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Me: Roy, I’m safe with them. Your boy can stay here until I get back.
There’s a long pause, and I’m only just heading out of my dorm room when another text comes through.
Royce: I want you to get dropped off here after.
My fingers fly over my keypad furiously as I make my way down to the elevators. I hit the ground button.
Me: Where’s here, and I don’t know how late I’m going to be? And also, I don’t want to go to the clubhouse dressed in what I’m wearing. I also don’t know what kind of mood James is going to be in. He may not want to drop me there.
My heels click against the floor once I reach the bottom.
Royce: Clubhouse, and it’s nonnegotiable.
Pushing through the doors, I make my way out to J’s Maserati. Thank god for tinted windows.
A bike catches my eye parked in the corner, with an even younger guy than Gypsy on it, a hoodie over his head. He salutes me while firing up his bike.
I wave him off. Why the fuck is Royce being psycho—more than usual—right now?
Sliding onto the cool Italian leather seat, I shut the door behind myself. “Hi.”
James pulls out onto the road, filling the empty silence with awkward tension. Things between him and I have been up and down in the past, but no matter how low we got, there was a level of safety I found myself feeling while I was around him. He was always gentle while having sex. His placidity is what kept me from knowing he would never kill me, but at the hotel the other night, he felt frustrated. There’s a dark cloud of uncertainty that hovers over him now that makes me feel more unnerved than usual.
He continues to drive us out to one of the hotels on the other side of town. “We’re staying in tonight?” I ask, which is never a good thing. The food in my stomach rolls, unshed tears floating to the surface.
“Yes, Jade. Come on.” He unbuttons his jacket impatiently. I shut the door once I’m out and follow him into the lobby, hanging behind as he collects the key.
When we’re in the elevator, I desperately reach for something, anything, that may guarantee me walking out of here with my life. “I don’t have to go to the clubhouse tonight.”
He doesn’t answer, and for a second, I don’t think he’s going to, until the elevator reaches the top and he clears his throat. “Oh, yes you do.” Following him out into the hallway, the dark gray colored walls swirl in slow motion. He stops outside room #445 and slides the card down the slot until it beeps open.
He drops the card onto the counter beside the door, clutching his duffel bag in his hands. The room is furnished typical of a five-star hotel. Clean linen, champagne glasses, gentle lighting.
“Go in the bathroom and wait until I tell you to come out. Remove your clothes and wear the gown that is laid out in there for you.”
I nod. “Yes, sir.”
Entering the bathroom through the main bedroom, I close the door and begin undressing when my phone falls from my pocket. “Shit.” I forgot to put it with his keys, if he sees that I’ve made a mistake, my punishment will be even worse than whatever it is that awaits me.
After slipping into the same green silk gown he had me wear a few days ago and folding my clothes in a pile, I take a seat on the toilet and flip open the selfie camera. I’m somewhat active on social media, but I’m not a big selfie girl. Nothing wrong with girls who take selfies, I just can’t bring myself to do them. I like taking shots of the ocean, of nature. Dead flowers interest me more than a pretty face. Raising my phone up to eye level, I snap a shot of me with my hair piled to one side, in waves from it being knotted in a braid all day. My makeup remains glossy and untouched, with impeccable lines and flawless tints. I look down at the photo and freeze. I look like that? I seem… sad. The silk gown hangs off one slender shoulder, my collarbones as sharp as Royce’s cheekbones, my bright green eyes bloodshot around the edges. I slip my phone into my folded jeans and splash cold water over my face. “Okay. Here we go.”
“You may come out,” James says from one of the bedrooms through the door. Swinging it open, I follow his voice into the master bedroom. When I enter, he’s blocked off the whole corner of the room in white sheets with a metal makeshift stand in the middle. It looks like it could be a photo shoot area, with the drop sheets and stand, but when I see the camera on the tripod and the tools lined up beside him, I realize that this isn’t James that I’m dealing with tonight.
