DISCLAIMER: Anything could happen so Adults only.

WARNING: Strong stuff, trust me.

FEEDBACK: Is welcome. p.phair@comcast.net or you can visit my web site at http://www.phair1.com

## THE RETREAT

## By

## Phair

##

## Part 13

Bailey rolled over and allowed herself a luxurious stretch. It took her a few seconds more to clear the sleep from her head. She felt pleasantly fuzzy. Images from the previous evening flickered in her waking mind. Bailey smiled broadly at the memory of Taylor's hands, lips on her body. Then she realized she was alone in Taylor's bed. Bailey didn't need to look far for her lover. Taylor was sitting inches from the bed with her chair propped against the door, writing furiously.

"What're you working on?" Bailey asked in a half yawn.

Taylor looked up, then down, and then back up, "I'm trying to figure it out."

"Figure out what?" Bailey curled on her side and tugged the blanket snuggly around her naked body.

"Sagamore Place," Taylor relaxed a little and smiled. "Good morning to you too."

"Oh yeah, good morning," Bailey yawned again. "I forgot my manners. You must've worked me too hard last night. I'm exhausted," she paused briefly, "and sore."

Taylor blushed all the way up to the tips of her ears.

"So, what are you trying to figure out about Sagamore Place?" Bailey asked.

"All the rooms are named and decorated in honor of dead writers," Taylor explained as she drummed her pencil against the paper in her lap. "The six guest rooms are; Holland, Jackson, Algonquin, Whitman, Macomber, and Room 18. Giuseppe's room was the Macomber Room which memorialized Hemingway. Giuseppe morphed into a hunter, fighter wanna be. A shadowy reflection of Hemingway's public persona. Hemingway lived life hard and fast and committed suicide with a shot gun."

"Giuseppe was killed with a shot gun," Bailey sat up as the connection hit her for the first time.

"That's right. Now, Driscoll's room, Jackson, is themed for Iris Murdoch. A free spirited sort who died of Alzheimer's. After sitting and talking with Driscoll today, I'm certain she has the same disease," Taylor wiped away a stray tear, "very sad. Ashton is in Dorothy Parker's room. He's completely adopted the sneering, self absorbed, selfish character that made Parker admired and despised."

"He wasn't much different from that when he got here," Bailey reminded Taylor.

"Point taken. Redman is in the Ginsberg's room which totally explains his behavior in the barn with Eliyahu."

"Eliyahu is the Oscar's place," Bailey remembered something from Taylor's earlier explanations.

"Right, Oscar Wilde," Taylor put pencil to paper and scribbled. "And, Puanani is in the Dylan Thomas' Room 18."

"What does it mean?" Bailey asked as she got out of bed to find her clothes.

"One writer dead, one writer dying, and four writers to go," Taylor sighed as she watched Bailey's firm ass get covered up by her jeans. "So I think, we need to worry about Puanani the most because Dylan Thomas drank himself to death."

"What about the others?" Bailey spoke around a mouth full of cloth as she pulled on her shirt.

"Let's see, Wilde fell into disgrace and died broke and Ginsberg killed himself."

"What about Madame?" Bailey sat back on the bed to face Taylor. "Do you think her room has a name too?"

Taylor had not thought about it. She struggled for a minute trying to formulate a response.

"Does it matter?" she finally asked.

"It could," Bailey replied. "How's this sound? You get breakfast and I'll sneak into Madame's room when she leaves to go eat. I'll bring back anything that might give you a clue to the room's writer."

"Maybe I should sneak into Madame's room," Taylor thought she might have a better chance of gathering the right clues.

"If I get caught then it'll just be a couple of more months in jail. But, if you get caught, you could lose everything you worked for, Taylor." Bailey gave a sad smile, "You wouldn't want to risk something like that, would you?"

* * *

Breakfast was almost over before Madame noticed the difference in servers, "Where's my little convict?"

"Bailey started the room cleaning, Madame," Taylor answered as she tried to keep her hand from shaking while she poured the Irish Coffee.

