Luxury Whitson
Twenty-eight days ago, I met Victor. If it were the month of February, then I could at least say that we knew each other for an entire month before I fell in love with him. Nope, it’s October.
Before I could stop myself, I had become lost to Victor's mesmerizing ways. It all had to do with his eyes. But this evening instead of a pair of hypnotic aquas, Victor’s pale, blue irises reach into my soul as we stand outside of a row of artsy shops in Harlem. It’s one of those nights, where the cold chills you to the core, and the full moon provides warning. If only I had taken heed to the dreariness of the evening before I decided to leave my loft. Damn, I could get lost in ‘if onlys.’
I was lost to Victor oh so easily, and all too quickly. So, for almost a month, I let my instincts come second to the desire that overtook my body at his sensual touch. Even then, Victor had this presence about him. A concoction of oxytocin, adrenaline, pheromones and sex had my mindless twenty-two-year-old self in a mindless state of bliss for the thirty-something Doctor Victor Finch. He exuded sex, and a plethora of other intense emotions.
The most provoking one being…fear.
Now, I gaze up at him, attempting to hide how well aware I am of his confidence, his ability to control my movements. My thoughts Me. Victor’s presence rules me. In that detached tone of his, crisp air flows out of his mouth as Victor asks, “Lux, do you fear me?”
Yet, that sexy British accent that drew me to him in the past no longer holds weight. I bite my bottom lip as I glance downward from Victor's thick, jet-black hair. He has sun-kissed skin and the angles of his face remind me of a lion, with those full eyebrows and brow lines, even the way they accentuate his eyes. An Italian suit drapes over every inch of his perfect muscles, like it was made only for him–even after all the physical activity of murder only a few minutes ago…
My hand grips the side of my olive-green silk dress that complements my warm, brown tone. Reddish-brown curly wisps of hair fall from the bun on top of my head. My freckled skin feels clammy and my heart is racing, though nobody’s chasing us anymore. Even in this expensive Burberry dress, I’m not half as suave as my date, as I try to catch my breath.
We’ve been running for a while. But at 4’11 and add a few more inches for my shiny black stilettos, it’s hard to keep up with his 6 foot frame as we run for dear life. Technically, I started running. My date just murdered 5 people and kept up with me. Yeah, I was really running away from Victor…
Now, the monster behind the drop, dead gorgeous Adonis god has finally composed himself. All to ask me one simple question.
“Well, do you fear me?” Victor enunciates every word, as if clarity is the most important part of this moment. Those concrete words vibrate through my chest cavity. As intelligent as the doctor is, I’m not entirely sure he's aware that our date ended at the very moment the first man’s body hit the cold asphalt.
A nanosecond after the first man’s heart had stopped beating, Victor had already claimed another soul. He murdered them all with ease. Now he wants to know if I'm afraid of him. The height factor is warning me to lie. To glance up into his eyes and say ‘no, why would you think I’m afraid of you?’—And not in some condescending tone, either. Looking into those eyes will surely be the death of me.
All the while it’s impossible to forget how he's handled my body in ways that bring tears to my eyes and causes orgasms to slide pass my thick, pink lips. But this man’s body was made to kill. Victor is a lethal weapon.
“Luxury!” Victor commands as the bright moon and starless sky casts a shadow against his thick frame. “Are you afraid of me?”
“Noooo...” My gaze slips downward in a coy ploy. Victor steps up to me. His woodsy, masculine cologne shoots hot thrills down my body, but a chill has already crept up my spine. Although, I’m playing up the vulnerable card, I quickly react. My knee goes toward royal jewels that I've knelt before, licked, sucked, tasted, and thoroughly enjoyed during our short relationship. Not even positive that I connected with his manhood, I turn quickly, almost tripping in my stilettos.
“Help!” I shout while running down the stretch of the alley. These three-inch heels, despite having given more height, are killing me. But Victor’s agile movements while murdering and the sound of the third man’s neck cracking echoes within my ears, spurring me on.
“Help!” I cry out, cold air rushing into my lungs, fighting against my will to survive. Even though any man brave enough to save me would be putting himself in danger, my pleading continues.
