Begging for It

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Carter says.

  “You know, Dad. ” Maddox bunches his fists in the pockets of his camel hair overcoat. “Don’t pretend not to get it. This one time—you don’t have to admit it—just don’t pretend you don’t know what we’re talking about. Could you give me that much honesty for once in your life?”

  The naked plea there breaks my heart. Maddox is the unluckiest of the kids, I realize. He’s the only one who still wishes his father were someone he could love.

  Carter doesn’t give his son that small sign of respect, but he hesitates one moment too long before answering. “This is nonsense. You’re disrupting this meeting for no purpose. ”

  Everyone else sitting around the boardroom stares at Carter. None of them can guess what’s going on, but by now they’ve all realized Jonah isn’t bluffing. Our threat may be veiled, but it’s real.

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  “We’ll all testify to this,” Elise stresses. She has found her strength at last. “In court, in affidavits, or even to the National fucking Enquirer if it comes to that. Just know this, Dad. If you fire the first shot—we’ll fire the second. And the second shot will be the last one you ever hear. ”

  Jonah keeps going, as smoothly as though nobody else had said a word since we walked into the room. “Finally, if Mr. Hale does seek retribution for my rejection of his offer, both recipients of the trust are prepared to sign over all proceeds of the trust to charity, effective immediately. ”

  Carter blanches. “That’s not—”

  “It’s a clause in the trust, as you know,” Jonah says. Only now does he look directly at Carter. There’s no hint of the depthless contempt he feels on his face; it’s all in his voice, in every word he speaks to his stepfather. “We’re legal adults. So if both Rebecca and I choose, we can surrender the entire trust—including all our stock in Oceanic Airlines—to any mutually agreed-upon, legitimate charity. We spoke earlier today and agreed we especially like Carbon Cull. ”

  Carbon Cull is an environmental group specifically targeting the enormous air pollution caused by jets. The first thing they’d do with such a massive interest in the airline is slash into profits in order to save the world. Not a bad plan, really. But to judge by Carter Hale’s ashen face, he doesn’t agree.

  “You can’t do that,” Carter says. At first he sounds hoarse and weak—like someone punched in the gut—but he regains some strength as he keeps going. “Rebecca would have to be here in person to register her vote on that, and she shows no sign of returning from the jungle anytime soon. ”

  “Nope,” Maddox says. “But according to the trust, Rebecca can designate a legal proxy to conduct business for her in the United States during her absence, if she fills out the proper forms and e-mails them to us—and as of ten minutes ago, she has. ”

  Carter’s face has turned red with rage, or maybe embarrassment at his total powerlessness. “A proxy?”

  I raise my hand and wave. “Hi. ”

  One of the executives seated around the table glares at Carter over the rims of her eyeglasses. “Mr. Hale, is this situation likely to arise? Because I needn’t explain how . . . problematic that would be for Oceanic Airlines. ”

  That’s corporate-speak for Shut up about Jonah.

  Carter turns toward Jonah, and when I see his face, I shudder. The anger within Carter now is worse than the fury I saw in Jonah while we rode the elevator. It’s vicious, contemptuous—almost reptilian. This is my one glimpse of the true Carter Hale. This is what he looked like when he dragged a young boy into the bedroom to watch his mother being raped.

  “This is merely a hypothetical,” Carter says. His answer is for the executive, but his gaze never leaves Jonah. “We won’t be dealing with that situation anytime soon. ”

  The executives are relieved. Maddox breathes out heavily, and Elise sags against his arm. They think that because the confrontation is over, the danger has passed.

  But I see the way Carter and Jonah are looking at each other. Under his breath, Carter says, “This isn’t over. It hasn’t even begun. ”

  Carter Hale will want revenge for this someday. Soon.

  For now, though, Jonah has won.

  •   •   •

  “You’re sure you won’t come with us?” Maddox holds open the taxicab door, while Elise smiles out at us, like we might all four pile in the back. “Dad backed down! His tail was practically between his legs. You don’t think that’s worth a bottle of champagne?”

