IN HIS KEEPING: BANISHED

Sylvie stared at the words on the screen.  She’d written it all down.  Every touch, every kiss, every intimate encounter.  She sat in the darkness gazing at the black letters on the glowing white background.  They chronicled her life with Connor.  Page after page of memories.  How handsome he looked in his faded, low rise jeans hanging loosely on his hips.  A trail of dark hair extending from his taut, flat belly and disappearing beneath the waistband.  How one look from his stern, brown eyes could arouse her passion, sending shivers of anticipation and desire coursing through her.  There were detailed descriptions of what his body felt like when it rubbed against hers.  How his touch seared her.  The sensations, the heat that pulsed through her veins when he gently stroked her skin.  How her mouth delighted in the plump softness of his lips.  The way his tongue tangled and danced with hers.  How it rasped against her nipples and lapped hungrily at her throbbing clit.  She detailed the indescribable pleasure of having his long, thick cock relentlessly ramming into her warm, waiting passage.  The feeling of fullness and friction it engendered.  She wrote how she savored the taste of his delectable cock.  The velvety texture of its skin.  How hard and manly his erection.  The musky scent of his body, the smell of sex mingled with sweat.  She’d described his rippling muscles.  His long sinewy limbs.  How beautiful his naked body.  The spicy fragrance of his cologne.  She’d written about his rules and discipline.  The ecstasy of loving him; the agony of losing him.

Her eyes overflowed with tears.  Why was she doing this to herself?  Why couldn’t she just let it go?  Put it all behind her.  Be done with it.  Connor wanted her out of his life.  He’d made that very clear.  She’d emailed, called, and texted him all to no avail.  The man wanted nothing more to do with her.  Why couldn’t she accept it and move on with her life?  Whatever they’d had together, been to each other, was gone now.  Their relationship going forward would be strictly business.  She was a good editor.  He needed her; at least for the time being.  When she was no longer of use to him, he’d send her packing.  All that remained of their love affair was 100 pages of erotic memories written by a lovesick sap still in the throes of denial.  Sylvie read through the journal every night.  Writing and rewriting it.  Adding paragraphs and descriptions, and whatever bits of the conversation she remembered.  It was a journal, but it was beginning to read like an erotic novel with explicit sex and a decidedly unhappy ending.  She told herself over and over that she should delete it.  That the act of obliterating it would somehow make her feel better.  But she couldn’t.  She wanted to remember, immerse herself in memories of him and what they’d once shared.  It was a self-inflicted nightly torture.  Like someone who repeatedly cuts themselves; but in her case the pain wasn’t cathartic.  It was just pain…unrelenting, unabating.

She needed a drink.  If anyone deserved one, she did!  Sylvie wandered through the dimly lit apartment, heading toward the living room bar.  She could see light under the door of the large walk-in pantry that doubled as Mrs. Haver’s office.  She had hoped the woman had already gone home.  Sylvie preferred to be alone.  She didn’t really know the staff here; and, if truth be told, she didn’t want to.  They were all like TJ: slavishly devoted to Connor.  Relaying his orders, chiding her when she didn’t comply.  Reporting back to him like a gang of sniveling snitches.  She’d learned her lesson with Mrs. Cosgrove and Brady.  She called them both after she’d been sent away; but instead of telling her what was going on up there and what was happening with the case, they were closemouthed just like the insufferable man they worked for.  Sylvie had spent the past three weeks out of her mind with worry, wondering if Connor would be arrested.  She was grateful for the daily emails ordering her to do this or that because at least then she knew he wasn’t in jail.

No one seemed to know why he’d sent her away and if or when she’d be able to return to the mountain house.  If they knew, they weren’t saying.  She knew her departure had something to do with the murder investigation.  Connor was an enigmatic, inscrutable man.  He valued his privacy.  Was he upset that she’d found out his deepest darkest secrets?  Mad that she knew about the women in his life?  About Marisol?  That he’d loved her?  Sylvie never imagined for a moment that he’d been a monk before they’d met.  She didn’t care about his past.  Did he think she believed the police?  That she imagined him capable of hurting those women?  She didn’t!  She couldn’t!  Sylvie would’ve thought that after what happened to those poor women, he’d have wanted to keep her close.  Never let her out of his sight.  Protecting her from harm.  Ensuring her safety.  That’s what Doms were supposed to do.  But instead, Connor had discarded her.  He’d obviously cared for those other women; but it was clear he didn’t have the same emotional attachment to Sylvie.  He’d sent her away to fend for herself.  If it wasn’t for the book, she’d be history.  The fact that he held her in such low regard broke her heart.

