mirror.
“Stand still,” said Patrick. “Cross your arms behind you.”
Rally stood still. She waited for kisses.
“Watch yourself in the mirror. Keep your wrists crossed at the small of your back.”
Rally was nervous, but she did it. The room was dark, but there was enough moonlight for her to see the slink of her figure, the red dash of her lips. Patrick stood behind her, half a foot taller than Rally, and his hands came around her shoulders to the front of her neck. One of his hands held, to Rally’s surprise, a small, open jackknife.
She froze. “Hey.”
“Stay still,” said Patrick.
Very carefully, Patrick took the bodice of Rally’s dress, just below the front of her neck, and cut a niche in the silk.
Rally’s heart lurched.
“Patrick,” she complained, “this dress cost you thousands.”
“Be quiet and watch.” Patrick closed the knife, dropped it in his pocket. He gripped Rally’s dress at the neck, on either side of the niche. Rally felt the pressure of his elbows on her shoulders. Then his hands rent the length of her dress in two. The silk parted like curtains.
“Patrick,” whispered Rally. She leaned back against him, but Patrick leveled her steady on her feet.
“Watch,” he said.
Rally frowned, but watched, while Patrick wrapped the dregs of the dress around her neck, sashing it into a scarf that hung down over her breasts. All Rally wore now were her white bra and underwear and black heels and a pricey scarf.
“Patrick.” Rally gripped his thigh. “Patrick, kiss me.”
Patrick removed Rally’s hand from his thigh. He held her wrists crossed firmly behind her. He was strong, and fully clothed.
“Now look at yourself,” he told her.
Rally’s skin went over to goose bumps. She wanted to be underneath Patrick, on his bed.
“Patrick, can’t we just—”
“Be quiet and look.” His voice was resolute.
Reluctantly, Rally stared into the mirror. She saw her pale, full-figured self in white-and-black trappings. She saw her bowleggedness, the way her knees never touched, no matter how closely together she rammed her heels. Her high-school track coach had told Rally her bowed legs gave her balance as a sprinter, but she wasn’t a sprinter tonight. Patrick still gripped her wrists, and Rally was filled suddenly with hatred for him, anger at the fact that he wouldn’t kiss her, that he wouldn’t let her hands free to rip the black silk from her neck.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
Patrick tisked his tongue. “Look at yourself. I want you to see what I see.”
Rally tried to turn around. “Are you going to hurt me?”
Patrick put one hand to Rally’s chin, made her face the mirror. “This is how I see you,” he said. “Look.”
Rally thought she could get one hand free if she yanked, but she didn’t try it. She didn’t yank free, didn’t reach for the scarf, didn’t rip it off. She wanted to know if there was going to be kissing and lovemaking. She also wanted to know what she was going to wear home now that her overalls were the property of Saks Fifth Avenue and her new dress was in shreds around her neck. On the other hand, as Rally stared at the mirror—at her half-naked self and the shadow that held her—there was a quickness in her breathing.
“Do you . . . want to hurt me?” she whispered.
“I want you to look at yourself,” said Patrick, “till you see what I see.”
Rally glanced at the mirror. She had obviously fallen in with a pervert, or a prophet. She studied the cant of her hips, which she thought looked impressive, given the running she did three times a week. She also thought her biceps had some decent muscle on them. If she hauled off and smacked Patrick’s face, she figured she’d leave a respectable mark before he strangled her to death. Rally giggled.
“Don’t laugh.” Patrick applied pressure to her wrists. “Just look.”
“All right.”
Patrick made a contented noise. He stared at the mirror.
Rally breathed
“Stand still,” said Patrick. “Cross your arms behind you.”
Rally stood still. She waited for kisses.
“Watch yourself in the mirror. Keep your wrists crossed at the small of your back.”
Rally was nervous, but she did it. The room was dark, but there was enough moonlight for her to see the slink of her figure, the red dash of her lips. Patrick stood behind her, half a foot taller than Rally, and his hands came around her shoulders to the front of her neck. One of his hands held, to Rally’s surprise, a small, open jackknife.
She froze. “Hey.”
“Stay still,” said Patrick.
Very carefully, Patrick took the bodice of Rally’s dress, just below the front of her neck, and cut a niche in the silk.
Rally’s heart lurched.
“Patrick,” she complained, “this dress cost you thousands.”
“Be quiet and watch.” Patrick closed the knife, dropped it in his pocket. He gripped Rally’s dress at the neck, on either side of the niche. Rally felt the pressure of his elbows on her shoulders. Then his hands rent the length of her dress in two. The silk parted like curtains.
“Patrick,” whispered Rally. She leaned back against him, but Patrick leveled her steady on her feet.
“Watch,” he said.
Rally frowned, but watched, while Patrick wrapped the dregs of the dress around her neck, sashing it into a scarf that hung down over her breasts. All Rally wore now were her white bra and underwear and black heels and a pricey scarf.
“Patrick.” Rally gripped his thigh. “Patrick, kiss me.”
Patrick removed Rally’s hand from his thigh. He held her wrists crossed firmly behind her. He was strong, and fully clothed.
“Now look at yourself,” he told her.
Rally’s skin went over to goose bumps. She wanted to be underneath Patrick, on his bed.
“Patrick, can’t we just—”
“Be quiet and look.” His voice was resolute.
Reluctantly, Rally stared into the mirror. She saw her pale, full-figured self in white-and-black trappings. She saw her bowleggedness, the way her knees never touched, no matter how closely together she rammed her heels. Her high-school track coach had told Rally her bowed legs gave her balance as a sprinter, but she wasn’t a sprinter tonight. Patrick still gripped her wrists, and Rally was filled suddenly with hatred for him, anger at the fact that he wouldn’t kiss her, that he wouldn’t let her hands free to rip the black silk from her neck.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
Patrick tisked his tongue. “Look at yourself. I want you to see what I see.”
Rally tried to turn around. “Are you going to hurt me?”
Patrick put one hand to Rally’s chin, made her face the mirror. “This is how I see you,” he said. “Look.”
Rally thought she could get one hand free if she yanked, but she didn’t try it. She didn’t yank free, didn’t reach for the scarf, didn’t rip it off. She wanted to know if there was going to be kissing and lovemaking. She also wanted to know what she was going to wear home now that her overalls were the property of Saks Fifth Avenue and her new dress was in shreds around her neck. On the other hand, as Rally stared at the mirror—at her half-naked self and the shadow that held her—there was a quickness in her breathing.
“Do you . . . want to hurt me?” she whispered.
“I want you to look at yourself,” said Patrick, “till you see what I see.”
Rally glanced at the mirror. She had obviously fallen in with a pervert, or a prophet. She studied the cant of her hips, which she thought looked impressive, given the running she did three times a week. She also thought her biceps had some decent muscle on them. If she hauled off and smacked Patrick’s face, she figured she’d leave a respectable mark before he strangled her to death. Rally giggled.
“Don’t laugh.” Patrick applied pressure to her wrists. “Just look.”
“All right.”
Patrick made a contented noise. He stared at the mirror.
Rally breathed
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