Double Dealing: A Menage Romance (19 page)

T
he skies were
an out of place sapphire blue as we gathered in the vineyard for Felix's memorial ceremony. Francois, whose back was still tender and covered with bandages, held himself stiffly in his black silk shirt and tie. Charani and Syeira were both in all black, Syeira wearing a veil over her face. The other family leaders were all in suits, their faces somber.

In the middle of the circle, two photos of Felix were set up on top of a pyre that would eventually be lit. Both photos were taken well before I met him, but there was still the same smile, the same serious look in his eyes sitting in contrast above it.

"Thank you," Francois said, speaking in French so that I could understand enough to get the gist. He’d agreed that morning that when it was my turn to speak, he would translate into Romani for everyone. The few family members who didn't understand French were assisted by others who did. "We're gathered here today to remember Felix Gudada Hardy, our former leader. To me, he was more than a leader, he was my partner . . . he was my friend. The memories I have of him, on this property and others, of growing up . . .”

Francois's voice faltered and he cleared his throat before continuing. "My relationship with him wasn't perfect. We fought, we disagreed, we had our spats. We were brothers. What brothers don't have spats? But I knew that whatever happened, Felix would be there for me. If I had trouble, he'd have my back. He was a great man, and I can only hope I can live up to his example."

Francois stepped back and nodded to me. While normally those outside the family would never be allowed to speak at memorials such as this, they'd agreed that Felix's offer of marriage and my acceptance made me family in their eyes. Charani looked over and gave me a small smile of support, holding her sister's hand.

I set the violin case down on the ground, unlatching the cover and withdrawing the instrument. I had fine-tuned it that morning, rosining the bow and making sure everything was ready before taking it out. Now, withdrawing it, I saw Francois's eyes open in surprise. He hadn’t been conscious for most of the day before, recovering from his coronation. Even when he was awake, he had to lie on his stomach, making sure there was no pressure on the wounds. In any case, he didn’t know what I was going to do. The violin case had been hidden underneath the black cloak that I wore on top of my dress, and he led the procession, not seeing me for most of the time.

I blinked, the old emotions coming back to me as they had the day before next to the river. When I'd thought about what to do, music was how I spoke best. It was through music that I could express my heart, whereas words would fail in my mouth. Looking at the strings, I made sure to keep the picture of Felix in my vision as I laid my bow on the A string, ready for the first note.

I knew I wanted to do a hymn, but I wasn’t quite sure which. I didn't want to come off as false, I wanted to speak purely to Felix, the rest of the world be damned. Nearer My God To Thee and others I knew by heart, I'd played them so often growing up that the notes were ingrained in my brain, but I wanted something better for him. Thinking, sitting next to the river the day before, I settled on two choices, both of which I had learned years before. Knowing I would only have the emotional strength for one, I practiced both, placing what faith I could in the knowledge that I'd make the right decision as time drew shorter.

I drew my bow down, the first notes of the violin arrangement short and staccato, low and haunting over the quiet assembly. John Williams may have composed it, but the arrangement was all mine. I'd originally done it over a decade earlier, when the memories of 9/11 were still strong in the country and patriotism ran high. Hymn For The Fallen may have been written mostly for horns — a staple of Williams — but I'd done it first for a memorial service, and once again reached for it.

I don't know if anyone else there knew what the hell I was playing, but it didn't matter. My eyes were on the image of Felix as I poured everything I could into the playing. When the last note drifted away, my cheeks were wet with tears, the chin rest of the violin also wet. I took the instrument and laid it on the memorial, touching Felix's picture. "I love you, Felix."

Syeira spoke next in just Romani, her grief coming through clear even in the unknown language. She couldn't speak long, just a minute before the emotions overtook her, and she stepped back, unable to continue without making a scene. Despite the image of Romani women being fiery and passionate, Syeira conducted herself with the restraint of a born aristocrat. She stepped back, letting her sister lay a comforting arm around her shoulders.

The words concluded and Francois knelt at his brother's memorial, taking from his pocket the lighter he had within. A few moments later, the smoke started to climb from the base of the memorial as it became a pyre, everything burning in the hungry flames. We waited through it all, silence reigning.

