The Black Room: Door Two Read online

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  I leave utter darkness and step into brilliant light. The light does not blind, but occludes all else.

  The transition is seamless—there is no shock, no adjustment, no wincing at the blinding illumination. I see no shadow behind me. No silhouette. No distorted rectangle of light cast upon the floor. I barely have time to consider these things, these oddities, because from the moment I enter this room I feel a sense of calm, and a welcoming warmth.

  As I step over the threshold, a sense of clarity pervades and the world crystallizes into a single shining moment.

  The light recedes and I find myself inside a large, modern apartment. A high-rise. To my left are floor-to-ceiling windows, and far, far beyond is a glass city. Seen from my tilt-shift perspective, I cannot even see the ground, so dizzyingly high off the earth am I. It is still daytime, mid or late afternoon. Brilliant, warm sunlight bathes the room in natural warmth.

  I pull my gaze from the spectacular view and notice that I am standing in a large, ultra-modern bedroom. Across the room is a door, solid wood and painted white, its only decoration a black doorknob. The door is almost closed but not quite, open only an inch or two.

  To the right of the door is a massive flat-screen TV mounted to the wall. Sleek, black and slightly curved, it is a silent presence in the room. Below it sits a slim, modern, handcrafted bureau, undoubtedly made of some expensive wood and easily six feet long. With its chunky squared-off handles and clean lines, it is an expensive piece of functional art.

  As well, I glimpse a darkened doorway leading to a bathroom, large and beautiful with a marble floor and porcelain fixtures.

  Taking center stage in the room is a bed. Like the bureau, it is an ultra-modern masterpiece: a gargantuan headboard mounted to the wall and crafted from the same wood as the bureau. The black wood is relieved by an upholstered white wool insert, connected by a series of brass rivets to the black frame. A luxurious black and white duvet with a diamond shape embroidered in the center, covers the bed. The expanse of the duvet is accented by an assortment of black and white throw pillows. A black footlocker, fitted with leather straps and of the same design as the headboard and the bureau, sits at the foot of the bed, the brass rivets gleaming in the light. Large but minimalist black bedside tables are positioned at either side of the headboard, each with a stand meant to hold a smart phone and a watch, the appropriate charger cords vanishing neatly behind the tables. No clocks. No knickknacks.

  The entire room is covered in plush white wool carpet, my feet sinking into the luxurious pile.

  I smell food.

  Bacon is cooking: I hear it sizzling over the sounds of music and voices. Other scents, less easy to identify, drift my way. Eggs maybe, or toast? Definitely breakfast food.

  What time is it anyway?

  I glance out the window, wondering if I’d somehow misjudged the time of day. But no, the shadows are long, too long for dawn, or even early morning. The light is golden, hinting at the approaching dusk.

  My curiosity gets the better of me. I walk across the room and pull open the door leading to the adjoining space. I leave the bedroom and find myself in a short hallway, and then I walk past another partially closed door through which I can make out another bedroom and en suite bathroom. Past that doorway, and then I enter an expansive seating area.

  The place is huge, expensive. From the doorway, the first thing I notice is a great room decorated in more minimalist black and white modernism. A black couch, a white love seat, and a crimson armchair—the color draws my eye immediately, as intended. The couches are centered around a low glass coffee table on which are stacks of huge art books; a white coffee mug with the Harvard University logo on the side sits on a black leather coaster.

  An exposed brick wall opposite the open doorway seems at odds with the modern decor of the rest of the apartment, but nevertheless adds something to the otherwise unrelieved modernism of the décor.

  The view in this room is to die for: miles and miles of city, glittering high-rises and, far below, a grid of streets crisscrossing and stretching as far as the eye can see. The vehicles below, cars and cabs and trucks, look so tiny they don’t seem real. A jetliner floats across the vista, leaving a thin white contrail.

  I leave the bedroom and find myself in a short hallway, passing another partially closed door, through which I can make out another bedroom and en suite bathroom. I enter an expansive seating area centered around a low glass coffee table on which are massive art books.

