by W. Winters
I’ve had many social interactions, and I’ve learned a few important details about seemingly innocent touches. When a person makes contact with you, whether a hand on an elbow or a friendly hug, the longer the contact lingers, the more they want to fuck you. A quick hug and a hand releasing into the air once the connection begins to break, rather than slipping down the small of your back, is very good evidence there’s no sexual chemistry.
Which is not at all what happens right now.
The way Zander trails his fingertips along my forearm and then down my torso, splaying his hand against the small of my back as I stand, tells me everything I want to know. My wild heart beats rapidly. I’m not sure if it’s in protest, or if it’s simply come back to life, but for a moment, I’m caught. Trapped and unable to think of anything other than my heart’s existence.
Concern mars Zander’s face as he peers down at me, and I struggle to remember what we were even talking about. “Did I already take it too far?”
“Not at all.” My lower lip slips between my teeth as I struggle with whether or not I should add, I don’t believe you’ve gone far enough. I keep the thought to myself and turn my back to him to make my way to the sofa. “I just thought we should be comfortable for our session.”
There’s an undeniable electricity between the two of us. Again, I’m reminded of that dance I felt the first morning that we were alone together. I take one corner of the sofa, and Zander chooses a chair across the room, the one farthest away.
“I think we should start with confessions,” Zander begins.
“I’ve never been a fan of confessions,” I say, then nearly continue with a phrase that I’ve said a number of times in my life: “Confessions imply regret. I live my life with no regrets whatsoever.” But then I remember. I remember it all and every regret threatens to suffocate me until Zander tells me, “I’ve seen some videos and I have questions.”
“That’s your confession, that you’ve seen videos?”
A nagging thought pricks at the back of my mind. It was only last night I asked him not to look up any information on me, but the slight feeling of betrayal is quickly pacified.
“It was before last night,” he says, and vulnerability shines in his eyes. “I want to make sure you know that.” The relief is met with cautiousness. He didn’t tell me he knew before, but it’s obvious that he feels remorse.
The sofa protests as I pull my legs up, resting the balls of my feet on the cushion and leaning back into the pillow. “I appreciate you telling me.” The kindness between us doesn’t diminish the chemistry. Although I attempt a more casual stance by resting my head on the arm of the sofa, Zander remains professional.
“I want you to know that I meant it when I said I won’t look at your file, but I am damn curious and I’d like to speak freely with you.”
“Regarding those videos?” There’s a hint of a tease there, but also a sadness.
“More than just the videos. You … captivate me.”
His confession only adds to my own curiosity about what this man wants from me. About what he could do to me. The nervousness is evident in the tapping of his thumb on the armrest.
“What did you think?” I question shamelessly.
“I searched your name along with a number of questions. By the end of the night, I had double the number of questions.”
His boyish shyness he attempts to cover with a loosely formed fist held over his grin makes me laugh.
“These kinds of questions I think I’d like to answer.” There’s a hesitation from Zander and I wish he’d stop. “You can ask me anything.”
A rawness climbs up my throat, but the pain medicine for my headache seems to be helping it as well.
“Would you answer questions about your sexuality from Damon as well or only me?”
He had to ruin it, didn’t he? There’s a hard pang in my chest. Zander has said the quiet part out loud. Staring at my hands, I trace over the lines of my palms and then peer back up at him, offering him complete honesty. “I wouldn’t care for questions like that from him.”
“But for me?”
My answer is immediate. “I’ve dreamed of you asking me those questions, Zander.” Swallowing thickly, I don’t dare to tame my gaze and I don’t dare to leave his when I add, “In my dreams, I call you Z.”
I anticipate a humorous response, but I’m met with a serious tone.
“You know I watched videos of you. I believe they were consensual but I’d like to hear it from you if that’s the case.”
“Very much so. My idea, my … kink. Yes.” I remember the first time I shared it. The rush, the desire. “Did you watch them all?”
“Yes,” he says and his answer is resolute.
“Then you know that I enjoy many … tastes.” Every nerve ending in my body ignites from the way he looks at me. As if he’s sizing up his prey. I’ll run from him when he’s ready, if that’s what he wants.
“Would you care to elaborate?” he questions.
“Elaborate on what? I desire specifics.” I am far too comfortable with this man, but it feels nothing but empowering.
“Are you bisexual?” he asks.
“I’m attracted to women, occasionally sexually.” I elaborate, because there is a difference between sex and partnership when I think about my attractions. “Romantically, the happily-ever-after type of desire … I am not sure. I have always wanted men to fill that role. I’m not sure what that says about me, but I’m aware of it. I feel satisfied and … like I can be complete with a man as my partner. And I do want a partner. A monogamous relationship. But I have always thought women are beautiful, and I enjoy sex with both men and women.”
“Understood.”
“Do you judge me for it?” I ask, not sure what he thinks of that truth. “In the past, I thought myself to be alone in these feelings. I simply do what I desire and it leads me to want things I don’t see people often admitting.”
“No. I don’t judge you. I understand desire takes many forms …” His fingers rap along the armrest in a rhythmic beat before he continues his questioning.
