Read Me Like A Book

I don't know how he found me. They say that money can buy anything – including information, about anyone, provided you have enough of it. I suppose I didn't cover my tracks enough; I guess I was naïve to think putting something into the world like I did wouldn't have consequences. Maybe, though, it was meant to happen. And while that's difficult for me to admit, even now - after all's said and done – maybe it's what I wanted to happen all along.

It all began at dinner one night with my friends, our weekly affair on Fridays, where we blew off steam from our ridiculously fast-paced lives which kept us always dancing to keep up. It was 9pm in Williamsburg, and Ado was going off. The dinner seating was in full swing, alcohol being consumed at an increasing clip. I remember being on my second glass of shiraz, I believe it was a 2005 from Argentina. Many details from that night are burned into my memory. Cheryl was beside me, her hair catching the shimmering lights of the overhanging lamps, spinning gold on her head. Melissa was on my other side, guffawing loudly at someone – was it Isa? – across the table. Crowds kept pushing through the door, the bar eventually rendered invisible through the crush of bodies. The place swelled well beyond its capacity, and everyone in it was gorgeous. Tastefully dressed, hair coiffed, demeanors carefully curated – and this went for all genders. That was one of the things I loved best about the city – everyone put their effort in, no matter who or what you were. I remember feeling like I was sitting on air – surrounded by my beautiful friends in this jewel-box of a restaurant, a world apart from the whipping cold outside.

The two men materialized through the crowd like they were on a mission, sidling up to our table. They struck up a conversation with Melissa and Isa – yes, it must have been Isa, with her ruby lips and plunging neckline. We all shuffled down on the benches as much as we could, making room for the interlopers. Cheryl and I exchanged a look; our crew always attracted attention. But we were all for it – it was a lovely time in our lives, when we were open to the world and everyone in it. You had to do us wrong – be vicious, or even worse, be humorless – for us to relinquish your opportunities to share space with us. Every human being has a lesson to teach, we used to say to one another. Show us what you've got.

Another round was ordered by someone, the frenetic waiter bringing tray upon tray towards us, filled with shimmering glassware. "We should have just gotten pitchers for the table," Cheryl shouted in my ear, her voice syrupy. "Don't you think, Rosa?" My name on her tongue always sounded like a cat's purr. "You insufferable pusher," I replied. I looked over at Melissa, engaged as she was in her newfound conversational partner. I found myself stealing glances at these two men. They were attractive, in that conventional sort of way that so many New Yorkers are. And they seemed to be keeping our friends fully engaged – not always the easiest task. The one sitting beside Melissa in particular caught my eye, with his carefully-maintained five o'clock shadow and hazel-dark eyes. His arm stretched out on the bench, resting behind Melissa's shoulders, almost touching her neck but not quite. His hand was close to me, and I saw it wore no rings, looked strong, with neatly maintained fingernails.

"Tell us again about your weak, your poor," said Jules from across the table. Cheryl tossed her head back and cackled, long and throaty.

I sipped my wine, savoring the notes peppery spice. Over my glass I got a better look at the other man: he was blonde, almost comically opposite his friend, with light skin that would have shown imperfections, had there been any. He leaned over and whispered something into Isa's ear; she giggled coyly. Melissa got up - a bathroom break, I assumed; she'd always had a tiny bladder. The void left by her body felt visceral, and although I pretended not to notice, I sensed his focus on me. I took another sip of wine and was surprised when I felt him slide over on the bench, felt his arm go behind my shoulders this time.

"Excuse me," I said, wriggling my shoulders as though shuffing off a scarf that's become too itchy, or presumptuous. His arm remained above me, and I felt strangely trapped in by this person. This, of course, was a premonition.

"Hello," he said.

I cast him a look – though his face is quite close to mine – and look across the table, at Jules, who is glaring at him. My discomfort was palpable, and my friends were already bristling on my behalf, and likely that of Melissa's.

"Weren't you just talking to my friend?" I said, not bothering to check my aggression.

"Angelina," he said, and my heart stopped in my chest.

"Excuse me, but we're having a ladies' night out here," said Cheryl, perhaps confusing my utter shock with repulsion, a cry for help which she, as my doting friend, was only too happy to comply. I noticed his friend watching us closely.

