Grandpa’s mansion is no home. And it never will be but simply this: an expensively built dollhouse made of marble, and she, a prettily painted porcelain doll propped on the highest shelf within its great and terrible walls, along with the rest of Grandpa’s private collection of the finest artworks. 

So she runs away. Well, it’s not exactly running away. 

She will eventually return to the mansion because he always finds her. 

He always does. 

She doesn’t make it difficult for him either. 

Like in the fairy tales, she leaves a trail of breadcrumbs: a pair of pink Manolo Blahnik pumps on the side of the road; an impression of her painted red lips on the glass of the nearest bus shelter; a slightly deflated Happy Birthday balloon with 20 on the other side tied to a coat rack in the diner she often frequents—after she buys a chocolate cake, of course; her Saint Laurent scallop lace-trimmed panties on a spike of the wrought-iron fence enclosing Grandpa’s private cemetery. 

In their game of cat and mouse, she’s his little mouse. 

He will find her. 

She wishes to be found.

The cemetery at night is a quiet city of the dead. And Jenny haunts the grounds ghostlike. She truly is a sight in nothing but a white silk nightgown with side slits, a pair of dirtied white ruffle socks, and a faux fur moss-green coat. She moves in a daze in the small-scale labyrinth of the few tombstones tactically scattered about and statues of naked figures standing erect, on guard, their carved eyes staring with a warning. They stare at her. 

Grandpa’s mausoleum, the miniature version of the mansion on the green hills, becomes visible in the fog. It stands melodramatically, grand as a palace, fit for an emperor; Grandpa thinks himself an emperor. 

She shakes her head in disapproval. 

Grandpa hides behind opulence. He is afraid, especially when it comes to death. It is too final, he once told her. And in a more serious tone added he would have his bones painted gold and his pockets stuffed with dazzling gems as if God will be persuaded otherwise and let him in through the pearly gates. The devil will appreciate the sentiment and save him a seat in hell, but Grandpa will probably go for the devil’s throat for the throne.

The trees thin out, and the tombstones become fewer. In the moonlight, a statue of a weeping angel with arms outstretched welcomes her. She still isn’t entirely sure where her parents’ gravesites are; Grandpa had made it abundantly clear that burying them in his private cemetery without markers was already too great an act of kindness. The angel must simply do, and she sits at its stone feet and digs into her chocolate cake with a plastic fork. 

“Happy birthday to me,” she whispers. 

No one whispers back but the wind.  

She falls asleep counting stars, the darkness in the sky spilling into her mind like ink. It is a dreamless sleep, which scares her most of all. She is never alone in her dreams; her family often visits, faceless and blurry; they wait for her. But not tonight. 

An owl is heard hooting from a crooked branch of a crooked tree. 

Jenny startles, waking, stiff and achy, the fallen leaves prickly beneath her, the blades of grass an unfitting makeshift bed. She keeps her eyes shut, the cool wind caressing her eyelids. She whimpers, not exactly cold, but desperate for touch, for a warm hand to wrap around her neck and squeeze, for someone to have mercy and beg her to breathe. 

Familiar footsteps sound. And her lips upturn into a small smile. 

“There you are.” The voice is rich like whiskey, unforgivable like sin. 

Here I am. 

She opens her eyes and meets a pair of pretty ones. 

Donald.

He towers over her, more solidly built than the statues in the cemetery, like a bored god in true form. He looks like a god. Like he stepped right out of a fashion magazine. Tonight, he wears what he almost always: neatly-pressed and ironed black trousers; a starched white shirt buttoned to the neck; a fitting vest; polished leather shoes; and shoulder holsters that house his firearms. His luscious black hair is sexily pushed back. He has a beautiful, strange face only a cubist artist could dream up with a paintbrush. 

He is, what Grandpa says to friends, a gentleman with great promise. To enemies, he is a monster with great aim; Grandpa will have him no other way—his perfect, pliable right hand, his second-in-command. 

