Consequences Read online

  “Umm, I don’t have any lingerie.”

  “Yes, miss. Do you not remember Mr. Rawlings’s rules?” Without waiting for a response, Catherine continued, “No underclothes, ever.” Claire fought the fog of last night. She couldn’t understand why the memories were so fuzzy. Yet somewhere she had some recollection of such a conversation or, more accurately, a demand. But once again, this entered the world of ridiculous. Who the hell was he that he even thought he could make such demands and they would be followed?

  Catherine assisted Claire with the dress so as not to mess her hair and makeup. Claire vowed to herself this fiasco will be over. I am not sure how or when. But I will leave here, get away from him, and go to a place where women wear underwear.

  Catherine smiled approvingly at Claire as she stepped in front of the mirror. “Mr. Rawlings will be pleased. Now I must go. He will be here soon.” The reminder of his impending arrival sucked some of the resolve from Claire’s demeanor as well as the air from her lungs. Catherine knew him. Maybe if she stayed, he would . . . Claire didn’t know how to finish that thought. He would be nice? Let her leave? It just seemed safer around this woman.

  “Perhaps you could stay until after his arrival?” Catherine didn’t respond, but the look of satisfaction briefly changed to sadness. Instantaneously, Claire knew that Catherine’s departure was beyond both of their control. Claire would be face-to-face with her fear, the man that abused and dominated her the night before. She also knew that he was her only means of escape. For that reason only, she would face him. “Thank you again for your help. I really doubt I will be here tomorrow. He and I will discuss it over dinner.”

  Catherine nodded. It was an acknowledgment of Claire’s statement, not an affirmation of its accuracy. Then she left the bathroom. Claire heard a faint beep as she left the suite. It reminded her of the noise made by a car fob.

  While still in the bathroom, her heart rate increased as she heard the faint beep again. He didn’t knock. He just opened the door and entered. Claire imagined him surveying the empty suite. If she stayed in the bathroom, would he eventually come for her? Or perhaps he would leave. He waited silently in the bedroom. It took a minute or two. But slowly, Claire opened the bathroom door and entered the suite.

  Determined to meet him head-on at his mind game, she used all her strength to suppress the fears that screamed to get out. The first things she saw as she entered the suite were his eyes, his dark black eyes. They resembled voids or black holes. His lips were moving. He was talking, yet Claire could only hear the memories of the previous night. She walked to the bookcase at the far end of the suite, feigning strength.

  The fake resolve melted as she turned to see the eyes staring at her. Then almost instantaneously, he was there, right in front of her. His proximity caused her stomach to wrench, tasting the nasty bile from earlier.

  He grabbed her chin, pulling her eyes and face toward the dark void. His strong voice was deep, slow, and authoritative. “Shall we try this once more.” It wasn’t a question but a statement. “It is customary for one person to respond to the greeting of another. I said good evening.”

  Claire’s knees went weak at his touch. She wanted to yell, to run, but she wouldn’t let herself. If she couldn’t be strong, she could at least avoid fainting. “I’m sorry. I don’t believe I am feeling well.” Still holding her chin, he had to feel her body tremble.

  He repeated, “Good evening, Claire.” This time, it was more drawn-out. His eyes were so cold. Claire couldn’t distinguish what they said, only that the depth of their darkness seemed infinite.

  “Good evening, Anthony.” She would tell herself she sounded strong, but she didn’t. At that moment, the door opened again, and a young man pushing a cart brought them their meal. Claire started to walk toward the table, but Anthony’s hand seized her arm, stopping her. She looked back up at him, into those eyes. He reached with his other hand to lift her dress and place a hand on her buttocks. The shock of his touch quickly turned to anger. Her green eyes flashed fire, and her neck stiffened. “What the hell . . . ?” Her impulse was to lash out, but the hand that held her arm tightened its grip, making her forget her words.

