The Fancy Pants Club — Chapter 22 - Between Truth and Dare

~ Daniella ~

Since I didn’t have anything to do and since Erik told me to clean his room while away, I went there with that in mind.

After entering his chamber, I immediately started towards the bathroom where all the cleaning essentials I assume were placed. I scoured the top and down elegant cabinets, determined, and found some rags, a bottle sprayer, cleaning agents, and a portable vacuum machine. Putting them in a plastic basket, I felt myself tipping towards Cinderella.

Now, I feel I am a maid with all of this stuff on hand.

I shrugged my shoulders anyway and continued on my plan, but as I stepped out of the bathroom and into the bedroom, I realized that there was nothing to clean at all. The carpeted floor was cloud-white and fresh-looking, the bed, pillow, and linens were in order, and the cabinets and shelves were well organized and free of dust. The same goes for the walk-in closet, so I charged into the receiving room, hoping to find something to work in there. However, a similar dilemma was brought out to me which included the mini bar being as spotless as ever.

Although confused with it, in the back of my head I knew the person responsible for it: Mr. Ian. He is one damn efficient butler and I respect him for it. However, when I checked on a room at the far end of the receiving area, I found him not as meticulous as I expected him to be.

The door was closed yet I ventured in since there was no warning glued on the front that told not to enter. This room in particular I thought as Erik’s personal office with lots and lots of papers scattered in a rectangular desk. Either Mr. Ian intentionally left this place as is or he and the chateau staff missed cleaning this part of the suite, I can’t really tell, but one thing was clear enough:  I am provided of something to put my hands in good use.

Since there was no dust in view, I parked the portable vacuum in the corner of the door. I proceeded to fix the papers first, choosing to stack them neatly in the edge of the table next to a paperweight. There were pens and markers scattered everywhere too, so I decided to place them in their rightful spots. Opening the table drawers one by one, I familiarized as to where these supplies are supposed to go. It wasn’t hard really since everything was well organized. However, when I opened a drawer in the bottom middle of the table, I spotted two unusual objects. First was a pistol lying on top of a thick book. Second, a picture peeking out in that said book.

I disregarded the pistol since I have seen Erik bring one in the Lotus Spade incident. But the picture, nope, it didn’t escape my notice. Of course, being a curious cat that I am, I checked on it without so much as a thought or a suspicion. My jaws dropped however when I saw the face of the subject.

It was me.

Yes.

My fucking younger face when I was back in first year of college. The background was a facade of University College London, back from the time when I was arranged a pictorial by my mother for an article on our business website. I was sixteen back then, the time before I found out about my father’s unfaithfulness.

As far as I can remember, the article was taken down ten months ago and all pictures were deleted to provide privacy for our two-person family. How and why Erik got this pic had my mind all boggled up. We have just met and there was no way he could get a copy of this pic through the internet unless he had contact with our photographer which was very unlikely.

I flipped the photo and saw a scribble of my full name in disconnected cursive and a dash followed by the words ‘my savior.’

My savior? In what sense?

These questions somewhat became the cause (almost) to call Erik on the spot and interrogate him. However, I stopped midway from pulling my iPhone out of my denim short thinking that it would be proper to ask him this face-to-face instead.

With a determined clench of my jaw, I slipped the photo inside my opposite pocket and continued on my task more confused than ever.

Wearing a black pencil skirt and a pink off-shoulder sleeved blouse, and my hair tied up in a high ponytail, I hurried towards the fourth floor elevator sometime after lunch intending to go to Vincent’s studio. I paused from entering the conveyor however when my attention was caught on the statues again, specifically the War God, Ares, proudly standing in the center of the foyer.

Since my room was relocated on this floor, I have since been mesmerized by the lifelike statue, but never had I gotten a chance to view them up close and admire the intricate details.

What I did was impulsive when I approached the statue of Ares and touched the slabs of his abdomen like a faithful would to a sculpture of a saint. I perused the length of it: the wreath on his head, the drape of cloth that covered his genitalia and his naked, perfect muscles until my eyes rested on the rifle next to his left leg. With the rifle upside down, he held it by the muzzle, a thumb covering the exit of the bullet. The handle was positioned near the statue’s feet.

Really, when I first saw this weapon, I thought it was odd. It only made my suspicion worse after seeing it up close. Damn the firearm was so real it made me want to touch the trigger out of curiosity.

And in the end, I did after biting my bottom lip.

When I pressed the trigger, that’s when all came to a momentary stop: my heartbeat, my breathing, my blinks. I stared straight with eyes wide when a certain part of a wall actually was cut into two and parted sideways to show a secret room.

