Riley: The Gilded Night
He shaves me again and it feels so intimate that it’s almost unbearable. This is fucking ridiculous. This is a ridiculous way for adults to a behave towards each other. I sweat as the razor tugs over my skin. I’m spread wide open for him. I shouldn’t be doing this. I shouldn’t be thinking these things.
He finishes and I feel like I could melt into a puddle. Tonight he puts me in tiny, lacy white lingerie and black stockings. The dress is black, too. It's velvety and incredibly elegant, but the neckline sinks all the way down to just above my belly button, and there are long slits that go up both my legs. It reminds me of the gown Christie was wearing the night I met her, and for a moment I marvel at how much has changed.
“Do you want rubies or diamonds?” he asks.
“Diamonds,” I say. “Where are you taking me?”
“Donors ball at the Met. Chance for all the big movers and shakers to come out and lick each other down.”
I’ve seen that in the papers. He might as well be bringing me to the Academy Awards; there’s going to be famous people filling the place. There’s no way I’m going to fit in there, no matter how many diamonds he hangs on me.
“I’ve never been to something like that.” I want to ask whether he’s worried that I’m going to try to run away from him or scream for help. Then I remember how those cops responded to him on the first night. Does he own everyone in the damn city?
Christie does my hair and makeup and Jack takes me to a limo for the short drive downtown.
“Why are you doing this? Why are you taking me here? Why not take Talia or someone else?” The questions spill out, out of my control.
He acts confused again. “What do you… I don’t want to take Talia. I want to take you.” He studies me for a moment. “You think you’re not beautiful because you’ve never tried to be beautiful. I can see that you’re beautiful.”
“Thanks. That means so much coming from my kidnapper.”
“I think someone told you all your life that you weren’t worth anything. But they were wrong.”
You’ve met my mother and siblings, huh?
“Yeah, delightful. Turns out I’m worth a few million dollars of a gambling debt, huh?”
He smiles at that. I can’t figure out why he’s telling me this or what he wants. Maybe he just likes you, a faint voice suggests. Yeah, but do I want the violent gangster to like me?
“What are those books piled in your room—why do you read so much?”
“I like books.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. Why do you like books?”
“How do you know I like books?”
“I see you on the cameras, reading the old romances in my room when you’re supposed to be cleaning.”
I blush.
“Why do you have a bunch of old romance books in your room, anyway?”
“Maybe I just like them.”
“What, you just wandered into a library and started reading romances one day?”
“No.”
“Then how did you start reading them?”
He considers me for a moment. It looks like he’s trying to decide whether to tell me something or not, and I keep quiet.
“I read them to my mom.”
“Ew.”
Jack shrugs. Then I realize that he told me something that even Christie didn’t know. The person those books were for.
“I didn’t mean to joke around. Sorry.”
He’s quiet for a few more moments and I feel like I’ve ruined something, but then he keeps talking.
“It wasn’t anything gross. They were old romances. All the steamy stuff happened off the page after the end. They were just stories about people falling in love. Stories about adventures and love being real. She liked that. And she was sick. So I read them to her.”
He says it simply, like he's not divulging something terribly sweet and tragic. Oh, why does he have to be a murderous criminal the other half of the time?
“Did she get better?”
“No. She died.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. That’s how the world works. People die.”
“What happened to her?”
“My dad was a piece of garbage. He ran drugs, guns—small-time stuff. There were bad people around our house all the time. My mom got sick from using needles. She had her own problems, too. She should’ve left him, though. She should’ve gone and taken care of herself and gotten well. But she wouldn’t have been able to take me away with her. My dad wouldn’t have let her. He wanted her to stay, and he knew he could keep her trapped by using me. So she stayed. Because I was little and she loved me and she wanted to protect me. She hung on for years, sick, dying, while she tried to raise me.”
All the emotion is locked down deep inside of him. He tells the story in a simple, calm voice like he's talking about someone else.
“She died because she loved my dad, to start, and chose to have a kid with him and start a life. And she died because she loved me, even after she was done loving him. Remember that, the next time you’re thinking about your dreams. That’s what love does. It blinds you and cripples you. It traps you in bad situations. It leads you into back-room gambles and debts you can’t pay.”
The car pulls up to a lavish red carpet, and there are camera flashes and crowds outside. Jack steps out, takes my hand, and leads me after him.
The central room of the museum is ethereally opulent. If Jack had taken me on a spaceship to a ball on the moon I don't think it would've been more breathtaking. There's champagne and hors d'oeuvre better than anything I've ever tasted. The attendees are all dressed immaculately.
