Inferno Anthology (192 page)

“No, Ms. Claire. It’s your suite, not mine. I’m here to help you get ready for dinner. My name is Catherine.”

Claire slowly sat in amazement. What the hell did she mean get ready for dinner? She was being held prisoner in some luxurious suite, covered in bruises, and this person was supposed to help her get ready for dinner. “I’m not trying to sound ungrateful. But what do you mean ‘ready for dinner’?”

“Mr. Rawlings will be here precisely at 7:00 PM for dinner. He expects you to be ready and dressed accordingly. I presumed you might need some assistance.”

At first, Claire couldn’t wrap her mind around the entire scenario. He wanted her
dressed
for dinner. Who the hell did he think he was? “Listen, if you want to assist me, let me out of here.” Claire did her best to keep her voice from raising another octave, yet the fear of seeing Anthony and the possibility of escape made that all but impossible.

“Ms. Claire, that is not up to me. I’m here to assist you as I can.” It didn’t make any sense. Yet in the desperation of the situation, for some reason, Claire believed this lady. Catherine continued, “We only have an hour. Perhaps we could begin with your hair?”

Undaunted by Claire’s appearance or even the circumstance of her presence, Catherine’s calmness eased Claire. She shook her head, remembering the resolve from her shower, spoke with a convincing authority, “Catherine, thank you for offering to help, but I don’t plan on dressing for dinner. I actually believe there has been a mistake. I will be leaving here soon.” While Claire continued, Catherine came and went from the closet with a blue cocktail dress and matching shoes. “Oh, I don’t know whom those clothes belong to.”

“Why, miss, they belong to you. Now, we really should move along, and even if you don’t plan to eat, do you not need to wear clothes?” Claire noticed her pattern of speech seemed formal. She couldn’t place the origin. It definitely wasn’t the Georgia accent she appreciated but worked daily not to duplicate.

Catherine gently took Claire’s hand and walked her into the bathroom. Claire obediently sat at the dressing table as Catherine began to softly brush her hair. She decided to not protest this kind woman. Instead, she would save her energy to face Anthony.

“There are cosmetics in the drawers in front of you. Perhaps you could begin to apply some while I do your hair.” Then she added, “You’re very pretty without it, but I believe it will make you feel better after sleeping most of the day.”

Claire looked into the mirror. Seeing her eyes, temple, and lips, she began to cry. It wasn’t the sobs of earlier, but a rush of tears quietly flowing down her cheeks.

“Now, miss, that won’t help the situation. Mr. Rawlings appreciates punctuality. Crying will only make the cosmetics run.”

“I don’t want to face
him
.” After the first desperate sentence, she hesitated. Claire didn’t know this woman. She obviously worked for Anthony. Why would she confide in her? Then Claire looked in the reflection, not at herself but at the woman behind her. Her eyes were the color of steel, gray and soft. Her expression wasn’t one of duty or pity, but of compassion. It may have been wishful thinking, but for some reason, the words continued to flow. “After last night, I feel so… dirty. You don’t know what he did, what he made me do. I’m too embarrassed.” Her words came accompanied by tears, and her nose began to run.

Catherine’s voice held no judgment for either Claire or Anthony, instead desire for understanding, as if that could be possible from Claire. “I have known Mr. Rawlings for a long time. Did anything happen last night that he did not want to happen?”

Claire shook her head. “No. Everything that happened
he
wanted to happen.”

“Then there’s no need for you to be embarrassed. When you do something that he doesn’t want you to do,
that
is when you don’t want to face Mr. Rawlings.”

Catherine went to the cabinet, removed a washcloth, and wet it in the sink. She handed it to Claire, who compliantly wiped her face and began to apply make-up. It wasn’t long until they were satisfied with the results. The bruises were concealed quite well under a covering of foundation and powder. The lipstick made the swelling less noticeable. When Catherine entered the bathroom with the dress, Claire realized she was naked under the robe.