  “No,” Jonah says. His expression is unfathomable. The gray winter day seems to have claimed him—his pale skin, his eyes, the light blue of his muffler reflecting the metal city and frozen river around us. “Vivienne and I need some time. ”

  I don’t need any time. But if Jonah does, okay. “We’ll see you guys again before we leave town,” I promise. “Besides, I bet the two of you can murder a bottle of champagne all on your own. ”

  Elise laughs. “I won’t mind trying!”

  Maddox wraps me in a one-armed hug, which I return. He smells like sandalwood. Then he turns toward Jonah, and his gaze betrays how worried he is. “Sure you’re all right?”

  “When have I ever been?” Jonah says. It’s not a joke. “Go have fun, Mad. We’ll talk soon. ”

  Although Maddox clearly remains unconvinced, he nods. Silently he hugs Jonah, embracing him a moment longer than he did me. “Good-bye,” he says against Jonah’s shoulder. Then he turns back toward the cab, giving all his attention to Elise as brother and sister take off to celebrate.

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  After the car pulls away, I slide my arm through Jonah’s. “Now what?”

  “We’re going home. ”

  “Okay. ” His decision is sudden, but I want to support him. Besides, the novelty of the snow is wearing off. “I doubt we could catch a night flight back to Austin, but there’s got to be one tomorrow. ”

  “I didn’t mean Austin. ” He begins walking forward, pulling me alongside him.

  “Then what—”

  “Like Maddox said, Carter’s flying out right after the board meeting. His fucking helicopter’s on the roof, pretentious bastard. ” Jonah glances up at the skyscraper behind us, as if his gaze were a missile that could shoot the copter down. “Mad and Elise will go to his club. Mom’s still swaddled in her luxury spa in the desert. So that means the house is ours. ”

  “Redgrave House,” I say. “We’re going there?”

  “Now. ”

  For lots of guys, inviting his girlfriend to see his childhood home would be a sweet gesture. The kind of thing you see in cheesy television ads for engagement rings.

  For Jonah, this is a journey to the scene of the crime.

  Eighteen

  We walk to Redgrave House. It’s located close enough for me to endure the chill that long, despite the icy air that creeps in at my coat’s sleeves and collar.

  If Jonah even feels the cold, he shows no sign.

  His family home is one of the few private residences remaining in downtown Chicago, a building listed on the National Historic Register. I knew what the front of the house looked like before I ever met Jonah; it was featured in the art nouveau section of a Decorative Architecture seminar I took.

  Yet this knowledge hasn’t prepared me for the impact of seeing Redgrave House in person.

  As we walk closer, the house slowly takes shape in the snowy night. First I make out the grayish stone stretching up for four stories, so skillfully designed that even the enormous skyscrapers nearby don’t make it any less imposing. Then I see the famous caryatids, statues of women nearly two stories high. They wear classical drapery that clings to their muscular forms, and they each seem to bow their head under the weight of the cornice they support. Snow and ice have crusted on the statues’ faces, as if someone had wanted to blind them.

  Jonah’s hand grips mine like a lifeline, but he doesn’t look over at me once as he punches in a security code at the gate. The lock c
licks and falls open, clearing our path to the enormous red doors.

  From his pocket, he takes a key—not one he carries on his normal chain. It’s brass, I think, larger than keys are made today, complete with an ornate fob. As he slides it into the keyhole, I find myself remembering fairy tales. Mysteries. The kinds of stories that would begin with such a key.

  Nobody ever starts a horror story that way. Which is strange, considering what happened in this house.

  Inside it’s completely dark. When Jonah finds the light switch, an enormous chandelier glows bright, revealing the interior to me. I see—perfection. Or what my mother would call perfection, because everything from the hardwood floor to the Aubusson rugs to the pristine white furnishings is expensive, designer, and flawless. My mother wouldn’t care that this place feels utterly emotionally cold.

  Not one picture on the walls reveals any sense of artistic taste or emotional connection. They seem to have been chosen merely to match the paler-than-pale color scheme. No photos of Jonah or his siblings are displayed anywhere. Not a single houseplant blooms from a pot. I’m grateful there’s no pet, for the animal’s sake. Instead everything is laid out with the sterile precision of a surgeon’s operating theater. A marble-topped coffee table displays a fan of decorating magazines that probably were never read; the floors shine so brilliantly that I hesitate to step off the smaller rug near the door, thinking the surface might be slippery and wet.