"I don't know anyone by that name," I said, my voice ragged by the time I find it again. I winced at how supremely unconvincing I knew I sounded. I was lying, after all, and I knew he knew this.

"You and I need to have a little chat," he said, leaning in closer so I felt his breath along my neck. "Come outside. Just a few minutes of your time. Then you can come back here, like nothing happened. Okay?" He slid away towards the edge of the bench and stood, looking at me, watching me. His friend stood as well, much to the chagrin of Isa, who looked confused, since things were going rather well. They both left without another word.

The turmoil I felt in the following few moments was unlike anything I'd experienced before. Little did I know, it was only the beginning.

"Fucking MEN," Cheryl hisses, flicking the air, ridding it of their presence. "Fuck 'em. Presumptuous-ass-mother-fuckers."

I could not reply to Cheryl, because I was paralyzed. Because the moment had finally arrived. It was a moment I never thought would actually come, but which, of course, was always a possibility. I saw my life flash before my eyes: my budding, yet modestly-successful career as a writer of commercial fiction, as an agent for a publishing house, as a woman with an un-besmirched reputation; this, my perfectly-acceptable and respectable life, literally hung in the balance. And it was my fault. Oh yes, it was.

I stood up like a robot. "Excuse me," I proclaimed to no one, and I left without my coat. I clearly felt the eyes of my friends on me, all rather shocked at my behavior, no doubt. But I couldn't think of them for the time being, couldn't think of anything except for what was waiting for me outside. The end of my life. The cold air shocked me as I pushed open the door; a light snow is falling, the flakes delicate, all unique, intricate and delicate, melting instantly upon contact with the hot bulbs of the lampposts that line the sidewalks. I found myself wishing I could melt away with them.

I spied them waiting around the corner, taking shelter from the wind in a narrow alley between the restaurant an another red-brick building. They watched me, wordlessly, as I approached.

"No coat?" he asked when I came to stand beside him. "That's alright, this won't take long." He shakes a cigarette from a pack, offered me one. I accepted, even though I don't smoke. I felt completely out of my body.

"Angelina Diamante," he said, taking a long time to say the name, as if he was stroking every inch of it with his tongue. "At long last. I have to tell you, I'm a big fan."

"What do you want?" I asked, holding the cigarette with shaking hands as he flicks on the lighter.

"What do I want?" he repeated thoughtfully, taking a long drag, looking upwards at the falling snow, clearly savoring the moment. "I wanted to meet you, because like I said, I'm a fan of your work."

The work he referred to, of course, was my erotica novel. The one I published under that name, Angelina Diamante, all those years ago. The book that did quite well on the stands, thank you very much. The book I never, ever wanted associated with my good name, my respectable, real name: Rosa Harresford. I leaned my head back onto the cold bricks, and was helpless. Tears threatened. Maybe he sensed this, because he put an arm around my shoulders. I could feel his strength through his layers of clothing; the gesture, simple as it was, felt like a judgement being handed down, with finality.

"It's okay," he said, his voice soothing, in a way – a voice you might use to talk to an upset child, the kind of soothing that is deeply intertwined with unshakable authority. "You don't have to worry. As long as you can follow some simple instructions, everything will work out. Alright?" He gave my shoulders a little shake, and I felt not just like an upset child, but a helpless one.

"What do you want?" I asked again.

"Take out your phone," he said. I did so, and he continued. "Type this in: three. Five. Three. Two. Greenwich avenue."

When I realized he was giving me an address, a curious thing happened. My terror increased, yes, but part of it was diverted, like a pebble been thrown into a stream, changing the course of things. Some of my terror went from my heart downwards, below my belly button, and lower still.

He watched me type, his arm still protectively around my shoulders. I could feel the heat from his torso against me. I leaned into him – because of the cold, of course.

"Twelve pm. Tomorrow. Got it?" I can only look at my screen; he said these things into my ear, quietly, firmly. "Now, let me tell you what happens if you don't show. See this guy?" he said, raising an arm, pointing to the blonde man standing silently, watching the scene with interest. "He's got the story all laid out, in his inbox, ready to go. He's a writer for various outlets. The New Yorker, The Post, what else?"

"The Guardian," said the blonde man.