“Umm, I don’t have any lingerie.”

“Yes, miss. Do you not remember Mr. Rawlings’s rules?” Without waiting for a response, Catherine continued, “No underclothes, ever.”

Claire fought the fog of last night. She couldn’t understand why the memories were so fuzzy, yet somewhere she had some recollection of such a conversation or, more accurately, a demand. Then again, this entered the world of ridiculous. Who the hell was he, that he even thought he could make such demands, and they would be followed?

Catherine assisted Claire with the dress, so as not to mess her hair and make-up.

Claire vowed to herself regardless of how absurd it sounded: I’m not sure how or when, but I will leave here, get away from him, and go to a place where women wear underwear
.

Catherine smiled approvingly at her as she stepped in front of the mirror. “Mr. Rawlings will be pleased. Now, I must go; he’ll be here soon.”

The reminder of his impending arrival sucked some of the resolve from Claire’s demeanor as well as the air from her lungs. Catherine knew him. Maybe if she stayed, he would… Claire didn’t know how to finish that thought. He would be nice? Let her leave? It just seemed safer with this woman around.

“Perhaps you could stay until after his arrival?”

Catherine didn’t respond, but the look of satisfaction briefly changed to sadness. Instantaneously, Claire knew that Catherine’s departure was beyond both of their control. Claire would be face-to-face with her fear: the man that abused and dominated her the night before. She also knew that he was her only means of escape. For that reason and that reason alone, she would face him. “Thank you again for your help. I really doubt I will be here tomorrow. He and I will discuss it over dinner.”

Catherine nodded. It was an acknowledgment of Claire’s statement, not an affirmation of its accuracy. Then she left the bathroom. Claire heard a faint
beep
as Catherine left the suite. It reminded her of the noise made by a car fob.

While still in the bathroom, her heart rate increased when she heard the faint
beep
again.

He didn’t knock. He just opened the door and entered. Claire imagined him surveying the empty suite. If she stayed in the bathroom, would he eventually come for her? Or leave? While she debated, he waited silently in the bedroom. It took a minute or two, but slowly, Claire opened the bathroom door and entered the suite.

She used all her strength to suppress the fears that screamed to get out, determined to meet him head-on at his mind game. The first things she saw as she entered the suite were his eyes—his dark black eyes—resembling voids or black holes. His lips were moving. He was talking, yet Claire could only hear the memories of the previous night. She walked to the bookcase at the far end of the suite, feigning strength.

The fake resolve melted as she turned to see the eyes staring directly at her. Then almost instantaneously, he was there, right in front of her. His proximity caused her stomach to wrench, bringing back the nasty bile from earlier.

His large hand captured her chin, pulling her eyes and face toward the dark voids. His strong voice was deep, slow, and authoritative, “Shall we try this once more.” It wasn’t a question but a statement. “It is customary for one person to respond to the greeting of another. I said good evening.”

Claire’s knees went weak at his touch. She wanted to yell, to run, but she couldn’t let herself. If she couldn’t be strong, she could at least avoid fainting. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I’m feeling well.” With his grip still upon her chin, she knew he could feel her body tremble.

He repeated, “Good evening, Claire.” This time, it was more drawn-out. His eyes were so cold. Claire couldn’t distinguish what they said, only see the depth of their infinite darkness.

“Good evening, Anthony.” She would tell herself she sounded strong, but she didn’t.

At that moment, the door opened again, and a young man pushing a cart brought them their meal. Claire started to walk toward the table, but Anthony’s hand seized her arm, stopping her. She looked back up at him, into those eyes. He reached with his other hand to lift her dress and place a hand on her buttocks.

The shock of his touch quickly turned to anger. Her green eyes flashed fire, and her neck stiffened. “What the hell…?” Her impulse was to lash out, but the hand that held her arm tightened its grip, causing her to forget her words.

“I see you can manage to follow at least one rule. Shall we eat?” His grip loosened as his voice attempted a reasonable tone.