"Oh," was Madame's only comment.

Taylor hurried back into the kitchen. She leaned against the sink taking in deep breaths in an effort to calm her nerves. If she did not settle herself down, she was certain she'd make herself sick.

"Taylor, you alright?" Bailey's voice sounded clipped.

"Sure, how'd you do?" Taylor's question was cut short when she turned and found Bailey behind her holding a blood soaked rag around her hand. "What happened?"

Taylor guided Bailey to the sink. Gently, Taylor unwrapped the wounded hand and set it under a light trickle of water in order to wash away the excess blood.

"I thought it was a pen," Bailey flinched as the water made contact with the open wounds. "I was trying to copy the room's name. No scrap paper. Used my hand. Didn't hurt at first."

Taylor's head was swimming. She really felt sick to her stomach now. The sight of blood and Bailey's admission she injured herself was too much to take in so early in the morning.

"I got to sit. You keep your hand under the water," Taylor stepped back and sat down heavily in a kitchen chair.

"No, Taylor you got to read it. Tell me what it means," Bailey pulled her arm out of the sink and stuck it under Taylor's nose.

Taylor saw the letter J before she looked away trying not to gag.

"Her room is dark and filled with horrible things." Bailey flopped into the chair next to Taylor, "Whips, chains, leather belts, and she's been watching us. All of us."

"What?" Taylor's eyes went wide: the pain in her belly easing with the rising of her anger.

Bailey nodded as she dabbed at the blood seeping back into the grooves in the cuts on her arm, "Monitors for every room. Video tapes everywhere. The smell was the worst. Like old women's underpants or something."

Taylor took Bailey's arm in her own hands and examined the letters cut into the skin, "Juliette."

"Like with Romeo?"

"No," Taylor frowned. "Shakespeare wasn't into to bondage. You said it didn't hurt when you cut yourself?"

Bailey looked away, totally embarrassed, "Taylor, it felt good. It made me feel like I do when I'm with you. Really with you."

"Marquis de Sade."

"What?" Bailey was confused by Taylor response.

"He was a writer with a thing for pain and suffering, other people's pain and suffering."

"Don't forget humiliation and degradation," Madame's voice did not surprise either Taylor or Bailey; the pair did not have very much good luck. "I, for one, find the voyeur aspect much more enriching."

Taylor stood. She kept her body between Bailey and Madame. Taylor had expected some sort of weapon to be leveled at them or Igor to be present in order to threaten them. However, it was just the fat old woman in her dressing gown and slippers.

"Now what?" Taylor asked. "What are you going to do to us?"

"Why, whatever do you mean?" Madame seemed taken back by the question. "I expect you finish your work here while the writers complete their retreat. What else would you expect?"

"But, Giuseppe's dead," Bailey stayed safely behind Taylor.

"Prove it. I guarantee you will not find one shred of evidence to that wild accusation," Madame swirled and gave a short curtsey, "because it's not true, of course. Besides, Giuseppe's agent sent a telegram just this morning saying he received Giuseppe's newest manuscript last evening. The agent says it's brilliant. Giuseppe has gone into seclusion until the publication. Very Hollywood of him, don't you think. Nobody will be able to reach Giuseppe until February of next year." Madame smirked, "The agent wired me $25,000 as a thank you."

"Perfect," Taylor mumbled with some grudging admiration. "If you're gonna be wicked you might as well be good at it."

Madame chuckled at the remark, "As for my living space, which was broken into not more than an hour ago, it will be as chaste as the Pope's and pure as rain by the time the police get here."

"You called the police?" Bailey paled.

"Of course not," Madame smiled when the pair gave a sigh of relief, "I sent my servant to town to fetch them."

"Oh God," Bailey whispered.

"Are the police going to find a suspect for the break in?" Taylor felt caught up in Madame's game.

"Who can tell with police? They might find nothing today then tomorrow they might find heroin out in the very clean shed. The shed my little convict has sole access to," Madame was solemn. "And, they just might find my missing diamond earrings in the room under the stairs."

