Elevator Love_Closure part 4b
By Tralla

As I look at where my luggage has been placed, I see that they've put me in the suite I'd stayed in when I'd first arrived at this mansion nearly 5 years ago. I should have expected this, but I didn't. And it's not the only thing I was slow to realize. I glance at the female operative at my side. The blonde's servants are smart. They'd saddled me with someone who it's impossible to be short with. She'd stalled me long enough that, by the time we arrived at the suite, her coconspirators were leaving. She'd stolen 10 minutes of my time and they'd accomplished all that they'd needed. I can guess what they did in that time. They probably brought fresh sheets and towels. They probably attacked any exhibitionist dust bunnies. They probably shook out the curtains and opened the windows and now they're retreating. I enter the suite alone. The door is closed behind me. I step past my luggage and give into customary behavior.

It's become a habit to walk around, look into rooms, and open every available door. Traveling regularly for close to two and a half years has developed in me an inclination to sniff around. Often, the scrutiny is only cursory, but this time it isn't long before I have something to investigate. The closets are already open and they're full of clothing, men's clothing. I walk over. I reach out and check a shirt collar. My size. My eyes scan the closet's contents. Some of the items are familiar. It then occurs to me that the stuff is mine. Old stuff. Stuff I'd abandoned when I abruptly left the blonde's mansion. For some reason, I can feel the hairs on my arms stirring.

There's a timely, rational thought: the clothes are leftovers, residuals of my stay that he'd never bothered to discard. For some reason, I'm not quite convinced. I bring a sleeve to my nose. It doesn't smell musty. The clothes weren't just decaying here. There's another thought, but this time it's self-indulgent: I was an unexpected guest yet there's a clean scent riding these clothes, as though they're freshly laundered. He'd left orders for clothes that I'd worn to be maintained. I allow myself a small ego trip: these clothes are never allowed to smell stale. But they're not the only things that were looked after. I've walked into the study to find a large armoire that was not there during my stay. It's not empty. I stare at the articles that were put on display behind the glass.

Little odds and ends that were easily forgotten by the owner have been kept, set aside, and cared for. A piece of paper with figures written on it, spare change, an uncapped pen, a crumpled receipt that was unfurled, a knife... A knife. I place my hand on the glass, consequently smudging the pristine surface. Why a knife? I stare at it and eventually get an answer. It's the knife I'd had in my grasp when I'd discovered that there were two of him. He kept something that would have been to his benefit to discard: a reminder of all his scheming and lies. He kept it anyway.

I take my hand off the glass. Everything in the suite tells me one thing: I should never take his disregard or contempt seriously. I'd been away all this time and the suite was kept ready as though I'd return to it. Or maybe it's the opposite. It was kept this way because I wasn't coming back. It's something sentimental. Possibly.

My accommodations. He'd mentioned discussing them.

Having my bags sent here was probably a peace offering, a roundabout one. An invitation for negotiations. I'll take it.

I took the hidden elevator in the study to his quarters. After some walking around, I'd heard voices, two that sounded like his. I step into his office and get a visual confirmation. Raberba is there with him.

They both look my way as I enter. After seeing that I'd only arrived to be a spectator, they continue where they left off.

"Why would you forget?" whispers Raberba.

The blonde raises two fingers to the side of his head as he says, "I was hit hard. It was an accident." He lowers the hand back to his side.

They're both in a standoff with their gazes locked. From the blonde's expression, it's apparent that he's letting Raberba know that he remembers the partner swapping that took place months ago.

"You're angry, aren't you?" remarks Raberba.

The blonde says nothing.

Raberba's tone is flat. "I should have known that it wouldn't be so easy for you to…accept me again…after I--"

"That doesn't matter right now."

"Then…you came back to keep me safe…and not out of anger, not because it was convenient? Not to get away from him?" He points to me.

I'm ready to dismantle that droid.

The blonde glances at me before turning back to his ill-mannered double. He brings his hands to Raberba's face as he says, "You are a priority. I was wrong to leave you here alone."

