4. Graham
GRAHAM
Irest my forehead against the smooth wood of the closet door.
Fuck, I mouth silently, then I bend over, letting out a silent scream.
Fuck! What the fuck is wrong with me?
I have a girl here, trapped in my penthouse.
A girl I kidnapped off the fucking street like a lunatic.
Kidnapped.
The dark thing in me likes it—likes having her prisoner, liked the scared panting, her breath hot through the wool of my slacks, close to my—
Fuck!
I slam my hand against the wall.
Hear her in the closet make a scared little noise.
I need to get out of here. The penthouse is far up above the city—sure, I have a view of Central Park, but it is still New York.
I hear the police sirens down below.
They know. Frank knows. My heart pounds. I’m going to go to prison with Dad—
But the sirens pass by on the way to some other crisis.
Someone had to have seen me take her, right? I mean, that was the worst kidnapping ever. She almost got away.
I wish she had.
Why didn’t you just let her leave? I berate myself as I take her dirty clothes to the laundry room and stuff them in the washer.
Her bags—the evidence—are still in my car.
I hurry down, thankful that this is a high-end building, so of course there aren’t any cameras in my private parking area or my private elevator.
Her bags are strewn about the car. Her purse has spilled—makeup and her phone under the seat.
I shovel the girlie accessories into the leather bag.
Her phone has several missed calls and text messages. There’s one still hovering on the screen. I press it, and it lets me type a response without unlocking it.
(Graham) Dani: I’m ok. c u tmr
That’s how girls text, right?
I feel sick. The slight stench of exhaust in the parking deck makes me want to vomit.
More than sick, though? There’s the dark thrill.
I did it.
I kidnapped someone, stole her away from her life, her friends, her family, everything she ever knew.
She’s mine—all mine, to do with what I will.
“I’m not doing anything to her,” I tell my reflection in the elevator.
I prod it—past the dark thing that just wants to dominate someone—to me, or what I think is me.
And that girl is not my type. She’s heavyset. Dumpy, with frizzy, tangled hair. She clearly doesn’t care about her appearance.
I’m a monster, just like my father. And my father thought women like her were gross.
But—but, but, but—mine.
She’s mine.
I dump her things on my dining room table. Her little dog wanders, confused, around the penthouse.
“Sorry,” I tell the little French bulldog. “Sorry, doggo. I’m sorry.” I crouch down and let the dog sniff my hand. I put down some leftover chicken and water for her. She gobbles it down as I head back upstairs.
Standing in the doorway to the bedroom, I stare at the closet door. The thrill of it all coils in my chest. On the other side of that door is a girl. I have a girl trapped in my closet. Naked. Shivering. Afraid of me.
I palm myself. I’m not hard. Thank God.
This is just a solution to a problem. Brunch is in five hours. I need a girlfriend. I have one. Problem solved.
“Hello! Hello?”
I ignore the girl’s voice.
“Hello!”
She’s right there on the other side of the door.
I unlock it, hear her jump back. I barely make her out in the low light. But it’s enough to see…
She’s wearing one of my shirts. She has the white dress shirt partially buttoned, but it’s loose at the collar. The fabric’s thin enough that I can make out the pink of her nipples straining against it.
I swallow hard. “Why are you wearing my shirt?”
The tails of the shirt brush just at the tops of her curvy thighs. Her wild, curly hair half hides her face.
“Look,” she says. “I think we got off on the wrong foot.” She musters a smile. “Maybe we could, you know, get to know each other a little bit better.”
“I told you. You’re not my type.”
The hurt flashes on her face.
You’re delusional—it was disgust.
“You can’t just keep me here forever. That’s not going to work.
” She shifts, her tone going pleading. Her small hand rests on my suit jacket.
“Why don’t we just relax? You can let me out of here.
We could have a nice time and then forget this ever happened.
It’s New York—people have weird sex. It happens.
I won’t tell anyone. If you just let me go after, in the morning.
Or shoot, we could make a whole weekend out of it. ”
Her eyes are big in her head. She’s scared and trying not to show it.
I’m having distinct memories of his father bringing in Connor’s mom and her doing the same—arguing, the disbelief on her face when she realized she was going to be trapped in the cellar just like all the others…
No one is being locked up in any cellars.
This is an eighty-million-dollar penthouse directly off Central Park, in a building that is on the National Register of Historic Places.
It’s civilized, goddamn it.
“I’m not letting you go.” My voice is harsh. “You have to be my girlfriend. You are going to be my girlfriend.”
“I have a job—I can’t be your girlfriend.” She’s shrill. “You let me go right now.”
“No.”
That nervous energy is back, like she’s going to bargain her way out of it. Innocence in her hands as they clasp in front of her.
“I mean—you could join me, if you want.” The hesitant flirtation. “Who knows—maybe we’re just what the other needs. You don’t need to keep me locked up here. I could be your girlfriend for real, if you let me.”
She’s happy you kidnapped her. She’s falling for you, the dark part of me whispers. See? All women just want a man to tell them what to do.
“No.” I squeeze my eyes shut.
I’m not relationship material. I’m a monster—clearly. My mom is sweet and nice. My dad is a monster. And I’m all Stuart Richmond.
I can’t fall in love with any woman. I don’t deserve it. I’m too dangerous. And for fuck’s sake, I can’t fall in love with a girl I kidnapped. That’s definitely some Dad shit.
She’s misreading me. She’s too close now.
My tongue darts out to lick my chapped lips. I stare into her brown eyes so I don’t look down at her, naked under my shirt.
“There must be something you want!” she begs me. “Please—I’ll do anything. I don’t want to be trapped in here forever! Please.” She grabs me.
I shove her off.
“I told you. I don’t want you. You’re revolting.”
“Fuck you!” she screams. “You’re revolting.
You’re a monster. You’re going to burn in hell, and I’m going to make sure your life with me is miserable.
You think I’m going to be your little girlfriend, jerking you off when you get home from your nepo-baby job or whatever the hell you do? You’ve got another thing coming.”
“You’re going to be my girlfriend. You’re going to hate it. It’s going to be painful and—”
Those are my dad’s words. His little speech, perfected over the years, honed in the dark of the cellar.
“My family’s going to know I’m missing. They’re going to find you, and then you’re going to go to jail forever!”
“No one’s going to find you. No one knows you’re missing. The sooner you accept your fate, the easier it will be for you.” I clamp my mouth shut and turn, locking the door behind me.
It’s all coming back to me—the defiance, the bargaining, the way the life was slowly sucked out of the girls my father locked up.
This penthouse is so damn big I almost don’t make it to the en suite bathroom in the neighboring bedroom before I’m hurling up all of that Italian food I ate with my family.
I wipe my mouth and stare at my reflection in the mirror. My father’s reflection.
“Just let her go,” I beg my reflection.
But I can’t, because it will ruin brunch. I’m committed. I’m going to brunch, then I’ll let her go. I’ll blame the end of the relationship on my family—say that she dumped me, that it was too much, too quickly.
I lean against the closet door, listen to her in there, crying.
I sink down to my knees.
What have I done?
And what am I thinking—taking a girl I kidnapped to brunch with my parents?