Chapter 2: Balcony Exhibition
Dawn bled into the sky over the city, washing the penthouse rooftop in streaks of peach and violet. The air was cool, carrying the damp, green scent of thousands of leaves and blooming jasmine. Dew clung to the petals of orchids, trembling in the first light. Frank felt the silk of Olivia’s scarf, the same one she’d worn the night before, tight against his throat. It was leash and noose, knotted firmly to the cold, wrought-iron railing that separated the lush garden from a forty-story drop.
He was on his knees, of course. The terra-cotta tiles were rough through the thin fabric of his pajama pants. He watched them.
Damian stood behind Olivia, his hands splayed on the glass balcony wall, caging her. She was pressed against it, her cheek flat on the cool surface, her breath fogging a small circle. She wore a thin, open robe. It slipped from her shoulders as Damian pushed it aside. Her eyes were open, looking past her own reflection, finding Frank’s tethered form in the garden behind them.
“Watch him,” Damian growled into her ear, not whispering. His voice carried in the quiet dawn. “Watch how devoted your puppy is.”
Frank couldn’t look away. His position gave him a perfect, horrifying profile view. He saw the intense focus on Damian’s face, the way Olivia’s fingers spread and pressed against the glass for purchase. The city below began to wake, tiny lights winking off as the sun climbed, oblivious.
Olivia’s moan was a soft, broken thing. It wasn’t the pleasured sound from the bedroom. This was sharper, edged with the chill of the glass and the public vastness yawning beyond it. Her gaze, even from that distance, was a drill.
“You like this, don’t you Frank?” she called out, her voice strained but clear. “Knowing anyone with a telescope could see me? But they only see him. They only see him having me.”
A sob hitched in Frank’s chest. The silk scarf tugged at his neck as he leaned forward unconsciously. He was hard, a fact that filled him with nauseating shame. His body always betrayed him, agreeing with his torment.
Damian’s pace was relentless, athletic. The glass wall vibrated with a faint, steady rhythm. “Tell him what he is, Liv.”
“You’re nothing,” she panted, her eyes locking on Frank’s, her words punctuated by Damian’s thrusts. “You’re… our… thing. Our pet. You clean our messes.”
It was over faster than last time. Damian stifled a roar against her neck, his body going rigid. For a long moment, they were a frozen tableau against the brightening sky. Then Damian stepped back, adjusting his shorts. He looked refreshed, invigorated, like he’d just completed a satisfying workout.
He walked over to Frank, unlocked the scarf from the railing with a quick twist, but kept the length of it in his fist. “Time for your breakfast.”
Olivia remained against the glass, leaning on her forearms, watching them approach. She made no move to cover herself. A trail of dampness gleamed on the inside of her thigh.
Damian pushed Frank down again, this time on the soft lawn grass at her feet. “You know what to do. Clean her up. Every drop. It’s all you’re getting today.”
The scent of them was overwhelming here, mixed with the jasmine. Frank leaned in, his eyes closed. He pressed his mouth to her skin. It was warm. He flinched, expecting a kick, a slap. It didn’t come. They were both silent, watching him work. The humiliation was a live wire in his gut. This was worse than the bedroom. The open sky, the waking city, the dew on the grass soaking into his knees—it all made it more real, more degrading.
He was meticulous. He always was.
He didn’t hear the rooftop access door open. The sound of a man’s cheerful voice cut through the garden like a shard of ice.
“Damian! Olivia! Hope we’re not too early, but the croissants from that baker you love are still warm!”
Frank froze, his face buried against Olivia’s thigh. He went completely still, hoping to become invisible.
Olivia’s hand came down and curled in his hair, holding him there. She didn’t push him away. She anchored him.
“Mark! Cynthia! Perfect timing,” Damian called back, his voice smooth, welcoming. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
Frank heard the crunch of gravel as two people walked into the garden. He saw their shoes from his peripheral vision. Elegant loafers. Sleek heels.
“Oh my god, this garden is even more stunning than last time,” a woman’s voice gushed. “Is that a new climbing rose?”
“It is,” Olivia said. Her voice was calm, sociable, perfectly even. The hand in Frank’s hair tightened, her nails digging into his scalp. “We had it imported. It’s a rare variety.”
There was a pause. Frank could feel their eyes on him. He could feel the weight of the unfilled silence.
“Oh, is… everything okay?” the woman named Cynthia asked, her tone shifting to polite concern.
Damian laughed, a easy, charming sound. “Fine. More than fine. Frank here just had a little dizzy spell. Too much sun yesterday, wasn’t it, Frank? Liv’s just helping him steady himself. You know how he is. Clumsy.”
“You really do need to take better care of yourself, Frank,” Olivia said, her tone sweetly chiding, the tone one uses for a simple child or a dim dog. She finally released his hair and gently, almost maternally, pushed his head away. She closed her robe, tying the belt with a casual flourish. “There you go. All better?”
Frank stared at the grass. He could see the guests’ shoes, rooted to the spot. They were buying it. They had to be buying it. The alternative was unthinkable.
“I… yes,” Frank mumbled to the ground. “Thank you, Olivia.”
“Any time,” she said. She stepped around him, as if stepping around a garden ornament, and glided toward her guests, kissing them on both cheeks. “Come, let’s have coffee. Ignore Frank, he’s just going to gather himself. He might tidy up a bit out here. He likes to be useful.”
Frank stayed on the ground, listening to their laughter fade as they moved toward the plush outdoor seating area, their conversation shifting seamlessly to stock markets and gallery openings. The sun was fully up now, warm on his back. The scent of jasmine and fresh coffee mixed with the taste still in his mouth.
He slowly, slowly got to his feet. His legs trembled. He looked at the happy trio chatting by the linen-draped table, then down at the imprint of his knees in the soft, manicured lawn.
Clumsy.
Useful.
The words echoed in his head, perfectly crafted bars for a cage he had helped build. He turned and began, silently, to pluck a few fallen leaves from the base of the rose bush, his shoulders hunched against the brilliant, exposing morning light.