Because He Torments Me Read Online Free PDF Page A

something so
deferential.
    I turned and walked away from him, struggling
to hold back my tears.
    And once I was around the corner, I began to
run.

 
    ***

 
    His kiss stayed burnt on my lips all day.  
    I couldn’t stop thinking about him, his hands
pushing up my skirt like that right in the park.   What would he have done if we’d been
alone?     My pulse raced at the thought of seeing
him again at work, the anticipation made more intense by the fact that I had no
idea when that would be.
    I was desperate to talk to someone about what
had happened, but Nessa worked until six, and then she was accompanying the
doctor she worked for to something called a Botox party, which as far as I could
tell meant she was going to help him inject people’s faces with toxic chemicals
while everyone drank champagne.   If
I were having a party, the last thing I would want to do would be to poke
myself with needles during it, but who was I to judge?   I’d spent my weekend tied up and bound,
getting whipped and cuffed and fucked by a man who was so much of a mystery it
made my head spin.  
    And then there was the subject of the contract
I’d signed.   It had said I wasn’t to
talk about our weekend with anyone.   But how could I explain what had happened today if I couldn’t talk about
the things Callum and I had done in Florida?   Did I even want to tell anyone those
things?
    I took a hot bath in an effort to calm my
racing mind (it didn’t work) and then ordered Chinese food.   I turned on Netflix and decided to start
binge watching House of Cards while I waited for my General Gau’s to come.
    When the doorbell rang ten minutes later, I
thought my food had come early.
    But it wasn’t the Chinese delivery guy.
    Instead it was a smartly dressed woman, her ash
blonde hair cut in a stylish bob around her face.
    “Adriana O’Connor?” she asked sharply.
    “Yes,” I said.   “That’s me.”
    She motioned over her shoulder toward the steps
that led from my apartment up to the sidewalk.   Suddenly three men in suits were rolling
racks of clothes into my apartment, the metal wheels sliding across the carpet.
    “Sign here,” the woman said, thrusting a
clipboard at me.   Clipped to the top
was a receipt.   Bloomingdale’s, it said in swirly script across the top.   Personal Shopping Invoice.
    “I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head.   “I didn’t… I didn’t order any of these
things.”
    “They’re bought and paid for, Ms. O’Connor,”
she said.   “All we need is your
signature.”
    “But I –”
    “Right here,” she said, her voice stern as she
tapped a fingernail impatiently against the receipt.
    I took the pen and scrawled my name, and a
second later she was gone, along with the men who’d brought the clothes.
    I stared at the rolling racks
which now stood in my living room crowding the small space, each one
filled with hanging black garment bags.   I took a deep breath and began opening them.   Each zipper gave way to a more gorgeous
piece of clothing.   There were the
things I’d been about to try on in the dressing room today and much, much more.
    Luxurious cashmere sweaters in shades of
caramel and cream, crisp black trousers, wrap dresses in muted prints, suits
with matching blouses, pencil skirts and cardigans – all of it sophisticated
and elegant, the kinds of things I would have picked for myself if I had an
unlimited budget and a working knowledge of fashion.
    The bottom of the racks were filled with shoes – high heels and flats and even pairs of leather
boots.   There was a heavier bag, clear,
and inside were accessories – chunky necklaces and diamond earrings,
bracelets and belts to match any combination of garments.
    Taped to the front of the bag was an envelope.
    One word was written on the front.
    Lemon.
    I pulled it off, my heart pounding, my hand shaking as I slid my finger under the flap.

 
    Lemon,
    Please accept these gifts as a token of
apology.   I will