Odalisque

Like her bizarre speechwriting talents. The day Kai had snooped in her room, looking for her conversation with his sister, he’d found notebooks full of speeches written in Constance’s hand. He’d assumed she’d copied them from somewhere for some reason, perhaps the “word study” she did. But on the plane he’d realized she’d written them herself.

He loved that she wrote speeches. He would have asked her about it sooner but it would have brought that awful day back, when he’d breached her privacy and she’d called him on it in the most condemning terms. And he’d spilled out the crap about his ex-wife, like Constance cared whether he’d had one or one hundred failed relationships. Like that exonerated him.

He’d deserved every ounce of her scorn, but he’d still been shocked by the way she went for his throat. As much as Kai enjoyed her calm, submissive nature, it had kind of thrilled him to realize she had a hell of a spine when she wanted to.

He had been proud to lead his odalisque through the luxuriously appointed hotel lobby on his arm, and happy to fuck her twice in a row on their new hotel bed. They’d picked over a room service dinner and then Constance had fallen asleep like a kitten in his arms.

But Kai dreaded the night ahead, and fought sleep. Kai always dreamed in hotel rooms, and the dreams were always the same. He tried to change things to make the dreams stop. Turn the air on louder or softer, pile the pillows higher. Drink less coffee, or more wine at dinner. It never worked.

The dreams always started on a beach, a wide expanse of silty sand dotted with broken seashells. The horizon was always blindingly bright, the sun a ball of wonder in the sky. But the water always looked murky. There was always wind, and the oppressive feel of an approaching storm. Then the voices would start, excited, high pitched voices. The children would run toward him, all of them three years old, or maybe four. Two boys and a little girl. He would open his arms to gather them close, to embrace them, but they were too excited. They would run away from him, toward the shoreline, toward the ever-heightening waves.

“Be careful,” he would yell. “Come back.” But they never listened. He would chase them, trying to corral them, but in trying to catch all of them, he’d manage to catch none. While he watched in helpless horror, all three of them would be overtaken by the surf. They would be pulled under the waves, gasping for air, their black locks turning drab and dark, their eyes wide in surprise.

They would stare at him, calling “Help, help” in those sweet, childlike voices that made him want to cry. They would bob in the water, struggling, and then they’d be gone while he stood with his feet rooted to the spot. Their little dark heads would disappear, leaving only the water dragging sand and shell pieces out into the deep. He would be left feeling, somehow, like he forgot to save them. Oh God, I have to save them! The realization would hit him like a kick to the chest--

Kai bolted up in bed, reaching out, running for them now, but the dream was over as always. Too late. There was only Constance beside him, looking alarmed and sleep-dazed. Kai took a deep breath and reached out to stroke her face.

“Are you okay?” she signed. “You were shaking the whole bed.”

If she wasn’t deaf, she probably would have heard him howling too, yelling unheeded words at his children. Be careful. Come back! He felt the grief still on him and in him, like the oppressive air and the salty smell of the ocean. He swallowed past the lump in his throat, terrified he might break down and cry in front of her.

“It’s okay,” he said. “Go back to sleep.”

But his jaw was so tight he could hardly say the words. Constance slipped out of bed and came back a moment later holding a glass of water. He took it from her and held it, and made the mistake of looking in her eyes. They reflected his own pain and the concern she was feeling, and then a few tears did shake loose. He put the water down on the bedside table and wiped at them angrily. They weren’t tears of sadness. They were tears of rage, of anguish. Of helplessness.

He kicked the sheets away and fell on her, kissing her hard, tasting his tears in her mouth. He knew he was acting abrupt and crazy. She was afraid. He could tell it, but he couldn’t stop. He searched her warm, firm curves and whispered reassurances against her neck that she couldn’t hear. He spread her legs and thrust inside her roughly, but it was okay. She was wet, so wet. She was wet from the last time he’d fucked her and she would be wet, he knew, until the very last time they fucked. That’s what he loved about her. She was there, ready for him, always. He could depend on her.