Yet no one has as many diamonds as me. Not even close.
A man approaches and shakes Jack's hand. They speak a few words. I realize from half-remembered news clips that he's the mayor. The governor comes up next, and then two senators.
Fuck, he really does own the city.
They all compliment me graciously and move along before they become tiresome.
Talia Amontillado moves through the crowd on the arm of some tall, sullen young man who could very well be an actual model.
Jack gets pulled away by a bulky man who I'm pretty sure works for the mayor, and he walks me to the bar first and drops me off. I sip a drink and watch the sparkling crowd go by. How the hell did I get here?
“You’re new,” says a voice to my left. I look over to a tall, lanky man in a cheaper suit than the rest. He’s in his forties, and he’s sipping a large glass of vodka.
“No, I’ve been around forever.”
He offers a hand and I take it.
“Monty Esperanza.”
“Riley.”
“So you’re Jack’s new girl.”
“Sure. Has he had others?” I try to ask nonchalantly.
Monty laughs. “Any and all who my lord will deign to accept for the night. See, you are new.”
I shrug. “Sure. You know Jack?”
“It’s dangerous to know Jack Turner. I know of him, at least.”
I follow an intuition. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you?”
Monty looks worried that I’m going to scream or run away.
“Yeah, fine. How did you know?”
He’s disappointingly normal for a reporter—no mythic Woodward or Bernstein. But there’s some intriguing strangeness about him, even if he’s not exactly dreamy.
“Cheap suit. Big glass of hard liquor. I’ve read books before.”
“Jack lets you talk to reporters?”
“Jack lets me talk to whomever I like.” He’s going to kill your whole family for this, why are you fucking around? the more responsible part of my brain wants to know.
“Has he taken you back to his penthouse? Have you been inside the San Sorreno?”
“Sure.”
“There’s a lot of people who would be interested in what’s in there—who would be interested in the dealings of the Amontillados in general.”
“Are you one of those people?”
“Sure. Do you have anything I might be interested in?”
I shrug. "What's in it for me?" I don't know why I say it—it's something I've seen people say in old movies. In actuality, I'd take a chance to rat out the Amontillados and the rest of those bastards for no payment at all. But not Jack. I'll find a way to keep Jack out of it, somehow.
“Upholding Truth, Justice, and the American Way?” Monty offers.
I break easy. “Sure. Good enough. What do you want?” I’m looking around the room for Jack now. I don’t want him to sneak up on me again like last week at Club Six.
Monty slides down the bar and leans a little closer. “This city has been rotten with crime for a long time, but it’s getting even worse, and the Amontillados are pushing for more power. I think they want to take it all. Jack’s been slowly eliminating the competition—wiping out entire organizations. And no one here is standing against them. They have money in too many people’s pockets. The Times is trying to start something, trying to work out an investigation. I want to find that money. It’s the oldest game in the book. You follow the money, find its source—”
“You want his ledger. His records. You want to know where he keeps track of all the bribes and payments and resources.”
“Yeah, how did you know?”
“Intuition.”
“We find that and reveal it, a lot of people are going to lose their jobs—politicians, senators even. If we publish which politicians have built their career on Jack’s money, the people will kick them out. If the Amontillados lose their political support, they’ll be crippled. If the Amontillados eliminate all the competition, and we eliminate the Amontillados…it could change things for this city. For the better.”
I can see in Monty’s eyes that he’s a dreamer. And probably pretty delusional. But I’m a delusional dreamer, too.
“How do I contact you if I get anything?”
He tells me an email that’s just a string of numbers at a free email server.
“You don’t have anything fucking easier to remember?”
“I figure it’s better to stay anonymous on digital records.”
“Some reporter you are.” I close my eyes and repeat it to myself until I have it memorized.
“Even if you can’t find the ledger, you can give me information: anyone Jack meets with—”
“Like the mayor?”
“Ha, yes. Anyone who’s working for him. Anything big happening.”
And suddenly Jack’s standing before us. I flinch and just barely stifle a manic laugh.
“Monty, how unpleasant, as usual. Why did they let you in here?”
“Always a delight to see you in front of me and not dropping me into a river, Jack.”
“This isn’t Russia, Monty. It’s America. We don’t kill reporters here.”
“Yeah, sure you don’t. Read a book, buddy.” Monty manages the retort, but he looks pale at talking that way to Jack. He has a significant amount of alcohol in him. Jack considers him for a while and Monty looks convinced that he’s going to be dragged out and gunned down in the back of the museum.