“What the f... What is this?” I asked myself as I entered the white room.

There was no furniture in it except for a sole gold candelabra sitting on top of the unlit white-bricked fireplace. On each side of it, there were two small red buttons installed on the wall. For what purpose are they for, I don’t know, but I pressed the right one without a thought and saw a single-door unlocking on its own to reveal another room. I blinked a couple of times before sauntering inside it.

The room had a manlier interior design. It had a well-polished wood flooring and modern fluorescent lighting in the middle of a large thick oblong table that was surrounded by leather chairs. A projector could be seen attached to the ceiling and two laptops on the farthest edge of the front desk.

Generally, the room looked like a conference room; nothing to take note of so I just left it with a last backward glance when I walked back into the white room.

The next thing I did was press the other button. I actually expected another conference room the same as its predecessor, but when the automatic door opened, I fell stunned speechless.

The room probably is what many would call a media room. Surveillance cameras placed everywhere in the chateau were present. Not only that, but there were also wide screens that showed weird diagrams, maps, and writings about a certain ‘Iopata Bratva’ in a different language, my guess is Russian.

Of course, I didn’t pursue inspecting it since I don’t understand the foreign words but check on another room, I did, when I saw a door slightly open.

This time my heart quickened like crazy.

“Oh my God...” I exclaimed, breathless.

In front of me was a room (no, scratch that) a convenience store replica full of — what can I say — ammunition, firearms of different sizes and calibers, daggers, boxes upon boxes of bullets, and gadgets that I have no idea what they are used for.

My mind immediately registered two words: danger and death. Why would the Fancy Pants Club store weapons inside the chateau? What are they for? And why?

Hastily, I went back to the media room and in there, I typed the name of Iopata Bratva in my cellphone Google search. A number of results were listed immediately. I checked on each of them with determination and great attention but found no concrete information about the name other than it is a mafia organization hunted by the Russian and American police since the sixties.

A mafia...

The word lingered on my head over and over again.

Mafia.

Could it be that the Fancy Pants Club is a member of the mafia? Could it be that it works underground alongside it? Or much worse, could it be that the Fancy Pants Club is the mafia itself in disguise?

How about Erik and the others? They have been so secretive with me all this time. Does that mean that they?

I shook my head before I could think of other ridiculous notions. There was only one way to keep my mind at peace and that is to interrogate at least one of them for the truth.

Leaving the rooms as they were, I rode the elevator down the second floor with the intent of asking Vincent the questions banging inside my head.

Are they really?

I was very determined. My breathing was deep and my eyes were sharp when I entered Vincent’s studio without a knock on his door.

The last time I was here was when I became a life class model with Erik painting me like a pineapple. I suppose it wasn’t called a bad experience for me and in totality, I wasn’t traumatized by it, but stepping inside the room with Vincent donning on that sexy plain white t-shirt and faded jeans made me nervous right down to the bone. It made my determination about the mafia topic shrink and wither consequently as another thought crossed my mind; thoughts about Ericka’s words while we were talking on the phone last night.

He’s into you.

The VP is making a move.

He is hot and dreamy, isn’t that a good combination?

Seriously, she really is a hopeless romantic. She didn’t waste time pointing me that Vincent is more than boyfriend material.

I couldn’t agree more though, but still...still my heart...I don’t know, maybe I am blind in love or I am just not ready to open my heart up to someone that the notion of Vincent as my suitor didn’t even excite me one bit.

Everything was ready when I entered the studio. The room was lighter probably because he opened the French doors to the connecting balcony. It was also spacious with all the class paraphernalia arranged in the sides except for one large canvas set in an easel, a clean palette, color tubes, and a variety of brushes placed in the small work table in the middle of the room.

“Sit there Daniella.” Vincent, after kissing my cheek in greeting, pointed towards a cushioned stool placed right in the threshold between the balcony and the studio.

I gave him a curious brow, finding the choice of location odd.

He chuckled lightly noticing my silent question.

Seriously, how could a gentleman like Vincent be part of an illegal group?

“You’ll see. Just sit there and I will explain it to you, ” he said.

I did as I was told.

Once I sat, the afternoon sunlight immediately illuminated my face. With hands clasped on my lap, I gazed at him and waited for further instructions while another part of me debated on whether I should ask him about the secret room upstairs.

“As you’ve noticed, the sunlight hits your face just right. I like it this way, Daniella. Working on natural light is my preference, ” he started whilst standing a few feet away from me.

I nodded my understanding.

“The French glass door behind your back adds to the light reflection too, making the brown strands of your hair vibrant.”

He strode to the balcony, gave me a wink along the way, and stopped near the marble balustrade.

