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31
Annie
"Dear, if you keep fidgeting, I'm going to end up stabbing you with a straight pin."
That wouldn't be the most painful thing that had happened to me in the last forty-eight hours, but I took the seamstress's instructions to heart and stopped trying to climb down off the stool or up another rung. Or fly somewhere and do something.
Soon enough there'd be stuff to do. Cole had told me the night before that on Friday he was throwing a dinner party for a number of very wealthy individuals who contributed to several of his charities.
Of late, as November slid nearer to Thanksgiving, he was less inclined to answer questions so I only looked as curious as I could. He was pacing around me as I ran on the treadmill, well into my eighth mile. I didn't have the breath to ask questions anyway and if I had, he'd probably turn up the speed.
He saw my curious look, though, and apparently tucked it away. Because first he told me about the seamstress who would be coming in to customize some of the gowns that hung in the amazing closet, and to make certain the shoes fit. I definitely wouldn't be running away during the dinner party; the shoes he had in mind were all stilettos. I'd never learned to walk in regular heels. I was going to be either lurching my way into the dinner party, greeting the guests while already seated, or being carried around from place to place. That, or I could spend every minute until then learning to walk in heels.
The last was the most reasonable and the least interesting option.
When he'd explained everything about the outfit, the seamstress, the requirement that I look perfect, the woman who would come in to do my hair, the woman who would come in to do my makeup, and the woman who apparently was coming in to do my bath and I had no say in that, he went on to explain about the dinner party itself.
Apparently he threw them several times a year, elaborate meals that gave the ultra rich attendees a chance to come together and find causes they agreed to donate to. That sounded curious enough. I knew that Cole St. Martin had a reputation as a philanthropist and that he contributed massive amounts of money to the causes he espoused.
I had a bad feeling about the night, even more so than the idea of being bathed by someone else brought on. But I couldn't breathe and I still had more than a mile and he wasn't going to tell me anything that I really needed to know anyway. If it was a trap, he was hardly going to say so.
Now I stood on a stool being threatened by the wizened woman with a mouthful of pins sticking out of her softly lined lips. She was sweet and tiny and utterly uninterested in making any kind of conversation. I assumed that Cole paid her in cash and probably enormous amounts; in return, she didn't make small talk with the inhabitants of the cell.
I'd become interested in what had happened to the girls before me. That I wasn't the first resident of the cell was moving from beyond speculation to a sense of certainty. What I didn't know was where they’d gone. The speculation gave me a cold hard feeling in the pit of my stomach.
The thing with Cole was, he wasn't real. In the most essential way possible, he was a shell. He had personality and looks and brains and money. He could be charming AF and he could be a monster, the worst nightmare someone had ever had.
But there wasn't a man under all that I could find.
I didn't have an explanation for that. I'd read tons of interviews with him, watched him on YouTube, read biographies people prepared when they part of organizations that were giving him humanitarian awards. He came off smooth and polished, funny at times, always a little daring, a little controversial. The kind of thing where he could be on an episode of Oprah and smile that devilish, triangular smile that looked so much like Loki's and ask, "What do you think?" about allegations that had made the rounds about him. Then he'd be trending for days and totally unconcerned. The more people talked about him, it seemed, the more the actual story was muddied. It was a kind of anti-PR that kept him such a secret, nobody would believe the truth if it were put out there as a headline in 24-point font.
It was actually impressive.
I spun at the little woman's command, getting a glimpse of myself in the mirror before I turned too far. There was only one mirror available right now, the others covered. She didn't want me to see the gown until she was ready. Apparently it was a surprise.
I was willing to bet it wouldn't be a surprise I liked. She worked for Cole, not for me.
I retreated back into my head, wondering if the guests who were coming knew about Cole's little predilections. Did they know about the girls who had passed through this cell? Had any of the girls left their mark anywhere and if so, how? I had located most of the cameras and there was nowhere but the water closet that was safe from intrusion, including the shower and the tub.
That made sense. More than once Cole had worn a bathing suit and taken me into one or the other, getting me thoroughly wet before giving me a massive spanking, once with a rubber paddle and once with his hand.
Both hurt.
He was endlessly inventive.
And the girls? Had they had substance abuse problems? Boyfriend issues? Or had they only known someone like Samuels who took them in hand before literally selling them up the river?
"Ouch!" I bent sharply to rub my calf where the pin had gone in.
"I told you to stop fidgeting," the vicious little old lady said. She was smiling.
The fitting lasted longer than my patience. In the end she didn't allow me to see the dress and informed me that on the night of the dinner party, I'd be dressed by the person assigned to me.
I could feel the dress. It felt like it was all there.
Never trust in anything with Cole St. Martin.
Before I left the closet, slipping back into a t-shirt and jeans, padding barefoot around, I looked for any marks, any leftovers, any ribbons or makeup or false eyelashes or jewelry, any notes or marks or pleas for help from whoever had passed through the room, becoming more and more troubled as I went on.
