Maelstrom

Chapter 37: A Bit Like My Birthday

Saturday afternoon

"I'm coming, I'm coming," I muttered. The buzzer for the front door had started ringing as soon as I'd stepped out of the shower. Or perhaps just before I'd gotten out, but I hadn't heard it over the water. At any rate, the buzzing continued insistently, and I was dripping water all over the floor as I ran out of the bathroom in a towel to answer it.

I dried my index finger quickly before pushing the TALK button on the intercom. "Hello?" I answered. The sound of static and street traffic blared in my ears as I pressed "LISTEN."

"I have a delivery for Alexis Bryant," a disembodied voice told me. Scratchy and distorted as it was, I was sure the voice did not belong to anyone I knew. I pushed the "TALK" button again on the antiquated machine.

"Great. I'll buzz you in. You can just leave it by the mailboxes."

LISTEN. "Sorry – I need a signature. And ID."

Of course he did. TALK. "Okay. I'll be right down." I buzzed the front door anyway; at least he wouldn't have to wait in the cold.

I tiptoed quickly back into the bathroom, put on my heavy terrycloth bathrobe, wrapped my hair in the towel, and stepped into my slippers. I grabbed my keys and wallet from the cigar box on the planks and milk crates that served as a console table, but hesitated with my hand on the doorknob. I ran back into my bedroom, pulled my Glock out of the nightstand drawer, and tucked it into a roomy pocket. It wasn't the best neighborhood, after all, and I was wearing nothing but a robe to meet a stranger at the door; probably unnecessary, but it made me feel better.

A courier was waiting for me with three Bergdorf Goodman bags and a clipboard. He was looking around the tiny lobby as though convinced he had the wrong address. Given what he was carrying, I understood his uncertainty, and his requirement for identification and a signature.

Once he was satisfied, he handed the bags over and headed out the door. I carried what I had to assume were the clothes Ivan had promised to send, up to my third floor apartment and managed to get back inside without anyone seeing me. I didn't think I'd attracted any undue attention from my neighbors so far, not with my Asylum-wear or nocturnal schedule, which were apparently nothing to raise an eyebrow at here, but no need for ultra-high-end shopping bags to start any speculative gossip.

I put them down on the bed and went back into the bathroom to continue getting ready. I didn't need to tear into the packages like a Kindergartener on Christmas morning, I told myself; I had a little more self-restraint than that.

I carefully towel-dried my hair and smoothed macadamia nut oil into it. Then again, maybe I should take a look at what Ivan had sent, in case there were any special preparations I would need to make, I thought. I ran a comb through my hair. I wouldn't know whether to wear my hair up or down until I she saw the clothes, I reasoned. Screw it – no one else was looking. I ran back into the bedroom and dumped the contents out of the bags.

Everything was boxed up and carefully wrapped in tissue paper, so it felt a bit like it was my birthday. Let's see, there's probably a dress in here somewhere. I pulled out the second largest box from the pile and opened it.

Holy shit. I pulled out the designer floral lace sheath with something approaching reverence. The lace overdress began at a jewel neckline and swept gracefully through long, fitted sleeves to an asymmetrical hemline that I noted would hit me somewhat higher than mid-thigh. Good thing I'd gotten waxed yesterday in anticipation of the mystery event. The crêpe slip underneath the lace covered all the essentials, dipping down low in the back to a spot just above my waist, making a bra a fashion impossibility. The entire exquisite creation was a pink so pale it was almost cream. Please, please, please, I thought; I checked the tag and felt like I could breath again – it was the right size.

I hung the dress on a hook on the back of my door, noting how it made everything else in the apartment look instantly shabbier. I looked back at the boxes on the bed; a dress like that needed some fancy friends to hang out with. I practically squealed as I tore open the largest box.

Inside was a charcoal, floor-length taffeta opera cape with a shimmering dove gray satin lining. I was impressed. Only something this decadent and impractical would do to cover up that dress. I hung it on the included hanger and hooked it on the door of the coat closet next to the kitchen.

Next came what was clearly a shoe box, which held a pair of harness T-strap sandals in rose-gold and blush pink leather. I checked the inside sole: size 9. So far, this was going surprisingly well. I was both delighted and a bit discomfited by how accurately Ivan had estimated my sizes.

The rest of the boxes were much smaller. One held a pair of pale nude tights, tall. Another contained a small clutch that matched the shoes. The handbag reminded me that I still had my Glock in my pocket; I quickly put it back in the nightstand drawer.

What else could there be? I eyed the final, smallest box with excitement. I shook it, listening for rattles or clinks that might indicate jewelry, but heard only a soft rustling. I eased the lid off and delicately peeled back the tissue.

I gasped and my face instantly colored. Even when he was nowhere near me, that man could make me blush. I lifted out the ivory crochet lace boyshort, knowing it would fit without checking the size. A card tumbled out as I unfolded the underwear. I lifted it curiously.

It was a plain, high-quality business card with only his name and what I assumed was a cell phone number printed on the front. A New York area code, I noticed, so the cards would have been printed recently. I flipped it over to look at the back: "Pick you up at 6:00."

I didn't have to check; I knew that the handwriting on the card was the same as that on the envelope of cash he'd given me on Wednesday night.

I looked around at all the things I would be wearing tonight. I had already been embarrassed – okay, and titillated – when I'd believed that Ivan had guessed my sizes and tasked a personal shopper with outfitting me for the evening, but the card was confirmation that he had actually been in the store. He had chosen, or at least approved of, possibly even handled, everything he'd sent me. I looked down at the boyshort in my hand. Everything. I remembered him telling me that he loved making me blush; tucking the card inside the panties was him playing his new game, even if he weren't here to appreciate my high color.

I checked the clock on the wall; 3:25pm. More than enough time to finish getting ready, but my stomach had started doing cartwheels in panicky anticipation. It was clear already from my reactions that this evening's events were going to be not only in clearest violation of my instructions from DiMarco, but possibly one of the most exciting experiences of my short adult life.