She turned on the light above the bar and was shocked to see that it had been stripped bare.  The glasses were still there, but every single bottle of liquor had been removed.  She checked the wine fridge… empty.  The beer cooler was empty as well.  What the hell was going on? 

She went to the kitchen and peeked into the refrigerator…no wine, not even a beer,  just milk, juice, and soft drinks.  Bummer!

Determined to get herself something stronger to drink, she headed to the wine room where all the expensive vintages were stored.  Though she hadn’t seen them herself, she’d been told that several of the bottles housed in the state-of-the-art, climate-controlled room cost thousands of dollars.  Connor, it turned out, was a connoisseur of fine wine.  At least when he was at his penthouse in New York City with the rest of the snooty swells.  She thought the locked wine room, wine cellar, whatever they wanted to call it, a pretentious affectation.  There wasn’t one at the mountain house and Connor’s palate managed to survive just fine.  Wine there was kept under the bars, in refrigerators, or was stored in the pantry along with the rest of the food and drink.

She turned the knob but it was frozen in place and wouldn’t budge.  The door was locked.  She glowered at it, then began rummaging through the nearby drawers looking for the key.  It was nowhere to be found.  Giving up, she decided to get the housekeeper’s key.

She knocked on the pantry door and was surprised when Mrs. Haver opened it almost immediately.  It was as though she was waiting for Sylvie.

‘Someone cleaned out the bar and there’s no wine in the fridge so I’ll need the key to the wine room,’ she said matter-of-factly.

Mrs. Haver looked flustered and uncomfortable, her face beet red.

Sylvie was expecting her to hand over the key, but she didn’t.  ‘Could I have it please?’ she asked, politely holding out her hand.

‘I’m sorry.  I can’t do that.  Mr. Hudson’s orders.’

‘What?  Are you serious?’

‘I’m afraid I am.  Mr. Hudson was very specific.  From now on, all alcoholic beverages are to be kept under lock and key.  He told me to tell you to quench your thirst with something else until further notice.  I’m sorry Ms. Jenkins.  I’m just doing what I’m told.’

Sylvie nodded angrily.  ‘I see,’ she said through tightly clenched teeth.  Connor was hundreds of miles away yet the son of a bitch was still trying to run her life.  How dare he humiliate her like this!  By tomorrow the whole household staff would know about it.  ‘Fine’ she snarled.  ‘You’ve done your master’s bidding.  You can go home now!’

Sylvie stormed away, stomping down the hall in a rage, till she got to her room.  Furious, she slammed the door so hard the walls shook.  That bastard!  Who the fuck did he think he was?  He had no right to tell her what to do!  They weren’t a couple anymore.  He’d seen to that.  She was living on her own.  So she could damn well make her own decisions.  Connor could take his rules and his orders and shove them up his pompous, arrogant ass.  She paced the room trying to figure out what to do.  She was well rid of the controlling son of a bitch.  If he thought she’d take this laying down he was wrong.  Sylvie didn’t need his goddamn wine.  Fuck him!  She’d go buy her own!  Whirling around, she caught a glimpse of herself in the full-length mirror.  Her reflection startled her.  Tituba was right: she was a mess!  She looked like a pale wraith, albeit one with hairy legs and arm pits and a rat’s nest atop her head.  She moved closer to the mirror and groaned.  Her brows were sprouting hair and what appeared to be a unibrow was forming between her eyes.  They hadn’t seen tweezers in weeks.  The girl in the glass was her ungainly, nerdy, 8th grade self, come back to haunt her.  Before she let herself be seen in public, she needed to do some serious cleaning up.  Then she’d show him!

Sylvie felt better after she’d plucked, shaved, and showered.  She pulled on a pair of skinny jeans and found them so loose she needed a belt.  A plain, dark blue T-shirt with a deep V neckline completed her outfit.  She’d put on one of her miracle bras so she was sporting a bit of cleavage.  After running a brush through her long brown locks, she applied a hint of blush and a few strokes of mascara.  She’d used eye drops on her bloodshot baby blues.  It made a big difference.  She looked human again, instead of like the bride of Dracula or one of the walking dead.  Sylvie took a deep breath.  She was ready to go.  Grabbing her wallet, she shoved it into her purse, then headed toward the front doors.  The apartment was dark.  Mrs. Haver had locked up and gone home.  Goodbye and good riddance!

