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On Monday, I went out for dinner with Henry and Loretta to avoid going too early to Kyle. Ignoring the texts I got from Control-Bot, I took perverse pleasure in knowing he was probably sweltering in curiosity at where I was. When I got back, it was almost midnight. Kyle was in bed working on his phone. Bare chested. Freshly showered. Snow meltingly...hot. Knee caps melting sexy. Seeing me, he gave me a wan smile, clicked off the light, and with zero words, went to sleep. I guessed he had been waiting to see if I was coming home in a body bag before he slept.
Weird.
Our mixed signals continued. On Tuesday, I came back from the museum early and he was late. Bored out of my skull, I was sitting on the kitchen counter eating dinner when he came back. The door clicked shut. As his footsteps got louder, my heart pounded harder.
“Hello, Juniper.” Entering the kitchen, Kyle smiled when he saw I was perched on the counter, balancing a plate on my lap.
“Where were you?” I blurted out.
“Out.”
The blockhead was playing my game.
Challenge accepted.
Face sullen, I watched Kyle nonchalantly go to the fridge, take out a bottle of San Pellegrino and chug it down. His gaze never left mine as every drop was downed. I noted his tie was untied and draped around his suit lapels. Thirst quenched, he threw his tie on the counter and eased out of his coat, hungry eyes on me.
Go on. Eat me with your eyes.
I crossed my legs and my plate shook, hurling my fork to the floor with a clang. Kyle picked it up, took out another fork from the silverware drawer and slipped it on to my plate. With a slow smile, he planted his hands on the counter, locking me in.
“You lose a lot of forks and spoons.” His voice was a husky whisper.
I shivered, and it took me a few seconds to relax my clenched limbs. “Actually, I steal silverware.”
“Klepto.”
“What are you gonna do about it?”
Tossing my head back, I reached for his waist, drew him closer, slowly lifted my legs and wrapped them around his thighs. At first, he was shocked, and then his face lit up.
“So, what did Mrs. Bixby make today?” Not waiting for an answer, he kissed the corners of my mouth. “Roast lamb and risotto.”
“Taste.”
Twirling my fork in the plate, I created a bite for him. I rested the fork on his lips and slid the food in, savoring his surprise. He should’ve known when it came to him, all bets were off. Kyle’s hand went to my legs, wrapping them tighter around his body, and he pressed closer to me. I melted in his male warmth. His lips went to my neck and he blew gently on the spots where he left soft kisses. I swallowed, unable to breathe. The roving lips went up my neck, circled my chin, kissing me everywhere except my lips. Frustration rose in me and I grabbed his neck and jerked his lips closer. Still evading my kiss, his hands caressed my legs and his mouth went to my earlobe.
“Not so fast, Cheetah. Later, tonight.”
“Tease.” Thrusting away from him, I dropped my legs. “Go, eat first.”
He released me, went to the oven and took out the plate Mrs. Bixby had left there. Expecting him to sit beside me, I patted the counter. To my shock, he went to the kitchen exit.
“I have to work. Meet me in bed. In one hour. Naked.” Biting his lips, he tossed me a comical sexy look and disappeared.
I fumed. He had forgotten obedience was not part of my character.
I grabbed my plate, went to the living room, settled on the couch and turned on the TV. I couldn’t believe it—he was the douchelord of all douches. My brain cells had turned to sponge when I had decided to live with Kyle on his terms. I had become the very thing I hated.
A paper doll.
Stop running away from what you really want.
Take it from him.
I changed into my candy cane pajamas and went back to the living room couch. Snuggled in a plush gray blanket, I selected Hidden Figures, a movie I had been wanting to watch, and blared it on full volume.
Before the seven minutes plot point, Kyle appeared by the couch like a sentient ghost. He picked up the remote from the cocktail table and lowered the volume. Shifting on my knees, I grabbed the remote from him and turned up the volume.
“You do realize, Juniper, people live downstairs?”
“They should realize people live upstairs.”
His mouth twisted, though I couldn’t tell if it was in anger or humor. To my surprise, he parked himself on the couch next to me, an arm draped around my shoulders, and—the nerve on this man—he brushed his fingers along my side boob in the cotton pajama top. I gave him the old stink-eye. Kyle returned it with an unhurried, seductive onceover.
