6. 1994

BUNNY

Iwas able to forget about Michael"s weird comment until I woke to a pounding on my door the following morning. It took seconds to spring from the bed, throw on a pair of pants, and rush toward the sound, but by the time I made it past the threshold, whoever was here was gone. The only proof I hadn't imagined it all was the bags at my feet.

I've been staring at the contents for the past half hour, in disbelief that something so beautiful will rest against my skin. I don't want to walk away from it, but I've wasted my day. It's almost three in the afternoon now, and I have to start getting ready for tonight.

Pamela Anderson's look on last August's Playboy cover is my inspiration; soft, sexy, dark lashes and nudish pink lips. My hair is resting in makeshift curlers while my foot presses against the bathroom counter. Yesterday, before I came back, I had stopped at a small bodega and picked up a couple of nail polishes. With the color of my dress, I settle on a classy, medium beige. It elongates my nails, making them slender and sensual. I read once that men like that, and I'll do anything to make sure that Marone finds everything about me beautiful.

By the time I'm fully shaved, primped, and primed, it's nine at night. I told myself when I was finished, Marone would find everything about me beautiful, but what I didn't prepare for was to look in the mirror and fall madly in love with myself.

My face is the same, done up more than usual, with thick black lashes that fan across my cheekbones, pink cheeks, and lips I can't stop biting. My hair is curled in thick barrels, surprising since I used the cardboard rolls I ripped from the inside of the toilet paper pack. But my dress?—

This dress.

The deep richness of the emerald color sinks into my creamy skin, making me shine enough to rival the diamonds dripping from the fabric. The garment ends high on my thigh, but the jewels flow down to my ankles, swishing lightly against my beige, lace-up stiletto heels. I can't stop touching the valley between my breasts, fingering lightly the stones that press against my flesh. I look like elegance personified. I look like fame. My hands clasp in prayer over my mouth. "I look perfect."

I wish I had a camera to capture the moment. I know I'll never forget it, but I want to see this forever. Having no choice, or time, I settle for the mental memory, securing every angle in my mind before grabbing my new clutch with my belongings inside and strutting out the door.

There's no one around to watch me, but I use the hallway as my runway, holding my pose until the elevator doors open. Heat burns my cheeks when the surprised eyes of two men greet me.

They don't say anything to me as I inch forward, only parting enough to create an open space between the two of them. Squeezing myself in, I offer them both a smile, being considerate before fixing my stare ahead.

"So," the one on my left coughs, a man no more than thirty, "where are you going dressed like that?" Through the reflection in the metal, I watch a distorted version of him hide a smile behind his palm. His friend, a man of the same age, tags in, running his fingers down the back of my arm.

"Yeah, baby. Where you headed to? Can I come? I can keep you company all night long." I ignore their remarks, keeping my eyes forward and hands over my stomach, counting down the remaining floors.

"What? Pretty little bitch can't talk?"

"You think you're too good for us, baby?" Pressing against me on either side, they begin to pin me toward the back.

I sense the walls coming in around me, the angrier they become. I know soon, the longer I stay inside, these soft touches will become bruising, violent grips. I can fight, push them off, but I'm still in here. I'm trapped.

The agony of my gender hits me then, and I count the seconds before something happens. Luckily for me, the doors ding open, filling my lungs with breath. I dart out of the tight space, shoving them with as much force as I can. Their laughter and teasing chortles follow me out of the elevator, as do the degrading, sickening wishes they place upon me.

I shake off their words, slap a smile on my face, and stroll forward to the reception desk. "Hi. I was wondering if you could call a taxi for me, please?"

"I would be happy to do that, Miss." The young man behind the counter grins, grabbing the phone. "What is your name?"

"Bernice Walters."

"Oh, Bunny," he proclaims, shooting straight up.

"There's already a car waiting for you. He's right out front."

Confused, I look to the exit, and sure enough, there he is. Right outside the double-glass doors, I spot a middle-aged taxi driver holding up a sign with my name on it.

"Do you know who sent him?"

"No, Miss. I'm sorry. I just got on shift."

