Deep Woods

We rounded a corner and pulled up. “We’re here,” he told me.

I stared. It was a mansion, three stories high and built of snow-white stone. Huge pillars flanked the doors and golden light spilled from ornate windows. There were flower beds and gardens. A sign pointed to a golf course.

The driver opened my door and I stumbled out. My head still felt woolly and thick and confusion held my fear back. It must be a mistake. A screw up at the limo company. They were meant to take me to the San Francisco call center and they took me here. Maybe this was some other place the company owned. A luxury spa or something. “I think I’m in the wrong place,” I said.

The driver shook his head and nodded me towards the house. “I’ll take care of your bags.”

The fear started to build again. I walked up the steps and through the huge wooden doors...and stopped.

I was in a double-height hall big enough for a softball game, with a marble floor and a chandelier the size of a small car overhead. A grand piano stood in one corner and a massive, ornate staircase led to the upper floors. The place had been set up for a party: there was a bar in one corner where a barman was mixing drinks and a long table was loaded with platters of bread, cheese, and meat. Men in suits—ten or more—stood around talking and drinking. They were a mixture of ages, twenties all the way to sixties, but most were towards the older end and all had that easy confidence that comes with money. A fancy poker club, maybe, or one of those members’ clubs for people who’ve been to Harvard or Yale. But what the hell was I doing there?

As they noticed me, the conversations died away. They began to move closer, spreading out to surround me. I thought of wolves, stalking a deer. I turned to the nearest man, a guy in his fifties with a round, moon-like face and black hair that had thinned on top. “I’m sorry, I’m in the wrong place,” I told him.

“No, sweetie.” His voice was fatherly and just a little patronizing. “You’re in the right place.” Everywhere I looked, men were grinning. I felt like I was back in high school with a kick me sign taped to my back. Tell me what’s going on!

There was a creak from above. All of us looked up to see a man descending the stairs, the antique wood complaining with each unhurried step. The chandelier blocked our view of him but the men must have known who it was because the entire room fell silent.

His feet came into view first: polished black loafers twice the size of my feet. Then thick legs under expensive suit pants. A bulky torso, massively strong but running to fat. He wasn’t wearing a tie and his open shirt collar revealed dark tattoos across his upper chest. A flabby neck like a bull’s. And then, at last, we saw his face and—

My stomach flipped over. There was something horribly wrong with his face. It was as if the bones had been broken and the surgeons hadn’t been able to put them back together quite right, the result just off enough to be terrifying. But worse than the face were the eyes. He looked at me with absolute hatred. As if I was responsible for everything wrong in his life. As if all women were.

He walked over to me, the men parting to let him through. “Bethany,” he said with great satisfaction. He had a heavy, Eastern European accent. Russian? “Even better than your videos.”

What videos?! I was starting to panic breathe. He reached out and nudged a lock of my hair with one of his sausage-like fingers and I flinched. “What is this place?” I asked, my voice quavering.

A newcomer walked towards us. A tall, thin man in his sixties, bald, with just a little gray hair above his ears. “It’s a club, Miss Meier. A very exclusive club. One that my family has run for a very long time.” He was American, his voice as rich and refined as vintage bourbon. “These men are members.” He looked at the tattooed man. “Mr. Ralavich is our newest member.” He said it warmly but I saw the way his lip curled, the way he looked disparagingly at the Russian’s suit. Ralavich had money but no class.

I took a step backward, shaking my head. “I don’t—Why am I here?”

Ralavich grinned. “Because I bought you.”

The words bounced off my brain, refusing to go in. When I did process them, it seemed like a joke. It had to be a joke. “B—”

“Bought,” confirmed Ralavich, enjoying my reaction. “I own you, now.”

The other men were leaning forward expectantly, eager to see what happened next. Like tourists at the zoo, waiting for the lion to be fed.