Page 12 of Madame X

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 thedingof 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 elevatordings again, and my door opens.

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

Fury 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 willneverbe 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 aremine, 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.