“Are you attracted to men sexually too? Or just romantically?” Before I can respond, he adds, “Know that I can help you either way. Your answer will only help me to suit your needs better.” His statement is direct. His admission … promising things I am desperate for.
Without holding a damn thing back, I tell him, “I’m sexually attracted to you.”
“To men,” he corrects me, although it’s a farce and we both know it.
“Sorry, doctor,” I say flippantly, shrugging off my bluntness.
“I told you, I’m not a doctor.”
“Sorry, Z,” I answer without thinking twice and my treacherous heart hammers at the nickname. Z. Peering up, I judge his reaction. “I didn’t mean to overstep.” His fingers dig into the armrest, and his lips twitch with a smirk. Readjusting on the sofa, the throw slipping down my shoulder and puddling in my lap, I ask, “Would that be all right? To call you Z.”
“I would enjoy that very much,” he admits to me and there’s a crackle between us, one that hasn’t spared us during a single interaction.
“If I’d met you at a bar, would you want me?” I dare to ask him. “I’ve wondered about it since I first saw you. I wondered if you’d fuck me had we met differently.”
“I think it may be a matter to discuss at another time, Ella.” Zander doesn’t move with me in this step of our dance. My body goes so very still as I feel nothing but vulnerability.
“I’d fuck you, Zander. However you’d like. I’d fuck you.” I don’t allow my gaze to slip as he holds me steady with his, leading me to divulge a truth we’ve been tiptoeing around. For good measure I add, “Hell, I’ve already fantasized about it.”
“I am obligated to maintain a professional relationship with you.” I have no idea how he can speak so coolly, when his gaze blazes like fire and his tone is thick with desire. There is no mistaking that a boundary has alre
ady been crossed. A social one. Perhaps a moral one. And neither of us were affected by it. Our boundaries lie elsewhere.
“What a shame—” I start to murmur, readying myself to remove the throw and tell him exactly what it is about him that fuels my interest in him. But I’m silenced and caught off guard as my head whips to the left.
There’s only the quick thud of the door that alerts the two of us that someone’s here. Just around the corner. Zander’s ease is uncanny. His ability to simply slip on a mask that hides every etched detail of the scandalous desire that was on his face just a moment ago is impressive.
With his back pressed against the chair, no one would have any idea of the seduction that nearly prompted me to do illicit and unwarranted things in return for a pleasure I’ve been dreaming of.
The sudden intrusion would be shocking this late at night if it weren’t for the person responsible for it. Kam enters the room like he always does, already talking and as if whatever it is that he has to say is more urgent than whatever’s already occurring. He’s done it all my life, and in the past I welcomed it. Currently, I’m grateful for his impulsive ways, given the fact that he seems to have failed to notice the energy of the room. “Could we talk?”
My gaze shifts between the two men. “Of course,” I answer and swallow, grasping at any sense of normalcy to ground me back in the real world.
“Stay,” Zander commands with a subtle hand signal and steals Kam’s focus. “Let me leave so you two can have the room,” he states, giving Kam a nod.
If Kam noticed the tension between Zander and me, he doesn’t let on.
That doesn’t change the fact, though, that I feel as if I’ve been caught. My rapid pulse and wide eyes give it away, if only Kam would look at me rather than watching a very calm Zander leave the room. I catch sight of his hand flexing on the way out; it’s the only indication he gives that maybe he’s not as collected as he appears.
I have a moment to fix my expression, and I take it. What’s happening between Zander and me is mine, mine alone. I need this and I’m unwilling to allow anyone to take it away. It’s only once we’re alone that Kam takes the seat Zander occupied only moments ago.
He sits on the edge of it, leaning forward and resting his forearms on his thighs. “I had a meeting tonight.”
“A meeting.” I mutter the words and already feel on edge. The urgency makes sense. Kam’s a buffer between myself and “others.” In the past he’s negotiated deals, dealt with threats, lawsuits, slander. Anything that would threaten me or my estate in any way.
The times in the past where he’s had “meetings” that led to him barging in like this generally meant things needed to change in some form or another. Suddenly all the heat threatens to overwhelm me, and I find myself staring at the fireplace that is no longer lit.
“I’ve gone over a number of things and I want to start with how to get you back out there,” he tells me and that’s not at all what I was expecting.
“I wanted to talk about creating routines and maybe …” He’s anxious as he pauses and breathes in deeply, as if what he’s about to say is controversial. “Maybe posting again.”
There’s a small crack in my chest that’s raw at the idea of it. It’s so very small, though, only a sliver.
“Let’s get you together; new hair, maybe?” he offers and I only half smile back at his grin.
“A woman who cuts her hair …” he begins, and I complete the Coco Chanel quote for him.
“… is about to change her life.”
“Just a snapshot, just to tell them you’re okay.” I nod along with his plan. “What do you want them to know?”
I offer the first words that come to mind: “I’m sorry.”
“No, no, no,” he says, comforting me. “There is no room for that. You don’t owe them an apology.”
