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Westchester is nearly an hour from Manhattan. I could’ve taken a train. But when Damien said he was sending a car, it was no taxicab. The next morning at 6 am, as I’m debating whether I should drink orange juice yet or if it’s too soon after I’d brushed my teeth, I hear a rapping on the door that almost makes me drop another glass in less than 24 hours.
Christmas Eve has come, and I’m the present. Or at least the parcel. I’m grateful that’d I’d woken up bright eyed and bushy tailed. That’s a phrase with which my mother often derides her much less affluent sister whenever she had any pep in her step my mother hadn’t managed to kill. I had all the energy that I could muster.
My mother is nowhere to be seen the morning she allows my father to ship me off to a strange man. Maybe I should slam the glass down and leave broken shards to annoy her and remind her that I was here. Of course, I don’t do this. I swear, I don’t have a natural flair for the dramatic. That’s all my mother. I’m calm.
Walking to the door, I gulp. I’m practically certain it isn’t Damien. This both disappoints me and terrifies me. Who will it be? I pull the brassy knob of the oak door to reveal a man who is large, but still not quite as large as Damien. Which was really saying something because the sharp dressed, dangerous looking man, who turns out to be the driver, opens the door of the car for me with bulging biceps beneath his suit jacket. If he was a Navy SEAL from my Kindle, or used to be, I would believe it.
I wonder why I don’t find this man as exhilarating as Damien. While it’s true that Damien’s larger and even more impressive, part of me wonders if my holiday blues haven’t simply made me catch some kind of slutty bug.
Alas, I only have wet panties for Damien. I almost laugh at the joke, but I am too confused by exactly what to do. I’m just leaving my house? It seems so strange. My parents are gone. This driver appears … why am I left utterly in the dark? I screw up my face in frustration.
“I’ll be taking you to Damien’s condo now, ma’am. Do you need me to get any of your luggage?” Well, at least the driver is trying to be nice. Maybe he thinks I’m stupid and is wondering why I haven’t packed any luggage. I have no clue how long I will be with Damien. I know almost nothing about this arrangement. Wasn’t packing hard enough without all these unknown variables in the equation? After all, I’m not going on a vacation. Why should I pack away my belongings when I’m giving away my freedom?
“I didn’t actually pack anything,” I say with a tentative laugh, a nervous smile coming in its wake. I tuck some of my hair behind my ears.
“Don’t worry about it. If you need anything, it will be taken care of. Damien will send someone to gather any of your things that you decide you need.” It’s a calm, polite statement, designed to soothe me, and I’m grateful for that. No reason for me to be anything but grateful, because he’s just the driver. Still, I’m more confused than ever. Does the driver know why he’s picking me up? If he does, it doesn’t keep him from closing my car door and heading to the driver’s seat, pulling away from my childhood home, and taking me toward Damien. The trip won’t be long enough for me to form any coherent assumptions, just enough for me to feel thoroughly frazzled. My palms are sweating and I feel like my hair’s getting frizzy on principle, just to make me feel worse.
Would Damien be home? If my thoughts leave my own misery, they instantly glide into the realm of what to think of Damien.
I try to look out the window and concentrate on anything other than my predicament … or my captor. The spires of the city start to come into view as we get closer to Manhattan, and I try to focus on that background feature and none of the people. I have the overwhelming urge to be alone, not for some secret action in my panties this time, but just to feel like I could finally exhale the metaphorical breath I’ve been holding since my father bartered me away. I guess I should be trying to make SOS signals with my eyelids or something, but the only things I blink are tears. I desperately try to keep those at bay, and I succeed.
What the hell is in store for me?
This isn’t the first time I’ve been in Manhattan. I never liked it before and I can’t find a reason to like it now. I rest one of my sweaty palms onto my leg, wiping the hand on my jeans, and placing it on the cool leather of the seat next to me. I think the temperature change on my hand might calm me. If I didn’t feel like it would make me look like a dumb dog or something, I would press my face against the glass. I just want something to distract me from … I don’t know what. That is it. The uncertainty is overwhelming and I need to be able to get my bearings.