He easily scoops her up in his arms and carries her to his sleek and shiny black car, the newest model of Ties, the Whisper, Grandpa’s present to him, parked right outside the gates, her very own Cinderella carriage. 

She holds him tight and buries her face in the crook of his neck, smelling him; expensive cologne, and cigarette smoke. He smells good; he doesn’t smell like the silk-stocking, well-heeled crowd. He smells cool. 

He’s so cool.

He tucks her into the passenger’s seat without saying a word and shuts her door. He lights a cigarette outside and smokes it, leaning against the hood, in no real hurry. She squirms in her seat as she watches him through the windshield, impatient, tired, and starved for his attention. When he finally climbs in, he takes one last drag, flicks the cigarette out the window, and blows, smoke curling around their necks. It’s like she’s falling from the sky, tumbling through the clouds fast. She’s really just unbuckling her seatbelt, leaning over the gear shift console, and resting her head on his thigh while the engine purrs, and the radio plays classical music; she thinks it’s Claire de Lune.

He rests his big hand on her cheek. “You have chocolate on your face,” he murmurs, rubbing the pad of his thumb across her chin, but he doesn’t stop there and skims along her bottom lip.

“Had chocolate cake.” She wraps her lips around his thumb and sucks. 

He leans back against the headrest and sighs. “You ate an entire chocolate cake? All by yourself?” 

“Mmm-hmm.” 

“Didn’t save a slice for me?” 

“Nuh-uh.” 

“Insatiable brat.” 

She hums. 

“Jenny.” 

She sucks his thumb deeper. 

“What is this? The third time this month you’ve run away from home?” 

She sucks harder.

“Jenny,” he grabs her chin abruptly, forcing her to open her eyes and look up at him. “I’m done chasing after you, baby girl.” 

Pop— she releases his thumb, a dribble of saliva at the corner of her mouth. She smiles. “Are you tired, old man?”

He lightly smacks her cheek, then, rather helpless to the simplest of temptations, caresses her. “These children’s games are getting old, Jenny.”

“Don’t be mad,” she says. “It’s my birthday.”

He looks at her intensely, her neck, her chin, her cheeks, her eyes, her parted lips. 

“Open,” he says and slips his thumb back inside her eager mouth. He can never stay mad, not at her.

“He forgot my birthday, you know?” she says to him as he carries her across the foyer, his footfall heavy against the marble flooring. He climbs unhurriedly up one of the dual grand staircases, the Swarovski crystal trimmed chandelier dangling from the high ceiling between the two staircases like the centerpiece it is. A costly work, original, the heart of the mansion, at best, the liver, or some other useless organ, at worst. 

“Your grandfather is a very busy man.” 

“I’m his only granddaughter.”  

“He’ll make it up to you.” 

“By croaking?” 

He pinches her plump ass. 

“Ow.” 

“Don’t talk like that.” 

“Grumpy old man,” she mutters and sets her chin on his shoulder. 

They reach her bedroom, an endless expanse of damask wallpapered walls and mural-painted ceiling of sky and tiny soaring birds. A gilded cage. When passersby peek in through the keyhole, they see glitter and gold and the strangest bird of all, Jenny, alighted on a big bed, surrounded by sheer white curtains. 

He carefully sets her down in her cage. “Get ready for bed,” he says, standing in the doorway. “If you’re hungry, Martin left you dinner,” he nods to the tray of food on her nightstand, “I know you skipped supper.” 

“I’m not hungry,” she rummages through her top drawer for a clean nightgown, shrugging off her coat to the floor. 

“Cake is not dinner, Jenny.” 

She rolls her eyes and begins to undress. He lets out a long sigh and shuts his eyes. “No peeking,” she teases him and hears him snort. She turns around, her nightgown bunched at her waist, her breasts naked, exposed, her nipples stiff — his eyes are still closed, much to her disappointment, his fists clenched more tightly. She slowly peels off the rest of her dirtied nightgown, a striptease for no one watching, and puts on a clean one — pale pink silk — and shuts the drawer loudly; she doesn’t bother putting on panties. 