  Across from the seating area is the kitchen, with a large island in the middle. Around the marble countertop are four stools made of thick black iron with pale pine seat tops, which can be raised or lowered by a screw mechanism positioned under the seats.

  But my real attention is drawn to the people in the room. The man standing at the stove is…simply breathtaking. A few inches over six feet, he is facing away from me, clad in nothing but faded blue jeans. I can’t see his feet, but somehow I know he’s barefoot, his back is defined with sculpted muscles sheathed in dark golden skin. He has thick, curly black hair, messy, unruly—just-fucked hair.

  He reminds me of someone, but whom?

  All I know right now is that he is gorgeous.

  He’s got his back to the room, and as he prepares the food he’s talking with the two other people—a man and a woman, both in their twenties—seated at the island. They are all laughing together.

  They are all drinking wine, and the mood is relaxed and easy. Clearly they are all friends, and they’re waiting for breakfast.

  The scene is…domestic. Pleasant.

  The guy at the stove turns around with a plate of food in his hands. God, he’s fucking gorgeous. Black hair, thick and messy with one long curly strand hanging down in front of one mocha-brown eye. Liquid chocolate eyes, like hot cocoa made from pure milk chocolate, wide-set and almond-shaped, open and emotive in their expression.

  I can do nothing but stare at him, basking in his utter masculine perfection. Dark stubble, somewhere between a couple weeks of growth and a new beard, trimmed and shaped at the neckline. Scruff, delicious and scratchy…I can almost feel it scraping rough against my upper lip, against the insides of my upper thighs as he—

  I shake that sudden, dirty thought away.

  I shiver. I tremble. I’m damp between my thighs just looking at him.

  He looks up and sees me, “Hey, you’re up. You’re just in time for breakfast.”

  The two people at the counter turn to look at me when they realize I’m in the room. The first thing I notice about them is that they are just as gorgeous, just as striking, as their friend, the dark-haired, dark-eyed god.

  The woman has dyed red hair, a deep, lush crimson falling in loose waves down her back. She is clad in a Little Black Dress, short, revealing, tight, expensive, and deserving of the capital letters. Stilettos dangle from her feet, equally black and expensive. She looks as if she’s dressed to go out for an evening at the club, yet despite her expensive clothes and sophisticated beauty, she has the air of a girl next door.

  “God, I’m so glad you’re here,” she says to me. “I was getting tired of their lame jokes and stupid sports talk.” She’s smiling and laughing as she says this, a playful look in her eyes.

  “Oh, come on,” The other guy responds, “our jokes might be lame, but you were laughing just as hard as we were.”

  He‘s pale and blond with e
yes as blue as the noonday sky. With a strong jawline and full lips, he looks like a Hollywood actor, an A-list heartthrob. He shoots me a glance and passes his long fingers through loose, shaggy blond hair. His gaze is friendly, but assessing.

  “Hey,” says the dark-haired god, “while you guys are jabbering, the food is getting cold. Let’s eat.” With that he plates up eggs, bacon, waffles and coffee.

  “I’m changing this god-awful music,” the blond guy declares, looking pointedly at the girl.

  “Whatever…” she says. “You know you love it.”

  “If by love,” the blond man says, “you mean hate, then yes.”

  I have to agree about the music choice. The sound system is playing something light with a pop beat. There is nothing creative about its artificial drums and synth keyboards, and the warbling female voice repeating a trite, meaningless hook phrase.

  I’m standing on the border between the sitting room and the dining area, unsure, hesitant.

  The woman slides a stool out with her foot. “Sit down, silly. Food’s not gonna eat itself.”

  I walk toward them, drawn overpoweringly. A familiar feeling pulls at me—a tug, sharp and insistent, as if we’re all somehow connected.

  I know these people, I know this place.

  I feel…at home.

