Behind the Green Curtain (7 page)

Chapter 15

Amelia didn’t go in half-prepared.
For her, there was no strategy too well-formulated. Everything was down to the
last detail.

When the limo rolled up outside
Caton’s apartment, it was stocked with imported Indian fare, from the wine to
the appetizers. The music was tailored, the driver was tailored, even the
interior of the limo was tailored. Caton knew this, because she had been told
very specifically what Amelia expected out of the evening’s transportation, a
list that involved many long conversations and deep sighs of frustration on the
other end of the phone as the sales rep at the limo company tried to decide if
jumping through hoops was worth the additional fee Amelia was willing to pay.

Amelia hadn’t, however, told Caton
what she expected of her. So, looking out at the black car against the curb,
windows dark and concealing, Caton feared what awaited her beyond the glass.
Bracing herself, she abandoned the safety of her building, pulling her cape
tighter around her shoulders, asking herself in no kind terms why she hadn’t
bought a dress with more fabric. From ribcage to toe, she was warm enough, but as
the wind whipped through the cape, despite its lining, to sink into her
largely-exposed upper half, she realized she was a fucking moron for trying so
hard to impress someone who had given her nothing but confusion in return.

With a small nod, the limo driver
opened the door for her, and Caton hustled inside, sliding against the plush
leather seat with a shiver as the door closed behind her. Turning to Amelia,
she warmed again instantly. The deep red dress Amelia wore contrasted against
her skin where a shawl in deeper red lay open at her shoulders, but it was
Amelia’s eyes that made the expansive space of the limo feel uncomfortably
intimate.

“Let me see,” she requested, and a
burst of laughter escaped Caton’s lips. She should have known she would be
subject to Amelia’s approval. She didn’t exactly have Amelia’s wardrobe or
sense of style, and the dress she’d bought for the occasion cost more than she
should have paid, but still came off a rack. Pinching free the loop enclosures
that held the cape together, she pulled the sides apart, turning full-on to
Amelia in a poor imitation of a flasher, and awaited Amelia’s assessment.

Confident gaze stroking down
Caton’s body, Amelia’s eyes lingered everywhere the dress was designed to draw
attention. Then, lingered some more, before they finally made it back to
Caton’s. “You look perfect,” she said at last, in such a way that Caton
considered the request may have been less in line with the trimmings she had
demanded for the limo and more in line with her request the day in the foyer.

Either way, it had the same effect,
and Caton turned in the seat, refastening the cape’s enclosures with trembling
fingers, as she realized not looking at Amelia was her safest option. “Thank
you,” she replied, trying to sound more mannerly than affected. “So do you.”

Amelia’s subsequent silence made
Caton think she had succeeded in sounding merely polite, but the false sense of
security was waylaid seconds after the limo began moving as Amelia’s fingers
pushed through her hair, tucking the loose locks behind Caton’s ear,
effectively eliminating the only barrier Caton had available to her. Glancing
to Amelia again, she watched the slow curve of lips as Amelia smiled.

“You don’t happen to speak Bengali,
do you?” Amelia asked, voice quiet in the vast space of the cabin.

The question was unexpected enough
that Caton was able to laugh through her discomfort. “No.”

“We’ll wing it,” Amelia countered.

“They don’t speak English?”

“They do...” Amelia paused long in
her explanation. “But some things have gotten lost in translation. I wouldn’t
want anyone to misinterpret anything.”

Gaze held by Amelia’s, Caton felt
all traces of humor or civility evaporate at once, amazed at how quickly Amelia
could go from cordial to cutting. “No,” Caton uttered. “You wouldn’t want
that.”

Turning away, she stared out the
window, hoping to deter further discussion, but her cold-shoulder was of little
use, because Amelia had said all she needed to say.

~ ~ ~

Taking the final turns in silence,
the limo pulled up outside the lighted facade of a hotel that could have been a
still life in a museum exhibit of the wealthy. As she waited for the driver to
open her door, Amelia glanced her way, and Caton anticipated the next
vaguely-concealed rejection.