Constance held onto his shoulders, pressing close against him, seeking solace from his storm. His grief and rage were subsumed into mindless wild need for her. He was fucking her, but he could just as well have been hugging her, or swimming beside her in the grotto, their hands groping one another under the glittering ripples of water. Ah, Constance. He would hurt her if he wasn’t careful. Hurt her now with his pounding strokes...or hurt her later when they had to part.

He fucked her until the last bitter tear streaked down his face, until the lump of desolation in his throat allowed him to draw breath again. When he came inside her, it was like a great unwinding, a great exhalation of air. She didn’t come. She hadn’t even tried to, only held him through the torrent of his meltdown. I’m sorry, Constance. None of this is your fault.

Afterward he pressed her down against the fine hotel linens until his cock softened and slid away from her. He heaved himself off and rolled onto his back, his arm slung over his eyes. She lay still beside him a long time, and then shifted as if to leave. He shot out a hand to grab her.

“Where you are going?”

She made the sign for “t” and shook it. Bathroom. Her eyes were wide. He was still scaring her. God, he hated hotels and the dreams they brought him. Tomorrow he’d put her in a separate room. Except he was pretty sure the hotels in this area were all booked. Why the hell hadn’t he bought a place in New York ages ago? Or booked a goddamn suite so she could have her own room?

Because, for once, you had an excuse to sleep with her in your arms.

Constance stayed in the bathroom a long time, probably hoping he’d fall back to sleep before she came out, but Kai knew he wouldn’t do any more sleeping tonight. When she finally crept back to the bed, he held out his hand to her. He used the other hand to sign “I’m sorry.” He really was.

She shrugged and sat across from him on the bed, so serene and accepting. He suddenly wanted to tell her everything, unburden the painful secret he kept in his heart.

“I had children.” He had to sign it, because he knew she couldn’t read his lips in the dim room. “Three of them. They died.”

Constance looked shocked. “Oh, God. How?”

“Well, they were never born. My ex-wife aborted them.” He didn’t know the sign for aborted. He used a word like throw out or throw away, coming from his middle, and she seemed to understand. Her eyes went wide and sad.

“I’m sorry,” she signed.

Kai rubbed his forehead. “I never knew until...after. Now I carry them around with me like ghosts. I feel them here,” he said, pressing his hand against his chest. “I see them everywhere. I see some kid walking around... God, little Indian kids are the worst. Like a punch in the gut. I wonder what they would have been like. What they might have done in life. I think of grandchildren I might have had.” He stopped, his throat clenching up tight again. “I know it’s stupid. I don’t know why I can’t just let it go. They were never even born.”

Constance shook her head. “It’s not stupid,” she signed with emphasis. “It’s normal to grieve for children you lost. Even ones that weren’t born.” She thought a moment, biting her lip. “If you want a family, you could still have one. They wouldn’t be the same as the children you lost, but--”

“No. No, no, no.” Kai snapped his fingers together in the negative sign.

“Why not?” Her gaze was intent in the darkness. “I’m sure some woman would be happy to marry you and have your children.”

Kai snorted. “You think? Once she realizes how rich I am, maybe. I don’t trust women. I can’t. Three non-children tell me I can’t trust women.”

“That’s a pretty broad statement, to not trust women just because one did this to you.”

“One?” Kai was waving his hands around, signing a little loudly. “Constance, when you have money, you can’t trust women. Ever.”

Constance’s hands fell still a moment. She looked away, past his shoulder and then back again. “I don’t believe that. I think you’re a smart enough man to know if a woman is using you.”

“Ha. No. I’m not.” He didn’t know why he was being so rude to Constance when she was only trying to help, when he’d felt so close to her just moments before. But she had no idea what the world looked like from his vantage point. Constance, for whom everything was cleanly and contractually spelled out. Constance, who had an overmistress looking out for her best interests.