Comfort Food (12 page)

He watched me. He was so conflicted I could feel it rolling off him. It was as if he didn’t want to let me go but for some reason was almost compelled to do so. Was he sorry?

No, don’t be sorry.

Why wouldn’t he just talk to me now? If he was letting me go anyway, what purpose did these mind games serve?

Finally, he tossed the journal at me and sat in a nearby chair. Was this why he was throwing me away? Had I written something between these pages that was so unforgivable that rather than keep me in the bad cell, he’d throw me away completely? I held the soft, thick leather book in my hands and opened it.

But it wasn’t my journal. It was his.

NINE

August 26th:

Today I found something beautiful and decided to break it. I wanted to see it shatter in my hand and crumble at my feet. Her name is Emily Vargas. She’s bright and educated and stunning. Articulate. She’ll want someone to talk to her.

I was at a convention in Nashville, one of those boring meetings where we judge the health of the company and all the stockholders bitch and whine. I really couldn’t give two shits about the business, but it was my father’s. I’m a fucking household name but no one knows my face, which is fine by me. I’d rather have my privacy.

Even the servants are only here once a week. They already know I’m idiosyncratic. I’m a hermit, so even as the plan was forming, I knew I could get away with it. I hate being around so many people because I have to have an interpreter like some sort of foreign person. I generally just sit in these meetings like a statue, waiting for them to be over with.

Walter does all the talking. In fact, most people believe he owns the company because he’s always the one speaking for it. Most of them don’t know about my handicap. I think some of the people in the meetings think I’m his bodyguard. If I was some pale scrawny kid I’m not sure how exactly we would explain my presence.

Whatever explanations would have to be done, Walter would have to do them. He’s about the only person I trust not to screw me over and to keep my secrets; though my new secret is too sensitive even for him.

After the meeting was over, I wandered the hotel and sat at the bar. A woman came up and started speaking to me. She was attractive in her way, legs that ran on for a few miles at least, and cleavage I wanted to bury my face in. She smiled. I smiled. And that was about as far as the interaction could go.

“Hi, what’s your name? I’m Veronica.”

God, even her name dripped sex. Here was the moment. I used to just smile pathetically. Instead, I turned back to the bar.

The bartender knew me and knew what I liked, so I found a whiskey straight sitting in front of me. I threw the shot back and slammed it down on the counter. The barkeep filled it again. I knew I’d be happiest if he just kept them coming.

“God, you are such an asshole!” she said, and then she flounced off, her ass swaying delectably as she retreated. That’s when I had the fantasy I always have. I’d chase her, grab her and slam her against the wall, and just fucking take her. Forget all this social bullshit. And it is bullshit when you can’t participate.

Then I saw her, Emily. She came up to the bar. “Sam, can I get a martini?”

The bartender smiled and made her drink. She put a stack of brochures next to her, and when she looked away for a moment, I took one and slipped it into my jacket. The brochure contained her tour schedule. She drank her martini and never spoke to me.

I didn’t know if I was glad about that or not. I’m not sure why she should have spoken to me. I could have been some stalker fan, and it was obvious she just needed space.

For the next twenty minutes, I listened to her lyrical voice as she flirted with the bartender, and he bantered back. It was a sexual dance that was socially acceptable to perform out in the open, the modern repressed equivalent of a Roman orgy.

When she left, I studied the brochure. I think I just snapped, but I’ve decided to take her. I’m so fucking tired of being alone, of paying whores or seeking out women who know sign language. In the end, they all feel sorry for me, even the whores. I’ve got all this money, and it doesn’t mean a goddamned thing because I can’t carry on a relationship with anyone without them treating me like I’m slow because of my inability to speak.

I’d rather have fear than pity.

I felt numb. I could vaguely remember that bar and the bartender. I
had
thought the man beside me might be a stalker fan, or more likely someone whose wife had left him and for whatever reason he blamed me for it.

Sometimes women in less than stellar relationships were moved by something in one of my books, developed self-esteem, and left their boyfriends or husbands or whatever. Often I got blamed for it.

