Grace Doll (2 page)

* * *

Rufus’ silence on the drive to the Dollhouse slinks into bitter darkness of the Bentley. Our driver, Sheldon, never speaks to Rufus unless spoken to, and he’s not allowed to address me unless Rufus grants him permission. I don’t speak either, unless Rufus speaks to me first.

Beverly Hills is dark after midnight, lit only by the occasional street lamp once we are off Sunset Boulevard. I gaze at sprawling properties we pass on our way to Bel Air. My heart beats so fast, I’m certain it will burst. Fantasies flash in my head: I open the door and leap out. I lunge for Rufus, strangle him. Or my heart stops beating.

Sheldon exits the car and opens the gates at the bottom of 21 Chalon Road. He eases the sleek, white Bentley through the opening, his eyes watching through the rear view mirror to ensure the gates close before he continues driving up the private road to the Dollhouse. He never glances at me. The one time he did, Rufus caught him. The next day, the driver had a black eye.

The white, Spanish-style mansion is lit up like an ornate wedding cake, each window glowing with artificial warmth. Rufus had the Dollhouse built for me last year, a spectacle at the top of the Hills to signify his reigning power and his love for me. My cold, clammy hands grip in my lap.

“Tsk-tsk,” Rufus eyes me and takes my hand. “No perspiring. You’ll ruin the gown.”

Sheldon drives us around the circular drive, past the fountain Rufus had imported from Italy, and the car stops at the entrance. He gets out and opens Rufus’ door.

Rufus rounds the car to open the door for me. Sheldon and the Bentley disappear around the side of the house to the eight-car garage where Rufus stows other toys. In the vestibule, he searches for his keys. Cat playing with mouse before tearing into flesh. I swallow.

“Where
are
those keys?” he says.

I stare at the lion head brass knocker centered on the door, my face blank, body beginning to numb. “Ah. Here they are.” He purposefully brushes into me as he pretends to unlock the carved, wooden door. His hand latches onto the knob, holding the door closed, caging me in his stance. His lips near my ear.

“You were spectacular tonight,” his voice slithers down my spine, wrapping fear around my bones. “Your timing, as usual, was perfect. It’s innate, you know.”

“Thank you, Rufus.”

His lips tickle my neck. “I won’t touch the side Douglass kissed.” His whisper sears my skin. Panicked he’ll take me right here; I reach for the handle to push the door open. Maybe I can make it inside. But his hands latch onto my shoulders. My gaze locked on the knob, I start to shake. His finger turns my chin. He expects me to look at him, so I do.

“Not here, please.” My whispered plea evaporates in the night mist. Rufus removes his white jacket and spreads it on the brick at my feet. His black eyes spark with hunger and he steps closer. Slipping his fingers beneath the gown straps, he slides the jeweled fabric from my shoulders, sending a sparkling of diamonds and beads glittering on the walls and ceiling of the vestibule. “My beautiful Grace.”

Cool air flashes against my bare chest and belly. Delicately, he eases the dress down my legs, his eyes devouring every inch of skin as it is exposed. His powerful grip pulls me downward until I’m lying on the jacket. Falling stars reflect in his black eyes as the beaded dress shifts beneath us.

* * *

Inside, I race up the curved tile stairs. Air chills my nakedness. My body won’t stop aching and I blink back tears. From below, I hear Rufus casually carrying on with the house staff as if we’ve just returned from yet another gala and nothing out of the ordinary has occurred. The staff has learned to keep themselves hidden until Rufus calls for them. I want to think they care about me, that they feel bad that I endure Rufus’ abuse. I want to think they allow me privacy for dignity’s sake. But that’s only a girl’s fading dream of being saved from a nightmare she never wakes up from. I’m his wife, what do I expect?

I close the double doors of my dressing room and toss the gown on the bed. Tears rush up my throat, choking me. My reflection in the full-length mirrors disgusts me. I despise the white gartered stockings, the corset Rufus has had imported—one of dozens—from France for his amusement, the glittering heels.

