“Whoops,” she says, when he runs his right hand over her crotch.
He stands, nods to Astrid.
“Master’s upstairs,” says Astrid. “He’s, well, he’s worked up. You know how he gets.”
“Evan said it’s been a few days with no massage, poor baby.”
Astrid studies Louise for a moment, a smile frozen on her face.
“Where is Evan?” she says.
Louise shrugs.
“What can I say? The streets are full of clowns with AK-47s, literally. And our Evan isn’t, you know, brave, so he’s holed up someplace with the dead bolt thrown.”
“But not you?”
“Astrid, sweetie. Who’s gonna hurt little ol’ me?” She fluffs her hair for effect.
“A Black girl in a bikini top,” says Astrid, “driving a hundred-thousand-dollar Mercedes during a race war, you mean?”
Louise gives the blond bitch her most innocent smile.
Astrid looks at Orci. He chews his lower lip. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t let this girl within a mile of the principal, but the way Mobley’s been raging around the house for the last three days, the best thing is to get her in and out fast.
“He’s in the spa,” says Astrid. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
They enter the house together. A crystal chandelier hangs in the atrium. The tile work is stunning.
“I love your pants,” Astrid tells Louise as they go up the stairs. “Very of the moment.”
The upstairs hall is carpeted. Two guards stand on the landing. Astrid leads Louise to a set of double doors.
“Just be aware,” she says, “it’s been a few days, so he may ask for—special treatment.”
They stop in front of the doors. Louise studies the older woman, with her perfect hair and makeup, her pursed lips and tapered pantsuit.
“You know I’m fifteen, right?” she says.
Astrid flushes. “My love,” she says, “we don’t talk about those things.”
She opens the double doors. “Darling,” she says, “look who I found.”
The room Mobley sits in is palatial, tiled white. There is a sauna and a steam room, a massage table and a shower. In the center is a leather couch. This is where Mobley sits in chinos and a cardigan, reading the New York Times. On the wall, three televisions play silently—one showing Newsmax, the other Bloomberg, and the third CNN.
Each screen shows footage of troops in American streets, battling armed groups.
Mobley sighs. Without looking up, he says:
“Tell Orci to gas the jet.”
“Bahamas?” says Astrid.
“Paris.”
He folds the paper, rests it on the sofa. Only then does he look at Louise, who feels an icicle of fear pass through her in places she doesn’t like to acknowledge. There is a power to this man that only grows with time. A man worth so much money that the interest on his wealth alone earns him $68,000,000 a day. A man who could buy every NFL and Major League Baseball team combined and still be worth billions. This man, this physical entity in front of her, who was once a baby and will one day be a corpse, has all the benefits of being a king with none of the burdens. He does not have to feed his kingdom or keep his citizens safe. He does not have to worry about the disfavor of the church or infighting in his court. He has no court, no successors. He is a king with no subjects, only servants, a king who controls a vast army and yet has no country. In fact, he is the king of every country, as worshipped in France as he is in Hong Kong. As powerful in Brazil as he is in Moscow. That’s the power of the almighty dollar. And when he looks at you, you feel like what you are—disposable, insignificant.
Louise forces a smile.
“Hey, Daddy,” she says. “Strange day, huh?”
Mobley pats the sofa next to him. Behind him the sauna is on, its cedar door hanging open, and the temperature in the spa room is close to 110 degrees. Louise lifts her arms and dances over to him. Any minute now the assault will begin. All she has to do is keep it together.
“I’ll go see about the flight,” says Astrid, and she closes the doors behind her, taking Orci with her.
Louise swings her hips, looking around for a weapon she could use. Being alone with Mobley is like being alone with a dragon—there is a hunger to him, a cold-blooded enormity—and here she is, Bilbo Baggins without a ring. But then, this isn’t a fairy tale. There will be no invisibility, no magical escape. Just an ugly struggle of bodies fighting for survival. Next to the sink she sees a small pair of scissors, shiny and sharp. She slides herself over in front of the mirror, dancing to her own music, arms in the air, hips twisting. She turns seductively, putting her back to the counter, then does a little stripper dip, bounces on her heels. When she comes back up, she puts her hands behind her on the counter.