Flawed ~ Kim Karr Page 3

  My jaw clenches at his audacity. “No, I will. It’s my job.”

  “Ms. Hart,” his smile is big, wicked, terrifying. “I never have to tell anyone anything twice.”

  “But—”

  He silences me with a finger to my lips and shakes his head no.

  A silent warning. It’s a bit frightening, and I find myself nodding. “Of course. I’ll leave it to you, Mr. Cruz. I’m certain the art will be delivered safely to the museum.”

  He extends his hand. “Enrique, please, and yes, you have my word.”

  I extend mine. “Gemma, but you already know that.”

  He takes my hand and brings it to his lips, kissing it, and then he lifts his head, and I feel his eyes burn through me. “Yes, Gemma. Now, tell me, have you seen anyone on the grounds?”

  Common sense tells me I should point in the mysterious stranger’s direction. But something in that moment when his skin touched mine, the spark I felt, makes me want to protect him. I inhale and exhale the way I know I’m supposed to. Trying to keep my composure, I lie, “No, just your security team.”

  Under the lights that perimeter his compound, his eyes sweep me in the most assessing manner, and it somehow seems impure. It makes me feel like he can see right through my silver silk dress to my lace bra and panties, maybe even to my bare flesh. And once his gaze lands on my necklace—the four-carat pink diamond heart, all thoughts of an intruder seem to vanish from his mind.

  His fingers reach out and graze my skin. As he fondles the stone, I don’t react with excitement like I did just a few minutes ago. Instead, I find myself shrinking back for fear he wants to rip it from my neck and own it. Own me. Unnerved, I glance down at his hand.

  He lifts my chin. “It’s exquisite. Like the woman wearing it,” he comments.

  “It’s my mother’s.”

  “Where did she get something so flawless?”

  I hesitate.

  “I must know.”

  I answer, “It was a gift from my father when she wed him. He purchased it from a driller in Australia just before they married.”

  “From the Argyle Mines?” he asks.

  “Yes, how did you know that?”

  “Diamonds are like art, Gemma, something I make a habit of knowing and knowing well. Your father must have been a man of great power to secure this.

  “Once, he was—” I start to tell him my father was once a great gemologist who traveled the world before his accident put him a wheelchair, but he cuts me off.

  “I must have this.”

  “It’s not for sale,” I say sternly, knowing no matter how desperate my family is for money, my mother would never part with this. It is for the future, she tells me. And I know she means my future. I’ve argued with her, tried to reason with her, but she refuses to listen.

  Mr. Cruz stares at me for a long while. “Well, of course not. Come with me. I want to see it under the lights of the tent.”

  I nod, knowing I don’t have a choice.

  “Did you know that pink diamonds were made famous throughout the world thanks to the popular Pink Panther films?”

  I shake my head no and wait for him to move forward. When he does, his hand moves to my waist. With color flush across my face, my heart pounds and my eyes fall to the ground.

  Feeling out of my element, I follow the lead of this all-powerful man to the place where the fundraiser should have been about ready to begin.

  However, its cancelation is not what has my pulse racing.

  It’s something else.

  Someone else.

  Still, I never look behind me for fear the all-knowing man in front of me will catch me, and then send his team back. So, instead, I move quickly. When his breath, sweet and warm, caresses my neck it sends a cold shiver running down my spine.

  “Yes, the bumbling Inspector Clouseau tried to thwart off the expert thief’s attempts. The object of the thief was the priceless Pink Panther diamond, in which the shape of a panther could be seen when it was held up to the light . . .”

  Enrique Cruz continues to educate me on the movies in which the highly sought-after pink diamond was stolen and recovered time after time.

  Eventually, I tune him out. I’m too busy listening for signs of life from the man I left behind to pay him any attention. Yet, no matter how hard I strain my ears, the only thing I can hear is the wild beating of my own heart.

  It won’t stop.

  I can’t make it stop, but if I try hard enough, maybe I can fool myself into thinking it has.

  It’s not like I have any other choice.