Nodding, I part with a tight grin, feeling my insides coil the slightest bit with nerves, forgetting to exhale until I say hello. It comes out breathy and tired, but he seems to understand.

"Miss Bunny?"

"Yes, hi," I say, extending my palm for a shake. His grip is kind, full of warmth. It doesn't squeeze me or exert any dominance. I feel comfortable, which is a relief since I'm getting into his car.

"Are you ready to go, Miss?"

"Yes, but first, could you tell me who sent you? I hadn't called for a service."

"Mr. Taylor, Miss."

Michael.

"Thank you." He helps me into the cab with a supportive hold of my hand, making sure I'm secure in my seat before closing the door. I follow his form to the front of the car, keeping my eyes on him until we begin moving forward.

We don't speak during the drive, a fact I'm grateful for because my nerves are growing, wrapping painfully around my throat. I remind myself that these are good nerves. This is a good kind of fear. I'm heading in the direction of my dreams. That's already more than what anyone thought I was capable of.

I wish Missy could see me. She doesn't believe in princesses, but she'd see me and know they're real because look at me. I went from dirt to diamonds. The thought of her smile, her pride, takes some of the anxiety away. The image drives me because I promised her a better life.

For you, Missy.

I'm doing this for you.

* * *

Almost two hours pass before we reach South Hampton. The sky has fallen into a beautiful shade of midnight blue, dazzling me with all the stars above. They almost hold my attention, but the house—mansion—is too powerful to ignore.

Cars and people litter the front, crowding the area full of greenery. Still, somehow, all they do is add to the power of the home.

Where am I?

"Have a wonderful evening, Miss."

"You, too. Thanks." I wave my driver goodbye, watching the taillights vanish out of my peripheral. The breeze from the nearby beach wafts across my skin, leaving me covered in prickled, stinging goosebumps.

Warming my hands with a little shake, I take my first step forward. My stiletto heels sink into the white gravel driveway, almost stealing my balance from beneath me. I release a squeak as my ankle rolls, gathering the confused looks of the men and women lingering.

My face flames, a flush scorching down my neck. I haven't been here for more than two minutes, and already I've humiliated myself.

I catch the stare of two women leaning against a stone column, a cigarette burning between each of their fingers while their eyes drag down my form. They don't try to hide their judgment, not with their glares. Not with their words.

"What is she? Twelve?" the bitchy blonde hisses, loud enough for me to hear. Her friend, a pretty brunette with a soft, delicate face, doesn't bother whispering, preferring to shout her response.

"I don't know, but one of them has to be fucking her."

Once again, all eyes are on me, waiting to see what I'll do—what I'll say. Righting my posture, I force my shame away, holding their frowns with a smile until I meet them at the end of the stairs.

"Did you want to keep going?" Scoffing, the blonde turns to leave, taking her friend along with her. "Go home, sweetheart. This world is too big for you." She ends her statement with a final puff of her cigarette, blowing the smoke toward my face before flicking the burning butt at my feet.

I glare at their long, lean forms slithering up the steps, their shiny dresses and massive diamonds sparkling under the hanging lantern fixture. I know the purpose of their comments was to make me feel like shit, to prove I don't belong here, and I hate that they succeeded. Staring at their elegance and the exterior of the home, I know we're not the same, but the smile stays on my plush lips. My spine never falters.

I may not belong, but fuck them. I'm here anyway.

Remembering that, I push forward, with nothing but confidence in my steps, as I make my way toward the deep cherry door. The solid wood weighs a ton, but now I understand why I couldn't hear the party from outside.

As heavy as it is, the door doesn't slam as it shuts behind me. Silently, it closes me inside, leaving me once again star-struck at the sheer wealth of the home.

Looking past the partygoers sipping champagne against massive potted flower arrangements, I gape at the extravagance surrounding me. Four towering marble pillars outline the four corners of the room, their white baseboards as crisp and clean as the cream quartz flooring. In the center of the space, a round wooden table holds champagne saucers full of glittering pink rosé. I steal one, taking a sip while gazing up above at the Schonbek Renaissance Crystal Chandelier. It's clear Swarovski Crystals create rainbows over the room, adding to the magic of the world I just entered.