“What happened to our plans, Juniper? You are supposed to be in bed. Naked.”
“I made no plans. I heard an order. I am not a fan of authority.”
“And I am not a fan of procrastination.”
The rude ass whipped the throw off, stretched me prostrate on the leather cushions and planked himself on top of me, light years fast.
“Before you start, let’s talk,” I hissed, crushed under his weight.
“Uh oh.” He pressed the rigid planes of his form harder into my curves.
“We need to make some things clear. House Rules.”
“Why?” Kyle was busy nibbling my neck, firing my nerves into action.
“So I don’t get gaslighted?”
He paused and lifted his head, a dark shadow crossing his face. “I would gaslight you?”
“If I let you, but I won’t. Let’s set rules. I want no gray areas.”
“Sure. Shoot.”
Pulling a long strand of my hair, he twisted it around his idle fingers and gave me a look of mock focus. Yanking my hair from his finger, I threw off his arm and wriggled until he reluctantly got off me. Though two feet at most, the distance between us loomed large. I sat facing him, arms draped around knees.
“I’m confused,” I said. “The whole time, we’re going to not talk to each other? We are just going to bed?”
“I’m sorry. Of course, you can talk to me.” The levity lifted from his face. Brushing his hair off his forehead, he said, “I could not have dinner with you because something came up at work. Juniper, there’s so much going on BirdsEye. I am in a crisis mode.”
This was not going in the direction I hoped. “What is going on?”
“Not your concern. Just know I had to come to London for work. And for—”
I knew he meant for me but did not have the guts to say it.
Kyle got up and went to the living room bar, which now only had water, and brought back two Evian bottles. He flipped one open and chugged down the water. I guess I made Kyle very, very thirsty.
“I’m fine with work,” I said, folding my arms. “I work too. I get it. You want me in your bed every night. You don’t want to talk to me. You don’t want to take me out. You don’t want any intimacy that could be misconstrued as a relationship. I know. By now, I’m an expert when it comes to you.”
“Then you should also know I have a low tolerance for drama, emotional excess, and mostly, I don’t have time for endless arguments. You are not welcome to engage me in lectures about your brand of Bible Belt morality. Is that understood?”
“Anything else?” I hid my anger with a humble look.
“All I need from you is to come when I call you. Be here every night.”
Warped. Perverse.
“I do hear that there was this handbook? Can I have it?”
“No need. You are acclimated to my system.”
“Maybe you can put a list of rules on the fridge? Post it notes. We can put them on the bathroom mirror, the fridge, the bed frame, so I don’t make mistakes.”
My rather droll wit was ignored. “During the day, we are both busy. I have no leisure time. In your time, you are free to pursue your own occupations. Go where you need to on the weekend. I have a credit card in your name for you.”
“That’s not necessary. I don’t need your money to be your sex slave.” One of my palm’s clamped over my comically open mouth. “Oops! I mean companion. Let’s use the PC term.”
“Shopping doesn’t just mean shoes. You can buy all the old books and antiques you desire. You are in London.”
“I don’t need a credit card from you!” I got up from the couch in a flurry, dislodging the pillows.
“Trust me, you’re going to need it,” he said looking me square in the eye across the glossy cocktail table. “There are going to be events, and I need you to dress accordingly. Get yourself some dresses and shoes.”
“Wait, now it’s back to shoes?”
I was screaming now, with half a mind to throw myself across the table and physically take Kyle on. I imagined clawing his face and drawing blood in uniform scars. There he stood, still as tap water, calm and cool. He possessed the type of serenity that always takes the upper hand in a gun fight.
Foaming at the mouth, I twisted clumsily and bumped into the cocktail table. Giving it a kick, I stomped out of the living room in pain. This man was going to drive me up the wall like a demonic spirit in a horror movie.
“Are you all right?”
“Go away.” Ignoring him, I strode to the dark bedroom.
“Did you hurt yourself from kicking the table?” he asked, trying to hold back his laughter.
I hobbled to the bedroom window and he came after me. Dipping his face to my level, he smiled. His hands groped my legs and his fingers went to my feet. Turning on his phone flashlight, he examined my foot and I saw he was trying to hide his smile.
“Looks like no permanent damage was done.”
Tearing away, I screamed, “Arrgh!” and hobbled on one foot to the bed in humiliation and pain. Kyle swept me up in his arms. He carried me to bed and gently lay me down.