  Chapter 4

  Waiting for Superman

  Gemma: 3 ½ Years Later

  A BRIGITTE BARDOT silkscreen by Daniel Dens hangs in the monochromatic room just above the gas-fueled fireplace.

  I want to admire it.

  To see the beauty it holds.

  To cherish it.

  But I can’t, because he bought it for me. An early Christmas present. He says I look like her but with slightly darker hair. Maybe I do. I don’t know or care. I’ll be whoever he wants me to be until I don’t have to anymore.

  I touch my carefully wrapped bun and consider undoing it. Let my toffee-colored hair loose. Fly free.

  I don’t.

  He likes me put together.

  Perfect.

  I’m anything but.

  The sound of the waves crashing against the rocks relieves my boredom. I could dye my once-dark hair even blonder. Platinum blonde perhaps, like Brigitte, to see how much I actually look like her, or I could die it pink, just for fun.

  Like I’m hiding a secret, I cover my perfectly lined nude lips to stop from laughing out loud but then I still as realization dawns. No, I can’t. He wouldn’t allow it. In fact, he’d go absolutely crazy, and not in a good way.

  He likes me the way I am.

  Natural.

  Unhindered by plastic or cosmetics or anything fake.

  A breeze ruffles my bangs as I glare over at his sleeping form. I can’t help but wonder if I stabbed him with the kitchen knife, the same one he used to carve the Thanksgiving turkey he brought over for us to eat to celebrate the holiday the night before the actual holiday, if anyone would believe it was an accident.

  Probably not.

  Wishful thinking.

  I shake off the thought like I do every time I have one—no, I’ll wait until the time is right.

  In the meantime, I’ll continue with this sick charade until I can get what I want. Until the day my plan comes to fruition and the bitterness in my mouth is gone. Until the sweet taste of revenge is the only thing on my tongue.

  Something’s going on though. In the nine months we’ve been playing this little game, or that I have been playing it, he has never fallen asleep while visiting me. Maybe he had too much wine or too much food. Or perhaps, he’s been suffering from insomnia, which would explain his extreme behavior as well.

  There has been a gamut of emotional anxiety swirling in our conversations lately. He’s been moody, really moody, more than usual. So much so, I never know what will set him off.

  Tonight, after dinner, we took our expensive bottle of wine and came to sit in this room so we could talk. That’s one thing I can actually tolerate—our conversations.

  I told him about my day at the museum, about the famous painter, Gabriel Orozco, contacting us to display some of his works, which was so exciting. And he told me about Mikal Umberto, a new artist he’s taken an interest in. Someone he thinks will be worth millions in the next ten years. Someone he wants me to meet. This pleased me. After drinking a little too much, I got up to use the restroom, and when I returned he was fast asleep.

  In his slumbered state, he almost reminds me of how I used to look at him—with a thirst for his sizzling, yet introverted personality, with a hunger for his knowledge, with a sensuality that pulsed between my thighs whenever I saw him, with a need to just be near him.

  A small laugh, followed by a gag, escapes my throat t
hinking back on it now.

  Stupid, stupid girl.

  I shake off the thoughts and redirect my focus to the beach below. How ironic that a place I used to love, now I hate, and still it is my only friend.

  I’m standing in the open French doors of my condo that lead to the small balcony not far away from the white-colored sand.

  I’m not alone but I feel like I am. Then again, I’m always alone, even when I’m not.

  I lean forward and take in the fresh air. This is the only place I can breathe in my home without a heavy weight on my lungs. Needing more peace, I turn my attention to the sky, the sun on the horizon, the dusk making room for night.

  This is my favorite time of year. The early sunsets. The cool air. The quiet on the beach.

  There is an air of tranquility and beauty that can only be experienced on these warm and cloudless ‘Santa Ana’ nights.

  Words cannot describe the crisp, clear views of the San Diego coastline, the rainbow-colored spray blowing off the faces of the waves, or the amazing vitality in the air.

  This right here—this view, this feeling—it’s my only sanity.