As we walked back to the house, Francois took my hand. "I need you," he whispered, his voice thick with want and sadness-tinged desire. I stopped, letting the rest of the group continue on, and looked up at him. His throat worked, and he looked up at the sky before continuing. "I know it’s wrong to want you so badly after what we just did. But the best memories I have of Felix are with you. There was no other time when we've been closer."

I nodded. Maybe nobody in the world would understand. Maybe his mother and aunt would think we were committing sacrilege, but in my heart, I knew the truth. We would make our own memorial to Felix, in our own way.

"Meet me in the barn in ten minutes."

A
fter dinner
, I cleared the dishes for Mistress. "Very good, my pet," she praised me, stroking her fingers down my arm. Her silken touch caused my skin to break out in gooseflesh, and I shivered in joy. "And you ate with such restraint. I would’ve thought after so much exercise, you'd have taken the lamb and gnawed it like a hungry beast.”

"Not at all," I said. “It was amazing, and I wanted to savor it.”

She gave me a smile. "Now, go wash up the dishes, and if you’re back within fifteen minutes, I’ll reward you.”

I couldn't help but rush through the house, carrying the few plates in my hands. One of the house staff guided me, leading me to the kitchen. Inside, there were a few of the staffers sitting down at the staff table, a large banquet-style arrangement that let the staff eat in a relaxed atmosphere. I'd seen similar arrangements in other buildings, long ago somewhere, but I didn't remember where. It didn't seem important anymore.

I found the sink and ran steaming hot water through the tap, soaping the washing cloth as the water splashed down on the plates, rinsing them. Picking up the silverware, I rubbed them carefully, making sure to get every trace of food off of them. As I washed, my ears picked up the conversation amongst the staff. While I didn't speak Ukrainian, I could understand some of it.

"Ah, I see that Svetlana already has him doing the dishes."

"Don't give him a hard time. With the amount of drugs they've pumped through him over the past week, I'm surprised the man doesn't think he's Michael Jordan."

"Karl, what’s with you and Jordan? You’re always talking about him.”

“Well why not, he’s the greatest basketball player of all time . . .”

"You sound like you’re in love with this Jordan. Enough of your crushes for one night, Karl. Get your guitar, we’ll entertain ourselves that way."

Their words pierced through the fog in my brain. Jordan . . . guitar . . . Jordan . . .

Her image came to me suddenly, the cherrywood hair, the smile, the little dimple in her left cheek when she smiled that matched the one on her back from a childhood accident. The way she'd looked on stage in Germany, playing her heart out on the borrowed electric guitar. The look in her eyes when we were in bed together, and the way her hands had covered herself so shyly the first time we'd made love. But most of all, I remembered that first time she ever played guitar for me, not an electric, but the custom guitar that Francois had in the cabin. The quietly confident notes, the rich voice that wasn't quite professional but still good, the way she'd looked as her tunes shifted from casual to love songs, and the look in her eyes when she met my gaze. In that instant, we both knew something had changed between us. My hands shook, and I quickly wiped the plates clean, leaving them in the drying rack. Seeing that the staff was ignoring me, my guide having joined her comrades around the table to enjoy some refreshments, I left the kitchen the same way I'd come in, hoping to keep up my charade.

Alone in the hallway, I immediately turned and went down a side hallway, running my hands through my hair. Jordan! What had this bitch done to me that I could have forgotten her so easily? What sort of monstrous things were put in me — in my mind?

You didn't forget her, though, a voice deep inside my heart said. Remember? In the shower, you may have been fantasizing about Svetlana, but what was in the background?

"Guitar music," I whispered to myself. "Aerosmith."

Her version, at least, the voice said. Now, before it’s too late, reach out to her.

Spurred on by the voice in my head, I knew I had to act fast. Whatever it was that Svetlana was pumping into me, I couldn't trust that my clear-headed state would last. If they’d broken me so quickly the first time, what would happen with more exposure?

Looking around, I found a set of stairs. I headed up them, hoping to find something that I could use to contact the outside world. I had yet to see a telephone or a computer of any kind, but they had to have them somewhere, right?

I found myself in a long hallway, with open doors on each side of the hall. Looking in, I saw that I was in the staff's quarters, at least based on the beds and the clothes I saw in the first two rooms I stuck my head into.