I kick them off.

And sob.

A soft knock stops me. Rufus would barge in. Still, the staff has eyes and ears, and Rufus has warned me countless times never to let my guard down around any of them.
Sizzle, Grace. Sizzle.

“Yes?”

“Can I draw you a bath, miss?” It’s Rowena. She takes care of my rooms, my clothes, and does whatever I need her to do. I wish I could tell her to kill Rufus.

“Yes, please.”

She enters like a mouse and scurries into the bathroom. Soon water begins to fill the massive, white marble tub. “Shall I help you into the bath, miss?” She emerges from the bathroom. In her black and white uniform, white napkin cap topping her muddy-brown hair, she’s peacefully plain. Her life is so simple. I wish we could change places.

I clutch myself, shake my head and cross to the bath. I’ve undressed in front of hundreds of eyes before, including Rowena’s.

Show
business.

Rowena takes my undergarments and the gown and leaves me alone. I dip into the hot water. I fantasize about drowning myself. About having the physical strength to hold Rufus under the hot liquid and watch him die. I even consider climbing out the second story window, jumping into the pool below knowing I’ll drown because I can’t swim. Rufus had my rooms built over the pool for that reason.

Sighing, I close my eyes against tears. Hate and frustration surge through me like a monster with gnashing teeth. A hate so intense, so deeply embedded in my soul my thoughts turn to a grief impossible to outrun. I’d tried to run once—home. But a girl with a face the world knows can’t get very far. Two days later home was burned to the ground. Mother and Father and my four sisters all perished in the fire. When what few remaining relatives I had were ‘taken care of’ by Rufus’ irresistible money, I was left an orphan with Rufus as my only guardian.

I lower into the tub and submerge into searing liquid, the cleansing I yearn for unreachable.

* * *

Later, I join Rufus in the living room. I’m exhausted, but he insists I join him at the end of each evening no matter how late the hour or how weary I am.
Timing, Grace.
I step down into the expansive room filled with collected antiques, accented coved ceilings, and French doors. Frank Sinatra’s
Someone to Watch Over Me
plays from the phonograph—our song, Rufus said. What he doesn’t know is that Jonathan has already claimed the song—for him and me. White flowers in tall vases fill empty nooks and table tops. Scattered on the hardwood floor are leopard throw rugs, the creatures’ jaws gape, their eyes staring in frozen ferocity. Portraits and photographs of me hang everywhere, like trophies. Four white couches face a massive fireplace where flames leap and roar but a tremor of fear sends a chill through my bones. I hate fire. Fire killed my family, leaving me alone.

Rufus, in a black silk smoking jacket and black silk slacks, sits on the couch facing the fire, a slim cigar smoldering from his lips. He looks every bit the conqueror that he is. Conqueror, tyrant, dictator. Husband.

The French dressing gown he bought me whispers against my skin as I cross the floor. He smiles up at me. His leading-man good looks, handsome and deceptive, once made my knees go soft.

“Ah.” He pats the empty white space next to him. “There’s my beautiful Grace.”

I sit next to him and he brings me into his side, kissing the top of my head. “You’re so warm.” He jerks back, extinguishes his cigar in the waiting ashtray and presses his palm to my forehead a deep line creased between his brows. “Are you ill? You’re burning up.” His hands feel my arms, cheeks, neck.

“I’m fine. I took a hot bath.”

The tension in his face relaxes. “Too hot for your delicate skin.” He strokes my cheek with his fingers.

“The heat relaxes me,” I lie.

His hands slide to my shoulders and start massaging me gently. “I can relax you.”

“I should go to bed. I have an early call.”

His hands move from my shoulders and cup my cheeks. “How early?”

“Five. That gives me four hours to sleep.”

Rufus nods and draws my lips to his. “Go. Sleep.” He releases me. “No reading. You need to be fresh for the camera.”

I leave him sitting by the fire. With each step up the stairs my muscles slowly sigh in relief.

