Chapter 6: The Dunn Estate
1181 Words
Malia POV:
In the late morning, Mr. Taylor pulled his black Escalade into Malia's parent's driveway, where she stood waiting for him with her bag.
A perfect gentleman, he loaded the suitcase for her with a private grin on his face. As they drove in silence through downtown Washington, D.C., Malia stared wide-eyed at the majestic embassies and diplomatic residences of Embassy Row. She read the countries' names off the placards whizzing by.
“Embassy of Belize, Embassy of Turkey, Embassy of The People's Republic of China." She turned to Mr. Taylor. “No Embassy of Aeonia."
He shook his head.
“So, what can you tell me about Mr. Dunn?" Malia said.
Mr. Taylor looked at her, shrugged amiably, and refocused his attention on the road.
“That's it? Just a shrug? That's all you can say?"
Mr. Taylor nodded, shook his head, and then shrugged again, indicating, 'yes, no, maybe so.'
Malia groaned. “Don't you say anything? Are you even capable of speech?"
Mr. Taylor chuckled. He enjoyed dangling the truth over her like a big brother holding a toy over his little sister's head.
“I bet you're not even a natural blonde," she said, trying to get a rise out of him.
He winked and nodded his head forward. They pulled into the driveway of a magnificent estate that lay beyond a black iron gate. A red-bricked driveway lined with towering boxwood bushes cut through a lush, green yard past the entrance. Manicured hedges and blooming flowers gave the lawn an air of elegance and vitality. The vast, greystone mansion loomed in the distance, its bold, gothic contours emitting power, danger, and the permanence of old money.
“Woah. Is this where he lives?" Malia said, and before Mr. Taylor could mime a reply, she held up her hand. “You know what? Don't even respond. Just consider everything I say to be rhetorical, okay?"
Mr. Taylor nodded and pressed a button on his phone, opening the black iron gate. They entered. Mr. Taylor parked the car, retrieved her bag, and silently carried it inside.
“Am I supposed to follow you?" she asked.
Mr. Taylor didn't reply. Malia followed him through the immense entryway door. She stopped and gazed in amazement inside the foyer as Mr. Taylor continued up the winding staircase with her bag.
She marveled at the sparkling, biscuit-white marble floor; she ran her fingers along the dark oak wood-paneled walls beneath ridged crown molding, exuding elegance.
She recognized some of the framed art prints on the walls from her recent Art History course. “Boston Harbor, Sunset" depicted wooden boats with sails set as they glided along peaceful, early morning waters. “Autumn on the Hudson" peered past the multicolored foliage of various trees onto the idyllic, lazy river.
It was a stately home, refined, fit for a diplomat. She wandered down a hall.
She came to an immense, octagon-shaped library, bookcases built into every wall and stacked with old, hardcover novels, biographies, encyclopedias, and illustrated collections. She removed a history book called “The Secret Love Affairs of Ministers" and looked at the inside jacket. It was written in 1849 and signed by the author.
“The love affairs of ministers," she said aloud to herself. “Some things never change."
Keeping the book with her, she spun a world globe that sat beside a plush leather reading chair in the center of the room. An arched lamp toggled on and sent an amber light onto the chair. Beside it, an empty lowball glass sat atop a coaster on a side table. Malia smelled the glass's rim. The scents of bitters, fine whiskey, sugar, and orange zest flowered in her nose. Charles Dunn had good taste.
“It was an Old Fashioned," a man's voice behind her said.
She whirled around.
A large, imposing man wearing a full-body jumper stood leaning against the doorway. At first glance, she thought he was Charles Dunn; the two men looked similar: both fit, attractive, medium-tall, but this man didn't have the same eyes as Dunn. His gaze was vacant and off-putting, like staring into the dead eyes of a great white shark. She shuddered.
“Pretentious wussy drink, if you ask me. I'll take a 40oz malt liquor over that sophisticated crap any day. Do you like King Cobra?" he said as he adjusted his groin. “Or is that too much for a little thing like you to handle?"
Malia put the glass down. “I'm Malia Peele," she said. “Mr. Dunn's tutor."
“I know. I'm Todd Gunderson. Mr. Dunn's bodyguard." He approached her, removed the book from her hands, and looked at it. He grinned lasciviously.
“Nice. The secret f*cks of ministers. You picked out the only thing worth reading in this ego-j******f tinder box. Kindling, all of it."
Lovely. The way this man looked at her was chilling; she wasn't sure if he wanted to do her or kill her. Maybe both. “Is Mr. Dunn home?" she asked.
He ignored her, tossed the book onto the side table, and looked around. “Books. What good are books in a gunfight? What can books teach you about making women come?"
Malia, a lifelong book lover, said, “you should ask Sun Tzu or Vatsyayana."
“Ask who and the what now?"
“The Art of War? Kama Sutra?"
He stared.
“Never mind."
He leaned toward her and whispered, “It could be a long trip on that sh*t hole island. It could get lonely. I could fill you up, King Cobra style, help pass the time."
He squeezed her butt, and she gagged, then slapped his hand away. He chuckled, amused with himself.
“Listen, buddy. Mr. Gunderson—“
“Todd," he said.
“Fine, Todd."
“Yeah, sugar?"
“If you ever touch me like that again I'll make you regret it for the rest of your life," she said and left the room.
She hurried down the hall past the paintings into the foyer. As she rounded the stairs, she glanced behind her to ensure he wasn't following. He wasn't. The stairs opened into a long hallway with many doors. She had no idea which bedroom was hers.
“Mr. Taylor?" she called out.
Mr. Taylor's blonde head immediately popped out of an open doorway. He smiled and waved, and she rushed over.
“I never thought I'd be so glad to see you," she said as he closed the door.
Feeling safe now, she caught her breath, and her jaw dropped when she saw the beauty of the room:
The bed's wooden posts spiraled upward, and transparent sheets formed a canopy around them. The wall was adorned with classic American paintings. And a mahogany dresser's exquisite craftsmanship suggested immense age.
A daybed below a window beckoned to her. It overlooked the lawn and red gravel driveway. She submerged into its comfort and sighed.
Mr. Taylor bowed, exited, and closed the door behind him, but strangely, she never heard him walk away.
- Writer
