Eden

 

Nat and I leave my apartment building and walk onto the street. Down the road, a car sits, the engine rumbling. From where we stand, I can see the back of the driver’s head. He’s wearing one of those stiff caps, the kinds that professional drivers always seem to be wearing in movies. The car is a long, wide Mercedes, sleek and black, the tires chrome and shiny in the evening sunlight.

 

“It’s really here, then,” Nat says.

 

“Of course it is!” I reply. “Maddox is as good as his word.”

 

Wait a second! Since when did you trust Maddox? When did you decide that?

 

I think back, guessing it was during one of our talks over this past week. Perhaps it was in the car when he briefly mentioned his parents, or in the hotel when we lay on the bed on our towels, laughing now and then, talking shit about video games. For a biker outlaw, Maddox knows a lot about gaming and PC culture—

 

“Eden!” Nat exclaims. She tilts her head at me. She’s wearing the off-white dress I bought her, with high white heels. She’s freshly applied her fake tan, and it’s almost flawless, except for the white flakes on her fingertips. “Don’t spend tonight in the clouds.”

 

“Yeah, okay, Mom,” I mutter, and together we walk toward the car.

 

When we climb in, the driver says, “Evening, ladies.”

 

“Evening, good sir!” Nat grins. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” Then she turns to me and says in a stage whisper, “What a lovely man!”

 

The driver smiles into the rearview mirror and taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “Seatbelts, please,” he says.

 

We buckle up, and then he prods the car to life, and we make our way through the sparse traffic toward the Silicon Valley mansion.

 

***

 

“Have you ever read The Great Gatsby?” Nat asks in a tone of stunned awe.

 

“I have,” I answer, my voice just as breathless. “I know what you mean.”

 

The mansion seems the size of a small town. It sits on a small hill and the driveway – as wide as a road – leads up the hill, twists, and ends at the high, wide double doors. Along the driveway are small electric lights, illuminating the flowers, which are well cared for, their petals unstained by a single mark of dirt. The mansion’s roof is four-stories high, supported by six marble pillars which line the front of the house, breaching the gap between the house and the porch, which is as wide as most people’s apartments. The doors are like castle doors, huge. I see that set within the doors are smaller doors, little trapdoors, and these are what are flung open to the night.

 

The driver stops at the stone steps that lead up to the porch. “This is you, ladies,” he says. “Have a lovely night.”

 

Nat nudges me; I’m so caught up in the grandeur of the mansion I’m frozen. “Come on,” she whispers. “Let’s go and take a look!”

 

Without me realizing it, the driver has stepped out of the car, walked around to my door, and opened it. Now he smiles down at me under his cap.

 

I swivel in the seat and step out of the car. Guests file through the door-within-a-door into the mansion in a steady stream, women wearing sparkling dresses, which would usually make me self-conscious, but tonight my dress is as sparkling as theirs. Nat stands at my side and takes a deep breath.

 

I smile at her. “Ready?”

 

“Thanks for bringing me,” she mutters.

 

“You’re my best friend, silly girl,” I say.

 

She takes my hand, and together we walk toward the mansion. When we get to the door, a man wearing a black suit smiles at us in a ticket-collector-type way, the way someone smiles when they’re so sorry to be a nuisance, but it’s procedure. He’s short, squat, with a combed over pate, strands of black hair sticking to his head.

 

“Good evening, ladies,” he says. “May I have your names?” In his hand, he holds a clipboard.

 

We give him our names and he smiles and waves us through.

 

“Thought he was going to send us away,” Nat whispers in my ear. “Wouldn’t that be a fun night!”

 

When we get into the mansion, Nat and I gasp in unison. It’s more like a hotel lobby than an actual, lived-in house. The ceiling is as high as the house. A chandelier hangs from the room, set with what appears to be diamonds. The walls are also lit with torch-like candelabra. A marble double staircase leads up to the next story. The massive walls are covered in abstract art paintings, Jackson-Pollock-style pieces with flicks of paint here and there – red, green, yellow, and orange. An eight-piece band plays jazz from one corner. Waitresses and waiters holding silver trays of champagne and nibbles circulate between the crowds. The men wear suits and bow ties while the women wear expensive dresses, pearls dangling around their necks, bracelets clinking at their wrists.