“I’m trying.”
“I love that about you. I love you,” he emphasizes. His lips form a thin smile and it’s contagious, although the sorrow lingers.
“I love you too.”
“I know you do.”
“I’m trying,” I repeat, then offer as a possibility, “I’m working through it.”
“Love this.” Kam nods and claps his hands in celebration then adds, “They’re going to be so happy to hear from you.”
“Can I have my phone back?” When everything happened a year ago, Kam took control of my social media accounts, including changing the passwords.
“… I’ll be monitoring comments and moderating as needed.”
“You know how it can be. And if anyone comments with the … video.” I shift where I am, feeling this uncomfortable melancholy. Having to live through that moment was the worst day of my life. Having to relive it on social media for months … well, it almost led to my death.
“If I’m going to talk, I want to talk to my followers. If I write something in that journal, I want them to see it.” For the first time in a long time, a burst of motivation urges me to write. “I want to tell them about the ball in the box. It made me feel so much better to know. I want them to know too.”
“A ball in a box?” he questions and frustration overwhelms me.
“It’s an analogy. More people should know.” I’ve felt the compulsion to post so much in my life, but never so much as I do now. “I can tell them. Even if it only helps a handful of people, I can tell them—” All my life I’ve shared who I am and what I’ve gone through on social media. It helped me get through the harder times—most of them—and I know damn well I’ve helped others get through the same. This is no different. I know there are more people struggling like I am.
“I think right now we should limit what you post—”
“They saw it too. They saw it and other people go through things like that too.” My throat goes tight and dry at the visuals that flash in my mind.
“I know they do, love.” There’s a kindness in his statement, but still a sense of resistance.
“And I want to help them. I want to use my voice and help them get through it. I want to get through it together.”
Kam’s slow as he takes a seat beside me, making me turn to face him although he’s yet to look back at me.
“Kam.” I press him, pleading with him. A part of me wants to take back his role, I want him gone and not in charge of a damn thing. I could so easily get the hell out of this house, buy a phone, message someone and they could post on my behalf. He couldn’t stop me. He may have changed my passwords, but I’m not locked away anymore.
A chill runs through my blood. Unless I give anyone a reason to send me back. Sickness churns in my gut. “I feel so fucking helpless.” The confession is whispered and I look anywhere but at Kam as tears prick my eyes.
“Your love language is acts of service.” Kam comforts me, scooting closer to me even though I can’t even look him in the eye. “You want to help by doing, but right now, you need to focus on helping yourself.”
The sincerity in his message guts me.
“This is a start.” Kam’s voice is riddled with concern. “Just post to let them know you’re trying.”
“I want to post about the fucking ball in the box,” I practically hiss. I must sound insane; hell, even to my own ears I sound like I’m losing it.
I question why he would silence me. “I’ve not been on social media for months now. I chose to leave when it was too much. I knew when it was too much for me.”
“And then you didn’t,” he says, and Kam’s voice is harsher now. “What if you shared something and you didn’t realize what it could do to you … or to someone else?”
“I know there are people who are sad like me. I know that after what happened, I should feel this way. I want them to know I feel it too, and we can get through it together.”
“Can we start off slow? Please?” Kam’s last word is a whisper, his swallow harsh and paired with a desperate gaze. “I failed you once. I am terrified of failing you again, love. Please. Please, let’s start slow.”
>
“With a single picture and a single sentence … it doesn’t feel like it’s enough.”
“Then why don’t we record it. Record what you think is enough and we can keep it, we can hold on to it and post it when you’re ready.”
“When you think I’m ready,” I say to correct him, keeping most of the anger out of my tone.
“Not me, someone better than me,” he tells me, his voice pleading. “When a professional thinks you’re ready, we can share it.”
“Like Damon? If I show him what I want to post?”
“I’m not sure—” he starts and as my jaw drops slightly and my eyes widen, he’s quick to take it back. “When Damon and myself think you’re ready. Damon doesn’t know the beast people can be online. You know it. You’ve been through it.”
Pulling one leg up on the sofa, I rest my head on my knee.
“Tell me about the ball in the box,” Kam urges me. Tilting my head to the side to lay my cheek on my knee, my silence is met with his plea. “Don’t hate me, Ella. I love you. And I am just worried.”
I take a shuddering breath in and then let the lone tears fall where they may.
“I think we could post both. Maybe?” he says.
“Both?”
“We could post about the ball, and we could post the photo. Just … let me do it, all right? I’ll post for you. I’ll monitor it.”
“I really want you to, Kam,” I admit to him and my voice is hoarse. “I haven’t wanted to, but it feels so important.”
“Then we’ll tell them. We will. Maybe write it in your journal and other things you want to post. I’ll give you a phone, no social on it, but you can take pictures of it, you can text me. You can record whatever you want to share. I just don’t want you in the line of fire.
“You know how people can be.” Kam’s voice is gentle, but his statement is a wrecking ball. I know exactly how people can be.
“This is good,” he tells me, his hand on my thigh, giving me a squeeze although anxiousness colors his words.