  “I see you can manage to follow at least one rule. Shall we eat?” His grip loosened as his voice attempted a reasonable tone. Anthony pulled back Claire’s chair at the intimate table. She eyed the display, and her thoughts summed up the scene. It all looks so nice and is such a masquerade.

  The food smelled wonderful, but Claire’s stomach wouldn’t allow her to eat. She managed a few bites. However, swallowing was difficult. Her anxiety made her mouth dry as cotton. All of her pep talks about standing up to him proved worthless. Instead, she sat politely, playing with her food and nodding attentively.

  There was an attempt at conversation. Looking at the dinner, Claire felt that something was missing besides common sense. The young man poured water into the glasses, yet to make the masquerade complete, there should be wine or champagne. It was almost as if he read her mind when Anthony commented, “I do not like to drink alcohol. It inhibits the senses.” She thought immediately how nice it would be to have a fifth of Jack Daniels about now.

  Anthony relished her discomfort. “Don’t you like your food?”

  “I do. I guess I’m not hungry tonight.”

  “I heard you have only eaten breakfast today. I suggest you eat. You will need your strength.” He grinned as he took a bite. His eyes didn’t grin. She used every ounce of energy to remain seated and not run, although the door was shut, and she heard the faint beep when the waiter left.

  If she had run, she could have avoided the next horrific hours of her life. Apparently, the night before was only a prelude. Once Anthony finished eating, he stood and took Claire’s hand. Her trembling increased as she stood. He smiled and held her at arm’s length. “Did you choose this dress for the evening?”

  “No, it was Catherine.” She remained tall and defiant even though she knew her will would not be considered in his plans.

  “Yes, she knows me well. Now take it off.” No sweet talk, no kisses, nothing—just a demand to remove her dress. She didn’t move. She glared first at him and then at the floor.

  Taking a deep breath and returning her eyes to his stare, she said, “I think we need to talk about this . . .” He waited for her to obey his command. When it seemed she had other plans, he redirected the conversation. In a sudden movement, the dress fell from her shoulders as he tore the lavish fabric from her body. Claire stood in shock, finding herself wearing only high heels.

  “Apparently, you do not remember all the rules. Rule number one is to do as you are told.”

  The trembling intensified as tears teetered on her painted eyelids. No words came from her mouth. It was all right. Anthony had other plans for her mouth. He pushed her down, directed her to kneel, and unzipped his pants. She noted immediately that he followed his own rules, no underwear. He didn’t speak but roughly engaged her movement. At first, she thought she would suffocate. She attempted to fight, to back away, but he entwined his fingers in her hair and directed her as he found fit. From there, the evening continued until about one in the morning.

  When Anthony finally left the room, Claire threw back the blankets, grabbed the robe, and rushed to the door. Her hand gripped the smooth gray lever and pulled with all her strength. It didn’t budge. She formed a fist and pounded again. Her hand throbbed, yet no one responded. The only answer was an eerie stillness.

  Claire reached for something, anything. Finding the vase of flowers, she threw it against the wall. The crystal shattered, showering the wall and carpet with crystal shards and water. The flowers, unable to drink, were scattered on the floor, left to wilt and die. Claire sank to the ground, tears flowing. Succumbing to the exhaustion and desperation, she fell asleep.

  The next morning, Anthony entered the suite. The sound of the beep and the opening door startled Claire. She rose to meet his gaze, and their eyes met. He surveyed the suite: a la
mp overturned by the bed, a scarf tied to one of the bedposts, and the broken vase near their feet. He smiled. “Good morning, Claire.”

  “Good morning, Anthony,” she said with more determination than she’d been able to muster last evening. “I want you to know I have decided to go home. I will be leaving here today.”

  “Do you not like your accommodations?” Anthony’s black eyes shone as his smile widened. “I do not believe you will be leaving so soon. We have a legally binding agreement.” He removed a bar napkin from his suit pocket. “Dated and signed by both of us.”