Jack finally just reaches out and takes my hand. “Keep up the good work, buddy. I always enjoy your weekend column.” He leads me onto the dance floor.
Jack seems bored with it all, and whenever I pull my eyes away from the crowd he’s studying me.
“Did I do something wrong?” I finally ask.
“No. You’re just beautiful. I like to see your reactions to things.”
I want to distract him from the fact that I was talking to Monty. “I’m never going to beg you to fuck me,” I blurt out.
“Fine. How about we dance instead?”
I can only half remember the steps to a waltz from lessons a decade ago, but Jack knows them perfectly. I follow him as we spin and spin, and slowly my steps become smooth and precise. His arms wrap me against him tightly and guide me around the floor. Our bodies are so close. I can feel his heart, steady against my own racing beat.
We dance for hours.
I think at one point that I could dance all night.
And we do.
Finally, the music stops. I stay pressed against Jack, moment after moment, and then finally we pull apart in the silence. And then he leads me away. We leave the main ballroom and wander down corridors where no one else has gone, to a dark hallway with shadows and light dancing between towering columns. Jack leads me between them with his sure hands on my hips and presses me to one of the marble pillars.
My heart won’t stop racing. I can’t seem to control my breathing. My skin is damp with sweat from the dance, and I would be cold but his warm body keeps it at bay.
I glance up to his eyes, then his lips, then glance away. I realize I’m blushing and furiously try to make it go away. You’re acting like a schoolgirl. I feel absurd—earlier in the night I was plotting how to destroy him and his empire, and now I’m trembling in his arms.
When I raise my head again he’s still looking at me steadily with those deep, dark eyes. He doesn’t look away. “Tell me what you want, Riley.”
I bite my lip and shake my head involuntarily—a refusal.
His hands are so low on my stomach. My dress and the panties beneath it are so thin, practically diaphanous. There’s hardly anything more than air between my most private places and him.
“It’s not fair!” I say, almost petulantly. “You practically torture me! You lock me up…there…and control me until I practically…”
“Practically what, lose control?”
That was what I was going to say and it makes me blush.
“You know how to say ‘no,’ don’t you?” his rich voice purrs into my ear. “Just say ‘no’ when you want me to stop.”
And suddenly his hand is moving down, lower, lower, lower, until he’s cupping me there between my trembling thighs. And all I can do is let out a little sigh. It’s easy. I don’t have to ask him. I just have to let him keep going and maybe I can finally get another release from this pent-up agony.
I’ve forgotten the double-dealing, kidnapping, and subterfuge. My world shrinks down to the movements of his strong, expert hand.
He knows exactly where to touch me. And he knows exactly where not to touch me in order to prolong my agony. Firmly, surely, he massages me through my dress and my panties. I don’t think I can stand up anymore, but he moves in, presses his body to mine, and wraps his other arm around my lower back, holding me completely stable against him.
I wrap my arms around his neck and sink my head into his enormous chest with a sigh.
A voice in my mind yells, from very far away, that this is wrong. I’m supposed to have another life; a normal, boring life. This man has objectified me and humiliated me. He’s kidnapped me. But at the moment I’m too desperate and too exhausted to care. I let the voice drift away. It’s just too hard to resist anymore. I’ve exhausted myself resisting these last two weeks. It’s as if I’ve spent my last reserves of fuel.
I sink against him and gently buck and grind against his wonderful, firm hand. He slips underneath my dress and rubs my swollen lips through my panties. The little triangle of cloth is soaking wet.
“Just let it go. Just let it go,” his firm voice rumbles in my ear, sinking through me. I shut my eyes. My world is calm darkness and Jack’s hand, and his breath on my neck, and his voice, and his heartbeat against mine.
I've never felt desire build in me so quickly. He hasn't even touched that special, intense spot. He's just been building, playing with me, and still, I'm about to explode in ecstasy on his hand. His fingers trail up to the top of my little panties and begin to tug them aside.
And doors to the hall burst open.
Light and a crowd of revelers flood in. Jack stays holding me like that for just a few seconds longer. For a moment, I think he’s going to keep going until he makes me orgasm in front of everyone there. For a moment I think I want him to. And then he pulls away, steadying me with a hand on my arm.
“Jack!” some useless, old pale man crows. “You’ve got to come back and join the party! We’re taking a tour of the premises!”
"Just showing the girl some artwork," Jack says. I feel like he's considering simply telling them all to get out. But instead, he leads me back to the ballroom. He hands the band leader what must be at least ten thousand dollars in cash—why the hell does he even carry that much on him?—and they start to play again, just for us.
He dances with me in the empty ballroom until morning.