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“Nothing’s real with you.” She shoved her hands against my chest. I liked the warmth in her fingers, despite the anger radiating from her. “Let me go.”
I held her a moment longer, then released.
She pulled away, glaring, and crossed her arms over her chest.
I retreated into myself then. Let her have some space for now.
I had planning to do and a defense minister to beat senseless.
Dear Robyn
I was born to kill.
Born to sell weapons of death. Born to revel in the misery of others.
To prosper from the misfortunes of those in the way of my family’s weapons.
Merchant of blood and gore.
My father never let me forget it. One night, when I was ten, he dragged me from my bed and made me break down and rebuild an old Kalashnikov he kept in the kitchen. I did it again and again, blindfolded, until he was satisfied. It took hours. When I was done, he beat me with a thin wooden switch for keeping him from his bed for so long, then sent me off to shower and do my chores.
That was my father at his softest.
I picture myself as a parent. I imagine my children. Would I treat them like that? Would I be so desperate to make them hard? To make them killers?
No, I don’t want my children to suffer my fate.
What then?
Will you soften me? Turn me into a better man? Make me the father I always wanted?
I think about getting you pregnant. I picture your legs spread wide as I plunge myself inside. I dream about your moans. I spend hours imagining your orgasms.
The way your legs shake. The way your mouth opens.
I’ve never seen it and yet I feel as though I’ve experienced it a thousand times.
I want to taste it a thousand more.
Will you let me tease you until you’re soaking?
Force you to crawl on your hands and knees to take my cock in your mouth?
I won’t make you beg too much.
Unless that’s what you want.
I’ll spank your ass and pull your hair and hold you down so there’s no escape.
I’ll fuck you rough or fuck you slow. I’ll make you scream and make you moan.
I’ll keep you as my own.
My little toy. My doll. My love.
Will you be all mine?
Yes, darling, you will.
Love,
C
7
Robyn
I slept through most of the drive.
Calvin was silent. Brooding. Angry.
So more or less himself.
His assistant Matthias sat up front and stared out the window. When I woke with the dawn, he still hadn’t moved, and hadn’t passed out at all.
Calvin’s head was leaned up against the window, his lips pursed together, like even in sleep the world managed to disappoint him.
“Does he always do things like this?” I asked softly.
Matthias looked at me in the rearview mirror. “If you mean does he always do extremely dangerous and borderline insane thing, then no. He doesn’t. I wouldn’t remain with him if he did.”
I smiled slightly. “How come I’ve never seen you around campus?”
“His world at school and his world in business are two separate things.”
“Do you know him well?”
“Very well. Do you?”
I considered that. “Not at all. Although I feel like I do at the same time. It’s strange.”
“That’s Calvin.”
“He wrote me letters. Lots and lots of letters. Some of them had stories about his life growing up.” I hesitated, glanced at the sleeping bear next to me. I spoke softly. “Were they true?”
“I don’t know what he said.”
“Was his father an abusive piece of shit?”
“Yes, he was. I’m surprised he told you about that. He doesn’t talk about it much.”
“Were you around for it?”
He nodded and his eyes went glassy. “We grew up together. His father was a difficult man. High standards. Treated Calvin the worst though, since Calvin was the heir.”
“What’s their relationship like now?”
“Strained, at best. But you should ask him.” Matthias looked away as Calvin stirred.
I went quiet. Calvin woke, frowned at me, then smiled slightly, like he wasn’t sure if I’d still be there and he was happy to find I hadn’t disappeared. He turned to look out the window, squinting, then looked at the time.
“We’re close,” he said as if he’d been awake the whole time.
We finished the drive in silence and pulled down a long, meandering private road near a massive blue lake. Brnovich’s house was an absurdly palatial estate with crisp white columns and half a dozen expensive cars parked out front. A single man came down from the front steps wearing a black suit and looking haggard. He had gray hair and a trim little black mustache, clearly dyed an unnatural shade.
“Welcome, welcome, we were expecting you sooner,” the man said, looking around fretfully.
“We drove as fast as we could,” Calvin said, stepping forward. “Where’s Brnovich?”
“Inside, inside. He didn’t sleep at all last night, the poor man.” Brnovich’s servant spoke perfect English. I was tempted to scream my head off and beg him to help me get away.