“Rest, my darling. Can I get you something?” I shook my head and twisted my face away. “Does your foot hurt?” he whispered. I shook my head. Kyle eased himself next to me in bed, one arm sliding under my waist. “Come, then. You know what I want.”
Unbelievable!
My heart twisted in panic at what lay ahead. I turned to face him, and looked into eyes so devoid of light, they were black pools.
“Fine,” I whispered.
“Why do you look like a martyr?” He gave me a searching look. “Am I forcing you into this, Juniper?”
“No.” I lifted my arms up like a rag doll. “Take my top off.”
“What is wrong?”
“Let’s not start.”
“What is going on in your head?”
“You made it clear we are fuck-buddies, and not in a relationship where I need to share the contents of my head.”
Kyle turned away, head falling on his pillow. A cold fog settled on my body. For several minutes, we lay separated in bed.
When I could stand the tension and lust no more, I got up on my haunches and threw off my pajama top. Jumping on his side of the bed, I wrapped my arms around his waist and put my head on his chest.
“Kyle Paxton! Get up and fuck me.”
“Yes, ma’am.” With a genial smile, he turned.
Hard and tenacious lips descended on mine until I was rendered senseless. His mouth was merciless and exacting. I was no longer Juniper under the heat of his mouth over me, but a thing that belonged to him.
And so, it began. My life as Kyle’s Summer. When I’d been with Kyle the first time—those two beautiful months—we were lovers in every sense of the word. We took love and gave love back. We missed each other. We called and texted each other all day long. I was special. I was wined and dined. Utterly spoiled.
We’d lost so much.
Now, I was one of them. The ones who came before me and the ones who would come after. I was treated to the same brand of coldness that Izzy, Linda the lawyer, Anu, and others endured before me.
The nights were a treat, a dance of tender and obsessive devotion. During the day, I was ignored and met with cold-as-brass-balls treatment.
It was more than a girl could put up with.
I changed.
I think energies are transmutable, and after two weeks of Kyle cross-contamination, I lost myself. I became quiet and robotic. I spent the weeks in a strange, trance-like routine. Every day I got up and made breakfast, while he made coffee. We took turns taking showers—not together, for this kind of intimacy was also off the books. We ate separately and there was no small talk.
Unless we were sheltered by night, I got no hugs, no kisses, nothing human during the day. Unlike his first weekend in London, we barely talked. We were polite roommates—except in bed. Most nights, he would slip in bed and reach for me. The nights he didn’t, I would. I was a pet on a time table.
My mind was not mine, anymore.
Since the fifties, the CIA has explored the possibility of using subliminal communication to implant submission, to avoid social chaos, to reduce a subject’s struggle against authority, and to make the public obey. I think Kyle may have taken a page out of their mind-control techniques. All of his companions obeyed his rules once they signed along the dotted line. No matter what their feelings, they yielded.
All of them did, except me—the first time around.
I resisted. I fought him, changed him, and smashed all his rules. And this time around, I was faced with the truth. At some level, his subliminal mind control did work. At some level, I had bent to him, even when I thought I was changing him...
For the first two weeks, I did exactly as he asked. I did not question him. I kept in check all my thoughts, all my macroaggressions at his behavior. I didn’t ask where he went or when he was coming back. I didn’t ask why he was late on Tuesdays and Thursdays. If I came home earlier, I did not wait for him. I adjusted to his schedule, to his peculiar habits, to his clinical living. I was just biding time to get over this shitty situation as quickly as possible.
Now, I saw Kyle the way others saw him. I saw why Izzy said he was a cold-blooded snake. That he was missing a soul. Living with Kyle was like being with an empty tin can. I didn’t know how many ways he could break my heart with his indifference.
I was dying a bit every day.
Worst of all, living with him, aching for him in the day and being used by him at night, did not make me hate him. Instead, my feelings for him grew.
My dysfunctional heart loved him, still.
It grew and grew and grew and became a steel ball inside me. I tried hard for the first two weeks to push down the feelings I was developing for him—all over again. In the end, I stopped lying to myself. I loved him even as he was a jackass to me. This made me hate myself. I was falling more madly and deeply in love with Kyle—this time.
There were two people hating Juniper Mills in the London flat.
He with his indifference and me with my self-hatred.
