Page 72

EARLY 1990S

I bolt up in bed, my bare chest slick with sweat, my heart pumping hard and fast. I squeeze my eyes shut, then open them and see the artwork across from my bed, the dark wood dresser just beneath it. And then the sound of Beethoven fills the room. It’s my alarm going off.

I squeeze my eyes shut again and rub my forehead. It was just a dream, or more like a nightmare. I haven’t thought about that day for years. But yesterday, on my way to meet a client, I was sitting at a stoplight and looked to my right and saw a homeless man urinating on the side of a building and the memory of that day came flooding back.

I was 16 when that happened, and after that day, my life changed. I changed. My father said that was my first step in becoming a man. Little did I know back then that my remaining steps to manhood would be even worse than what happened that day. And that I wouldn’t have a choice in the matter.

My life has been planned for me since the day I was born. Probably even before I was born. And so far, I’ve followed the plan. Resisting it got me nowhere. Even if I was somehow able to escape this life, I’m not sure what I would do. This is the only life I know. I wouldn’t even know how to live as a normal person. A person who just goes about their daily life without all these secrets. Without knowing they’ve killed for nothing more than to prove a point. To show you’re a man. A member. A Kensington.

“Shut it off,” a voice mumbles beside me. “It’s too early.”

I turn to find a woman next to me in bed. She’s facing me, her long blond hair spread out over the pillow. Her eyes are closed and she’s smiling.

“Shut off the alarm and get over here,” she says, her hand moving up my leg, heading to my crotch. “I’m not finished with you yet.”

Anger swells inside me. What the hell is she still doing here? I don’t allow women to spend the night. It’s not just their rule. It’s my rule. But apparently I broke it last night. I’d had too much to drink and must’ve fallen asleep and this woman took it upon herself to sleep in my bed.

I take her hand off me. “You need to leave. I have to get to work.”

She flips the covers back, exposing her naked body. “Can’t you be late to work?”

My eyes drift over her. She’s gorgeous. Large breasts, flat stomach, long legs, golden tan skin. She could easily be a model. That body could sell most anything. Clothing. Perfume. Purses. Shoes. She’s the type of woman other women would kill to look like. I’m not sure how much of her is real. I know she’s had at least some work done to look that way. Her breasts are definitely fake, but whoever did them did an excellent job. They look natural. It’s the feel that gave them away.

“I can’t be late,” I tell her as I get out of bed. “I need to get ready. You can use the guest bathroom if you’d like.”

She’s staring at my naked body and it makes me uncomfortable. I don’t like feeling exposed. My life is all about covering things up. Secrets. Lies. The truth about who I am and what I do. I turn away from her and go to my closet to get my robe.

“Don’t cover up,” I hear her say. “A body like that needs to be on display. Tall. Muscular.” She pauses. “Well-endowed.”

I ignore her compliments. I know she only says them because she’s supposed to. I’m sure she says the same thing to the members who are old and out of shape.

I put my robe on and turn back to find her in front of me. Naked. Her hand sneaks under my robe, just below my waist, moving downward. “Come on. Just one more time?”

She starts stroking me, showing off her skills. And she definitely has skills in this area. Then again, she does this all the time so she has plenty of practice in knowing how to please a man, physically. If she wasn’t good at it, they wouldn’t keep her on staff.

I don’t know this girl’s name but she works for us. For the organization, the secret group I’m part of. A small but select group of rich, powerful men who control the world. Or at least that’s what we like to think.

“Doesn’t that feel good?” she whispers, her soft hand still stroking me.

My shoulders relax and I tip my head back. “Yes.”

The organization hires girls like this to take care of the members’ needs. Most of the members have arranged marriages so wives are nothing more than display objects. They take their place on the arms of their husbands at high society events or whenever people are watching. Then behind closed doors, both husband and wife lead their separate lives, fulfilling their needs outside the marital bed. But the majority of the men don’t have time to go find a woman to sleep with, at least not the right woman. We can’t choose some random woman at a bar. We have to be careful. When you’re rich and powerful, you trust no one, especially a woman you just met.

So to make things easier on us, women are provided as a benefit to membership. The women are screened, both mentally and physically, to ensure they’re suitable for the job. The pool of candidates includes beautiful women of all races and nationalities. Some would say they’re high-end call girls but we call them associates. It’s a code word we can use in everyday conversation without anyone knowing what we’re talking about. Only the members know and it’s become somewhat of an inside joke. I’m having drinks with one of my associates tonight. We all know what it means. Even the wives know.

Unlike the associates, the wives are one of us. They have the right name, the right education, the right lineage. Most have fathers or brothers who are members. That’s why they’re paired up with us. They know their place. They know their purpose. And most are happy to accept their role, even though it means a life in a loveless marriage.

“God, you feel good,” I hear her say as she grinds into me, her legs straddling me.

I wasn’t going to do this, but she got me started and now we’re back in bed so she can finish me off. Her breasts are bouncing over my face but I close my eyes and try to imagine myself somewhere else. With someone I care about. Someone I feel something for. I don’t know why I do it. Why I imagine these things I’ll never have. I’m not even sure real love exists. If it does, I know I’ll never experience it.

This is my future. A woman like this. Someone I don’t know. Someone who’s more than happy to get me off, but doesn’t give a damn about me. She’s just doing a job. And tomorrow night, she’ll be doing it to someone else.

It’ll be like this for the rest of my life. I’ll always be with women like her, even if I’m forced to get married again.

