14. Gwineth
These five steps to the door seem endless. The floor creaks, I'd never noticed how loud the sound is before. I look through the peephole and see black, he must have his finger on the glass. Asshole.
I raise my arm to fix my hair but the pain reminds me I can't use this arm. For a second there, I forgot. I use the other hand then, and open the door.
Jim is facing the stairs, lost in thought. He tilts his head from one side to the other, silently pondering some scheme I will never know about. Finally, he turns towards me, narrow-eyed, his ever-present smirk gone. All this time I thought I knew just how utterly terrifying he could be: I was dead wrong. The way he's looking at me right now, this is what "utterly terrifying" looks like. I'm far too exhausted to comment, let alone be witty. I wait for him to speak.
"Are you going to let me in, dearie?" he cants. I say nothing, but I move out of the way. He walks in calmly, measuring the floor with each step. I close the door. Jim lurks by the liquor cabinet, carefully examining it.
"How's your wrist?" he asks casually, not even facing me.
"Broken," I answer. He turns for just a second and smirks bitterly. "Why are you here?"
"What do you mean?"
"You look troubled, that's not how you usually look when you're here."
"Really? And how do I usually look?"
"Like an idiot," I snort.
"You should weigh your words carefully, sweetheart."
"I always do," I smile. "I'm a lawyer."
It's as if the sound of that word sent a jolt of electricity through Jim. His expression is different now, like something just clicked in his brain and he can stop worrying. I don't know whether that's good or bad for me. My heart is racing, I can hear it in my ears, I can feel it pumping inside my chest. The wrist is the last of my concerns right now, I need to keep up appearances. Jim crosses the floor and runs his fingers through my hair.
He's so close I can smell his aftershave, and it reminds me of all the things I want to do to him. My eyes are watery from the painkillers, but I can't avoid his stare.
"There's something about the way you hold yourself that is very nearly royal, Gwineth," he soothes, his fingers tracing my jaw and neck. "It's all fake. You're a lost Vermeer painting, forged exquisitely, a perfect replica. I know a thing or two about fakes, see." he smiles. "Your goal is to inspire Stendhal syndrome, and truth be told you do. But is that fair to the world? Oh, well, I don't care about the world… But pray tell, how does it feel to lie in bed at night and not know where the act ends and you begin?" he smirks, but it's almost a grimace.
His hands are around my neck now, his eyes still locked into mine. He's not choking me, his hands are just resting there, he looks like he's ready to strike but he's not quite sure he wants to.
"You should know," I answer his final question, and he looks surprised for a second, he obviously meant for it to be rhetorical. His surprise soon turns into anger, and he pushes me away. I bump on the back of the couch, but manage to stay on my feet. He's pacing around the room now, lost in thought again.
His points are valid, I'm not gonna lie. You can get anywhere you want with my kind of cynicism, it can be applied to every job, every situation, even to love. You just need to be very good at playing pretend. Like when I pretended to cry at my father's funeral, or after it when the cops questioned me about the accident and I told them I had nothing to do with it. You tell a lie long enough and it becomes the truth, that's what they say, right?
Well, I didn't get all the way to the top just to be knocked down by feelings I forgot I could feel. It's hard to tell the difference when you've made believe your whole life, but signs point to the worst case scenario today. I've been weak, I've let Jim have his way, and for what? Fairytales? I'm too old for those.
And yet there's that fluttering in my chest again when he turns his head and stares at me. It could be great, we could be great.
"You're so afraid to let yourself go, aren't you? Why is that?" he asks, approaching me. He studies my expressionless face closely, one arm around my waist and the other undoing the ribbon in front of my robe.
"I'm scared if I let down the wall, I will never be able to put it back up," I confess, shaky. What's the point in lying to him now? He sees through it anyway. The dressing gown falls from my shoulders on the floor and he cups my ass and lifts me up on the back of the couch, spreading my legs with his own.
"What else are you afraid of?" he breathes against my lips.
"You," I whisper, because it's true and because that's what he wanted to hear. He gets off on power as much as I do. He looks proud of himself, smiles widely and kisses me. It's death all over again, it's broken wrists and razorblades.
He bucks his hips forward and grabs my hair, his lips leave mine for a second and he asks: "What would you do if this was your last day on earth?", his eyes glittering ominously.
"You," I repeat, this time with a smile.