To Hold (4 page)

He frowns. “Earlier today, what happened … none of them could see. The afternoon light casts a reflective glare on the windows.”

I nod, swallowing hard, trying to get moisture down my throat. I feel if I try to speak, only a croak will come out, like cotton is filling the thin cavity. His lie rests dirty on my ears. I am the one who sits in this glass house. I am the one who stares into that luxurious great room and waits for his figure to appear. Reflection has never been a problem. I clear my throat. “Do I look okay?”

He steps back, releasing my hair as if he has been burned. The skin around his mouth changes, his five o’clock shadow bending and stretching around a tight smile. “You look beautiful,” he says finally. “Like always. Nathan will be pleased.”

I straighten, stepping away from him, stepping to the minibar, where I prepare water for my throat. Willing this memory from my mind: his concern, his proximity, his touch on my hair, his lies for my sanity. I hope he is right, and Nathan will be pleased. I hope that my punishment is over, and my life will return to normal, the fucked version of normal that we exist in. I have learned my lesson. Partly from the humiliation, but mainly from the anger he had displayed. Part of me had embraced it — the first proof that a real person laid beneath that cool exterior. Another part of me had been scared. Nathan has never struck me, but very well could have, his anger that present, his emotions that out of control.

I walk to the house, feeling Drew’s eyes on me, his hand gentle on my back as he slides open the door. “Mr. Dumont is in the office.”

The office. That is new, different, a place I haven’t seen since my first tour of the house. Wandering is not permitted, not in this house to which I have no claim over. I step into the small room, and Nathan is there, standing by the window, his tie loosened, cufflinks undone. I nod politely to him and stop, waiting.

“Swimming. How important is it to you?”

I blink. This may be the first time Nathan has ever asked me a question. He tends to limit our conversations to orders and crucial details. I think, trying to decide upon an answer, knowing what I want to say, but trying to find a polite way to state it. The minutes pass, my mind refusing to assist in my time of need, and I finally open my mouth, using the simple truth. “Not important enough for me to negotiate for it, but I would appreciate permission to swim. It would give me something to do during the day.”

“My issue, my anger, was not about you swimming.” He steps forward, rolling up one sleeve in perfect, precise folds, unveiling muscular arms. “I was upset that you purposely disobey my rule — the rules are in place for a reason, and I need you to follow them. But what caused me to lose my temper was your display in front of Drew.”

My face flushes, and I wonder where Drew is right now, if he is still behind me, or if he just dropped me off and moved on.

“I understand that you have trouble understanding the difference between our sex and your exhibitionism, so know
this
: unless I tell you to, you will stay fully clothed in front of the staff. Do you understand?”

I nod meekly, my cheeks burning as I am talked to in the manner someone would a small child.

“I’ll speak with your hair stylist. I’m sure there is some product that can be purchased to protect your hair. I will allow you to swim, assuming you do it during the day when I am at work.” He finishes the second sleeve, both forearms now bare, the look — combined with his loose tie and rumpled hair — incredibly hot.

I will allow you to swim.
His gifts are still insults. “Thank you,” I say softly, trying not to stare at the muscles in his arms, or the beautiful length of his fingers as they rest on his hips. I hate when this happens. When I hate this man and then my mind wanders, picking up on one of the small details that makes him devastating. His looks are my weakness, his mind my undoing.

“Y
our husband is so handsome.”

I look up from my book, my feet tucked beneath me, my father’s snores comforting in their regularity. “I’m sorry?”

Pam beams, a worn
People
magazine clutched in her large hands, the cover moving as she scurries closer. “Jeanie brought this in, it’s got photos from your trip to Napa. I didn’t realize how handsome your husband was. Why, you’re famous!”

She unfolds the magazine, folding it back on itself, thrusting the glossy pages forward, one bare fingernail tapping insistently on the page. I accept it carefully, my eyes devouring the pages. We have no internet at the house. Or rather, I am not given the password for the house’s Wi-Fi. My original cell phone, the one that made the limo ride with me to Nathan’s home, is gone — taken by Nathan. He gave me a new one that is simple and purposeful. It makes and receives calls and text messages.