 

We stand at the entrance for a few moments, letting the effect of this place sink in, and then Markus, Maddox’s big, bald second-in-command, shuffles over to us. He holds a single pink rose, which looks tiny in his hulking grip. He nods to me, and then turns to Nat, looking down at her.

 

“Hello,” he says.

 

Nat’s eyes go wide. “Aren’t you a big boy?” she giggles.

 

Markus blushes, and then extends the hand that holds the rose. “Nat, isn’t it? I got this for you?”

 

“For me?” Nat takes the rose gracefully, and then slots it into her hair. “How does it look, Mr…”

 

“Markus,” he grunts. “Mr. Markus.”

 

“Okay, then, Mr. Markus. How does it look?”

 

“Great.” He smiles. “It looks great!”

 

There’s a pause, and then Markus mutters: “How about a – uh – tour of the house?”

 

“Sure!” Nat turns to me, tilts her head slightly. Do you mind? is the question in her eyes. I shake my head, and Markus and Nat leave me, arm in arm.

 

A moment later, a man I’ve never seen before approaches me. He is tall and thin, with bright red hair, holding a glass of champagne in knobble-knuckled hands. “A lady shouldn’t stand alone at a party,” he says, smiling so wide that I catch glimpses of his gums. “Don’t you agree?”

 

“Maybe not, Mr. Bruce,” Maddox says, sliding up beside me. “But this lady isn’t alone, is she?”

 

I turn to Maddox and smile up at him. Cocky, arrogant man, I think, with a swelling of emotion in my chest.

 

The red-haired man nods, as though to say, ah, she’s taken, and then leaves us.

 

Maddox wears a tuxedo, tight against his muscles. When I look at the jacket, I can trace his muscles through the fabric. The pants hug his groin and his cock bulges, but it isn’t too obvious. Perhaps I only see it because I know what’s under there. His shoes are shined and reflective in the light. His tattoos creeping out of his sleeve and collar are just enough to complete the bad-boy-dressed-good look.

 

“Good evening, Miss Chase,” he says, offering me his arm.

 

I take it without a second thought, and he leads me away from the main room toward a corridor which leads toward the back of the house.

 

“Good evening, Mr. Owens. May I be so bold to ask where we’re going?”

 

“I have something very important to show you in the back,” he says.

 

His voice has that keen edge I’m familiar with now after a nonstop week of it. The keen edge that is part wolf, part eagle, all hunter. The keen edge that tells me he is struggling to contain himself. A tingle dances up my spine; hairs prick up on the back of my neck. I grip his arm harder, feeling the stone-hard muscle, muscle that is solid even while at rest.

 

“Don’t you have to work?” I ask.

 

We walk down a corridor lined with priceless art and into the back kitchen, through the back door, and into the garden. It’s as big as a football field. The edges sport flowers lit with the lights, carefully preened in beds, and the grass of the garden is clipped to half an inch. People stand in the garden, talking in small huddles and drinking champagne, smoking cigars and cigarettes. Not as many people as in the house, but at least ten. Toward the end of the garden is a gazebo, its white walls shimmering slightly in the breeze.

 

Maddox leads me to the gazebo, lifts the flap, and ushers me inside. Fireworks are stacked high on the grass, all the way to the triangular ceiling of the gazebo. He closes the flap behind us and nudges me in the lower back, all the way to the rear, behind a large stack of sparklers.

 

“These are for later,” he says when he sees me looking at them. “No one will be in here now.”

 

I turn to him, looking into his bright blue eyes. There’s the look. There’s the wolfish, hungry look.

 

He reaches forward and touches my cheek. “I just need you to beg for it,” he says voice strained. “It’s all I need.”