  Jonah answers the question without my even having to ask it. “We spent most of our time upstairs,” he says, as he pushes the heavy door shut. Then he slides a heavy dead bolt lock into place; it feels like he’s sealed us off from the rest of the world.

  “Upstairs. Okay. ” I tug off my knit cap and tuck a lock of my hair behind one ear. “Why?”

  “These rooms are like the façade. They’re meant to impress the outside world—for receptions, dinner parties, their ‘charity’ events where they show off. ” Jonah’s stare is remote. “The upper stories served as our cage. ”

  A shiver runs along my back. But when Jonah grips my hand in his, I let him pull me onto the stairs—steep and dark. These weren’t built to enhance the grand spectacle of the ground floor. Their narrowness suggests that nobody would ever want to walk up, or perhaps that nobody could easily get out.

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  “Where’s the butler?” I meant it as a joke to defuse the tension, but then I realize it’s a valid question.

  “None of the staff lives in,” Jonah says, his gaze locked on the landing above us. “Carter never wanted that. He wants to be waited on hand and foot, but he also wants silence. Secrecy. He doesn’t want extra witnesses. ”

  The landing on the second floor is clean but nondescript. Hunter green paint on the walls darkens the space and makes it feel smaller. Although there’s no visible line, I can sense the division between Carter and Lorena, the way they’ve split their house in two. There’s a distinct lack of any furnishing or clutter on his side, while a stack of old newspapers rests in her corner beneath an oil painting of racehorses, which hangs askew on the wall.

  “We slept on the third floor,” Jonah says, as he stares up the next flight of steps. “We had a playroom, which was supposed to be a privilege. Really Carter didn’t want us in the rest of his house or his life, except when and how he chose. ”

  “Did they keep your room the way it was?” I know the answer is no before I ask. But I want to learn how Jonah will respond. What does he need from this house? What does he want? Surely not nostalgia . . .

  “I haven’t been upstairs once since I left home at eighteen. ” He shows no sign of wanting to go up now either. “Come on. ”

  Jonah opens Carter’s door. The word trespassing flashes through my mind, but that’s ridiculous. While I was talking through legal stuff with the family on the Skype call, Maddox mentioned that the trust guarantees that Jonah will always own a share of this house. You can’t trespass on your own property.

  Yet my nerves jangle. My heart races. We aren’t breaking the law; we’re breaking a taboo. That’s more frightening by far.

  Carter’s rooms are almost empty. The furnishings are antique pieces, ornately scrolled, but set so far apart from each other that this could be a showroom. Heavy, dark drapes seal out whatever light could shine through the windows. No photographs. The only sign of modernity is a top-of-the-line sound system, which lines most of one wall. Jonah snaps it on, tunes it to satellite radio, and turns from droning business reports until he finds classical music. Opera.

  “Don Giovanni,” Jonah says. He doesn’t look at me. He doesn’t let go of my hand. Instead he turns the volume up so loud that the house seems to vibrate around us. “Very near the end. ”

  I wince against the thunderous bass voice that seems to fill this room. At this decibel level, the opera seems less beautiful. More aggressive.

  Jonah pulls me away. At first I’d thought he was going to vandalize this space, and that I’d have to talk him out of it. Destruction of property would be a crime, one Carter would surely prosecute. But Jonah simply drags me along until we reach an inner door, one that leads to a completely bare room.

  Wooden floor. Golden walls. And on the longest wall, an enormous fireplace—one with a green marble mantel, held up by two columns.

  We can only be passing through. “That door—” I point to the one opposite us. “Does that lead to your mother’s side of the house?”

  “Yes. ” But Jonah doesn’t walk toward it. He’s breathing faster. “Nothing to see there. Unless you were wondering what Miss Havisham’s house would look like in the twenty-first century. ”

  I wasn’t. “Jonah, what are we doing here?”