The blonde is good. With that opening, he can get his rogue contraption to do anything he wants. But he's not finished. He's guaranteeing absolute submission. He takes Raberba into an embrace. Watching them is making my skin crawl. It's masturbation of the sci-fi variety. He's caressing a version of himself, right in front of me. And, worse, that droid is looking over his shoulder at me as he does it. He returns the blonde's embrace. I watch his hands creep up his creator's back. He's pulling him, holding him close. He whispers something to the blonde. I barely catch it. I don't like it. The words: I love you more.

I can't tell if the utterance was my imagination. The blonde has given no reaction. It was my imagination. Possibly.

Finally, there's movement from the blonde. He's speaking as he steps away. "Despite my father's words to Jiro, he won't do anything rash. But it would be unwise to tempt him. Stay away from any of our business holdings; travel only between my estate and Dorothy's and only with the list of approved drivers. I need your cooperation, even if you don't like it."

"I understand. Where will Jiro be?"

"That's between him and Duo."

The blonde says nothing more. That's Raberba's cue to leave and he takes it. He glances at me as he walks past. I already know that he's up to something. I make a mental note to watch him, carefully.

Once the droid is out of sight, I'm the focus of attention. The blonde turns my way as he says, "We should discuss where you will be staying. Floors 4-6 have large suites."

Floors 4 through 6? I look back at him. He's waiting for a response. I give him one. "I'm not familiar with any of the rooms there."

"I can have someone show you."

I watch him. He isn't just toying with me. He's being a bastard by giving me living options that are set aside for conventioneers without mentioning where he'd sent my bags.

My words are clipped. "I don't need a tour. I'll take the suite I stayed in."

"What suite?"

There's no mistake that it's a glare that's causing me to squint at him. "You know which one."

He's not looking my way. "Because of disuse, it needs upkeep."

"Upkeep?"

"Yes."

I watch him. Despite the calm exterior and pacifying tone, he's nervous. He's moving around, arranging things on his desk. And now he's rambling.

"The suite needs to be aired out."

"Aired out."

"It's probably dusty."

"Dusty."

"No one has been in there for some time." He finally looks up.

He can finally look up because he stopped lying. And it suddenly occurs to me that someone made a mistake, in my favor. I was never supposed to see the inside of that suite.

His employees probably make a habit of knowing where previous guests have stayed and, in calculated hospitality, try to give the guest a sense of comfort and importance by providing the same lodgings. It's a simple formula that spurs appreciation on the part of the guest. But this time his employees erred. I'm not just any guest. I was never just any guest.

I know something I shouldn't and it's filling me with conceit and a lust for sadism. I'll do what I can to make the blonde squirm.

I keep my gaze level with his as I state, "I need to unpack in a matter of minutes. There's no point looking at other places. It's either that suite or your quarters."

The cogs are turning. He looks contemplative and obliging but he's really thinking of excuses, good ones, credible ones. I've learned to read him and I know with certainty that his collar is damp with sweat. It's time to make it sodden.

I give another push. "Either place is fine. My bags can be moved."

"Moved…where are your bags?"

A white lie. "Just outside the suite."

He turns. He's reaching for the phone on his desk as he says, "I'll have someone get them away from there." He goes quiet. He spoke as though my luggage has a history of disobedience and requires preemptive discipline. It takes a few seconds for him to recover.

His back is still toward me, but he hasn't picked up the phone. I can tell by his posture that something just stoked his ire. It's in his voice.

"Your bags have already been placed. And since the suite's appeal is equal to that of my quarters, for the sake of convenience, staying there is best."

He's looking at me from over his shoulder. He's searching me for any sign of dissent.

And, like a fool, I show it. "You said the suite was--"

"And you said you needed to unpack in a matter of minutes. My staff is known for acting with speed. I can guarantee it will be ready in 10 minutes, if you can wait."

He's still looking at me from over his shoulder. His gaze is defiant.

My attempt to manipulate my way into his bed backfired. And I know what he's going to have his servants do. They'll remove everything I shouldn't have seen: the clothes, the keepsakes, and probably the armoire if he has burly underlings at his disposal. And he's fully aware of how long it will take to discard these things.

A monster. Even while shaken, he's still a monster and what's worse is that I'll settle for scraps, small steps back into his good will. I buckle in a pompous fashion. "I'm patient. I can wait 10 minutes."

Part 5a