“Come with me,” Amelia ordered,
before stepping out of the car, and, withholding her instantaneous response,
Caton slid across the seat to follow.

Taking the driver’s hand as she
emerged from the car, she somehow landed in Amelia’s waiting touch, which slid
inside the fabric of her cape to clutch her arm. From any other perspective,
they must have looked like two people closer than they were, but, not wanting
to misinterpret anything, Caton focused on the distance between them.

Led into the warm interior of the
hotel lobby, which spilled over with such opulence it bordered on obscene,
Caton expected Amelia to release her. Anger simmering, she wanted Amelia to
release her. Instead, Amelia directed Caton by the arm until they reached a
group of men, who stood at their approach, ogling freely.

“Mr. Argo.” Amelia picked the
correct man from the group, indicating she had done her research. “I’m Amelia.”

“Well, you are each bit as lovely
in life as you sound on the phone,” Mr. Argo responded, taking Amelia’s offered
hand to press his lips to her knuckles.

“Thank you,” Amelia smiled, and
Caton’s arm was moved for her, pushed through the fabric of the cape and
offered to Mr. Argo as sacrifice. “This is Caton.”

“And you are as lovely in life as I
was told you would be,” Mr. Argo said, lifting Caton’s hand to  his lips.

Anticipating the compliment, but
not the revelation of its original source, Caton manufactured a smile that felt
fake, but looked real enough to satisfy Mr. Argo. Not once had she heard Amelia
exuding her loveliness to anyone. But that was probably for the best. If she
had, she might have misinterpreted it.

Mr. Argo released her hand, and
Caton pulled it back inside the cape for safety, but Amelia returned to her
place as well. It was hardly fair that Caton felt such a rush of longing at the
simple touch, when, to Amelia, the connection was nothing more than a rudder by
which to guide Caton through the dangerous waters of high-dollar fundraising.

“Shall we go?” Amelia asked, and
Mr. Argo agreed with a nod. The men at his back pulled on their coats, and
Caton could hear their shoes thudding against the floor behind them as Amelia
led the formal parade back to the limo.

When the driver opened the door,
Amelia pushed Caton inside, following her into the seat. With each man who
climbed in after them, the space grew smaller and Amelia inched closer, until
she finally sat flush against Caton’s side. Unhooking the closures of her cape
once again, Caton hoped her sudden overheating and the low cut of her dress
went unnoticed in the dark interior of the cabin.

The kind of casual conversation
that Caton had learned came effortlessly to Amelia filled the car as it curved
through the streets, and Caton felt Amelia’s throaty laugh against her, turning
to watch the man who told the funny story smile with the elation of impressing
such an alluring woman.

Amelia had enchanted them already,
Caton could tell, just by appearing before them and being everything she had
promised over the phone. Whatever she was asking of them, whatever dollar
amount she had in mind, Amelia had virtually in hand. The rest of the night was
for show, and Caton had been drawn into her act. She shouldn’t be a part of it,
she was well aware of the fact, but she was just like the men currently hanging
on Amelia’s every word, an adherent to the woman’s unrelenting appeal. Amelia
said jump, and Caton had done so in a dress she couldn’t afford and
three-and-a-half-inch heels.

When the limo took a hard right
that tested everyone’s balance, Caton found herself suddenly pinned between the
door and Amelia. The sound of the men’s laughter masked the gasp that slipped
from her throat as Amelia placed her hand on an exposed knee to right herself.
Returning to her original position, Amelia laughed along, perfectly at ease.
Her slightly chilled fingers, satin against Caton’s skin, fluttered inward, one
finger dipping toward the cleft in her knee, and remained, as if it had every
right to be there.

Glancing down at Amelia’s hand,
Caton felt as if the limo was still careening. She turned her gaze to the
window, watching the city roll past and trying to calm the sudden surge of
desire that Amelia stoked with the soft touch. She wished she could tell
herself it was the last time she would give into Amelia’s clear lust for
control, but she knew if she told herself that, she would be lying.

