most of her tears. She was all business, thinking over the most important matters, like who she would have to contact in the morning, and what she needed to do to prepare the house for family and guests. She took the phone calls as they came, making copious notes on who was arriving when, so Clayton’s driver could pick them up.