Sylvie approached the arched front double door with a certain amount of trepidation.  It was ornate: made of carved mahogany and leaded glass framed in wrought iron.  It looked like it belonged in a medieval church not a Manhattan penthouse.  She put her ear to the door and listened.  What was she going to do if there was a security guard waiting on the other side of it?  What if he tried to stop her?  Sylvie took a deep breath and unlocked the door.  Pulling one side open a little, she squeezed through, cringing when the hinge creaked.  She stepped out into the foyer.  It was empty thank God.  Quietly closing the door behind her, she gingerly approached the elevator, relieved to see that there was no key pad or other security device.  All she had to do was push the button…which she did.  The doors opened almost immediately, startling her.  She stepped in and looked at the panel.  There were only three buttons: P for penthouse, L for lobby, and G for garage.  There was also a red button to press in the event of an emergency and a phone to call for help.  She went over her options.  If she got off at the lobby she’d have to walk right past the security people.  They might try to stop her or insist one of them accompany her on her errand.  She bridled at that.  She didn’t need a babysitter.  Sylvie opted instead to exit through the garage and save herself the hassle.  She pressed the button, then looked up and saw the camera.  Crap!  The last thing she wanted was to alert security to the fact that she was making a break for it.  With any luck, the camera images were being recorded on a tape machine, rather than being sent directly to a monitor somewhere.  The security desk in the lobby had a large console with rows of small screens embedded in it.  Hopefully, one of them wasn’t connected to the elevator camera.

They had no right to keep her here!  No one had ever told Sylvie in so many words that she couldn’t leave.  They just made it exceedingly difficult for her to do so.  The household staff was in cahoots with the security team.  Every time she mentioned going out alone: for a walk, to the store, or to the publishing house’s editorial offices, a member of the security staff would magically appear at the front door to accompany her.  Or to interrogate her, demanding to know what she needed, and then informing her that they’d get it for her.  One 6′ 5′ bald-headed behemoth had insisted on running to the pharmacy to get her a box of tampons last week.  She was mortified!  Though she’d repeatedly asked for a key to the penthouse and the security key and code for the elevator, she’d yet to be given them.  Sylvie was sick and tired of their interference; of always having someone hovering nearby telling her what she could and couldn’t do.  Sylvie wanted to be able to come and go as she pleased.  She was an American citizen and knew her rights.  She could and would go anywhere she damn well pleased!  If they confronted her about it or tried to stop her from leaving, she’d simply call the cops and tell the authorities she was being held here against her will.  And if security tried to follow her out, she’d charge them with stalking.

Sylvie gave a sigh of relief when the elevator passed the lobby floor and the doors didn’t open.  She was half expecting the security guards she’d seen posted there to stop the car.  Thankfully they hadn’t.

Sylvie got off the elevator at the garage and looked around.  It was spooky down here.  The lights were dim and every place she looked there were scary, dark shadows.  Sylvie couldn’t see an exit; so she followed the arrows painted on the floor, stopping now and again to listen for footsteps.  After wandering around a while, she finally located a huge rolling steel door where cars normally entered and exited.  It was locked in the down position.  She couldn’t get out!  Fuck!  There was a metal box contraption standing some 20 feet back from the door, separating what appeared to be two lanes of traffic: one coming in and one going out.  It had a card swipe device and a big blue button on either side of it.  Sylvie pressed the buttons, but nothing happened.  Aargh!  She looked around and noticed a glowing red exit sign about thirty feet away.  Hurrying to it, she discovered a black metal door.  Sylvie stared at the crash bar wondering if pushing it would set off an alarm.  Her eyes scanned the door frame and nearby walls for a red box indicating a siren would sound if the door was opened.  There wasn’t one.  But there was a camera…trained right on the exit.  Sylvie smiled and waved at the lens, then pushed the crash bar, and stepped out into the street.  And not a minute too soon!  The garage reeked.  It was musty and damp, clogging her sinuses.  Grateful to be out of there, she sniffed the outside air.  It smelled of car exhaust and garbage.  She’d expected Park Ave. to smell a million times better than the dumpy neighborhood she’d lived in downtown.  The streets were certainly cleaner, but the smell was the same.

Sylvie wasn’t sure what time it was…7:30 maybe.  The sun had already set and it was starting to get dark.  There were quite a few people on the street, mostly couples walking hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm.  She felt a twinge of sadness as she watched them.