One of my shoes catches a pothole and frigid water splashes onto my bare legs. As I make it toward an open street, there’s a crowd of partygoers at an outdoor restaurant/club to my right. The pop music blares through the speakers. Not a single person turns from gyrating or enjoying their drinks.
My hands scissor as I try to wave down a taxi, while the freezing air stifles my bones.
“Are you okay?” a black man asks as he leaves the bar. He’s holding onto a young woman with cornrows swooped over the side of her face. She’s doing that one-two step after a few too many drinks, and here he is being the good guy. God, I need to get back with my brothers.
Oh shit, what if Victor decides to kill them too? Throat constricted, I nod vigorously, and offer the man a weak smile as the taxi comes to a stop. The black guy shrugs, and tells his girlfriend they’ll get the next cab as she giggles. When I look back, Victor is standing at the exit of the alley, less than ten yards away. Only his muscular frame is visible from the darkness. But no matter the distance, Victor can see straight through me. He always could.
I snatch open the door and hurry in. Tears stream down my freckled cheeks as I watch Victor through the rain-spotted, dirty window. His handsome face is masked by the night. But I can feel his intense gaze. I always loved the way he looked at me. Intensely. He made me believe I was the only woman in the world. Sliding down into the seat, I endeavor to be invisible.
The cab pulls away, but I don’t breathe freely yet.
My hands shake with such fierceness that it’s a feat just to reach into my bejeweled purse to grab my cellphone. While holding the iPhone in front of me, I notice a few red splotches of blood on my dress. I recall the two innocent joggers who seemed to have gotten it the worst. It is like a light switch flipped to ‘off’ in Victor’s brain. Every seed of his emotion died in that moment, as did the people who were near us.
“Where to, Miss?” The cab driver looks through the rearview mirror as we head down 138th Street.
For a second, I close my eyes, and try to remember my address. Within a jumbled haze of fear, I recall it, and then quickly tell the driver.
I take a hesitating, unsure breath as I quickly type the words into a text message: “DON’T CALL ME EVER AGAIN.” Mouth tensed, my thumb jabs the ‘send’ button. Victor isn’t the first man of my race that I've dated, but it will be a cold day in hell before my dating resume boasts another swirl!
Slumping in the sticky back seat, I try not to blink. Each time my lavender, shimmery eyelids close, I picture Victor flipping out. Not too long ago, we were rushing out of the club, kissing, rubbing and ready to fuck. Then… Those deaths were so vivid.
“Ma’am, you all right?” the driver asks, looking through the rearview window with worried eyes.
Again, I nod.
About ten minutes later, the taxi zips up to the curb of a brownstone, that houses an art gallery, a coffee shop and a discount store below my home. I take the side gate and buzz the elevator for the two-bedroom, second floor loft I share with my father. I have the upstairs portion of our home; it has been modified for privacy. My father’s room is toward the back on the lower level. The house is a jewel and a prime piece of property in Harlem. It was an upgrade from growing up in The Bronx. The move to Harlem placed me in the middle of the most creative, diverse culture in the universe.
I should have known Dad would've still been up as I tip toe inside. Thanks to the open floor plan, Dad’s back is facing me. He’s sitting on his La-Z-Boy with its creases and worn out fabric, a tiny patch of missing hair is almost hidden behind the 57-year old’s disheveled reddish-brown Afro. I have the same hair color, but with spirally curls.
We have invested in a lot black art while living in the African Renaissance capital. There are canvases on the brick wall to my left, since the other three walls are glass; we've always alternated between figurines, clays, and a few African statues.
George and Wheezy have Dad laughing so loud it almost matches the volume of the television—he’s hard of hearing so I welcome the buffer. Silent as possible, I slip off my stilettos on the mat, step onto the glossy wood floors, and then quietly take to the free-landing staircase. My hand goes to the cool brick wall, as I inhale, and head up.
“Lux? Luxury, that you?” Dad turns around, smiling with his freckles. “Did you have fun on your date?”
