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She opened the drawers of the nightstands flanking the bed. One was filled with condoms and lube. The other held sex toys of every nature. She locked them both before checking under the pillows and covers for any left-behind condoms. She found two. With a snarl of her upper lip she carried them to dump into the garbage bag.
Most consorts made sure to dispose of their own condoms. Most. Not all.
“What a session,” she mumbled, finding a Viagra pill nestled in the high fibers of the throw rug by the bed.
At the end of her search of all three bedrooms and adjoining bathrooms, she had tossed another used condom, several empty foil wrappers, an anal plug, and a torn sheet. “And a partridge in a pear tree,” she sang dryly, mocking the oddball list as she carefully removed the gloves and dropped them into the trash as well before tying the bag.
Ding-dong.
“Perfect timing,” she said, hoisting the bag as she made her way out of the room and down the hall to the stairs, jogging down the steps. She dumped the garbage bag inside the automated garbage can and retrieved her book bag before finally making her way across the foyer to open the front door.
“Buenos días, Señora Smith,” the middle-aged Latina woman said as she entered, pulling a rolling utility cart filled with her cleaning supplies behind her. Her five staff members followed behind, all dressed in polo shirts with her business logo on the pocket and black uniform pants.
“Good morning,” Desdemona said, smiling at each one as they immediately set off to different areas of the house to begin cleaning.
She paused in the entry and let the sun framing the doorway coat her body as she closed her eyes. The heat felt good. Almost as good as it would aboard a yacht in Greece. Or a beach in Turks and Caicos. Or lounging on the balcony of a villa on the Amalfi Coast of Italy. Or riding through the town of Versailles in France on a bike.
Something lightly brushed against her nose, and she opened her eyes just as a colorful butterfly fluttered away. She wiped at her nose as she stepped back inside the coolness of the house. The sounds of vacuum cleaners and Dustbusters hummed in the air as she made her way to the in-law suite, Denzin’s private quarters.
Desdemona tried to turn the knob. It was unlocked. “Good thing I checked,” she said, opening the door to turn the lock.
She paused and looked around; her eyes landed on the built-in shelves flanking the television that were filled with books. She looked away from them with shame and stepped back out of the room to close the door and try the knob again to ensure it was locked. His space was off-limits—even to her.
Upstairs on the penthouse floor, she unlocked the door and immediately poured herself a glass of wine to wait out the hour it would take for the team to clean nearly all of the eleven-thousand-square-foot house. She turned on the surveillance but got bored watching the crew clean.
Swiveling in the chair, she turned her back to the television and looked out at the sweeping view of the hills as she mindlessly played with her diamond butterfly bracelet. The all-too-familiar tension around her neck and shoulders returned. “Shit,” she swore, hating to feel imbalanced and out of sorts.
Hating that it was steadily becoming her new normal.
Cha-ching. Cha-ching. Cha-ching.
With another sip of her wine first, she opened her book bag and removed her prepaid iPhone. Number nine. Setting her wineglass down, she swiped the phone with her thumb to answer the call.
“Bonjour, étranger,” she greeted him in French, one of the few phrases she knew in the language.
“We need to meet. We have a problem.”
Desdemona stiffened at the serious tone of his voice. Normally he would respond to her playful greeting of “Hello, stranger” with a chuckle or a quip.
Problem? What kind of problem? Jail time type of problem?
“Problems are my specialty,” she said, thinking of the tall and bald light-skinned Haitian in his early fifties with hazel eyes. “I’m sure you remember that I have plenty of resources on this end.”
“This matter will needbothof us, Mademoiselle,” he insisted, his French accent heavy. “We shouldn’t discuss it by phone. I am sending a car for you.”
Her curiosity was piqued, but she didn’t like to be ordered about. It was one of the reasons she had stopped servicing consorts herself. The days of even being told just how a man liked to be made to ejaculate were over. Fast strokes. Doggy style. Blow job. Rim shots.
No more. Control was always hers. Whenever. Whatever.
“No,” she asserted. “And are you in America? Hell, are you in New York?”
“Yes. The car can be there in ten minutes.”
Desdemona released a short laugh that was mocking. “Where?” she asked.
His pause was noticeable, before his all-too-familiar chuckle followed. “Okay, tell me where you are and I’ll send the car there.”
“I’m handling some business,” she said, turning to eye the surveillance screens on the television. “But I can meet you in two hours.”