  I sit at the island between the woman and the dark-haired god, feeling the cool wood under my bottom, and that’s when I realize I’m naked. I’m curious, but not concerned. No one seems bothered by my nudity, and neither am I.

  I tuck into the meal with gusto, more famished than I’d realized. Everything is delicious: eggs just the way I like them, with lots of cheese, salt, pepper, garlic, and cayenne. Bacon just this side of burnt. Coffee as black as the midnight sky.

  Conversation resumes and the talk turns to a show of some kind.

  “You have to see his YouTube video. You won’t believe it.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of this guy. I want to see him, for sure. Plus he’s super cute,” says the girl. The guys just roll their eyes.

  The meal is over and the girl looks at her iPhone. “Oh, my god! I’ve gotta get going or I’ll be late. The show starts in an hour and I still have to re-do my make-up. I’ll be back, I promise,” she says, looking at me.

  There’s something in the way she looks at me, something in the way her eyes flick and flutter down my body, linger just a touch too long…I shiver, and she doesn’t quite hide a grin.

  And then she’s gone.

  The blond man clears the dishes, and then announces he’s going to take a shower. He disappears into his bedroom, and the sound of water running can be heard.

  The dark-haired man wanders over to the seating area and sits down on one of the plush couches. His long legs are stretched out, his feet resting on top of one of the art books, his ankles crossed as he sips his coffee. He looks over at me, gestures for me to come and sit beside him.

  I slide off the stool, clutching my mug of coffee in one hand, palm against the side, ignoring the handle. Heat leaches into my hand, burning my skin, but I don’t mind, somehow. His eyes follow me as I cross the dozen or so steps from the island to the couch. I see him follow the swing of my hips, the sway of my breasts. Unless I am very much mistaken, the zipper on his jeans has tightened rather significantly.

  I sit beside him, cross my legs and rest them against his thighs, cup the mug in both hands and sip slowly.

  I glance over at him. Barefoot and shirtless, in faded blue jeans, there’s not a single ounce of fat anywhere on his body. My eyes follow the ridge of muscle slicing down into that sexy V-cut that disappears under the waistband of his jeans.

  I look at his eyes and I can tell he’s not exactly happy.

  He seems distant, and I hate it. I want to fix it, close the emotional space between us.

  “Hi,” I say, unsure of where to even start, or why he’s upset.

  “I thought you weren’t speaking to me.” His voice is a deep bass, smooth as silk.

  I’m lost. “I…why wouldn’t I be speaking to you?” I feel as if I’ve missed something vital.

  It’s his turn to look confused, and he peers down at me quizzically, “Our conversation last night? You were pretty pissed at me.”

  I don’t remember being angry—I don’t even remember last night. Besides, how could I be angry with someone so ruggedly beautiful?

  I shrug, hoping to deflect the fact that I’m lost. “Not anymore,” I say simply.

  He frowns, but I don’t think it’s from displeasure, but more from a deepening confusion, or disbelief.

  He has something else to say, and I’m waiting for him to say it.

  “If you aren’t angry anymore, then what we discussed last night…you’ve thought about it some more?”

  I don’t remember what happened ten minutes ago. How do I tell him I don’t remember last night? I remember…

  Nothing.

  Apart from the bedroom, and this room. Apart from him and his friends and breakfast at sunset, I remember nothing.

  “I…” words elude me. “I must have had too much to drink last night. I don’t really remember what we talked about.”

  A groan of frustration. “We only had a couple glasses of wine. How can you not remember?” He passes a hand through his hair, a gesture of irritation. “It was the worst argument we’ve ever had, and you’re telling me you don’t remember?”

  I shrug. “I’m sorry. I must have…I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

  “You’re sorry?” His tone is disbelieving. “You’re sorry?”

  “Shouldn’t I be?”

  He laughs then, a short ironic burst. “No. I thought for sure you’d be gone when I got back from work. I thought…I was pretty damn sure we were done.”