Fun! It was a friggen nightmare! His simple inquiry triggers the flood gates. I burst into tears. Shit, I am halfway up the stairs.
“What did that bastard do to you?” Dad arises hastily. Besides inheriting his freckles, I'm also stunted with his height. And as with me, Victor could step on him like a bug. But Dad has high hopes for Victor and me, since Victor knew so much of my father. If my dad isn't home watching old sitcoms and laughing at the top of his lungs at something sarcastic quip Fred Sanford had made, Doctor Jonah Whitson would've been at his research office at Greco Technologies. That is where I met Dr. Victor Finch, my dad's newest associate.
“Nothing Dad. Victor didn’t do anything. He’s just not who I thought he was.” It is the truth and a lie.
Dad shakes his head. “He did something. Regardless of what you say, Lux, I will kill him!”
“No!” I yell, pupils dilated. Dad is afraid of no one when it comes to his only daughter, yet in actuality, a cat doesn’t fear him.
“Well, why not?” Dad shrugs, baffled by my quick reply.
“Because we broke up with a mutual understanding. I’m… I’m… it’s just that time of the month.”
The thought of my going through menstruation is enough to silence my father. Besides, I don't want to tell Dad that Victor will kill him. In my room, every light is turned on, even the nightlight. By the time I close the door, it’s already brighter than Times Square on New Year’s Eve. Trying to stifle my tears, I toss my purse on the orange daisy duvet of my queen-sized bed. I am scared out of my mind as I slowly strip bare. It’s as if I have been classically conditioned; my body instantly feels the pleasures of Victor’s hands. His accent and the commands had me in sexual positions I would never have even dreamt of. Now, I’m determined to take a quick shower to wash off the memory of us. And specks of blood.
I step into the brick and chrome bathroom. The steam begins, to rise and I lower the temperature, to not fog the room. Damn, I’m too easily spooked.
The cooler water hits my body. I grab an organic bar of oatmeal soap, lather and wash. After two minutes of washing, the soap falls from my hand and my sudsy fingers begin to caress my flat abdomen and downwards.
“Vic...” I hear myself whispering. Before my fingers can mimic Victor's magic, I quickly shut off the shower and dry off. Then I grab the ugliest pair of pajamas I own, 5-year-old yellow-polka dot ones with a few token holes.
These fuzzy PJs have kept me warm on many nights, even comforting me during my biggest break up. My ex, Arnold, had decided, after 4 years of our relationship, to marry someone else.
I open the bathroom door. My fingers shake as I button the top, and hastily pull up the drawstring bottoms. Mist travels into my bedroom. My heart begins to thump as I notice that the dresser lamp is the only light on.
I see Victor's silhouette as he dominates the hot pink paisley chair next to my bed.
Victor glances at me while leaning back in the chair. My large room as instantly swallowed up by him. He steeples his fingers as he ponders. Before I can collect my thoughts, he speaks, “Those pajamas do nothing for you, Lux.”
“Wh…what?” I shriek, “G… get out! I told you–”
“Bollocks! You told me ‘Never to call.’” He retorts, jaw clinched. The light casts a shadow across the sharp curves of his handsome face. Victor waves a hand as if his presence means the world. He speaks through gritted teeth, “Well, on the contrary, Luxury, what a big cock up you’ve made because here I fucking am!”
Wow, I thought it was the cutest thing the first time he said ‘cock up’ in that British accent and explained that the phrase meant such a simple ass mistake. Now, my lips bunch together as I consider his words.
“Oh, so here you are? Victor, must I assume that my text message didn’t penetrate that thick skull of yours? Did it not imply that I never want to see your crazy ass again? Get this through your brain,” I flip him the bird. Shit, I don’t even have the height factor with him sitting and myself standing. Not bold enough to step toward Victor and hit him, or force him out, I keep my distance while shouting, “Get out asshole. I don’t want you. Understand?”