A man in a deep navy suit bumps into me in haste, apologizing swiftly before disappearing through another set of doors. It's then that I notice there are three main entrances: one to my left, one to my right, and one up ahead. I take a step forward, my hands itching to reach for the light wooden banister leading to the second floor. It pains me to walk past the two golden tables at the base of the stairs, my curiosity wanting to get the best of me, but I do.

Leaving the foyer, I stroll through the hallway, taking one turn left and one turn right, running my fingers over the gold-framed paintings until I enter another area of the home. Unsure of where I am, I push open another set of doors, finding myself staring into a massive, dark space clouded in smoke.

At first, I don't see anything, so I step inside the bass-pounding space. When my vision adjusts, I spot through the haze all the bodies filling every corner of the room. They press against each other, mouths molded into one. The sounds are overwhelming. Music thumps against my ears, rattling against my teeth hard enough to make them shatter. Over that, the chatter is endless, and yet it's the moans that are the loudest.

Sex permeates the air, and though I can't see it all, I feel it pressing against my chest. I look around, shocked that no one seems to sense anything but me. Men and women go about their conversations casually, as if the couples inches away, having an orgy, doesn't affect them.

Captivated by the ecstasy on the woman's face as another woman falls between her thighs, I fail to notice the man slinking up next to me or his hand as he moves to grab onto my elbow.

A firm grip pulls me toward the side, bringing me into the darkest parts of the room.

"Aren't you just the prettiest little doll I've ever seen." Shaking off his hand, I turn to follow the voice, freezing when a man in his mid-sixties slams his lips onto mine. I break the kiss as soon as my brain registers what's going on, stumbling away as fast as possible. I listen to him call after me, but it fades out as quickly as it came when I get too far to follow.

Thankfully, there are exits everywhere.

My first chance to escape is a door on my left. With shaky breaths, I throw my legs over the naked bodies on the ground, doing my best not to bump into their thrusting forms. They hardly notice me as I push open the door, changing positions to her on all fours before I can get it closed again.

I shove it closed and press my forehead against the grain, still in disbelief at what I just saw.

"Too much to handle?"

Spinning, I follow the voice of another stunningly handsome man. This one is somewhere in his early fifties, with a soft, clean-shaven face and perfectly silver-gray hair parted stiffly to one side. His smile is full of sparkling white veneers, too perfect to be natural.

"It was getting a little too hot in there."

Towering over me with his six-foot frame, he whispers, "I bet." He takes a minute, watching me with heavy lids while sipping the amber liquid in his glass. "You are the prettiest woman in the room. Did you know that?"

My head bows to hide the heat rising in my cheeks, and I offer my thanks before moving to take a sip of the forgotten glass in my hands.

"Oh, give me that. I'll get you a fresh one." Without waiting, he plucks the flute from my fingers, slamming it rougher than needed on a passing server's tray.

The force behind his action almost sends the waiter's board crashing into the study's hardwood floor. Not that he seems to notice.

"What's your name, beautiful?"

"Uhh, Bunny," I respond, confused, when he shoves a matching amber liquid into my hands. He holds his glass between us, waiting for me to cheers. "Daniel," he mutters when I do, finally giving me his name. A part of me expects the conversation to end there, and for a second, I think it does, but then he orders, "Drink."

I stare down at the glass, swirl it around, and smell its rich brown sugar and caramel notes. I'm not usually a bourbon girl, but I mean, this is all new for me.

The first sip burns its way down my throat, scorching a trail of fire to my esophagus. I cough to avoid the tears springing to my eyes, not wanting to appear as an amateur, but Daniel sees right through me.

"It's okay. A little burn is good for you."

"I don't know. I don't think it's for me," I laugh, hand pressed to my chest as if I can will the pain away. I'm about to set the crystal down on one of the many standing tables in this room, when he places his hand under mine.

"No. No. You need some more. You have to be loose at a party like this. How else do you expect to have some fun?" Thrusting the bourbon back toward my lips, he gives me no other choice but to swallow as he pours it into my mouth.