Anthony pulled back Claire’s chair at the intimate table. She eyed the display: It all looks so nice and is such a masquerade. The food smelled wonderful, but Claire’s stomach wouldn’t allow her to eat. All of her pep talks about standing up to him proved worthless. Instead, she sat politely, playing with her food and nodding attentively.

Looking at the dinner, Claire felt that something was missing, besides common sense. The young man had poured water into the glasses, yet to make the masquerade complete, at such a dinner there should have been wine or champagne.

It was almost as if he read her mind when Anthony commented, “I do not like to drink alcohol. It inhibits the senses.”

She immediately thought how nice it would be to have a fifth of Jack Daniels.

Anthony clearly relished her discomfort. “Don’t you like your food?”

“I do. I guess I’m just not hungry.”

“I heard that today you have only eaten breakfast. I suggest you eat. You will need your strength.” As he took another bite, he sent her a grin which didn’t reach his eyes.

Claire used every ounce of energy to remain seated and not run. Besides, the door was shut, and she heard the faint
beep
when the waiter left.

Apparently, the night before was only a prelude. Once Anthony finished eating, he stood and took Claire’s hand. Her trembling increased as she stood. He smiled and held her at arm’s length as he asked, “Did you choose this dress for the evening?”

“No, it was Catherine.” She remained tall and defiant even though she knew her will would not be considered in his plans.

“Yes, she knows me well. Now take it off.” No sweet talk, no kisses, nothing. Just a demand to remove her dress. Claire didn’t move. She glared first at him and then at the floor.

Taking a deep breath and returning her eyes to him, she said, “I think we need to talk about this—” In a sudden movement, the dress fell from her shoulders as he tore the lavish fabric from her body. Claire stood in shock, wearing only high heels.

“Apparently, you do not remember all the rules. Rule number one is to do as you are told.”

The trembling intensified as tears teetered on her painted eyelids. No words came from her mouth. It was all right. Anthony had other plans for her mouth. He pushed her down, directed her to kneel, and unzipped his pants. She noted immediately that he followed his own rules: no underwear. He didn’t speak but roughly engaged her movement. At first, fearful of suffocating, she attempted to fight and back away, but he entwined his fingers in her hair and directed her as he found fit. From there, the evening continued until about 1:00 AM.

When Anthony finally left the room, Claire threw back the blankets, grabbed the robe, and rushed to the door. Her hand gripped the smooth gray lever and pulled with all her might. It didn’t budge. She formed a fist and pounded again. Her hand throbbed, yet no one responded. The only answer was an eerie stillness.

Claire reached for something, anything. Finding the vase of flowers, she threw it against the wall. The crystal shattered, showering the wall and carpet with crystal shards and water. The flowers unable to drink, scattered on the floor, left to wilt and die. Claire sank to the ground, tears flowing. Succumbing to the exhaustion and desperation, she fell asleep where she lay.

THE NEXT MORNING,
Anthony entered the suite. The sound of the
beep
and the opening door startled Claire. She rose and their eyes met. He surveyed the suite: a lamp overturned by the bed, a scarf tied to one of the bedposts, and the broken vase near their feet. He smiled. “Good morning, Claire.”

“Good morning, Anthony,” she said with more determination than she’d been able to muster last evening. “I want you to know I have decided to go home. I will be leaving here today.”

“Do you not like your accommodations?” Anthony’s black eyes shone as his smile widened. “I don’t believe you’ll be leaving so soon. We have a legally binding agreement.” He removed a bar napkin from his suit pocket. “Dated and signed by both of us.”

Claire stared, astonished as her mind started to turn. This whole situation was so idiotic it couldn’t possibly be real. Who in their right mind thought a bar napkin was a legal agreement? And even if it was, which was like a snowball’s chance in hell, it never gave rights to abuse, demean, or condemn a person to slavery
.
Dumbfounded, she stared—speechless.