She was out…now what?  There didn’t appear to be any stores on the street.  It was strictly residential.  She’d probably have to walk over to Lexington or Madison to find a liquor store.  Sylvie pulled out her phone and did a search.  There was one on 74th and Madison, another on 76th and 3rd, one on Lexington at 68th; but most of them were clustered along 2nd Ave.  Sylvie was headed to 68th   street, the closest one, when she suddenly stopped in her tracks.  What was the rush?  She’d buy the wine and do what?  Go back to a dark lonely apartment?  Spend the night sitting in her room crying, drinking glass after glass of Pinot Grigio hoping to deaden the pain?  Time to get a life!  Rejoin the human race!  Sylvie didn’t want to drink alone tonight.  Having escaped her palatial prison and her ever-present jailers, she should at least try to enjoy her hard-won freedom.  Even if only for an hour or so!

She did another search.  There were a couple of bars a few blocks north.  Three of them on 3rd, right near the liquor store on 76th.  She’d never gone to a bar by herself before.  Too shy!  But drastic times called for drastic measures.  She’d go to the liquor store and get herself six bottles of wine, just in case she couldn’t manage to sneak away again anytime soon.  Then she’d hit the bars.  Sylvie was stepping out!  If the bar scene wasn’t to her liking, she could always pack it in and go home.  But at least she’d have tried.

Sylvie started walking.  She slowed her pace to observe the people around her.  She felt out of place.  Dressed to the nines, they wore designer suits and dresses, trendy jeans, expensive shoes and handbags.  And the jewelry!  Even from 30 feet away she could see that the lustrous pearls they wore around their necks were real.  As were the sparkling diamond studs and solid gold hoops dangling from their ears.  This was Connor’s world, not hers.  It was obvious she didn’t belong here.  Any more than she belonged with him or his friends!

She kept thinking about the Labor Day barbecue he’d hosted.  Sylvie had helped Mrs. Cosgrove plan the menu two days before she left: boiled lobster, steamed clams, tenderloin of beef, corn on the cob, roast potatoes, and blueberry shortcake for dessert.  He’d invited 50 people to his end-of-summer bash.  She didn’t know all the people on the list.  The only names she’d recognized were the usuals: Drake, Victor, Alex, Nathan, and Shawn and their wenches Deidre, Caris, Bethany, and that bitch Seanna.  God how she loathed that skanky slut!  Sylvie could only guess the mischief that cunt had caused at the party.  Sylvie was positive that with her gone and out of the picture, Seanna had sharpened her claws and set her sights on Connor.  If Labor Day was anything like the Fourth of July, Seanna had played the seductress and attempted to entice Connor into her bed.  Images of him screwing that ho stabbed at her heart.  She couldn’t bear the thought of it.  When she’d agreed to live by his rules, Connor had vowed to be faithful.  But things had changed…that was over.  Promises made, only to be broken!  He’d banished her from his house and his life.  Now he was free to do what he wanted without giving Sylvie a second thought.  Well, damn it, two could play at that game!  The bastard wasn’t sitting around pining over her the way she was him.  Her life was in a shambles because of him.  She’d made a terrible mistake: she’d fallen in love with Connor Hudson.  It was a tragic error, one from which she might never recover.

She wondered what he was doing now.  Had his Aunt Lettie arrived yet for her yearly foliage tour?  Were they sitting down to dinner?   A warm inviting fire in the fireplace chasing away the evening chill?  Was he happy?  Did he miss her?  Even a little?  Her chest tightened.  Why did she torture herself this way?  Who gave a fuck what he was doing?  He didn’t want her anymore!  She hoped the son of a bitch choked on the food!  Her eyes teared up.  Sylvie had looked forward to meeting his aunt and her new beau Warren.  For such a sexual libertine, Connor behaved like a puritanical Victorian when it came to his beloved aunt.  He tried to discourage her romances and love affairs, hiring investigators to scrutinize her suitors, especially poor Warren.  Connor had become nearly apoplectic at the idea that his sweet, elderly aunt might be burning up the sheets, engaged in a sexual liaison with her aged lothario.  But to the old girl’s credit, she brooked no interference from Connor.  She’d made that quite clear to him time and time again.  Three times married and ready to take the plunge again, Lettie was the exact opposite of her marriage-averse nephew.  Sylvie sighed in resignation.  Whatever he was doing, she wasn’t included!  He was up there in the mountains and she was down here in the city.  Sylvie wasn’t going to be part of his life anymore, so she had best get on with her own!