"That's it, beautiful. Drink up. Don't worry. I'll only bite if you ask me to." Daniel laughs at his joke while drowning me in the fiery flavor. The only way I get a breath in is by backing away, allowing the liquid to splash to the ground.

The people around look at me with disgust, a sneer on their lips, while their eyes glare between me and the wet spot on the floor. I would feel embarrassed if I could, but I'm more taken aback by the sheer joy on Daniel's face.

"Ahh," he laughs, tsking. "You gotta keep up, beautiful."

"Causing some commotion, I see. It would be you, Daniel." Colette slithers in the middle of us, her sleek body dressed in a red gown so deep it appears black in the dim lighting. It drips off her slender form like a bleeding vein, rich and mesmerizing. Her hair is slicked as it was before, only this time, a tendril falls forward, highlighting the brightness behind her green eyes.

"What do you think of my girl, Daniel? I'm taking her to meet Marone. I think he'd love her."

"Oh, he definitely will. I already do." Together, they laugh, sharing an amused glance that makes my stomach dip, before Colette takes my free hand and says goodbye to Daniel for the both of us.

"You'll have to excuse Daniel. He's a bit…lively," she explains, taking the mostly empty glass from my hands and placing it nicely on another tray. Colette exchanges it for a different flute of champagne, this one a bubbly, pale beige.

I've had my fair share of alcohol. Living where I do, you can't really make it past eleven without getting drunk at least once. So I'm not too concerned with taking this third glass, but I won't lie. The effects of it are starting to hit me.

With the edges of my brain beginning to fog, I follow Colette closely, weaving in and out of the bustling crowd without falling flat on my face. Pieces of the house pass in a messy jumble. I don't have the chance to take in the different rooms and halls, not if I want to keep up with the swift pace Colette has set.

Her hand hasn't let go of me since we left the study—just the opposite. The deeper we get into the party, the more her nails dig into my skin. I wince as the sharp edges at the ends of her square acrylics draw blood, but I was right. The color does match her gown.

"Woah. Sorry about that," she laughs, then finally slows her rapid pace when we arrive back at the foyer. "These parties can get a little crowded."

A little? "Yeah. I see that."

People still mill around the entrance. The two women from earlier stand in the center of the room, two different men wrapped around their arms. They notice me, but the resentful sneers from before are gone. I can't deny their beauty when they smile—no wonder those men are falling to their knees for them.

My eyes are stuck on the way they glow when Colette

asks, "Are you ready to meet him?"

"Absolutely."

She ascends the swooping, circular-shaped staircase with a grin tossed over her shoulder, a hidden look sparkling behind her eyes. I don't know what to make of it. I blame it on the alcohol.

I step on the oak floorboard and silently choke on my racing heart, blowing out a breath. I've never heard of any man named Marone, but I've been dolled up and prepped for him. So far, everyone has told me how much this man will love and adore me. The closer I get to him, I can only pray it's true.

As the second floor approaches, I turn my focus on the vast number of paintings hanging on the wall. Rimmed in gold, terrifying biblical images scale my left. One, in particular, the biggest of all, stops me on the steps entirely.

Bleeding babies litter the floor, their mothers beaten and crying out for their salvation while soldiers swing their swords and plummet their children to the ground. I learned about The Massacre of the Innocents in one of my foster parents" journals. They were devout Christians, but even they didn't adorn their home with such violence.

"Marone is a very spiritual man. You'll come to learn that for yourself." Colette's explanation doesn't offer much relief, but who am I to judge?

I keep my gaze down the rest of the way, watching my steps with faint, fuzzy vision. She waits for me on the landing, face serene, eyes appearing devious under the warm, yellow lighting.

"After you." Colette swings out her arm, gesturing to the open hallway. The emptiness is a vast difference from the raging swarm downstairs. It's almost like entering a new world up here, one where no one can touch you—one that no one even knows about.

