I go to the bathroom and take a nice long bath.
When it’s done, I change into a sheer nightgown that comes up to my thighs, and nothing else. A girl can hope…
When I come out, and climb into bed, I don’t even feel tired. I’m hoping maybe Dermot will come in here with me. Time goes by.
I play around on my cell phone for a little bit, and then my eyes start drifting shut.
When I wake up, I’m disoriented momentarily. Where is Dermot? I instantly check the bed next to me, and quickly see that his side of the bed is undisturbed.
I get up and check the time on my phone.
It’s late, I’ve been asleep for hours.
And I have a nervous feeling, as I get out of bed, rubbing my eyes and trying to make sense of the thoughts running through my head. Why do I have the sinking sensation that everything is coming crashing down around me?
Not that Dermot and I are anything. Of course, I already know that he and I are not an item. And yet, I thought at least we could truly enjoy one another’s company, revel in the fantasy of something more for a few days or weeks...
As I leave the bedroom, I know I’m just kidding myself.
I want more from him—so much more.
I keep allowing myself to hope for it, because the horrible truth is that Dermot Nash makes me feel things I’ve never felt.
And as a result, I’m powerless in his presence, powerless to stop myself from falling for a man who has made it abundantly clear that I mean nothing to him.
He paid for me.
He is using me for sex. And that’s where it ends.
I look in the living area, where the television is, the kitchen, the deck looking over the city. He’s nowhere to be found. I wonder if perhaps he’s not even in the home right now.
I feel hurt. The way he jerks me around seems so unnecessary. I’d rather he kept things simple and didn’t pretend to sometimes care. The way he looks in my eyes, the way he seems so much to enjoy showing me new things…I just don’t understand any of this.
It’s a sick game to him, perhaps.
Finally, after a bit more searching in areas of the home I’ve never even entered, I find him.
He’s in a room in the opposite wing of the house from the bedroom. It’s a library or study, I suppose.
When I enter, I can smell cigar smoke. His back is to me, and he’s sitting in a rich leather chair, smoking, while in his other hand is a tumbler of whiskey. On the table beside his chair is a large crystal decanter. It glimmers dully in the low light from the nearby lamp.
“Hey,” I murmur.
He doesn’t turn. A plume of smoke rises as a response.
“Um—is everything okay?” I ask, when he doesn’t even acknowledge my presence.
He takes a long sip from the tumbler, still no reply.
“If I did something wrong, just tell me. Whatever it was, I can promise you I wasn’t trying to do it.”
“Not everything is about you, Haisley.” His voice is cold, and he still has his back turned to me.
“I never said it was.”
“You infer it though. Constantly.”
“I do?” I feel my brow crinkle uncertainly. “I’m not sure where this is coming from. I had a wonderful time with you tonight.”
“Good for you.” Another long puff on the cigar. Another drink of whiskey.
I decide that enough is enough, and stalk around the chair so I can face him. I am taken aback by how pale he looks, how drawn, with dark circles under his eyes, and a hollow, empty expression on his face.
“I feel like maybe you want me to leave.”
He stares at me. “And yet, here you are.”
“I just want to know. Tell me what to do.”
“I don’t give a shit what you do.”
I feel tears wanting to come, but I bite them back, fight for my composure. Let the anger start to take over, and it’s a relief, so that I don’t have to care about Dermot Nash and the way he’s looking at me right now. As if I’m less than nothing.
“You’re immature,” I tell him. “Immature, rude, and self-absorbed.”
He nods. “I’m glad you noticed.”
“I don’t deserve any of this, and you paying for my services doesn’t excuse you from showing a little common decency.”
“Was it not decent how I gave you fifty thousand dollars to pay off your gambling debts?”
“They were not my debts—”
He waves me off. “Haisley, it doesn’t matter.” He drinks a long draught of whiskey, closes his eyes, and frowns. Then he turns and pours another full glass.
“Maybe you shouldn’t drink so much.” I know this will annoy him, which is precisely why I say it.
He proceeds to drink all of the whiskey at once, draining his glass yet again. “Better.”
“You’re a prick.”
He smirks. “You’re figuring it out.”
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I ask, truly wanting to know.
He looks at me for a long time and I see a strange swirl of emotions in his eyes. I see hurt, and fear, and more than any of that, I see rage and sadness. Sadness beyond measure.
“You don’t want to know what’s wrong with me.”
“I asked.”
“Well, fuck what you want to know.” He puts the cigar to his lips and draws an inhalation.
“You’re just a frightened little boy. You need to grow up.” And with that, I turn on my heel and start to leave the room. Maybe I will walk out the door, catch an Uber to the airport. Get the hell out of here.
He paid me, I don’t need this shit.
But as I arrive at the doorway, his voice stops me in my tracks.
“They’re gone, do you understand? Gone.”
I turn. “Who’s gone?”
“Everything. Everyone.” He stands up and throws his glass to the far wall, where it smashes into thousands of fragments.
I jump a bit, letting out a yell of shock.
Dermot stands there, his shoulders hunched, head hanging, mouth open. His eyes are like two black pits. “She’s gone! My little Madeline!” he says, in a strangled voice. And then he falls to his knees, and moans like a dying animal.
I’ve never heard anything like it, and I run to him, instinctually grabbing him in my arms as he sobs.
“Who is Madeline?”
“My sister,” he says, after a moment. He raises his head. “My little sister, Madeline. I took care of her after my dad died. He died in a car wreck when I was twelve and my sister was five.”
His father is dead? But I thought he said his sister was the one who died.
But it seems now that Dermot is talking, he doesn’t want to stop. His voice shakes as he speaks. He’s slurring a bit from the alcohol.
“And then my mom, she became a bad drunk. She got into pills, and progressively got worse and worse. It got bad enough that when my sister was about ten, Mom went away to a hospital. She was in and out of hospitals for years after that. All Madeline had for family was me. I took care of her like she was my own kid. I was only a teenager myself. But I worked thirty hours a week, and went to school, and I made sure she had everything she needed.”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. He moans a little bit again.
“And then what happened…” I prod. “You can tell me.”