  The sudden ding-dong of the doorbell startles me. Surprised that anyone dares ring, I tiptoe across the dark, wooden planked floor in my six-inch platform booties and step onto the plush white carpet. I’m dressed in the clothes he instructed me to wear to work when he called this morning. He likes me dressed up, so he can admire the view. Not the same view I enjoy, though. His preferred view is me. Mine is anything but me.

  I hate myself most days.

  In my vintage tweed Chanel jacket and floor-length ivory skirt, I quietly pass by the sofa. When his hand snaps out and grabs me, stopping me from taking another step, I force a small smile on my face and find his eyes. “You’re awake.”

  “Where are you going?” His thick Spanish accent fills the quiet space.

  Putting a finger to my lips I whisper, “Shhh . . . go back to sleep. Someone’s at the door.”

  He bolts up and yanks me down by the wrist at the same time. “That’s for me. You know that. I’ll get it.”

  Of course, I know that. No one comes for me. He doesn’t allow it.

  I rub the area that his fingers cinched, knowing I’ll have another bruise. “Of course. I should have realized. I’m sorry.”

  His eyes dart to my hand. He picks it up, turns it around, and kisses the reddening area. “Forgive me?”

  “I’m fine,” I lie. I’m good at it. Lying. It’s all I seem to do anymore.

  He kisses my hand one more time. “Go into the bedroom and run a bath. I have some business to discuss. I’ll be in to wash your back when I’m done.”

  I stand and do as he says. I always do as he says. He thinks he owns me like I’m one of his tucked away prized pieces of art.

  He’s wrong.

  To him, I’m his plaything, his pet, a shiny piece in his never-to-be-seen collection. He buys my clothes, my food, my necessities. He pays for everything—the hospital bills, the lawyers, me—the mountain of debt I’ve accumulated because of him. In return, he tells me what I should like, how I should behave, what I should say—and I do exactly what he wants me to do.

  But he never fucks me.

  I’m not pure enough.

  A nice way of saying I’m not good enough, really.

  Not yet, anyway.

  I’ll never be pure enough, good enough, but he doesn’t know that.

  So for now, instead of using his dick to fuck me, he strips me bare and uses his eyes. He thinks he leaves me wanting. What he doesn’t realize is I don’t want him—I hate him. Despise him. Loathe him.

  I cringe every time he touches me, feel repulsed by each kiss, and jump out of my skin whenever I have to stand naked for him to appreciate me with his dark, appraising eyes.

  I know what he did.

  Chapter 5

  Psycho

  Gemma

  THE SUN HAS set and candles light the room.

  I lean back in the tub and attempt to relax, but no matter how much I try, I can’t shut out the cries. They’re always there—in the back of my mind, over my shoulder, behind my closed lids. Echoing and driving me crazy—they’re the same cries I hear during the day and the same cries that keep me awake at night.

  It’s late. I stayed at work too long. I walk into the small jewelry store my father owns with all its empty cases and go up the flight of stairs that leads to our family’s home.

  The place has become a repair shop over the years because he no longer purchases jewels. He was hoping my brother or I would take it over but neither of us ever wanted to. Still, he hung on to hope.

  As soon as I open the door, I know something is wrong. The furniture is out of place, and everything has been thrown from the hard surfaces and broken on the floor.

  “Mama, Papa,” I call out in panic.

  I hear whimpering. I try to run in the direction, but a man’s grip pinches my upper arm and whirls me around to face him. He’s wearing a ski mask.

  I freeze in place.

  I hear my mother screaming and my father shouting.

  I try to run, but a blow to the head knocks me to my knees and then the room goes black.

  Fingers press into my shoulders and my eyes snap open. The blue stone from his ring sparkles in the room, nearly blinding me.

  What are meant to be soft caresses knead into my skin. To me, the sensation is more like tiny pinpricks reminding me that my heart is two fists pounding inside my ribcage waiting for the day to break free.

  I close my eyes once more as if I could pretend he’s not here.

  “Relax, you feel stressed,” he murmurs in my ear. “There’s no need to be.”