In step with one another, we descend the broad strip. Being away from the party makes it easier to listen to the pounding and squealing moans behind closed doors. The sounds become angrier the closer we get to the end, turning pounding into splinters and groans into cries. I've heard rough sex. I've seen it. I've been subject to it, but this, it sounds…different. Concern develops deep in my chest, but Colette appears fine, unbothered by the brutality of it all. So it must be me. I'm just too new to it all.

The noises are right beside my ear now, thumping against my head as I stand at the looming, paneled mahogany door. The sounds become jumbled with my pounding heart, matching the rhythm Colette makes as she knocks against the wood. "Stand behind me," she instructs, tucking me against her spine as a booming voice calls out, "Who is it?!"

"It's me," she laughs, then pokes her head inside. I catch a whiff of smoke and leather, the kind of aroma that wafts off rich cigars, not the cheap kind Denise's boyfriends would bring home. It's intoxicating, luring me to peek over Colette's bare shoulder. Feeling my movement, she holds me back, her hand on my backside. The heat of her palm scorches my flesh, but the sensation fades away when the room comes into focus.

The office is modest yet oozing refinement. Golden walls shine against the stark black cabinetry, gleaming almost as brightly as the miniature busts sitting on the towering bookshelves. I've tuned out Colette's voice as I take in every inch of the room, amazed by how many details there are in the little spaces.

"Are you busy?" Her question is faint in my awareness, but his response, it ricochets around my skull.

"I'm never too busy for you." I can feel the adoration in his words, the warmth of his tone. It penetrates me down to the bones, even making Colette falter at the knees.

Pulling me farther into the room, with her hand still on my ass, Colette whispers, "I have something for you." I can hear the smile in her voice as she says it, which makes it impossible for me to hold back my own.

Drawn out from behind her back, Colette presents me to Marone like a snack on a platter, and I'm instantly lost to an immaculately dressed, silver-haired, sharp-eyed, forty-something man who steals my breath away. His dark brows match the black that remains in his beard, highlighting the blue hues swirling in his irises. He watches me behind his black and brown oak desk, his fingers steepled, gaze unwavering while my heart thumps out of control.

"This is Bunny," Colette introduces me, her hands secure on my shoulders as she guides my feet forward. "Michael brought her in for a session with me, and she was extraordinary. Truly, truly a vision to behold."

Hearing Colette's praises has my cheeks blistering. I fight to press my palms against my burning skin when he asks, "Is that so?"

"Absolutely." Stepping from my side, Colette heads to the desk, holding a binder I didn't even know she had in front of her. The touch of his gaze rolls down my body as he takes the edge of the portfolio, leaving no part of me unaffected before examining the insides.

Colette and I remain silent, my breath trapped in my throat while her fingers wring the blood from her veins. Marone's European features stay passive while the pages flip. I catch glimpses of the photos as he goes, amazed by the little pieces I see. It hits me then that I never got to see my first modeling shoot, but the slight disappointment means nothing to me when he looks up, pins me with that intense stare, and confirms, "You are exactly who I need."

The ground shakes when he steps from his desk, turning my insides into a quivering pile of mush. Our eye contact never breaks. It blossoms into a searing heat that singes the muscles of my heart.

"You did good, Letti," he mumbles to Colette, his eyes still on me.

"Thank you."

Raising a single finger, he presses it against my lips, studying the deep bow of my mouth. "Would you mind leaving us, Letti? I want some time alone with this little beauty."

With a bow of her head, Colette backs away. "She's all yours." Sparing me a grin, she glides out of the open doorway. Marone waits until the heavy wood slams shut, taking long strides to snap the lock in place before returning to his place inches from my lips.

Alone together, I wait for his words, holding back the faint wooziness crawling through my system. His finger never finds its place back against my mouth, but rather my neck. He traces the slope of my bones, dipping into the hollow of my clavicle.

"What did she say your name was, sweetheart? Bunny?"

"Bernice, but everyone calls me Bunny."

He continues to look at me with that same grin, the rumble of his "Hmm," vibrating in my chest. Extending his hand, he grasps the stem of the champagne flute, using his other to gesture to the empty seat on the other side of the desk.