I know that Nathan is important, someone worth reporting about. The paparazzi used to wait at the airport for me, snapping bright white pictures as I entered the FBO, shouting out questions that I always ignored. My rules are clear. The press is to be ignored. It, according to Nathan, is one of the most important rules. I always hear their questions, see their flashbulbs, but have never read their words. I don’t know much of anything about Nathan other than that he comes from wealth, is heir to something impressive, and that he develops skyscrapers and resorts and gated communities that he fills with the wealthy.

The photos are from a charity luncheon that we attended, hills of grapevines in the distance, the sunny warmth of the day coming through in the images. The shots seem to focus on us, the other couples in attendance mostly ignored by the photographer. If I can say so, I look fabulous — glowing with happiness, my head tilted toward Nathan, a proud smile on his face, as he looks at me with an emotion some might confuse with love. I love these pages; I want to take this magazine and stuff it into my bag. I want to pore over the photos in the privacy of my room, to look at the representations of my life that I wish were accurate.

I feel the chair shift as Pam’s large weight rests on the arm, her face close to mine as she reaches forward, pointing to a photo of the two of us. “This is my favorite photo of him. Whew!” She fans herself dramatically. “What I wouldn’t give to trade places with you, honey.” She laughs, a pleasant trill of joy.

“Can I hold on to this? I’d like to show it to Dad when he wakes up.”

“Certainly.” She pats my shoulder, heaving to her feet and stepping over to his bed, checking his lines and recording in his chart in clear, precise writing. It is one of the things I appreciate about this place. His records are kept clean, orderly, his blood work easy to read, his tests occurring when they should, according to schedule. That alone is a Godsend, never mind the daily delivery of fresh flowers, the delicious food, or the endless patience of the doctors. There are only sixteen patients in this entire complex that employs five doctors, twelve nurses, and round-the-clock support staff. Here he is a name, not a number. And here, he is actually getting better.

They still don’t know what is wrong. But they have been able to determine what helps. He is on a cocktail of drugs and antibiotics and is slowly responding, the digital figures on his charts improving. And slowly, tentatively, I am beginning to have hope.

He wakes at two, his eyes watching me before I am aware of it. I glance over, surprised to see his peaceful stare, a smile on his face. I set aside my book, standing and stepping to his side, placing a soft kiss on his check before adjusting his bed. “How you feeling, Dad? Are you in any pain?”

He shakes his head. “I’m good, Candace. Sit down. They fuss enough over me as it is, you don’t need to do it also.”

I hold out a cup of water, waiting until he takes a sip before I sit.

“What are you reading?”

I hold up the book. “John Grisham.”

“I thought you would have read all of his by now.”

I grin. “I have, but I’m out of material. This one’s a loaner from Pam. I’m going to swing by the bookstore tomorrow to get a fresh stack.”

“What’s that?” He points to the magazine, still open on the table. I stand, folding over the page, and pass it to him. I have reviewed it carefully, making sure that my new name is not mentioned. Thankfully, any references ignore my first name, mentioning only Nathan in their descriptions.

He studies the pictures, glancing up at me occasionally. “This is from your trip a few weeks ago?”

“Yeah, when we went to California.”

I’m not sure what I expect. Admiration at my celebrity, at Nathan’s success, at our happiness shown clearly in full gloss before him? My father has been less than enthusiastic at my announcement of a husband. I had waited until my second visit to spring it on him, waiting until after the courthouse ceremony in case something fell through. I had gushed and raved about Nathan, creating a picture of a loyal, faithful, loving husband — a fantasy that he probably wouldn’t live long enough to debunk. I think he is hurt that Nathan hasn’t visited, didn’t ask him for my hand in marriage, hasn’t made any effort whatsoever at a relationship. So I hope these photos help — hope they support my façade, soothe his concerns, and cause him to beam and squeeze my hand, falling asleep a happy man.

I don’t expect the magazine to be carefully set down, a pinch in his face as he turns to me. “And you’re happy, Care Bear?”

