12. Serenity
Chapter twelve
Serenity
I stare at the closet full of clothes. I stare at the dresser full of undergarments. I stare at the new phone, tablet, and laptop, all still in their shiny new boxes on top of the dresser. I stare at the bazillion creams and lotions, and I don't even know what else on the bathroom counter.
Vivek apparently bought smaller sample sizes of every scent of lotion, bodywash and shampoo. I think I'm supposed to pick one and tell him so he can buy me full sizes?
The entire situation makes my skin itch like it's two sizes too small. I mentally tally up how much everything must cost, but I'm completely guessing, because I've never seen these brands of lotions or undies or clothes in any of the stores I shop in.
I had seen the clothes and changes when I walked to the bathroom earlier after we got home...got to his home...but I mentally could not process it all. And if I can't see it, it doesn't exist. After my shower, where I used the brown sugar body wash, I towel dry and head back into the bedroom.
I smell like a sugar cookie.
At the foot of the bed is one of Declan's undershirts and a pair of his boxers. Just like last night.
Something about that routine settles me and makes me feel better than the thousands of dollars in silk pajama outfits I'm sure are here somewhere.
I put on the shirt and boxer-briefs, but the closet behind me seems overwhelming and oppressive. Like it's looming over me, demanding attention.
I roll back my shoulders and walk barefoot into the walk-in closet, flicking on the custom lighting.
The closet isn't completely full, but dresses, and pantsuit looking things, and skirts, and blouses have filled the racks in order of color.
It's thoughtful. And kind. And it makes me nauseous.
I don't understand what's happening here. My teeth grind as my lips purse. What kind of man buys a complete stranger a entire new wardrobe? One in every color in case I don't like something? I guess his personal shopper did that because I didn't give him a style to go by?
Besides our moment after he freaked out on me this morning, he's been standoffish, grouchy, grumbly. I feel like he hates me, or if he doesn't hate me, he barely tolerates me. But then he leaves his shirt for me to sleep in and spends thousands of dollars on clothes for me. I'd have been happy with a couple outfits from Walmart. Just something to cover the important bits in public?
This rainbow-coordinated closet glares back at me menacingly. I hate it. Logically, I'm grateful for the thought behind it? That someone is willing to spend that much on me. But personally it feels like an attack. I know I don't deserve this kind of treatment. I've done nothing for him to warrant this kind of treatment. Is it pity? Is it a trick? Something rich people do? To dangle everything a poor person could never hope to dream of in front of them only to snatch it away at the last second?
Or am I a charity case? The homeless orphan that he can parade in front of his friends for congratulations and social clout.
My mother never trusted anyone with money. She'd make snide comments about them all being back stabbing cheats.
Sighing, I shut off the light and close the closet door behind me. I stand back in my new room...his room...that I'm borrowing...and look at the made bed in front of me. It's got a beautifully designed duvet, sporting a scene of people on horseback jumping over fences in a rolling countryside.
Yeah, I'm not sleeping tonight. Everything is so different. It's the lack of city noise, the lack of musty smell. Everything is too clean, too pretty, too perfect. I don't belong. I don't want to soil them with my dirty hands.
"If you need something... if you can't sleep, I need you to come to me. No more running, no more hiding."
I groan, closing my eyes and rolling my head back. He'd said that only a few hours ago. But could I really do that?
"Hey there, so your house is too nice, and too quiet, and the clothes you bought me are too expensive, so I can't sleep."
What an ungrateful ass I'd sound like. I'll just pace the floor until I'm tired... or just not sleep.
I need you to come to me.
I growl in frustration, running my hands through my hair.
He didn't say I want you to come to me. He said I need you to come to me.
And if he can house me, feed me and provide an entirely new wardrobe for me, I can have an uncomfortable conversation for him.
Fuck it.
I throw open my bedroom door in frustration. The master is at the end of the hallway, behind two French doors. The master of the house, and the master bedroom. I tip-toe down the hallway, pausing outside of his bedroom door. It's four AM. Surely, he's asleep.
Do I knock? Do I sneak in? Fuck!
I tap my knuckles against the door gently. There! He won't hear me because he's asleep and then I can slink back to my bedroom but tell him I did seek him out like he asked.
"Come in," his voice calls out quietly.
Fuck.
I open one of the doors and slide inside, closing the door as quietly as I can behind me.
"Serenity?"
"Yes, sir."