I didn't have much time, checking each room I could. In the next to last, I found what I wanted, a laptop computer that appeared to be connected to the internet. Hoping that it wouldn't be password locked, I opened the cover and hit the power button. I was in luck, as the screen flashed to life to reveal a standard Windows desktop.

I couldn’t read Russian, but Windows configurations are all the same, and the system was easy to figure out. Like Chinese and Japanese keyboards that I'd grown familiar with, the main keys were laid out in the standard English alphabet, with a subset that you could activate as you wanted. Switching between the two was done through a simple function keystroke, and I switched over to the English alphabet. Pulling up the web browser, I started typing. The numeric address was very long, and just the first stage of a last ditch security system that I'd had for years.

After the address was input, I typed in my username and password. The password was actually one of a series, thankfully sequential enough in nature that I could still remember it despite the tendrils of fog in my mind. I could feel them creeping in again, trying to drain my will, to make me want to go back to my lovely Mistress . . .

I slapped myself across the face hard. It helped enough, and I opened another tab, pulling up Youtube. I needed something to keep my mind focused where it needed to be. With effort, I typed in
One
into the search bar, pulling up the Metallica song. The guitar riffs started, and the fog retreated from my mind again with the thought of Jordan.

Going back to my messaging tab, I finished my password. The beauty of it was that it never would work again, and unless you knew the encryption key, you couldn't guess the next password in the series. Hitting enter, I hoped I had a few more minutes. Just a few more.

The screen pulled up the messaging tab, and I remembered that Vladimir told me Francois had sold me out. I couldn't message him, so who could I trust?

"A boy can always trust his mother,” I whispered as I typed out my email quickly.

This is Felix. I’m being held captive by a man named Vladimir and a woman named Svetlana.
Not good, at the thought of her name, I could feel the fog start to wash over me again. Russian Mafia?
I’m being held in . . .

Wait a moment, where the hell was I? I opened another tab and did a quick IP address ping, giving me at least a city and country.
Dnipropetrovsk, Ukraine. Please, they’re brainwashing me. I need your help. Cannot trust Francois. I don’t know how long I can hold on.

The control Svetlana had instilled in my brain struggled to reassert itself as the music faded, and I fought back, chanting to myself. "Jordan . . . Jordan . . . Jordan . . .”

Tell Jordan I love her. And that I want to hear her play for me again.

With the last of my will, I closed the tabs, and set the computer back. If someone gave the computer a cursory once over, they wouldn’t know what I'd done, not without going into log files that I didn't have the time to erase.

Closing the laptop, I hurried from the room. I was halfway down the stairs when a voice came up to me. "Pet? What are you doing up there?"

"I'm sorry, Mistress," I said. "I had to find a toilet."

My lie wasn't convincing enough. "No Felix, you were up to something else. What were you doing?"

I struggled, and only by repeating Jordan's name to myself was I able to not tell her. I knew once the fog of her control came over me fully again, I'd not remember that well anyway. All that was important was Mistress Svetlana, and that I'd been a bad pet. I only had to hold out a few more minutes. "Nothing."

"Liar," she said, then sighed. "I shouldn’t have rushed you, letting you in the house before you were trained enough. My mistake. But, like any pet who’s let into the house too early and then makes a mess, it’s easy enough to correct. Sacha, please.”

The guard, who I'd never exchanged words with, stepped out of the shadows behind Svetlana, his ever present rifle in his hands. "Yes, Miss Svetlana?"

"Take my pet back to his container. It’s supposed to be cold tonight, so make sure that he has an extra blanket . . . and give him one of those small electric space heaters. Nothing too powerful. We’ll see to the rest of his punishment in the morning."

"Yes, Miss."

She pointed, and my head dropped. I walked down the stairs, following her gesture. As I passed her on the stairs, she held up her hand to stop me. "I'm disappointed in you."

Tears came to my eyes and I nodded. "I'm sorry."

She stroked my cheek, a small smile on her beautiful lips. "I know. And if you take your punishment well, this will all be forgotten."

Sadness was replaced with something at her words, and with a spring in my step, I followed Sacha down the rest of the stairs. She had, in her infinite beauty and kindness, taken away my sadness, and replaced it with hope.