"The Guardian," he repeats, turning back to me. "At 12:01 tomorrow, if you're not coming through that door, he presses 'send'. Okay?"

"Why are you doing this?" I asked.

"You'll see." He released me, the cold air starting my shivering anew. "Tomorrow," he said as they both walk away, giving me a meaningful look as they go. Soon they were around the corner, vanished as though part of a dream. I turned in time to see Melissa emerge from Ado.

"Are you okay? What's going on?" she demanded, hustling me back into the restaurant. "Since when do you smoke?" she asked, watching me cast the butt onto the sidewalk.

"I don't know," was all I can say. "I really don't know."

#

It probably goes without saying that I didn't catch a wink of sleep that night. I was scared, yes, very scared. Visions of my crumbling world filled the dark hours; it was the closest to a waking nightmare I've ever come. Of course, I ran through all the worst case scenarios: I could by murdered. Extorted for money, of which I had a little, after all.

But here's the thing: I was also turned on. I know, it's crazy. Erotica authors know full-well that this kind of blackmail can happen, and I'm not ashamed to admit that I'd actually fantasized about it from time to time. The act of being caught, of being held accountable for your dirtiest thoughts, is just kind of sexy, forming another facet on the boundless diamond that is human sexuality. That's the beauty of it, and also, I suppose, the horror – and aren't the two so often closely entwined? However, I never actually thought it would happen to me – and how trite that phrase is! What I thought even more impossible, though, was the thought of finding the blackmailers attractive. During the night, I'd pictured his face, the feeling of his proximity, thought about the possibilities. But come daylight, my fear won out entirely. As the appointed hour drew near, I thought long and hard about calling the police. I thought about calling my friends, my boss, even my parents. But this would inevitably mean telling them about Angelina Diamante and her very racy, socially-unacceptable book. I laughed at myself, at the insanity of the situation: at how willing I apparently was to risk being dismembered or otherwise attacked, rather than tell anyone that I wrote a sexy thing. And that says a lot about our culture, doesn't it?

When I turned on Greenwich Avenue, I stopped and looked at my phone. 11:56. Five minutes left, I thought to myself, five minutes to make one of the most important decisions of my life. So I walked down the street, watching the addresses grow larger, upwards from three-five-two-eight, slowly, until I stood in front of the place. It was an unassuming brownstone - but then, what would an assuming brownstone look like? I looked up and down the street, at people walking their dogs and pushing strollers and going about their uneventful day, their blissfully normal lives. I climbed the three short steps and put my hand on the door knob. I looked at my phone again. 12:00. I turned the knob. The door opened noiselessly. I stepped inside.

And: nothing.

The house was large, quiet – like a sanctuary from the world. It was a normal-looking place, although on the richer side of normal. There was a lot of white – a white hallway with rooms leading off to either side, with glass patio doors at the very end. A skylight somewhere above sent a square of sun onto a white wall. I held my breath, and it's then that I heard the noise – the typing of fingers onto keys. I took a few steps forward, looked to my left, where the hallway opened up into a living room. It is here that the two men sat. He was on a stool, at an island that separated a bright kitchen from a living room. The blonde man sat on the other side of the room, in the middle of a giant u-shaped couch, a laptop balanced on his thighs. He didn't look up. He was wearing tortoiseshell, literary-type glasses that day.

Then I turned my eyes to see the other; he was looking at me carefully. "Good girl," he said.

"I haven't been a girl for many years," I informed him coldly.

A slight smile spread across his face. "Come sit," he said, patting the stool next to him. I didn't want to. Part of me wanted to turn and run from the house – and yes, only part of me, I'm afraid I must admit. But I didn't want to remain standing there, feeling like I was on display. So I sat, and I felt what it's like to be in proximity to him again, as though he exuded some sort of magnetic heat, something that was not unpleasant – far from it.

"What do you want?" I asked yet again, the only thing I could think to say.

"Can you guess?" he asked. He picked up a small espresso cup from the counter, took a sip, placed it back on a little saucer. I looked at the blonde man, who still hadn't spoken, hadn't looked up, hadn't done anything but type.

"What's he writing?" I demanded, suddenly afraid it was something about me.

"Don't worry about him, for now," he said, looking over. "You made it in time; we're keeping out end of the bargain."