Chapter 16

From the limo to the box at the
theater, Amelia didn’t miss a beat. Nothing could get her off her game. Not a
botched punch line. Nor an aggressively suggestive comment. Not even the
unexpected accident that had them sitting in traffic for forty minutes and
arriving at the theater at the last moment. Ushering the men inside, Amelia
still managed to check their coats in an orderly manner, and Caton wondered if
anything could fluster the woman.

Of course, it already had, and
Caton had borne witness to it. This woman, the one in control of every step and
word, would have let Caton walk out of her job and her life the day she fired
her without a second thought. She would have stayed behind her desk, completely
unresponsive. The other Amelia had gotten hurt. She had gotten up. She had
chased Caton down the stairs.

That Amelia was so rare, though,
Caton had seen only glimpses of her in the time since, and was starting to
wonder if those ephemeral moments even belonged to reality. The Amelia who had
greeted her in the limo was almost too stalwart, too at-ease, too trained. It
wasn’t even natural to be so untouchable.

Even the usher recognized that
Amelia was in charge. Trying to hustle them into their seats before the curtain
went up, the tuxedo-clad man finally admitted defeat, realizing Amelia’s guests
would take their seats when they were good and ready to do so and not a moment
before.

“Please, sit,” Amelia said,
motioning to the seats that lined the front of the box, as the opening chords
started below them, and Caton cast her gaze toward the overdressed patrons in
the orchestra seats below.

“It’s your compartment,” Mr. Argo
argued.

“I insist,” Amelia stated, somehow
commanding and demurring at the same time, and succeeded in getting the men
seated without pressure or demand.

Nodding toward one of the chairs at
the back of the box, Amelia dictated Caton’s position as well, and Caton sunk
into the velvet cushioning, a pawn moved onto her square. Warmed by their haste
to the box, she removed her cape, letting it slink down her back as Amelia took
the seat beside her with such an abundance of grace, she may as well have
floated into her chair. Not for the first time, Caton wondered if Amelia had
the capacity to just be human.

Watching Amelia hold the usher in
her sights until he finally left the box and pulled the curtain shut at their
backs, Caton’s eyes drifted downward as Amelia shrugged her shawl from her
shoulders and exposed just how low the red fabric dipped between her breasts.

Before Amelia, she had never
thought herself a lecherous person, but, whatever Amelia showed, Caton always
felt instantly drawn to it, like Amelia’s skin was a magnetic field and her
eyes were crafted of nickel. Of course, to be fair, her desire to look at
anything Amelia chose to reveal could have been due to the fact that Amelia
kept so much of herself concealed. The more important parts of Amelia felt
permanently vaulted, like they were locked behind a steel door Caton would never
figure out how to access.

As the curtain rose, Caton dragged
her gaze to the stage. From the side of her eye, she could see Amelia silently
situating herself, smoothing her dress down her legs, adjusting the shawl
behind her back, crossing her legs in front of her. It wasn’t until Amelia
settled back fully into her seat, arm pressing against Caton’s, that Caton
became aware of just how close Amelia was sitting, how much of the lingering
warmth she felt in the cold darkness was owed, not to their sprint through the
theater at all, but to Amelia.

She tried to ignore it, but, as
always, Amelia was impossible to ignore. Just knowing her skin was so close
made Caton yearn to touch. As she spent her days yearning. As she suspected she
would spend the length of her employment yearning. Though, she still couldn’t
understand why. She had better judgment, she had Laura, but, whenever she was
around Amelia, she forgot she had either of those things.

Sometime later, Amelia shifted,
legs uncrossing and recrossing to angle closer. That was all it took to hasten
the beat of Caton’s heart, to make her mouth go dry, to draw her body instantly
in Amelia’s direction. When she felt the back of Amelia’s bare foot slide down
her calf, Caton wanted more than anything to give into the sensation. Still raw
from Amelia’s warning, though, she knew it was contrived, as everything was
with her, a cat-and-mouse game where Amelia cornered and toyed with her until
she chose to set Caton free just so she could come after her again when she got
bored.