  Claire stared astonished as her mind started to turn. This whole situation was so idiotic it couldn’t possibly be real. Who in their right mind thought a bar napkin was a legal agreement? And even if it was, which was like a snowball’s chance in hell, it never gave rights to abuse, demean, or condemn a person to slavery. Dumbfounded, she stared speechless.

  Anthony continued, “Perhaps you do not remember. You agreed to work for me, to do whatever I deemed fit or pleasing, in exchange for me paying off all of your debts.”

  Claire’s head throbbed. She recalled something of a napkin, maybe a job offer, but it was fuzzy. Besides, she would stay in debt and work double or triple shifts at the bar before agreeing to this!

  “Apparently, you have been busy in the last twenty-six years. With education, rent, credit cards, and a car, you have managed to accumulate approximately $215,000 of debt. This agreement was dated March 15, and as with any legally binding agreement, you or I had three days for recession. Today is March 20. I currently own you until your debt is paid. You will not be leaving until our agreement is complete. End of discussion.”

  In desperation, her trembling resumed, and she found her voice. “It is not the end of this discussion. This is ludicrous. An agreement doesn’t give you the right to rape me! I am leaving.”

  She eyed the door to the hallway, only a few feet away and miraculously left open. Without warning, Anthony’s hand contacted her left cheek and sent her the other direction across the floor. He slowly walked to where she lay. He didn’t bother to bend down, merely looked at her from high above, and repeated, “Perhaps in time, your memory will improve. It seems to be an issue. Let me remind you again, rule number one is that you will do as you are told. If I say a discussion is over, it is over.” Picking up the napkin and placing it in his suit coat pocket, he continued, “And this written agreement states whatever is pleasing to me, means consensual, not rape.”

  Still towering over her, he straightened his suit jacket and smoothed his tie. “I have decided that it would be better if you do not leave your suite for a while. Don’t worry. We have plenty of time, $215,000 worth of time.” With that, he turned to leave the suite, the sound of broken crystal echoing from under his Gucci loafers. His controlled, imposing tone terrified Claire more than his words. He spoke with such authority it left her powerless to move or speak.

  “I will tell the staff that you may have your breakfast after this crystal is cleaned up.” He disappeared behind the large white door.

  Claire heard the beep and the lock as she allowed herself to reach up and touch her stinging cheek. The total silence returned, and she looked at the mess before her. While a small, insignificant protest, she heard herself say, “I would rather starve than clean this up.”

  With tears in her eyes and the sound of sniffles, a while later, she found herself crawling around the floor, picking up pieces of crystal. She had most of the large pieces picked up when she noticed the blood on her robe. After investigating, Claire determined that it came from a cut on her hand. She tried unsuccessfully to remove the sliver of crystal from her palm, the blurriness of her vision made the task difficult. Suddenly, the too-familiar beep made her turn toward the door, terrified of Anthony’s return.

  Catherine entered, looked around, and shook her head. “Ms. Claire, let me get that cleaned up. You will end up cutting yourself.”

  “I believe I already have.” Claire held out her hand. Very tenderly, Catherine led Claire into the bathroom and removed the crystal. She then cleaned and bandaged her hand. When they returned to the suite, the evidence of the previous night was gone. The suite was clean, no overturned lamps, no scarves, and the vase was gone. Sitting on the table was a tray of food.

  Claire walked to the table and obediently ate her breakfast, alone. An overwhelming feeling of desperation filled her. She was trapped. She was all alone. And she didn’t know what to do. She decided to take a shower, and hopefully, she would think of something.

  The trust of the innocent is the liar’s most useful tool.

  —Stephen King

  Chapter 2

  Five days earlier . . .