"What's wrong?" His voice is hard, demanding.
A distant streetlight, or maybe the moon, provides enough illumination that I can barely make out his silhouette. He's shirtless, in bed, but he's sitting up as if alarmed.
"I couldn't sleep, sir. And you told me to come to you... I..."
I what?! I did what you said? I'm a selfish brat? I'm a pain in the ass you weren't asking for?
I don't even know what would help me sleep. Whiskey, like Gary? Or pills, like my mom?
The idea of living like that sends a shudder down my spine.
"Come." The barked order is not friendly or kind. It's angry, demanding. And my instincts tell me to run as fast as I can in the opposite direction. This man is dangerous. He's angry, and domineering, and controlling. Or at least that's what people have said. He's been grumpy and angry with me in the past, but because he'd been afraid for me.
Driving me to and from work, giving me a place to stay, spending thousands on a new wardrobe...none of that was dangerous. All of that is thoughtful. Can I ignore the image of the man for his actions?
I walk to his bed having no idea what's going to happen. Is he going to lecture me? Scold me? Tell me to go drink some hot milk?
Instead, he does the unthinkable. He shuffles to the far side of the bed and lifts the comforter silently. I hesitate. Surely, he's not asking me to join him.
"Get in," he barks.
I hurry to climb into his bed, still completely unsure of what we're doing here. For a flash I'm terrified he's taking my knocking on his door as an invitation for intimacy. That's not at all what I want. But before I can spiral, he interrupts my thoughts.
"Tell me about it."
We're both laying on our backs in a bed bigger than my room at my mom's.
I hesitate, overthinking what I want to say, before deciding on blunt honesty. I can be honest and still kind, right?
"I saw the new clothes... and the shampoos..."
"And?"
"And... it's a lot. I don't want you to think I'm not grateful, because I am," I turn to look at him, wanting to ensure he sees the honesty on my face. "But it's a lot. It's too much. I can't afford anything like that, and you shouldn't spend your money on me..."
He's silent as he slowly turns his head to me. Unfortunately, this casts his face into shadow so I can't read his reaction.
"Tell me about your life before The Envelope."
The sudden change in topic sends my mind spiraling.
"Tell me about the man who hit you."
I swallow.
"Tell me how you got to the point where you show up with only the clothes on your back."
I guess I owed him that much.
Looking back at the ceiling I decide where to start. "My mom and stepdad are addicts. Pills, alcohol, whatever they can get their hands on that month. I worked at Jammin' Java to pay the bills, but my hours got cut and Gary, my stepdad, didn't like that. It would mean less money for his addictions."
I give a sad little shrug. Do I wish things were different? Of course. Can I change them? Absolutely not.
I can't see him, but I feel him nod.
"Name."
"Name?"
Oh. Oh. "It's not a big deal. It's done now and I'm safe."
"That's not what I asked."
"I don't want you to get hurt or in trouble because of me. You've already done too much." He may be an asshole, but I know what Gary and his buddies are capable of. It's just better if we all move on, right?
"How about you let me worry about what I do and don't do."
I swallow again. Can't argue with him about that.
"Gary..." he urges.
"Lawson." My voice is a quiet confession in this large room.
"You've had a lot of big life changes, Serenity. It's natural to be anxious. But how about you let me worry about what I spend my money on, who I talk to, what I do with my life."
My face flushes as I feel suitably chastised. He's being harsh and rude, but he's not wrong.
"I'm sorry. I guess I'm just used to taking care of everyone else, of worrying about everything else."
"That's not how this is going to work, if you want it to work at all. You don't get to call the shots here."
Again. Chastised. But his words made me think back to the dom and sub couple I saw earlier at The Envelope. Benji explained what he could about dom and sub relationships, about power play. And I know, of course, that's not what's happening here. But the idea of being able to let go of some of my responsibilities? Being able to let go of some of my stress? That sounded really nice.
I just don't know if I have it in me to trust anyone that much.
Let alone the angry man in the bed next to me.
"I can hear you thinking. Go to sleep Serenity."
For some reason that makes me smile. He may be grouchy and rude, but he's done nothing but shown me kindness. And I appreciate that he's not trying to be someone or something he's not.
Gary was a monster but was always kind as long as I kept the money flowing and him and my mother suitably stoned.
He didn't show his true colors until the money ran out.
I may be lying in bed next to a beast, but he was an honest one.