Loath to misinterpret anything,
Caton shifted away, crossing her own legs to remove herself from Amelia’s
range, as distant as she could make herself in the limited space. When Amelia
looked over at her in the darkness, Caton could feel it, the amusement in the
eyes sliding over her face, before Amelia’s fingers reached out to feather her
hair out of the way.

Arm sliding across her shoulders,
Caton was torn by equal urges to lean into Amelia and away from her, to settle
comfortably into the embrace and tense within it. Her body decided for her,
suddenly so rigid against the back of the chair, she had a better view of the
stage. If she went through life more aware of her posture, she suddenly
realized, she would have a completely different perspective on the world.

Undeterred, perhaps even
encouraged, by the attempt at defiance, Amelia’s hand curved around Caton’s
arm, sliding up and down the exposed skin in a calculated caress. The goose
bumps formed against her will, but what Caton could control, she did. Eyes
locked on the stage, she saw nothing, felt everything, and pretended the
opposite.

Amelia’s hand trailing over her
shoulder to the sensitive skin of her neck, Caton’s eyes closed on instinct,
and, when Amelia’s fingers moved up a vein, it throbbed wildly in response,
belying where Caton’s real attention lied. It was futile trying to resist
Amelia when her body offered nothing but encouragement, so she decided to
surrender, head falling to the side, giving Amelia more skin to explore.

The featherlight touch traced
Caton’s jawline to her ear, skimming around its shell and pressing into the
hollow behind it, a spot Caton didn’t know was that erogenous for her until her
breath turned choppy in response.

Slowly retracing the path, Amelia
started again and again, sometimes with the soft pads of her fingertips,
sometimes scratching Caton’s skin with her nails, until Caton couldn’t remember
where she was or why she was supposed to be refusing to let Amelia touch her.

It might have been minutes or hours
later that the curtain fell on the first act, and by the time the lights came
up, Amelia had already moved away, shawl back in place to cover the most
revealing parts of her dress, at the ready before Mr. Argo and his colleagues
got to their feet in the front of the box to stretch.

Turning around, Mr. Argo smiled
widely at the sight of her, as if he’d forgotten how stunning Amelia was in the
short time he’d been turned toward the stage.

“You let me buy you a drink,” he
said.

“Of course.” Amelia flirted like a
professional.

“Both of you,” Mr. Argo added,
glancing Caton’s way.

“Caton,” Amelia coaxed, holding her
hand out, expecting obedience.

Staring at the hand as if it was
loaded, Caton refused the offering, steadying herself on the back of her chair
as she got to her feet. “I have to go to the restroom,” she responded. “I’m
sorry.”

Moving around the outside of her
chair, despite the limited space next to the railing, she succeeded in avoiding
Amelia’s spellbinding touch as she fled the box. Behind her, she could hear
Amelia giving an undoubtedly perfect explanation, and imagined her sliding her
hand into the crook of Mr. Argo’s waiting arm and being escorted to the lobby
by the same man who would later donate millions of dollars for the privilege of
having had exactly this moment with her.

The long line at the restroom gave
Caton time to partially recover, to mentally prepare for more of Amelia’s
special brand of torture. This Amelia, Caton knew well though, and she didn’t
doubt her little display would be long forgotten by the time they returned to
their seats. Waiting for Amelia’s next touch without answer was a familiar
feeling, much like praying to a god who didn’t exist.

The need to relieve herself of the
pressure Amelia built inside of her was also painfully familiar, and, while she
convinced herself that compassion for those at the end of the line was what
stopped her from masturbating in the bathroom stall, it was really more
logistics and the quarter-inch gap at one side of the old wooden stall door.

Still, as she returned to the
lobby, Caton had nearly found her way back to the relative normalcy of being in
Amelia’s presence. Then, she spotted Amelia, standing like a beacon in the
center of the room, holding not only the entire group of potential investors
captivated, but a few passersby who had been drawn into her orbit as well.

As she finished her story, the
group went up in raucous laughter, gaining Amelia even more attention from the
room’s patrons, and Amelia’s eyes rose to the crowd, scanning her admirers with
haste, stopping only when they got to Caton. She didn’t smile, but Amelia’s
gaze was oddly unguarded, burning with desire as blatant as Caton had ever seen
it. Desire for her, though, or for the power she held over her? Realizing the
two may be one and the same for Amelia, Caton turned from the temptation and
burrowed into the crowd, leaving Amelia to her flock.