I am done for the night.

Chapter Two

After eight hours under hot stage lights, my head throbs. No doubt only four hours sleep the night before contributes. I try to smile. Can’t be irritable. I’m Rufus’ eight-by-ten glossy.

Between takes, I sit in the black canvas chair that has my name scrolled across the back:
Grace Doll.

The soundstage buzzes with workers rolling lights, hoisting cables over their shoulders, moving props, preparing the set for the day’s final shot. Closing my eyes, I will the pain in my temples to disappear. Four more days and the shoot will be complete. Even thinking about wrapping production splits my nerves into a million threads. It’s not because filming is ending in four days that my nerves splinter, it’s the experimental ‘treatment’ Rufus has planned for me after the shoot that frightens me.

Hands clenched in my lap, I look for him. The corners of the giant soundstage are dark and ominous. Rufus could be anywhere, watching. He’s been known to hide and observe, then swing the gauntlet later. I shiver. I catch sight of Jonathan touching up my co-star’s makeup, the two of them a dozen feet away off set.

Jonathan was irate this morning when he’d applied my makeup. He knew, without me having to say a word, what had happened between Rufus and me last night—again. No one can see beyond skin to the soul like Jonathan. His light blue eyes fasten on mine offering comfort.

He strides over.

He glances around the set for Rufus before stopping at my chair, his grey slacks rubbing against the robe I wear to protect the gown beneath. He wears his favorite sweater, a gray wool pullover with a diamond pattern across the chest. I gave it to him for his twenty-fourth birthday.

“Four more days,” he whispers. “And he won’t be able to hurt you ever again.”

Though I doubt anyone can stop Rufus from doing whatever he wants, I smile at Jonathan. He squeezes my hand. Jonathan and Oscar, my assistant, are the only people who really know me. The only people I trust. The line between his brows deepens. Hate and fury storm through his eyes. My heart softens at the sight of such fierce protection.

He scrubs his jaw. In his other hand he clutches a few tools of his profession: sponge, powder cake and a dark pencil. “I can’t—I won’t stand by and watch you used as some common whore.”

Jonathan’s anger scrapes a chill over the surface of my skin.

Oscar appears carrying a cup of steaming coffee. He’s young like me, and, like me a high school dropout. His youthful enthusiasm for show business brought him to Hollywood in search of something other than his current job scuttling around movie lots as my assistant.

“Two sugars, just like you like it,” he pipes, the splattering of freckles across his nose spreading with his grin. He seems to catch the thickness in the air between Jonathan and me and his smile vanishes. “Are we still on for Sunday night?”

I nod, take the teacup and set it on the table next to my chair. “Though I do wish you two would tell me what you have planned.”

“Shh.” Jonathan’s eyes search the dark corners of the stage. “Just be ready.”

“I don’t want either of you harmed,” I protest.

“I promised you I would take care of you and I will.” Jonathan’s blue eyes darken. “Forever.”

“Me too,” Oscar adds in earnest.

I’m grateful, but afraid neither of them, especially Oscar, really understands how dangerous freeing me really is.

Movement from one of the dark corners of the stage draws our gazes. I sit erect, heart thumping. Rufus appears from the murky shadows like an apparition. He wears white from his hand-tailored, double-breasted jacket to his white wing-tip shoes. He keeps his jacket buttoned, accentuating the V shape of his waist and shoulders, made formidable with extra padding he has specially sewn in to make him look larger and more powerful. Fear wracks my body. The cunning smile gracing his features, the genial way he greets those who work for him hides his ruthlessness. Only I am privy to the depths of his impiety.

Jonathan steps back. So does Oscar.

Rufus’ dark eyes flick from Jonathan to me. I shudder, hoping he did not see Jonathan holding my hand. I extended my hand to Rufus, hoping to distract him. He takes it, bringing my fingers to his lips. Moist heat brushes my knuckles. “My darling wife,” he murmurs.