  “This was the only room. ” Jonah lets go of my hand to pace around the octagonal room, like a panther in a cage. “The only one he never used. He’d drag her out of her bedroom. Up to our rooms, sometimes, when Rebecca and Mad weren’t home. In the hall, on the fucking stairs. But for some reason he never did it here. I guess he just never got around to doing that. ”

  I know, now, what Jonah wants. “The one room he kept clean,” I say. “You want to defile it. ”

  He doesn’t even look at me. “Take off your clothes. Now. You don’t leave here until I say so. And you don’t get to leave without being fucked. ”

  We’ve gone to some troubling places together. Wrestled with our most intimate and shameful demons. But something about this moment, this scene, feels more dangerous than anything that went before.

  If that’s what Jonah needs, I can give it to him.

  I let my coat fall to the floor, toe off my boots, step on the toes of my socks to ditch them too. When I unbuckle my belt, Jonah grabs it from me. The leather slithers hot and fast against my palm.

  “Come on,” he says, his voice shaking in . . . impatience. Need. Something else I dare not identify. “Come on. ”

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  Sweater. Now panties. Jonah’s eyes darken as he sees me bare from the waist down, or the pale pink traces of my nipples through the lace of my bra. As soon as I’ve unhooked it, Jonah wheels me around so he can yank my hands behind my back. He winds my belt around my wrists, a binding that won’t give. Only once I’m naked and tied does he push me to my knees.

  “You’re all whores,” Jonah says as he comes toward me, unfastening his pants. “Every single one of you. Do you think you’re different? Do you think you’re better? You’re not. I’m going to teach you what you are. ”

  His words lash me, though in the way I want to be lashed. All our pent-up ugliness flows free at moments like this—when it’s no longer our prison but our fuel.

  Jonah takes out his enormous cock. The first time I saw the length of him, he intimidated me. I’d never been with a guy even close to that big, and felt like he’d break me in two. Even now, after all we’ve done, I find myself trembling. His thumb pushes between my lips as he forces my mouth open.

  “Wider,” he says as I struggle to accommodate
him. “Take it all. I want you to gag. ”

  I try. It’s hard—he’ll pull back just enough to get the friction, to feel me choke—but then he’s in there, all the way in, and my throat convulses around him. Jonah groans in satisfaction.

  “You’re all like this. ” His voice is ragged as he rocks forward and back, the huge head of his cock filling my mouth and throat in turn. “You think you want it soft. You think you get to say when. But you don’t. Not with me. I own you, do you understand? I fucking own you. ”

  Will he come in my mouth? I’m ready for that. I like it.

  And yet Jonah senses this. Hates it. He pushes me back so hard that I nearly fall. “You think you want it, don’t you? But you don’t want what I’m going to do to you. I’m going to find your limit, and that’s where I’m going to break you, do you understand?”

  “You don’t get to break me,” I retort. I can’t get a handle on the scenario he wants. Submission didn’t work? I’ll try defiance.

  That’s closer. Jonah’s eyes blaze as he hauls me to my feet. Leather snaps around my wrists as he rips my belt away. “Run,” he says. “While you can. ”

  I dash for the door, the one that leads to Carter’s side of the house, and tear naked through these nearly empty rooms. The opera music swells louder, until it’s almost deafening—and the melody has shifted into a minor key. The chorus sounds ominous. Whatever this opera is about, it’s no love story.

  Scrambling, I find my way into Carter’s bedroom and slam the door behind me. There’s a lock, but I hesitate before turning it. Would Jonah kick the door down? Is that something he wants discovered?

  My hesitation lasts too long. Jonah shoulders through.

  He says nothing, merely grabs my shoulders to push me into the wall again. I wriggle free and lunge through the nearest open door—the one that leads to an enormous, opulent bathroom in marble. This takes me nowhere. Then Jonah’s arm closes around my waist, and his hand fists in my hair.

  As I cry out, he says, “You can’t get away. Fight all you want. But you can’t. You’re mine. ”

  I thrash in his grip, to no avail. Jonah picks me up and slings me over his shoulder. Dizzy, upside down, I can only dimly see that Jonah’s opening all the drawers, in search of something. What? A hairbrush to spank me with?