“The outside scenery is beautiful too. You can look at it anytime so you won’t be bored while I’m painting you.” He faced me and smiled.

“Ahh, I see. You really thought much of this session huh?” I squinted my eyes at him.

He nodded once and then went back inside the room. “You are correct, ” he said.

“Then thank you, Vince. You are really a thoughtful man.”

“You inflate my lungs, Daniella, ” he placed a hand on his chest and bowed low. “Now, shall we begin? The sun doesn’t wait for us you know.”

I chuckled at his remark. “Yes, we can start.”

He adjusted the position of the canvas from landscape to portrait.  Then, he took a long flat brush and dipped it in the white paint. I watched him as he began to work, stroking in an easy and confident manner and this continued on for about an hour.

What I felt that time in the life class session, I felt it the same now: like a queen in my own world where Vincent’s eyes were the only beholder.

He studied me thoroughly. Marking me, branding me with every sweep of his violet orbs. I was helpless the whole time, trying to be calm and composed but in reality, my heart was pounding.

In a way, I say this was another kind of ecstasy where a woman feels like a woman even without a man’s touch... even without being stripped naked. With Vincent, alone and probed in detail, it felt enchanting, revitalizing, personal...

But then, our painter-to-subject connection abruptly disconnected when I heard him groan in disappointment. He was looking intently at the canvas, brows knitted while holding a thin brush.

“You okay?” I asked, worried.

He glanced at me with eyes that smolder, or at least that’s what I could make from its seriousness.

“Can I change your hair Daniella?” he asked directly and then approached me.

“Yes, you can, ” I answered without hesitation. “You are the artist Vince. You can do anything with me as you please.”

“As I please?” I saw a flicker of delight in his eyes then.

“Wh-what do you want to do with my hair?” I asked, a sudden chill of discomfort ran through me.

He brought a hand up over my head and pulled the tie of my ponytail in one swift motion. “I want your hair untied, ” he whispered whilst looking down at me.

As a response, I felt a ghost of a tingle in my shoulders.

“Untied it is then, ” I murmured, locking eyes with him.

Both of his hands now moved to caress the soft curls of my hair. I thought that he was just adjusting them into the right place that was artist-vision worthy, but then when I felt his hand skim my jaw and cheeks, that’s when I realized that something was amiss.

“Please don’t move, ” he whispered low.

“Vince...” I moved my head slightly back to disconnect his fingertips from the corner of my lips. I looked down and fisted both of my hands. His touch wasn’t really unwelcome, but it came out of nowhere without warning, so as expected I would feel partly averse to it.

He shushed me and continued on his way.

“Vince.” I made my voice sterner. With my brows in a hard line, I gave him a warning glare, but he just ignored me.

“Vincent!” When his thumb pressed my bottom lip, that’s when I snapped.

“Can I kiss you, Daniella?” But he then asked that instead of feeling alarmed of my anger.

“What?!” My eyes widened.

“Let me kiss you, please.”

After cupping my chin in place, he leaned towards me and brought his face down. “Be still, ” he instructed.

The whole time, I felt I was in a slow-motion movie. I pressed my hands in his chest, ready to push him away... ready to tell him, no, but I was too late.

His lips came down soft and moist, pressed into mine, as I trembled at the contact. I smelt his cologne then and felt the light touch of his warm breathing. My eyes were open while his was closed — surely an understandable reaction in a woman that was stunned.

My heart thumped loud and clear though. I felt my senses jump in excitement, but unfortunately, it was not as excited as that when Erik kissed me.

No, don’t ask me. I damn couldn’t explain why.

My lips didn’t part, but his tongue coerced me into opening them. Before he could trespass the boundary though, I pushed his chest with force and stopped his kiss.

“I’m sorry. I...I need a break, ” was my quick announcement. I jumped out of the stool and raced towards the door, but then Vincent captured my right arm and pulled me to face him.

“I deeply apologize, Daniella. I shouldn’t have kissed you, ” was his repentant statement. He looked genuine enough that I could accept.

“What’s gotten into you?” I asked, worried.

He released my arm and raked his hair back. “Honestly, Daniella. I—I’ve been out of myself lately.”

“Then you should fix yourself!” I stated with great force.

“I’m sorry for having you go through this embarrassment. Thanks for slapping me back to reality.”

I ghosted him a smile. I know he said it as a metaphor, but I could always use my palms to make him see reality.

“You’re welcome, ” I said as I crossed my arms.

“Do you really need a break?” he eyed me worriedly. “Can we...return to painting now?”

“As long as you promise not to kiss me again, we can, ” I answered with confidence.

“I promise, ” he said whilst putting his right hand up.