He places a hand up as if the irritation of me running away has disappeared from his psyche for a moment. “Alright, Lux, we have crossed paths with a few dodgy wankers this evening…”
“You-are-crazy!” The words stumble from my mouth soon as thought. It’s really sinking in there. I’ve made such a bad mistake in him. Shit, I need new intuition while dealing with men. Shaking my head, I say, “Aren’t you the one with a Doctorate in Physics, Dr. Finch. I’m sure the university wasn’t handing out degrees on the day you received yours. Or am I assuming wrong all the way around?”
“The name is Victor D’Ross not Doctor Victor Finch. No advanced degree in physics, Lux.” He runs a hand through his black hair, yet it stays perfect. In a monotone, yet crisp voice he adds, “Though, you’ve just brought it to my attention. Allow me to remind you Miss Luxury Whitson, you and I are under the agreement that I-own-you.”
I hadn't previously thought that Victor had lied about his surname, or even considered the name D’Ross, but my brain now scours the past. Yes, Doctor Finch–or whatever he wants to call himself–owned me. But I’m too stumped to speak.
“You agreed, Lux,” he adds in that sexy British accent.
“During sex!” I scoff.
“Wrong answer, Lux. I abide by principles only. Your word is crucial. Always and forever, you belong to me.” He pounds a fist against his chest while arising. Although, Victor speaks as if all of this is rational. My mind breezes back to his name. He was...is Dr. Finch! I had Googled him, accolade upon accolade and almost as many degrees as my father. Never heard of D’Ross.
I'm in the company of a madman. I slowly shift toward the door, dash and open it quickly, and begin down the stairs. My bare feet lash against the wooden floors as I make a quick descent.
“Daddyyyyy!” I shout angrier than the first time I fell from my bicycle, after Dad had determined a tricycle was no longer necessary.
“Lux!” Dad is up from the couch as I make the last step.
“Shite, Luxury, calm down,” Victor says, walking down the stairs. “Honestly, I’m attempting to comprehend the situation from your eyes. Making hasty reactions could cost your life or was that not evident earlier this evening?”
“Motherfucker, you listen here,” Dad sticks out his pointer finger. Shit, I can only wish it was loaded! “Dr. Finch, I will not have you threatening my daughter! Now, you must leave–”
THUMP!
A bullet blazes in the window and thumps into the brick wall, two inches to the left of Dad’s head. Bits of rock and powder go crashing to the floor.
In a split second, I feel pain. I once saw a piano crash to the ground while being hefted up four stories a few blocks down the street. It’s a heavy feeling that weighs on top of me. Heavy like bricks. Victor’s muscular body on top of me. My mind is ringing. How did he get to me so quickly? He hadn’t been close enough to do this, and now my body is being crushed under a ton of muscles.
“Get down, Whitson!” he commands my father.
You don’t have to tell Dad twice. Age ain’t nothing but a number. He moves quickly, plopping down besides his favorite brown leather lazy boy. “What the heck?”
Blood is dripping from Dad.
“Dad… Dad?” The urgency resonating in my ears is so familiar. I’m screaming. I press against Victor’s chest, but he holds me tighter.
“Stop moving, Lux.”
“I…I’m okay,” Dad reassures in a daze.
There’s a crescent where the top shell of his ear once was, he’s been shot. My eyes go from Dad's to Victor’s. The dark blue depths of his pupils have me on pause. He softly caresses my cheek.
“That sniper is here for you, Whitson.” Victor uses this calm tone that made me mad, frustrated, and totally and utterly pleased during sex. But it's all wrong, especially when another bullet zips through the glass and thumps into the brick wall. “Lux, I will explain everything. For now, I need you to understand that I just saved your life tonight,” he says as another bullet comes crashing into a lamp and shatters over our heads.
What the hell does he mean, 'saved my life'? I start to sob, as Victor gestures for my Dad to crawl away from the living room. With this open floor-plan home, there’s virtually no safety. The loft had been converted from an old factory, there are glass walls set in a 180-degree angle. We’re all going to die—
Victor kisses me passionately on the lips. I’m instantly numb to worry, until another bullet comes blasting inside. My body shakes in his arms.
Victor’s eyes lock onto mine and the hypnotizing blues pull me in again, as he says, “Lux, right now, I need you to be that cheeky, confident young woman I first met. No fear.”