When he walked into the room I rushed over, wrist held up, bracelet out with a silent request for an extra hand to put it on. I can't fasten the catch with my left hand. It frustrates me every single day.
The Christmas whorenament needs help? No problem. He reaches for the bracelet but I snatch it back.
What the fuck.
Do you need to publicly detail your evenings?
Do you want a job as editor? Because I can't pay you and volunteers aren't given censorship authority.
Bridget, you're incorrigible.
How many times did you read it? Be honest, you filthy pervert.
Four. Now are you ready for dinner?
No. Ben is still dressing.
Did he read it?
I turn and just stare at him. He was there, he doesn't need to read it. And you know that. So drop it already.
You're going to kill him, Bridget.
It's the offhand comments using phrases involving death that derail me. I slam the closet door closed and drop my coat on the floor and I march right over until I am up in his face and I point out quietly, harshly that I'm not the conductor of this orchestra. Caleb laughs at my euphemism, coffee and whiskey breath coating me in surprise.
I know you aren't but at the same time he is still testing you and nights such as those are ultimately going to make you fail your practicum.
Oh my God. Don't run with allegories, please. They're sharp. You might hurt yourself.
Isn't that what life has become, princess? Running away with the shred of an idea and letting it get out of hand before we realize not every idea is a good idea and we're in pieces on the floor?
Such as? I'm picking fights now. May as well, no one else is ready to go yet. Our reservations are going to be missed, which becomes complicated when you book a table of seventeen. I have to call the restaurant and warn them we are running late.
Your commune.
Is a well-oiled machine.
It's an incendiary device waiting to explode.
Sour grapes, Cale.
Obvious signals, princess. I'm looking out for you because you can't juggle so many hearts.
Two. Only two. I'm trained for five, fully.
Four. Or maybe seven if you want to be specific.
What the? Oh my God. TWO. Jesus Christ. Two. You make me sound like a party favor.
I'm not blind, princess. I see things you don't think I see. I know what the others want.
Oh, do tell because now you're composing your own melodies. You're ludicrous. And you're wrong.
He opens his mouth to say something and then abruptly checks his expression as Ben comes crashing down the steps, in a black suit with a steel-grey shirt. No tie. He looks like a pro hockey player arriving for a game. A suit on him looks so amazing considering he lives in tour t-shirts and jeans 360 days of the year and the missing four days consist of nothing (if I'm lucky) but plaid flannel pajama bottoms (Damn!) that make me want to put a bucket under my tongue.
Ben refused to join the argument or listen to accusations, instead scowling at Caleb. He pointed one finger at him and said one word.
Don't.
He then took my hand, pulling me out to the front hallway to get our coats on. It's late. We've got to go. The others will have to catch up.
I call the restaurant and let them know we're going to be trickling in gradually over the next half hour to an hour and they're very gracious, appreciative of the warning. Unlike me, who takes warnings as direct challenges. Every time someone levels one I leap into my fighting stance and become ridiculously indignant. Or maybe that's defensive. Oh, wait. It's guilt. Guilt and shame and yet I hold my head high, because the show must go on. Because this is what he wants and who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth when it's presented on such a grand scale?
***
(He sat in the chair in near darkness, eyes focused sharply on the scene that played out in front of him. He missed nothing. Not a centimeter of bare skin, not a kiss, not a whisper. Not a lock of hair or a long breath exhaled over a shoulder taunt with effort. He uses the darkness to torture himself, to bathe in his proclivities and marvel at the power he holds now, the ability to give and take away, like the Jesus Christ of Bridget's universe, gifting favors that breathe and laugh in exchange for total compliance. His own private little world, engineered as a means to an end. He found a red and white tent, deceptively small, complete with a fully working circus inside. He shook out the participants and onto the dry grass fell a blonde and a redhead and he found them intriguing. It's a carnival of madness and he is the ringmaster now. Can't take your eyes off him, I know.)