Her steps, softened by the carpet, lead her to him, and she stands before him, a willing sacrificial lamb before a butcher. She wraps her arms around his wide waist. “I’m sorry,” she says. Sorry for eating an entire chocolate cake. Sorry for running away. Sorry for making him worry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. 

He puts his arm around her and lightly kisses the top of her head. “I know.” 

“You forgive me?” 

“We’ll see,” he says smugly. 

Smug bastard. She holds him more tightly. 

“Hmm.” 

“What?” she asks.

“It looks like your grandfather made it up to you, after all.” He gently turns her around and directs her attention to a little red box with a big bow that sits on the upholstered armchair by the stained-glass window. “What did Grandpa get you this time, princess?” 

She slowly opens her present: an 18-inch pink pearl necklace, surely expensive. It pools in the dip of her palm like a coiled snake, cold, a string of afterthoughts in the shape of gems; she is always Grandpa’s afterthought. 

“You don’t like it?” 

“It’s pretty.” She puts the necklace back into the box and climbs into her bed, too tired to rip apart the pearls. 

He retrieves a thin package from the top of her desk before joining her. “Are you too tired to open my present then?” 

Her eyes light up. “You got me a present?” 

“It’s nothing — ”

She takes it from his hands and rips the top of the package. A crisp white envelope slips into her lap. She opens it. Inside the envelope is a neatly folded paper, a poem written in fine calligraphy. 

“Like I said, it’s nothing — ” 

She reads it and rereads it, each elegantly written word its polished black pearl, solidified in the softest of hand touches; she hides each line between each palm line and holds them tightly in her fists. “No,” she says, “it’s everything.” 

Reaching over, she opens the top night table drawer and retrieves a wooden box with a lock and key. She unlocks it. A bundle of poems written by his hand, tied together with twine, is set on a red velvet cushion. She places the latest edition with the rest. 

“You keep them?” he asks, surprised. 

“Of course.” 

The corner of his mouth quirks up into a promise of a small smile. He almost allows it.

“Donald?” 

“What is it?” 

“Will you tell me your real name?” 

“What do I say to you every time you ask me?” 

She frowns. “No.” 

“No.” 

“Will you kiss me then?” 

“Oh, is that all?” 

“Just one kiss,” she suddenly leans forward on her hands and knees, her nose nearly touching his, the thin straps of her nightgown slipping off her shoulders, “Come on, Donald. It’s my birthday.” 

He pretends to think deeply. “Isn’t it Wednesday? It feels like a Wednesday to me.” 

“Kiss me,” she begs, pretty, prettily pleasing. 

“You’re acting like a child.” 

“I’m twenty.” 

“A year older and none the wiser.” 

“Kiss me.” 

He grows angry. “Don’t test my patience, Jenny.” 

She slams her fists at her sides like a petulant child. “ Donald .”

He huffs out a frustrated exhale and presses his lips against her forehead. “There. A kiss.” He gets up. “Goodnight.” 

“I want a kiss. On the mouth.” 

“Baby girl, I’m not your pet to command.” 

In other words, he’s not hers.

She blinks back hot angry tears. 

“Only Grandpa can command you, right?” The words creep out of her mouth like a bitter scorpion, striking him a thousand times; she wants to hurt him; she wants to stop hurting. 

“What did you say?” He moves lightning-quick, the mattress dipping with the weight of his knee on it, roughly cupping the back of her head with his calloused hands, fisting her loose, tangled hair; he yanks a little, drawing a little yelp from her little mouth. “Grandpa can only command me? No one commands me, baby girl,” he growls lowly, showing his teeth. “If I wanted to kiss you, I would’ve already.” 

“Please.” 

He laughs quietly. “Don’t beg like a desperate slut, Jenny.” His hot breath in her ear sends a shiver down her spine. “You’re a fucking Jones. Never beg.” 

“Please.” 