"Have a seat. I'll get you something better to drink. None of that nasty shit they're serving downstairs."

Inhaling the intoxicating aroma of the office, I start toward the chair, smoothing down the forming wrinkles in the stiff gown while the pings of clinking ice and pouring liquid sound behind me. How do I say I don't want any more alcohol without appearing ungrateful? Typically, I wouldn't care, but this… I can't fuck this up.

"So tell me, Bunny," Marone says, holding out an old-fashioned glass full of dark, bubbly liquid, "where are you from?"

Taking the drink, I hold it between my palms, swishing it around until the sweet, syrupy smell of Coke drifts into the air. Feeling the bubbles of carbonation dot my lips, I lick it away, savoring the sugariness over the harsh taste of alcohol.

"Nowhere special." Thinking of all the homes I've been tossed out of, the home I ended up in, none of it matters. Only Missy. She's the only person I'll ever go back for. But I don't think Marone needs to know about her. No one does.

Sitting on the edge of the desk, one loafered foot crossed in front of the other, Marone smiles with a matching glass in his hand. He raises it to his lips, muttering before taking a sip. "Well, sweetheart. That's all about to change, because I'm about to make you the most famous girl in New York."

I sense the world slow around me as he continues to fill me with praises.

"You're beautiful,"he whispers, showing me the final photos from my shoot. "Look at you."

I am beautiful, I believe, as I down the rest of my drink.

"Will you come with me?" he asks, then takes my empty cup and stores it inside a glass cabinet on the bookshelf. Placing my hand in his open palm, I stand to my feet, feeling my ankles weaken as I stumble to full height.

"Sorry. I guess I drank a little too much." He doesn't say anything to that. He simply holds on to my hand firmer and guides me to the other side of the room.

"I'm going to show you something really special, sweetheart, but don't tell anyone. This is for me and you." Winking, Marone leads me out of another set of doors, these hidden behind a cabinet I assumed was a part of the bookshelf. It swings open like an oiled hinge, giving me access to an isolated hallway. It's lit with little orange bulbs mounted to the walls, but even the brightest glow couldn't make the walkway appear inviting.

Fear gets the best of me, to my disappointment, causing me to take a step back into his chest. Strong, stony hands clasp around my upper arms, stabilizing me while simultaneously pushing me forward.

"Don't be frightened, sweetheart. I'm only showing you my private studio."

"Private studio? For what?" I ask, unable to fight him as we take our first steps into the darkness. Marone keeps his hold on me the entire way, only answering my question when another giant mahogany door appears before us.

"You're beautiful, my dear. One of the most stunning girls to ever fall into my lap, but if you're going to be one of mine, then I have to make sure you fit in with the others. So, we're going to take some photos."

"Are they different from the ones you already saw?"

"Only in the ways that matter," he whispers, his lips against the shell of my ear, breathing the heady scent of his cigar into my skin.

A light turns on automatically once we step inside the blacked-out room. My eyes instantly turn to the center of the space, where a blood-red, silken modeling mat lies nestled on the floor.

Similar to Colette, Marone has his photography setup ready. Though, it's hard to tell what specifically stands propped in front of the mat as my vision fades in and out of focus. I begin to back away, moving my lips to explain that I need to sit, but my words don't come out. At least, they don't come out as words, rather jumbled noises that have him leaning toward my mouth.

"What was that, sweetheart?"

"I, um—" I don't know.

Numb, Marone guides me onto the silk, expertly removing my gown before I even realize where I am. "So beautiful," he praises, leaving me to stand on my own in nothing but my strappy heels.

My balance doesn't give out until the flashing starts. Rapidly, the camera across from me goes off, blinding me, stunning me—dropping me to the ground, hard enough for my skull to bounce off the slick wood underneath the silk.

Sight leaves me then, and I'm left with nothing but the sound of the shutter and the clicking of Marone's heels as he joins me on the mat.

"Wha—" I start to ask, but his lips silence me, hands force me to be still, and the sharp, stinging press of him inserting himself inside me takes me out for good, but not before I beg him to stop. "Please," I pray.

Please.