Giving In. Alison Tyler
Lou? What was the true reason she’d brought me with her on this trip? Why had she never told me about the goings on at the villa before? But when I got to Sasha’s, the room was empty. The bed was made with hotel preciseness. Carnival roses, which I knew were Sasha’s favorites, bloomed in bright pinks and oranges in a vase on the bedside table. All of her clothes were hung neatly in the closet. The black, hardback brush she’d been spanked with the previous evening lay innocently on the bedside table. My stomach tightened at the sight.
Where was she?
I wandered down the stairs, listening. Would I stumble upon a scenario as decadent as the one I’d found the previous night? Or had I possibly imagined the punishment scene? I felt disjointed and disoriented.
When I entered the kitchen, a white-clad chef told me that the others were waiting for me on the veranda. She spoke English with a British accent, and she was pretty in a slightly smudged way. Her crisp shirt had one too many buttons open in the front, so that I could see a peep of her scarlet lace bra. Her eye makeup, shimmering charcoal around beautiful green eyes, seemed too dark for so early in the morning, blurred as if she hadn’t bothered to take it off the previous night.
Outside, Sasha looked same as always. Except, on second glance I realized that was not entirely true. She was wearing her traveling clothes—a more dramatic version of what she usually wore in the city. Her hair was down and straight, instead of up and pinned, and her eyes looked more alive, aglow.
“We’re sightseeing, Ellis,” she said excitedly. “Right away. I want you to love Venice.”
I wanted something else. I wanted to ask her what the fuck was going on. But I couldn’t, because just then Lou joined us on the terrace. Had she screwed Lou the night before? Had the debauchery I’d witnessed in the wee hours continued—or even occurred?
“Come on,” she said, grabbing one of my hands in hers. “We’re starting at my favorite museum.”
“What about Stefan?” I asked. I was surprised at how normal my voice sounded. “We haven’t been properly introduced,” I continued, wondering who did I think I was, the Queen of England? Clearly, Sasha had invited me into a fairy-tale land where dirty dreams came true, and I ought to enjoy the program.
“You’ll meet him later,” she assured me. “He’s busy this morning.”
Busy punishing other guests? Busy paddling his staff? The chef came outside and handed me a cup of coffee and a plate of crisp buttered French bread and artfully arranged fruit. I set the plate on the stone railing, and I gratefully devoured the exquisite breakfast. Why was I so worried? My alternate choice in life was nothing. That concept Be Here Now? I had no other options.
Maybe Sasha would tell me what had happened while we were out. I decided I wouldn’t ask any questions. She might not even have known I had seen her. Could I confess to spying without coming across as a pervert? All of these questions flickered through my mind as Sasha led me out of the villa and we began to stroll through the streets.
I had been to Venice years before, with a group of students from my university. We’d raced through Italy—not staying in any one place for more than 24 hours. But I still remembered the overwhelming beauty of the Piazza San Marco, the feel of riding beneath the bridges in a vaporetto, the magic that is Venice.
Yet although I was seeing The Floating City again, and listening to Sasha describe the sights, I could not fully focus. She chattered happily at my side, telling me of her past visits, the dinner she’d had at a special restaurant, the flowers she’d bought at a stand. I nodded, as if I were part of the conversation—but every time I looked at her, I saw her over Stefan’s lap. This was my best friend. Why could I not simply say that I’d had trouble sleeping the previous night, that I’d found myself outside her room, and see how she responded?
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