Page 16 of Dangerous Games

“Sit on the bed, Nanette,” I order, and she complies. “Spread yourself like a good girl.”

She rolls her eyes at me, but she obeys, spreading her legs so I can see her sweet pussy on display. “That thing has fucked a lot of men. I’m surprised you're clean.”

“How do you know!” she hisses, closing her legs.

“A high-class escort doesn’t stay a secret long in my world.”

As the words slide out of my mouth she cowers. “Please, let me get dressed. Please, Dominic, I don’t like this.”

I stand, buttoning my shirt. “We’re going to dinner. You will behave yourself or your brother won’t see the light of day. Do you understand?”

She nods, scrambling for the panties. As she slips them on, she asks, “The scar… on your chest. How’d you get it?”

I pause, head down, facing away from her. “Only the beautifully broken get to see the beast with his mask off.”

I leave her locked in the room, unable to answer that question. It’s too real, too raw. She had to go there, poke at my wounds. It drives me straight to the room I just chased her out of. I need to see that portrait, to feel that pain again. It fuels me, reminds me why I’m doing what I’m doing. My mother needs avenged. It isn’t right what they did to her, how they hurt her.

I enter the room and stare up at the painting, wishing I had a glass of whiskey. Nanette had no business in here, seeing this. Some things are meant to be kept private, treasured. This room is just as Mother left it, untouched except for the bloodstain on the floor by her dresser. I scrubbed that with my own hands. I look there, knowing how she was found, how I found her. It isn’t right.

Rage bubbles up in my chest and I slam my fist against my thigh. Punishing myself won’t help, but it gives me an outlet. I take a deep breath, stepping closer to the portrait. It's been years since I've looked at it properly. The last time was at Mother's funeral when I had to give the eulogy. I remember staring at it then too, trying to pull together all the good things I could say about her.

But now, standing alone with her painting, I allow myself to truly look. It's eerie how much we look alike. Her brown hair is like mine, her small nose, and thin lips. In this portrait, she wears a blue dress that brings out the green in her eyes. I had no one else after she was taken from me, and now everyone will pay for what happened.

I let out a deep breath and take a step back from the painting before turning to leave the room. As I pass by her dresser, I catch a glimpse of something that makes me pause. It's the letter I found next to her. My head tilts to the side as I approach it, and I pick it up to read what's written on it in my mother's delicate script.

"My dearest Dominic,

If you're reading this note, it means I'm no longer with you in this world. But please don't cry for me, my love. Know that I'm at peace now and free from the pain they caused me.

I want you to know that I never stopped thinking about you, even in my darkest moments. You were always my light in this world. Please don't let their cruelty dim that light, my darling. Live your life to the fullest, and make sure justice is served.

With all my love,

Mother"

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes as I read her words, feeling a mixture of sadness and anger wash over me like waves crashing against the shore.

"I won't let you down, Mother," I say to the empty room before tucking the note into my pocket and leaving.

10

NANETTE

Ispend much of the day in my room, though I did go to the kitchen for lunch. I had a nap, but I feel fatigued this evening as I dress for dinner. Mika told me which dress I had to wear—orders passed on to me from Dominic. I hate the way he makes me feel like I’m a slave, only here to do his bidding. But I like it too.

The dress is pleasant enough, pastel purple with ruffles on the thin straps. The bodice fits perfectly. It’s like he had these dresses tailor made for me. Like he knows my measurements by heart, simply by looking at me. He doesn’t; he can’t. No man is that smart or that connected. And even if he is, who does he think he is to select clothing for me that I’d never wear if I were the one picking things. It’s like he’s trying to soften me or something. I don’t need to be softened. This world made me tough, and that’s who I am now. I need that edge or I’ll…

I stand in front of the mirror reflecting on the morning, the way Dominic made me feel. His knowing doesn’t stop at my clothing size. It’s like his hands know exactly how I like to be touched. Like intuitively he maps my body and memorizes it, then follows the map like a guidebook to bring me to the precipice of ecstasy only to plunge me into the depths of orgasm time and again. But why does he care?

I’m damaged, a wrinkled suit—Pandora’s box. What I hold inside is toxic and if he opens the wrong door, I’ll bleed blackness onto his soul. But it’s like he wants it. He wants a broken girl who needs to be abused to get off. Rich, powerful, older men are the ones I choose, probably because I was abused by one. He got in my head, ruined me. Now it’s my type, and I hate it. The men I seek out aren’t men anyone should desire, but here I am this sick little waif, fawning over them until they spoil me with their lust. It’s not like I have a choice anyway. I chose being an escort because I have no skills, no education. It pays well, and it meets a need I have—sometimes.

Pushing away the thoughts, I fluff my hair. I like it down, but I know Dominic probably does too. So I put it up. He hasn’t put any pins or clips in my room, so I twist my hair around in a knot until it’s piled on my head and tied to itself. A few stray hairs frame my face and I think it looks elegant. After a splash of makeup, I’m ready to go out to dinner.

Dominic said Jimmy would be there, so I’m looking forward to seeing him. I know I’ll have to “play nice” as Dominic says, but at least I get to see him, to make sure he’s okay. When I bandaged the wound on his side he appeared to be in a lot of pain. I hope he went to the ER and got stitches. Dominic did a number on his ribcage. And this job, whatever it is, he needs to finish it so I can get out of this damn house. I want my life back and it’s only been two days.

Someone knocks at the door, and I turn to see Dominic standing there in a black tux. He looks incredible, hair parted to one side but still dangling across his dark, brooding eyes. He hasn’t shaved; it seems to be his signature look, the five o’clock shadow. His eyes scan me, as if looking for fault or defect. It isn’t the sort of examination a man gives you when he’s aroused by you, just a cold, hard stare for quality purposes. I feel like a toy being examined before purchase; except I know he has no intention of doing any purchasing. Just playing with me for free.

“Are you ready?”

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