My wife was chosen for me when I was 22. She was also 22 and had just graduated from Vassar with a degree in Russian Literature. I had just graduated from Yale with a degree in Finance. Neither one of us wanted to get married but we were young and obedient and did as we were told.

Her name was Kristina and she had dreams of spending her twenties traveling overseas, not playing the role of Pearce Kensington’s wife. And I had no desire to play the role of her husband. My sole focus was to attend graduate school at Harvard and learn as much as possible so I could someday prove to my father that I was better at running our company than he was.

After Kristina and I got married in what was a ridiculously over-the-topic summer wedding, attended by six hundred of our parents’ closest friends, we moved to Boston and I attended Harvard and began working on my MBA. As with other couples who had arranged marriages, Kristina and I led separate lives. She spent her time either reading or partaking in high-end charity events, trying to establish her place as a socialite. And I went to school and spent my free time going out with my classmates, some of whom were also members of the organization.

My marriage to Kristina was not even close to being real. She and I only had sex one time, on our wedding night. We thought we should at least try, given that we were husband and wife. But it was awkward and uncomfortable and ended with us both deciding to never do it again. I had zero attraction to her. She’s average height with shoulder-length reddish blond hair that she always pulled back behind her head and pinned up in a style that made her look much older than she was. She didn’t like the outdoors or any kind of physical activity, preferring to stay inside and read, a lifestyle that wasn’t kind to her body. Her skin was pale and she was very thin with almost no muscle tone.

The marriage ended a year later, after Kristina admitted she was a lesbian. I suspected she was when I first met her, but she didn’t tell anyone until ten months into our marriage. The members didn’t think Kristina would be able to adequately fake being my wife, given her sexual preference, and therefore allowed us to get a divorce. It was the best news I’d had in years. Kristina was a nice enough girl, but I was relieved to be out of the marriage, and so was she.

I never want to get married again but I know they’ll force me to. Being a bachelor isn’t accepted in my world. Not just among my wealthy friends but also in my business life. Someday I’ll be CEO of Kensington Chemical and our clients and business partners are more likely to trust a CEO with a stable married life than a single bachelor. And I need someone to accompany me to social events.

But since my divorce almost two years ago, I haven’t been set up with anyone. I think they want me to be more settled in my career before they push me into another marriage. Or maybe they think it’s too soon. My world is all about appearances and it would look better if I waited a few years before getting married again.

After my divorce from Kristina, I completed my MBA, then returned to Connecticut to work for Kensington Chemical under the direction of my father, the CEO. I’m now 25 and have spent the past year working at the company, learning the business.

My mind returns to the woman on top of me who’s doing what she’s trained to do. My body instinctively tenses up as I get my release, then relaxes as I come down from it. She moves herself off me and lies back on the bed.

“You’re not going to tell them, are you?” she asks.

“You shouldn’t have done it.” I get out of bed, putting my robe back on. “You know the rules. No sleeping over.”

She sits up on her knees, pleading with me. “I had too much to drink. I was tired. I fell asleep. It was an accident. I didn’t mean to. And I tried to make it up to you this morning by—”

“I didn’t ask for that. And as for the alcohol, it’s your job to limit yourself so things like this don’t happen.”

She nods and looks down at the bed.

I feel bad for her. She’s young and beautiful and yet somehow got stuck doing this job. I wonder how long ago she was recruited. Recruitment can be done by any of the members, although I haven’t done it myself. The way it works is that a member will see a beautiful young woman and offer to make her dreams come true for a price. For some of these girls, the dream is to become a model or an actress. Others just want large sums of money to spend as they please.

Whatever the dream, the price is that they have to take care of the members’ physical needs. I’m sure this girl doesn’t want to be doing this. But now she can’t get out. She’ll never be out. When her looks fade, making her undesirable to the members, she’ll still be monitored to make sure she never reveals our secrets.

“What’s your name?” I ask her. I never know their names.

She cautiously looks up. “Sophia.”

“Sophia, I need you to leave now. And I don’t want to see you again. If you see my name listed, let another girl take the job. I will not tell them that you spent the night, but you have to be more careful next time. They’re very strict about the rules. If it had been anyone else, well, you know what could’ve happened.”

She shakes her head. “No. I don’t. What could’ve happened?”

Did they not tell her? Maybe she’s new. This is the first time I’ve been with her and she looks like she’s about 20 or 21. Maybe she just started. Still, they should’ve told her the rules and the punishment for not following those rules.

“You could get hurt.” I need to be honest with her. Breaking the rules has gotten other girls killed. I don’t know that for sure, but I assumed that’s what happened to them when I never saw those girls again.

She moves off the bed, holding the sheet up to cover herself. “They never told me that. When I started, nobody ever said anything about—”

“Sophia, I don’t have time to discuss this with you. I need to get to work.”

She nods. “Yes. I’m sorry. I’ll leave.” She picks her lingerie off the floor and starts putting it on.

I walk past her toward the bathroom. “The driver is waiting downstairs to take you back.”

“Thank you,” she says.

I look back and see her trying to zip her dress up. I go over and zip it up the rest of the way.

She turns and puts her hand on my arm. “You’re a nice man, Pearce. You’re not like the others.”

And then she reaches down to grab her high heels and scurries out of the room and out the door.

A nice man. She couldn’t be more wrong. If she only knew the things I’ve done.

I am not a nice man. I’m a Kensington.

* * *