  “It must have been serious, then. Refresh my memory. What did we argue about?”

  He shakes his head. “No. Ohhh no. I’m not bringing it up again. If you’ve forgotten, then it is best left that way.”

  I’m doubly curious now. A dumb idea that sparked an argument so bad I broke up with him? What could he have suggested? “Just tell me,” I say. “I won’t get mad this time.”

  He shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “I will be mad if you don’t tell me.”

  Another low laugh. “You’re impossible. I’m damned if I do, damned if I don’t.” He sets his coffee down, walks over to the kitchen and comes back with the wine.

  We drink in silence and I try to think of something to say, try to figure out what he could have said to make me so angry and…why don’t I remember it? Except for the past hour or so, my memory is a complete blank. Not just hazy, but…gone. All I know is this moment, this man, and this apartment.

  I’m coming up with nothing. No memories, no ideas.

  We hear sounds coming from the bathroom. The blond guy is complaining, loudly, “Shit, man, why’d you use all my hair gel?”

  “I never touched your hair gel. Don’t know if you’ve ever noticed but I don’t use that shit. Talk to our red-haired friend, maybe.”

  A few more sounds of drawers slamming and then the blond guy comes into the living room.

  He sees the two of us on the couch, neither speaking, both looking upset. He squeezes in to sit between us. “What’s with the long faces? Let’s get this party started!” He grabs the remote, his expression playful.

  He flips through the channels before settling on something titled SpecialDelivery.

  “Now we’re talking,” he says, then twists to look into the kitchen. “Where’s the wine?”

  The guy with the black hair rolls his eyes, “Right in front of you, dumbass.”

  More wine is poured and whatever it was he chose on the TV has started. I’m confused, at first. It’s poorly acted, has zero production value, and features far too many close-ups on a woman wearing way too much makeup…

  Darkness has fallen outside and the vast city is bathed in twinkling lights. Inside the apartment, the lights are di
m, giving a warm, comfortable ambience.

  My head feels a little fuzzy from the wine, but I’m comfortable and warm all over, sandwiched between two gorgeous men. I feel like I should address the elephant in the room, the issue between me and the dark-haired man, but I’m too comfortable and he’s resting his hand on my thigh. He pours me more wine, which only makes my head spin even more pleasantly, and it makes the issue seem distant and unimportant.

  On screen, a woman is at her front door, draped loosely in a sheer robe. A deliveryman stands on the other side of the threshold, dressed in brown shorts and a brown shirt. There’s a flatly delivered line about needing to inspect the package and then, somehow, the deliveryman is in the house, and the woman is tossing her robe aside, and the man’s hands, as if magnetized, go to her tits, which are absurdly gargantuan. She moans as if his nipple-twisting grip is somehow erotic. His hands move from her tits to her shoulders, and he shoves her down to her knees. Eyes wide and sultry, she opens his pants to reveal a cock so big a horse would be jealous. A few idle, toying strokes and she opens her mouth so wide her jaw must be cracking and, impossibly, she fits his the head of his cock into her mouth. Even more impossibly, she takes more. Gagging, she deep-throats him, and then he takes her by the hair in a rough two-handed grip and jerks her face to his belly, and she moans as if that feels good.

  “You go girl,” says the blond guy.

  I roll my eyes. Are they seriously enjoying this? It’s stupid.

  It’s idiotic, but the two guys find it funny….and I can’t help but notice that both of them are fighting serious erections behind their jeans.

  Their eyes are riveted on the screen as the woman lets him fuck her throat, moaning all the while, and then she takes control. She strokes him, then cups his balls and takes them into her mouth, using both her hands on his saliva-wet shaft.

  The blond-haired man turns down the television sound a bit and gets to his feet saying, “Well, I’m going to go take a nap—I’ll be working late tonight.” He adjusts his zipper, glances at the other man and then me. “Have fun, kids,” he says, winking at me. He leaves the room then, closing his bedroom door behind him.