"Tell me how to keep the cops from finding those things?" a visibly shaken Taylor pulled out a chair for Madame to sit.

"You stay for the rest of the internship and keep your mouth shut." Madame sat with a flourish before pointed at Bailey, hissing, "You're going back to jail tonight. I'm going to send you to town with the police so your parole officer can come get you. I'll tell them my clients complained, unfairly, about having a violent prisoner among them during the creative process. It shouldn't add any time to your sentence. Once summer is over you two can hook back up and tell anybody you want the ridiculous tale you concocted." Madame winked, "Joe and I will be onto a completely different scam and brand new identities by then."

Taylor drummed her fingers on the table. Long moments passed in silence. She realized Bailey was waiting for her to speak first. Taylor glanced at Bailey and looked away quickly. Her shame was too great.

"Bailey, I can't," Taylor heard Bailey sob over her words. "It's only a few more weeks. I'll come and find you in September. I can't get into trouble here. My scholarship could be withdrawn. And my parents…,"

Bailey let Taylor's words spin out unchallenged. She could argue with Taylor about right and wrong, good and bad but it would serve no purpose. Bailey knew her lover well enough to know who Taylor loved most.

"Do I have time to pack?" Bailey interrupted Taylor's litany of excuses to ask Madame directly.

Madame grinned like a wolf, "You take only what you got on your back, bitch!"

* * *

Bailey waited behind the white line. She wasn't going to do one thing the guard didn't direct her to do. It had been fourteen months inside the filthy walls of the state's only women's maximum security prison and Bailey was not about to do anything to delay her release.

It seemed Madame was not as good as her word. The police found heroin in the shed. Even though Bailey tested clean she took the plea agreement from the DA's office. It came down to either accepting possession for personal use or face trial for dealing. Bailey accepted the lesser charge and the sentence of an additional year.

Her first few days back were spent in solitary. It was the guards' way of exacting some small punishment for her failure at work release. They had hoped Bailey would be different than most of their charges. She pretended not to notice their disappointment in her.

Bailey passed her time alone imagining Taylor's frantic attempts to reach her. She could picture the woman arguing with the guards and camping out in front of the prison. Bailey could almost hear Taylor's passionate pleas to see her friend and lover. When Bailey was released to the general population, she found out the sad truth. Nobody had been looking for her. There were no visitors turned away at the prison gates, no letters, no cards, and no care packages. Nothing.

As months went by with no contact, Bailey started to repair her life. She made a connection with literacy volunteers in the prison library. For once, time was on her side as she tried to learn the basics of reading. There was little else to do in the television free prison. Shortly before her scheduled release, Bailey obtained her GED. It did nothing to mend her relationship with the prison guards but I did make her feel better about herself.

"Step forward," the guard behind the wire mesh spoke with a mouthful of tuna sandwich.

Bailey obeyed.

"Looks like you had no valuables?" The man's eyebrow raised as he anticipated an argument.

"That's right, sir," Bailey stared at her feet, "I got nothing to start over with."

"You're wrong about that. You get your release papers signed by the governor himself. Keep 'em with you at all times in case you get stopped by the cops. Their records might not be up to date. Might still list you as remanded to DOC. Show 'em these and they'll leave you be. Then you get $25 and a one way bus ticket to Boston," the man smiled when she looked up to take the items. "Stay away from trouble, girl. We don't want you back again, okay?"

"Yes, sir," Bailey nodded as she followed the other guard out into the daylight.

Bailey made her way to the bus stop in front of the prison. The schedule indicated a bus would be by in half an hour and then again four hours later. There would be nothing after that until the next morning. Bailey curled up on the bench to wait.

"Maybe Taylor is on the way. Maybe she's been waiting for me to get out," Bailey thought to herself as her eyes closed. "I'll give her some time to get here."

Sun rise the next morning found Bailey snoring on the bench under the bus stop sign.

THE END

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