I looked at him, wanting to say something. Maybe he didn’t know as much about me as he thought, because surely he would have communicated with me if he did. I knew sign language because of my sister.

Of course, I could understand why he might not know that. When Katie died, mom and dad were so upset that after a few months they just erased her. Like she didn’t exist. It was too hard on them.

I thought it was cruel at the time, but thinking about her just hurt too much. I considered telling him, but he was pointing at the book and the pages he’d dog-eared. The ones that held all the explanations I’d waited months for and finally had stopped believing I would get.

I wasn’t sure sign language would help me now anyway because I
did
feel sorry for him. Maybe it would get me killed. He’d been in charge for so long, and now that he was showing vulnerability, surely his self-control wouldn’t hold out. The edges of it seemed frayed already. Things were unraveling. So instead I went back to the journal and flipped to the next dog-eared page.

January 30th:

I know I’m fucking crazy. I’ve left Walter to run things for awhile. I’m never home. I’ve been following her tour schedule.

I understand there’s something wrong with this. And I know what’s wrong with it isn’t so much that I’m doing it, as that I don’t care it’s wrong.

When you’re a part of society there are certain behaviors that aren’t okay. If you do these behaviors and then feel nothing, that’s worse. But I’ve been trying to determine when I’ve ever been a part of society.

Even before I had a house built on what feels like the edge of the known universe, even when I mingled, I wasn’t a part. I was always on the outside looking in. There was one small group of people who I could speak with through sign language, rather than just looking at them dumbly.

And now I’m fucking feeling sorry for myself. Or maybe I’m justifying. No, because I intellectually know it’s wrong. I’m not an idiot. I had the best schooling that could be bought. I just don’t care. And I know I’ll get away with it.

During my time at home, I’ve converted some rooms for use when I get her. I’ve sound-proofed them because I’m not sure how much she’ll scream. The servants are rarely there anyway, but just to be on the safe side. I set the rooms up to look like labs, except the room with the monitors. That seems normal. And I’ve got the doors labeled as such.

The staff knows I used to work on product research, and they’ll think it’s a good sign I’m starting it again. I hear them talk amongst themselves. Sometimes I catch snippets about how I don’t go out much anymore and don’t do anything. Well, what the fuck is there to do?

As soon as the electrical people get the security system in place for the rooms, I can start getting rid of all the lab stuff and moving in what needs to go in. Except one room I’ll keep bare.

That’s probably the best way. I thought about using drugs to make her comply, but that leaves more of a potential paper trail. And something could go wrong, some unforeseen side effect or allergic reaction, and then I’m left with either letting her die or risk getting caught. Plus having a druggie on my hands isn’t overly appealing.

Although I have no moral problem with the course I’ve chosen, I don’t believe I would be so cavalier about taking a life. I’m just not an overly violent person, except for the occasional sexual fantasy. I don’t want to physically harm her; I just want her.

I suppose I could always do one of those pathetic attempts at a relationship again. But then we’re back to me being pitied. For once I want a goddamned woman to know I’m not helpless just because I can’t talk to her. I really don’t think I’ll have to hurt her, though. I know her weakness.

I’ve never seen anyone drink up social interaction in quite the starved way she does. If I deprive her of everything, she’ll comply.

I watch her at these conferences she does, careful to keep to the shadows so she doesn’t notice me and realize that one face is always there amidst the ever-changing sea of them. She flits around, and one can see where the term social butterfly comes from. She has the most musical laugh, and once or twice I almost felt guilty.

But then I close my eyes, and I see her naked beneath me, knowing that for once in my fucking life, I have absolute power with a woman. Someone who can’t reject me and wouldn’t know how to pity me, and the twinge is gone again.

I couldn’t stop the tears tracking down my face at how casual he was about the whole thing. How he talked about breaking me like one might mention what they were having for dinner. The extreme arrogance, the lack of remorse.