  The day filled with meetings served its purpose. First he met with the station manager, then endless hours with the sales team listening to budget reports followed by proposals. Truthfully, these meetings didn’t usually warrant the attendance of the parent corporation’s CEO. Judging by the way WKPZ’s executives fell over themselves to justify every expense and augment every proposal, they demonstrated that they at least had the common sense to recognize this visit as extraordinary. Truth be known, Anthony Rawlings didn’t give a damn about the two-bit television station. It already served its purpose. If he closed it tomorrow, no sleep would be lost. However, the meetings showed him that the station is profitable. And given the current state of the economy, profitable is good. When he returned to the main office, he would assign a team to investigate an impending sale. Wouldn’t that be great if he could reap both personal and monetary benefits from this acquired station?

  After the conclusion of the meetings, he agreed to a social outing with the new station personnel director and his assistant. If they knew anything about him, they would realize this was completely out of character. His acceptance of their invitation came with one stipulation: they must go to the Red Wing. He’d heard it had the best fried green tomatoes in Atlanta, Georgia.

  Thankfully, the two associates had families that were awaiting their return. After sipping a Red Wing signature beer and consuming a portion of the fried green tomato appetizer, Mr. Rawlings insisted that they take leave and spend time with their loved ones. He thanked them for their devotion to WKPZ and listened attentively to their personnel plans. However, if he were questioned under oath, he wouldn’t be able to recall one word they said. His attention was focused on the brown-haired, green-eyed bartender. She was scheduled to start her shift at four o’clock, and he knew she would be here. As soon as his associates left, he texted his driver and informed him that he would be at the Red Wing until late. Then he casually walked to an empty stool at the end of the bar, near the wall. It reduced the probability of anyone striking up a conversation by 50 percent. He would have preferred 100, but damn, you can’t have everything. The only object of his conversation and attention would be the smiling young woman on the other side of the shiny, smooth bar.

  “Hey, handsome, do you need another beer?”

  Anthony lifted his gaze to look into her emerald eyes. He had a handsome face and knew after many years of practice exactly how to use it. However, at this moment, his smile was genuine. She was finally talking to him. It had been a long lonely road, but the destination was finally in sight. “Thank you, I would.”

  Sizing up the remaining contents of his glass, she asked, “Is that one of our custom wheats?”

  “Well, yes, it is the La bière Blanche.” She smiled sweetly and hurried away to fill him another glass. When she returned with the amber liquid, she efficiently removed his empty one and replaced it with the full glass and a fresh Red Wing napkin. “I would like to start a tab.”

  “That would be great. If I could have your credit card, I will start one right away.”

  With that, Anthony opened his Armani jacket and removed his wallet from the inside pocket. He had so many things he wanted to say, but he had all night. Her shift wouldn’t end until ten, and he planned to spend the evening sitting right there. H
anding her his platinum Visa, he watched as she read the name.

  “Thank you, Mr. Rawlings. I’ll return this to you in a minute.” Her smile or expression never wavered. She turned away toward the cash register. Anthony sat back against the chair with a brief moment of satisfaction. She didn’t know who he was. This was perfect.

  During the next few hours, Anthony observed as Claire chatted and flirted with customer after customer. Her attentions were friendly and attentive, but never overtly personal. Some of the customers were greeted by name as they found their way to an empty seat. Many knew her name before she could introduce herself. Anthony assumed they were regulars. Both men and women appeared pleased to have her wait on them.

  She moved nonstop, clearing away empty glasses and plates and replacing them with more of the same or checks in need of payment. She wiped the shiny wooden bar and smiled even when a comment deserved a strong retort. After so much time watching her from afar, being this close gave him more of a rush than securing a multimillion-dollar deal. Perhaps it was the knowledge of what is to come.

  After tending bar on and off again for years, Claire Nichols knew how to read people. More importantly, she genuinely liked the little quirks that made them real. For instance, take Mr. Handsome sipping his La bière Blanche. He’s been watching her for the last few hours like a lion sizing up its prey. She judged that he was at least ten years her senior but hid his age well behind that perfect smile, dark wavy styled hair, and amazing brown, almost-black eyes. Claire smiled a secretive smile. She was watching him too.

  “What time do you get off?” His voice resonated strong and husky through the noise of the bar, patrons, and music.