Don't Tell Ellie
Chapter Three: The Principal's Office

I realized early on in life that you make your own destiny. Everything you are has been decided by your decisions. And, since I’m not exactly a prime example of good decisions, what will one more bad choice hurt?

After washing my hands I loop a finger under the straps of my heels and exit the bathroom barefoot. If Benjamin wants to play games with me, he is going to be surprised when he realizes just how competitive I am.

I knock on his door and set my mouth into my most innocent smile. When the door opens a scent so familiar hits me that my smile falters for a second. Mud and honey. My mother’s remedy for poison ivy.

“Hey you,” Benjamin winks down at me.

I arch an eyebrow, “Hey.”

“Come in, it’s almost ready,” he places a hand on the small of my back and scoops me into the room.

I shoot forward, escaping his touch. Before it was sweet and maybe even a little sexy, now it’s just creepy. I stand in front of a large round table and stare confused at the antique globe on top. This is certainly not a bedroom. It’s more of a study or library. The kind you’d think to replace in Sherlock Holmes’ house with wooden shelves and leather armchairs.

“What...” I try, “Why—”

“Come on, Eleanore,” he looks genuinely disappointed in me, “I just met you and I don’t do one night stands.”

I do. But, that doesn’t matter because I’m pretty sure he expects me to be ashamed, and if there is one thing I am not, it’s ashamed of who I am.

“Let’s start over,” I say as I step forward and drop my heels on the table next to his globe. I turn back and face him with a grin that screams—fuck you and your fancy furniture— “First of all, my name is Ellie, not Eleanore. Secondly, what do you want?”

“An audience.”

“With me?” I laugh, “I just bumped into your assistant in the hallway, Jennifer, I believe she said her name was.”

He holds his hands up in defeat, “You got me.”

You bet your ass I do. “You know what...Brad, is it?”

“Benjamin,” he says, but his eyes are narrowing because he realizes I know exactly what his name is. Well, he’s the one that wanted to play, so let’s play, Benny.

I wave a dismissive hand in the air, “If you want to have a chat, getting me alone by lying isn’t the way to go.”

“I know,” he admits, “I wasn’t expecting you to-”

“Dump a beer on your head?” I interject, “Oh, I see. You expected your city charm and fancy penthouse to make me trust you,” I smirk, “Well if there’s one thing I’ve learned living in Manhattan all these years, it’s that the people that look like they have it all together are the least trustworthy. So, you’ve got thirty seconds.”

He’s not moving, just staring down at me, and that little voice in the back of your head, the commons sense that shouts at you to not do that dumb thing is loud. Is he calling my bluff? He’s probably thinking, thirty seconds or what? He’s got me alone in a room in his house with loud music, drunk voices and fireworks exploding outside, what’s the most I could do, scream? Who would hear it?

“Twenty seconds,” I say firmly, “Jack’s gonna come looking soon.”

“I doubt that,” he whispers.

Fuck. He is calling my bluff. I turn to the door and grab the silver handle, is it encrusted with gems? Someone has got to teach this man how to spend his money. I wonder if I could chip one or two off with my fingernail, they’re probably worth a pretty penny. Focus. The door is locked, why wouldn’t it be? I remove my hand, there’s only a keyhole, I couldn’t even unlock it if I wanted to. What twisted person would install a door in their own house that could keep them caged?

I dig my hand into my purse and feel for my keys, I slide the ring over my knuckles like they teach you in a self-defense class. One good swing to the temple, and then when he grabs for his head, kick him in the balls. But, I’ll still be locked in. That’s okay, another thing they teach you in those self-defense classes is that it only takes eight pounds of pressure to rip a man’s testicles off, once he’s on the floor bleeding to death I’ll replace the keys, call the cops and move to Mexico.

I spin around, hand clenched into a fist with my makeshift brass knuckles, but he’s on the other side of the room. He’s sitting behind a desk and it’s sending chills up my spine because he badly reminds me of my high school principal and I hated that bastard.

He smiles and takes a sip from a rock glass, is he seriously drinking right now with a smug look on his shitty face? I have never met anyone as infuriating as Benjamin. But, I would also like one of those drinks.

“Are you done?” His voice is honey laced with whiskey, “because if you are, I’d like you to have a seat so I can show you the reason I brought you here, and then you are free to go.”

I think about putting my keys back in my purse, but decide to hold on to them as I slide into the leather chair across from him, it’s annoyingly comfortable.

“No more lies, shit head.”

“Christ, Eleanore, where are your manners?” He folds his hands on the desk and shoots me a look, Principal Benjamin.

I shrug, “Fuck if I know.”

He rolls his shoulders and takes a deep breath, “Would a drink help?”

It would. But, you never drink from the glass of an enemy, I’ve watched way too many movies to make that mistake.

“No.”

He leans down and opens something at the bottom of his desk. He places a sealed bottle of Heineken and a bottle opener in front of me. He’s got a damn mini fridge built into his desk.

“How about now?”

I snatch the bottle and pop the cap off with one of my keys, a trick Jack taught me, and take a swig.

“Interesting,” he says like a shrink analyzing me.

In all honesty, he’s probably one of the most attractive men I’ve ever been alone with. Which is why it pisses me off that he’s turned out to be some kind of Ted Bundy psychopath.

“Well? What are you waiting for, Bundy?”

“You’re a little more aggressive than I would have hoped,” he frowns.

“That’s a groundbreaking revelation, Doc.”

“Okay, look, I apologize for the lie, but the truth is I do know Marlow.”

It takes everything I have to stop myself from spitting my beer in his face, “Marlow, my eternal twelve-year-old sister, is dead,” I take another drink and he opens his mouth to talk, but I hold my hand up to stop him, “I wasn’t finished,” he nods for me to continue, “dickhead. Now, I’m finished.”

He pinches the bridge of his nose, and I want to laugh, because I know I’m acting like a rebellious teenager, but I can’t help myself, he’s so easy to fuck with.

“What if I told you that’s there’s a way to see your sister again, better yet, your entire family?” His eyes are bright, expectant, almost hopeful.

“Oh yeah, Benny?” I say in a mocking childlike tone, “You gonna hold a seance and summon my family from the underworld?” I swallow the rest of my beer, “the next sentence out of your mouth better be something that makes sense or I’m gonna break this bottle over that pretty little head of yours.”

He pops open a drawer on his desk and slides a picture in front of me, it’s six-year-old me, eleven-year-old Marlow and our St.Bernard, Bluto. How in the hell did he get this photograph? My chest hurts, my eyes burn, but I fight against that feeling, I’m not gonna cry, not in front of this guy.

“Do you see that house you’re standing in front of?” He taps a finger on the old Victorian across the street from the house I grew up in, “It’s sort of a...portal.”

He’s a lunatic. A bona fide, schizophrenic, “Tell it to me straight, Benny, did you escape from Bellevue?”

“I wish,” he’s smiling again, “But, I can prove it.”