The clutch in her hand felt solid,
and it occurred to Caton she could escape. She wouldn’t want to risk the run-in
with Amelia to retrieve her cape from the box, so she would run cold if she
ran, but she would be liberated, free of Amelia’s strange power over her.
Unready to make that kind of commitment, apparently, Caton found herself back
in the loge, watching the crowd below, considering how she ended up in her
current position, knowing she had only herself to blame.

As the lights blinked in warning,
Amelia returned with her arm in Mr. Argo’s. Watching the men strut back toward
their seats with expensive wine in cheap plastic stemware, Caton put on her
best fake smile for them. If this was what Amelia wanted from her,
reinforcement in her seduction of complete strangers for profit, then that’s
what Caton would give her. But it was all Caton would give her. Amelia had no
right to ask for more.

Mr. Argo and his
slightly-inebriated friends settling back in, Caton glanced at Amelia, knowing
Amelia only responded to strength and facing her was the best way to regain
some element of control. Staring back with her usual indecipherable look, Amelia
held out a bottle of water, and Caton blinked at it, searching for the skull
and crossbones on the label.

Thrown from her intended course,
she couldn’t remember what stand she was trying to make. “Thank you,” she said
on automatic, taking the water and discovering how thirsty she was when she
twisted the cap off and took a drink.

The darkness sinking back over the
theater, civilized applause rising toward the rafters, Caton settled back into
her seat, capping the water and setting it on the floor beside her. Remnants of
Amelia’s touches still on her skin, she feared a reenactment, and longed for
it, two contradictory poles that always seemed to balance each other and exist
harmoniously when she was around Amelia.

On stage, an aria swelled and,
beside her, Amelia nudged slightly closer, her hand breaching the slit in
Caton’s dress to settle above her knee. There was almost affection in it, and
Caton sighed, partly in irritation, partly in delight, and folded her hands
primly in her lap, as if feigning purity would make Amelia abstain.

For a while, it seemed to work. The
hand just sat there, perfectly still, making an impression on Caton’s leg like
an iron held on the same sleeve for too long. Then, there was the slightest
movement of Amelia’s fingers, a barely-there brush easing over skin already
branded, turning into an explorative up-and-down slide along Caton’s thigh.
Easing inward, the touch traveled further with each pass, ceasing its
advancement only when it reached the point where Caton pressed her thighs
solidly together beneath the fabric of her dress.

Swallowing at nothing, Caton
managed not to squirm in her seat. Weeks ago, it would have been impossible,
but, evidently, Amelia’s bouts of torture had been good training.

Amelia’s touch wasn’t insistent, it
was persuasive, her fingers moving at leisure over Caton’s rapidly-heating skin
to test the boundaries of Caton’s resolve, and Caton struggled to hold her
ground, not against Amelia, but within herself. With each sweep of Amelia’s
hand, she wanted nothing more than to open up and let her in. It was only the
very public venue and immediate company that made her clutch the seat of her
chair until her hand ached in resistance, knowing even as she did that it was
only a matter of time before she gave into her.

“Let me.” Amelia’s words ghosting
over Caton’s ear were more sensation than sound. Like the movement of her hand,
they were far from an order. Two words, barely spoken, they were almost plea,
almost apology, and Caton wanted so much to believe they were both, that if she
let Amelia in, it would be fruitful and not the same painful longing she had
been plagued with for weeks.

The simple request wedging into
Caton’s rational mind, ceasing its operation, at the slight nudge of Amelia’s
hand, her legs fell open. Holding her breath, she still couldn’t stop the gasp
that slipped free as Amelia’s hand penetrated her resistance to brush against
her panties. Eyes focused on a spot on the stage, she tried to maintain an iota
of control, but she had no control. All she had wanted for weeks was for Amelia
to fuck her again, and, as she was discovering, it didn’t matter when or where
that took place.