  “That feels good,” I sigh, trying to make him believe I’m enjoying his pampering. I never wanted to be an actress, but somehow, I became one.

  Good thing I once had a thing for the dramatic.

  “I have good news,” he tells me.

  Good news is never good. “Oh really, what?” I ask, over my shoulder.

  His fingers kneed my skin a little deeper. “I’m going to promote one of the members of the security team from my office to be your new personal bodyguard.”

  Bodyguard.

  No.

  No.

  No.

  My bottom lip trembles without permission. Sure, he’s been telling me for weeks he’s going to assign someone to watch over me, but I was hoping things would get better and that day would never come. Now that it has, my stomach somersaults and then pinwheels in revolt. The thought of my movements being restricted any further sickens me.

  I slide a little further down the tub and keep my voice low as I speak. “Enrique, I really appreciate your concern but it’s not necessary. I’ll be fine.”

  His caresses turn slightly rougher. “Gemma, you’re my precious jewel. You know I’ve been receiving threats, and I can’t ignore them any longer. I’m doing this because your safety is very important to me.”

  I can’t help but wonder if he’s doing this so he can babysit me. “I know that,” I whisper.

  His hands slip down my shoulders, and his fingertips circle my breasts, barely grazing my nipples.

  Startled, I try not to gasp as my stomach riles. His touches have been more provocative, his kisses seem to linger a little longer, and I fear he thinks I’m almost ready.

  That I’m pure enough.

  Pure enough to fuck.

  Or perhaps he’s tinkering with the idea of shedding the almighty façade that not fucking me is remaining loyal to his wife.

  “Mr. Cruz,” I say, “It’s just I hate to be a burden on you.” I switch to Mr. Cruz whenever I want to remind him I know he’s in charge.

  It keeps him placated.

  He kisses my head. “You could never be a burden.”

  I sit up and look over my shoulder at him, and then give him a nod of acceptance. “Whatever you think is best.”

  He grins at me. “Good. That’s settled then. Now, get o
ut of the tub so I can appreciate your beauty before I have to go home.”

  The stack of fluffy white towels is behind him. Everything in this shrine I live in is white. He thinks it will make me purer, make what he wants to do to me purer.

  He really is insane.

  The thought of having to fuck him makes me want to gag. I was hoping I’d get what I wanted from him before that time came, but I’m not so sure of that anymore. This security threat has him really freaked and irrationality might get the better of him.

  His misplaced morals doctrined by The Powers of the Higher Mind could fall to the wayside.

  I stand in the tub without shielding myself. He doesn’t like his view obstructed. To him I’m the Michelangelo’s “Creation of Adam”, and nothing but seeing it all will do.

  After gazing at me, he holds open a towel. I step out of the spacious tub and fold into it. He pats me dry, softly tending to my breasts, but is especially careful not to touch anything below my waist. No, my pussy is just for looking.

  When he’s finished, he steps back to lean against the counter. In the mirror, I can see him cross his arms and cock his head to the side. After staring at my backside for the longest time, he orders, “Turn around.”

  I do. I rarely challenge him, and for something as menial as this, I never would. He wants to see my naked body, have at it.

  I’ll see his naked soul in hell.

  A smile slowly spreads across his lips. “You went and had the Brazilian done. Thank you for that.”

  He booked it, arranged it, paid for it, for goodness sake, but I play along. “I know you like it,” I purr while I stand completely still and naked before him. I’m a statue, and my mind goes void of any thoughts.

  His smile broadens. “Touch yourself there, angel. Run your fingers over that slick pink flesh and open your treasure for me to see.”

  I do as he tells me. Masturbation is what keeps me sane. Whether alone or in front of him makes no difference. It grounds me because it makes me remember I can feel.

  “That’s it. A little wider.” His voice is gruff.

  I oblige. This is for me, not him—he simply doesn’t know it. Just like he doesn’t know how often I masturbate. I’m not supposed to touch myself when I’m alone. It’s impure. My jewel is for him, and him alone. For him to decide when he thinks I need the pleasure.