I looked up again to see if now that his secret was out, he felt anything at all. All I could see was the coldness and the new restlessness that came with today. The day he was releasing me. I knew he wouldn’t allow me to stay because he’d let me too far into his world now.

I still didn’t know why he was doing it, but if he was letting me see the man behind the curtain, it was because he was finished with me for good.

May 3rd:

It’s only a couple of weeks til she’ll be in Atlanta again. I can’t believe I’m really going to do this. For a few months I think I believed I wasn’t going to. It was just a fantasy, like the others. I was just making it more real.

But I’ve spent an outrageous sum on her; by God I’m taking her. I know there is extreme hubris in taking her in her hometown, but it’s the most logical for me because it’s the closest to where we’re going. The shorter the distance I have to transport her, the better.

I’ve been researching various drugs and have found one that will keep her out about four hours. The drive home, barring any problems, is only two. With my luck I’ll hit traffic, though. I don’t want her to wake tied up in the car. It completely ruins the effect and gives her at least a small chance of escape.

I want her to know from the beginning there is no chance of escape. Although once I move her to the luxury suite, I fully expect her to lash out somehow. It’ll be best, I think, to get the rebellion out of the way early and let her see the pointlessness of her actions.

I haven’t seen her since March. Instead, I’ve been looking into her background, learning what I can. I want her suite to have everything she likes.

On the one hand, I want to break her so completely she’ll do anything I want without question. But on the other, I want her to choose me. I want her grateful and willing. I want control, but I don’t want her screaming when I fuck her.

I know the world would class me a monster, but control is what turns me on, not a woman screaming or begging me not to rape them. I don’t mind a little fear, I just want her to choose. If she doesn’t choose me, I’ll just leave her in the cell until she changes her mind. I’ve waited a long goddamned time for this. If she thinks she can outlast my patience, she’s insane.

May 15th:

It couldn’t have gone more perfectly. When she started to feel unsteady, I helped her outside. I don’t think she even saw me. Then she collapsed in my arms. I had her in the car before anyone noticed she’d left. I didn’t stop to secure her for a good ten minutes until I’d gotten off the main drag.

Then I pulled off on a deserted exit. I tied her hands and feet, blindfolded her, then laid her in the backseat and covered her with a blanket. I knew it was safer to put her in the trunk, but dying of carbon monoxide poisoning was a possibility, especially with drugs already running through her veins.

I had her in the cell before she woke and decided not to be in the room with her to start with, but to just watch her on the monitor. I was a bit concerned when she didn’t wake exactly when she was supposed to. It took me awhile to realize she was awake. She just wasn’t screaming or struggling.

She was smart, saving her energy, waiting for her one moment of escape, possibly retracing her steps and trying to remember what had brought her to me. I hadn’t planned to touch her the first day, and I know I’ll have to be more disciplined or else I’m going to end up having to hurt her.

If I don’t want to hurt her, I have to do better. I have to make myself do better. But I can’t completely regret it. I sat on the ground beside her, and I reached out and stroked the smoothness of her cheek. I’ve never felt skin so soft.

I know she was terrified. She probably thought I’d hurt her, and suddenly that bit of caring came through because it was an actual person. I’d thought of her for months as a piece of property I was acquiring, but I couldn’t deny the warmth of her ragged breath, or the softness of her cheek, or the way she was already leaning into me, even if she didn’t realize it.

I managed finally to pull my hand away and fed her a bite of the soup. I was surprised she hadn’t started reacting yet. I found my hand reaching out to cup her breast, and she jerked away. It made me angry. Not so much that she pulled away but that I’d expected anything else. I started to leave, and her voice stopped me. Soft, desperate begging that made my pants tighten.

I returned and decided I would test her to see how far she could be pushed to eat. I knew she was still a little drugged, hungry, tired, scared. I could test her now and then wait a week like I’d planned.

By the end of the bowl of soup she was arching into my hand, letting out soft little moans that I’m pretty sure she didn’t know she was making. I had the idea I could have her right then. Fuck the plan, just move her to the luxury suite, shower her with everything. But it wasn’t what I wanted now.