The childhood nickname causes my throat to stick, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. A sudden, irresponsible urge flows through me. The current almost causing my mouth to open, raw, unfiltered truth to come out. I swallow hard, smiling brightly, and instead of the clean, smooth flow of truth, dirty, filthy lies spew out.

Word: 9 letters, sixth letter is ‘D’

Clue: contraband, and, at one time, fruit

I
have angered Drew with too many questions, which is a common mistake I make. But my workout is over, two mind-crushing hours with Beth, the bitch who won’t stop ‘til I vomit, the one who thinks soy is delicious and sweat is pleasure. And I feel, as I twist the cap and chug cold water, that I should get some sort of reward, such as answers.

I don’t know why the questions make him so mad. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it is the mention of Nathan that boils his blood. But if he were that easily riled up by Nathan, the man would have gone crazy by now. Drew’s life spins around the axel that is Nathan, his every move orchestrated by the manicured hands that are Mr. Dumont’s.

My question of the day is a simple one, coming to me during an agonizing long set of sit-ups. Why marriage? What is the reason that Nathan
needs a wife
? I pondered the question through dead lifts, pull ups, and squats, my eyes flitting to the clock, counting and waiting for this hell to be over so I could return to my other. And as soon as it was, as soon as I had ripped off my sweaty t-shirt and encountered Drew in the kitchen, I started; my questions tumbled over and around each other, each one more anxious than the last to receive an answer. Is it a citizenship problem? Inheritance requirement? Is he committing a crime and needs a spouse who won’t testify? Is it his family? A crazy ex-girlfriend? What is he hiding? Who is this charade for?

His eyes go from disinterest to stone to anger to fury. My water bottle hits the floor, water jetting in all directions as he grips my shoulders, slamming the refrigerator door closed and shoving me against it, his face close to mine. I tense, closing my eyes to his furious green ones, taking a gasp of air before shutting my mouth, willing my questions to
shut the hell up
for a moment.

“Shut up,” he whispers, the words a growl against my skin, my feminine body realizing so many things in one brief second — his hard body against my own, the unforgiving ridge of his muscles impressive and rough against my damp skin. The peppermint flavor of his breath, hot in my ear, yet finding its way to my nose, and I inhale his scent — a blend of grass and sweat and mint that is intoxicating.

His hands, originally against my shoulders, have moved. One is now cupping my neck, pulling my head to one side, the other grips my ass, his large hand slipping under the loose hem of my shorts and grips my bare skin tightly, fitting our bodies together in one unending connection.

His breath, that hot air that was against my ear moves, along the curve of my neck, his head lowering to my skin, his breaths quickening to match the fast beats of his heart, which thud hard against my breasts.

Oh, and that arousal. Hard and hot, a brand against my leg, my body twisting underneath his hands in order to put that arousal where it belongs, tight against my sex, the thin material of my shorts doing nothing but increasing the pleasure when I involuntarily grind against him.

He swears, his hand forcing my head to straighten, his mouth hesitating over mine.

I need it
. I need his lips on mine, need his passion for me. I need that hard cock in more places than against the silk of my shorts. I want his fire and energy inside of me. I need confirmation that I am still woman, and I am still desired. I grind again, one small movement that confirms the size of his need. He groans, his hand gripping my ass tighter, pulling me against his cock as he thrusts against me.

His mouth makes the final move and closes the distance, his mouth drinking of me in an agonized, desperate fashion.

My heart beats erratically, pumping blood in wild fashion to all of the organs that are crying out. My clit is demanding an enormous amount, my core so wet, so aroused, so needy for more stimulation. My brain is screaming a loud, unintelligible sound that wants to know
what the fuck
is going on. Then he pushes off me, one hand moving slower than the other, his bottom hand delayed in its release of my skin.

We stare at each other, the distance between the island and the fridge too small, our bodies too close. I must look like a mad woman — my hair wild from his hand, my lip gloss smeared, eyes needy, mouth panting. He is staring at me as if he is terrified of me, his hands gripping the granite of the counter’s edge, his chest heaving. He suddenly moves, holding up his hands and moving slowly away. “Just … Christ! Just stop asking questions. Please.” He moves away, a door slamming a moment later as he moves to his part of the house.