She hiccups, a single tear falling down her cheek. He blinks, silent, stunned. Both realize too late how close they are, how they move even closer, how their insides burn — he licks the tear up with the tip of his tongue, his eyes two dark abysmal pools of carnal want, animalistic longing, and lingering sadness; Jenny lets out a soft groan. 

“Jenny,” he murmurs, drawing her nightgown up her thighs with his hand. 

“Donald.” 

He growls again.

“Kiss me.” 

There’s violence in the way he kisses: he brutally slams his mouth down on hers, bruising her lips, prying them open, his tongue plundering her mouth, stealing her breath; he completely consumes her. 

There's desperation in the way she kisses, a sloppiness, an eagerness: moaning into his mouth, squirming in his arms, grabbing fistfuls of his hair. Heat pools between her thighs. An ache. An emptiness. 

She fantasized about this, again and again, in bed, late at night, with her fingers deep in her cunt. But it’s not nearly enough. It never is. She wants —she needs⁠—

“Are you wet down there?” he asks, nipping her bottom lip between his teeth. 

A shiver runs through her. She nods.  

He sighs. “I’m not gonna fuck you, Jenny.” 

She whines. 

“Enough. Enough,” he admonishes. “You asked for a kiss. I gave you one.” 

“But I want more.” 

He slowly pulls away, his eyes never leaving hers as he gets up, undoing the top three buttons of his dress shirt, his cuffs. “You know I’m a mean man, don’t you?” He rolls up his sleeves, baring his tattooed forearms, his thick veins. “I’ve done terrible things. A man with bloodstained hands wrote those poems you keep.” 

She gulps. “I don’t care.” 

“Don’t be naive, Jenny,” he sits down on the same armchair Grandpa’s present had been set down; he stretches out his legs, “I could be mean to you.” 

“Maybe I like mean.” 

He throws his head back and laughs. It’s a simple laugh, one that burns her cheeks, the back of her neck. “You don’t know what you’re asking for.” 

Her body trembles. “I need — ” 

“You’re a needy little thing. A spoiled brat. A greedy slut….” 

“I need you.” 

His eyes turn darkly.

“Jenny,” he warns.

“I need you, Donald.”

He is lost. Logic forgotten. 

“I can be merciful,” he softly whispers to himself — ”Come here.”

She practically leaps out of bed, an eagerness in her steps. It’s endearing, really, but it makes the wanting her worse, especially when she’s standing in front of him, squeezing her thighs together, practically dripping slick, feverish with want. He reminds himself what is not allowed of him: her.

She is forbidden.

“I won’t fuck you, Jenny,” he tells her again. “But I’ll let you use me. Just this once. Understood?” 

“Yes,” she says breathily. 

His cock twitches in his pants. He exhales sharply and pats his thigh. “What are you waiting for, baby?” 

Her eyebrows furrow. 

“Fuck yourself.” 

Oh. She licks her bottom lip. 

“Use me.”

Her body hums. She reaches out, holding onto his shoulders, and straddles his thigh. She sighs as she begins to rub her pussy up and down his clothed thigh; it doesn’t take her long to find a good rhythm.

She belongs here with Donald, whatever his name is, whatever he has done. 

“You’re riding my thigh so well, Jenny,” his hands find her hips, gripping her tightly, “You should thank your Grandpa for those horse riding lessons.” 

She grits her teeth, panting. Smug. Bastard. She slows her movements and runs her fingers up and down her soaked slit, wetting them before she pries his mouth open. “Suck.” 

Surprisingly, he obeys her and sucks her fingers deep into his mouth, his glorious tongue swirling around her digits, moaning her name; he releases her fingers, and kisses her fingertips. “So sweet. So delicious.” His hands start to move up over her breasts, tugging at her nipples through the fabric, pulling down the straps of her nightgown to expose them. “So perfect.” He covers them with his large hands and squeezes them. “Such perfect, round tits.”

Jenny shuts her eyes, grinding down harder, faster, his praise washing over her. She is soaking his pants; pools of her want surely to leave stains on them.