I sighed, surprised at how relieved I felt. Something about the attractive house, and these attractive men, put me at ease. I know what you're probably thinking: how shallow of me, to be just fine with blackmail as long as it comes from handsome, well-to-do people! But I am only being honest.

"But there's still a part of this bargain you have to uphold," he told me.

"If it's money you want, I barely have enough to get by."

"You know it's not about that," he smirked. "Or maybe you wish."

I fell silent, holding back the question just behind my lips. Then...what?

"We're going to take this nice and slow," he said, speaking slowly like he was tasting every word, letting them melt on his tongue. I got the distinct impression he'd rehearsed all this in his mind – fantasized about it, really – many times before.

"You weren't easy to find, you know."

"I don't know why you bothered to look," I shot back.

"Ah, well that's where it gets interesting," he said, eyes shining. "When I read your book, I couldn't help but think how much you've managed to describe... well, me. Rather to a tee. It's like you pulled me out of the ether, my words, my affects, and brought them onto your pages. Maybe we've met in dreams before." He paused; I wasn't looking at him, keeping my gaze fixed straight ahead of me, my eyes latched on a small table beside the couch that held a single gold vase. "I thought to myself, who is this woman who's been thinking about me, about someone just like me? For years, I thought about trying to find you, out of curiosity more than anything else. It was only a fantasy. Then I met this guy," he jerked his thumb at the blonde man, "who happens to be an investigative reporter, and I thought, well, maybe this is possible after all. When we found you, the first time I saw a photo of you..." He laughed softly. "You're as stiff as a board right now, you know that?"

He was right, of course – every muscle seized up. When I first came through the door, I was tensed in an uncomfortable limbo between fight or flight. As my understanding of the situation grew – as I perceived that these were not two axe murders – my body tensed up for entirely different reasons.

"I would tell you to relax, but I don't think you would," he said. "It doesn't matter to me, anyway." He kept his eyes on me, smiling, enjoying every moment of this. "I'll bet you're wondering what happens next, hm?"

"I haven't done anything wrong," I blurted out, for some reason.

"I never said you did. But that doesn't change anything, does it? So, here's what we're going to do." He stands up, and my heart begins to really pound in my chest. "We're going to act out a scene from your book, Ms. Diamante."

All I could do was look down. My hands were clenched together in my lap, as though they were the only things keeping me from falling apart.

"This is one of my favorite scenes, near the beginning. It takes place in a living room, similar to this one. Do you know which one I'm talking about?" He was standing in front of me, hands in pockets, head slightly bowed, as though trying to intercept my sightline. I felt again like a young school girl, and he the stern headmaster.

"Stand up," he said.

"What if I don't want to?" I say – although a growing part of me does.

"You can walk right out that door," he said, still smiling, still friendly-seeming. "But, do I need to remind you what's at stake?"

He didn't need to. But I still couldn't compel my limbs into action. I knew now that this was to be inevitable, that there was nothing I could do to stop what was about to take place. My heart beat faster as I pictured the scene I suspected he has in mind; I could feel my skin growing hot.

"We'll go slow," he said, trying to reassure me I suppose. "But you have to stand up now." He stepped forward and took my hands into his, pulling me upwards so that I came to stand before him. He began to undo my pants.

I knew I should have voiced an objection, said anything at all; but I found myself awash in his presence, in his directions, his mastery of the situation. And I felt certain that he really could read me like a book. Why is that always such an allure, albeit a rare one?

"It's okay," he said, so seemingly understanding, compassionate, yet firm as my pants and undergarments fell to the floor. "You're being very good."

I noticed that the room had fallen deathly silent. I stole a glance at the blonde man, who had stopped typing and was now watching us closely. I could feel his eyes on my naked skin.

"Turn around," said the other man, and I nearly laughed when I realized I didn't know either of their names. Blonde man, dark man, I thought crazily as my mind stalled. I felt his hands on my shoulders and allowed myself to be turned, facing the kitchen. He pushed me forward slightly so that I came to lean over the counter, putting my hands on the countertop. "Good girl," he said again, that phrase that is sprinkled so carefully, yet deliberately, throughout my book. I realized with a start just how intimately he knows my desires, what makes my arousal bubble to the surface. It was that moment when I truly realized just how much control he had over me.