Crowne of Lies

by Reiss, CD

  But I wasn’t kidding when I said I wasn’t finished with her.

  I didn’t want to hurt her, but I would. All I could do was mitigate the damage.

  * * *

  She came down unshowered but fresh-breathed for coffee the next morning, same as always, with fuzzy socks and hair down over her shoulders.

  “Good morning,” I said, pouring her coffee.

  “Same to you.” She sat on a stool by the island. “Just cream.”

  “How’s your bottom?” I got the cream from the refrigerator.

  “I’m sitting, aren’t I?” She took the cup I handed her. “You have to work harder than that, satellite.”

  When she blew on the coffee, she looked at me suggestively.

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “What’s interesting?”

  “You. Us. We never talked about the people in our past, so I had no idea what you were into.”

  She laughed. “Dude. I’m not into anything. Just… I figure going with it when you’re in bed with someone is more fun than being weirded out.”

  I sat next to her. “But you’ve been spanked before?”

  “Yes.” She shrugged, breathed in a little coffee and put down the cup. “You want to know more, don’t you?”

  “Show me yours and I’ll show you mine.”

  “Not much to show, but I’ll play.” She pressed her hands between her knees as if to warm them. “I was with James for four years. He was my first. Sixteen to twenty-ish. Give or take. Pulled my V-card after three months and in all that time I had one orgasm.”

  “One?” I confirmed.

  “With him. One. I had plenty when he wasn’t around.”

  “With other guys?”

  “With mother fist and her five daughters.” She held up her right hand. “He went off to New York to make it as a writer and I went… well, I dated a lot for a few years. None of it went far. One woman named Becca. She lasted three whole months, but she wanted to play house and I got so bored with it.”

  That explained a lot of what I suspected. She wasn’t weary of me, but the life I offered.

  After a pause for coffee, she said, “I guess I met Malcolm about four years ago. We lasted four months or so, which was, like, a record for me. He was the worst. I mean the absolute most terrible person. So of course I was obsessed with him. He edited porn video trailers, which is actually a thing.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Good. Because they gave him ideas about sex that were fine, if you knew what you were doing… which he didn’t.”

  My grip on my cup tightened. I’d been fine up to the suggestion that someone had hurt my wife. “Tell me.”

  “Like, spank me. Make me crawl. Talk dirty all night long. All that shit is fine, but he always took it a little too far. And I didn’t know better so I figured, since it turned me on, then maybe he wasn’t going too far. But one time?” She shook her head. “He ties me up and blindfolds me, which was normal for us. And there’s this weird pause where he says he’s going to get something. He leaves, and then he comes back and he’s real quiet. I feel him get on the bed, but it doesn’t smell like him. He doesn’t breathe the same and he’s about to do it, when I just said… no.”

  She paused while I prepared myself to launch into a void of rage.

  “He didn’t back away, so,” she said, matter-of-fact, “I scream loud enough to bust an eardrum. Just this ‘Aaaah’ and the guy on the bed? He doesn’t sound like Malcolm when he curses me. And so I scream ‘rape!’ over and over until Malcolm runs in and takes the blindfold off and yeah. His buddy from the editing gig’s got a shriveling hard-on, trying to get his leg in his pants.”

  “Jesus.” One word. A prayer for calm in the face of a past horror I felt the unproductive need to rectify. I could get Cooper to find this guy. Ruin him. Twist his hands off at the wrists and leave bloody stumps that would never tie another knot.

  “Jesus was not in the room, trust me. Malcolm was all, ‘I thought it would be fun, baby,’ and ‘Don’t you know your fucking safe word?’ His buddy’s putting his pants on, like, ‘You said she was into it.’ So now Malcolm’s real mad, talking about beating my ass raw… while I’m tied up… and he doesn’t untie me until I threaten to scream again. And this is when he calls me a crazy-ass bitch. And I know I am, but—”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “Wanna try me?”

  “Never.”

  “Good. So I get dressed and get the hell out of there so fast, the blindfold’s still around my neck when I get home. And I cried for, like, three weeks.”

  “He should be the one crying.”

  She shrugged. “I took care of it.”

  “How?” Unless he was dead in a ditch, she didn’t do enough.

  “Got a guy I know to hack into his editing bay. You’ll be shocked to know there was child pornography on there. We tipped the Feds. He’s doing twenty in Chino Men’s and I haven’t dated since.”

  Four years.

  This stunning, wonderful woman had been celibate four years because of that asshole? Nothing about this was fair or right. Incarceration was his punishment and he’d earned it, but her punishment was the prison of fear. She didn’t deserve it. Not one minute of it.

  “Ella.” I took her hands. They were ice cold despite the warm cup. “I won’t do anything like that. Ever. You can trust me.”

  She leaned into me and spoke in a low, serious tone. “I know.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am. I don’t know why. I didn’t trust my judgment for a long time, but—I don’t know. Maybe it was the big, fat diamond or the proposal, but something about you lulled me into complacency.”

  Between the two of us, I’d been the complacent one. That was over. I was going to make everything right for her. She was going to walk out of this marriage not just rich—but whole.

  “I want to kill him,” I said.

  “Kiss me instead.”

  Slowly, with an appreciation for every second our lips touched, I kissed her.

  I tried to heal her with that kiss—seal wounds with my lips, soften scars, and pry open the armor she’d built around herself.

  Ella was broken, and I kissed her to make whole, even if I broke it all again.

  25

  ELLA

  The morning after my husband spanked me, my ass was pretty sore. But I didn’t want Logan to think I was soft. A girl has to keep up appearances after all. Wouldn’t do to let him think he didn’t have to bring his A-game next time.

  Next time.

  Yeah.

  There was going to be a next time. When I said, “fuck it, let’s hurt each other,” I meant it. The idea was terrifying, but I was powerless to stop myself. I was a spring-loaded switchblade of pent-up lust and he’d pushed my button. Getting cut was an inevitable risk.

  My studio had once been a haven of creativity. Now it was a dead weight of options. A big canvas I was too terrified to choose a subject for, unfinished work that had nothing to say, a living space I didn’t live in but would return to soon enough.

  For now, I was in stasis. The art could wait. I had a dinner with Mike and Twyla in two nights and I was tired of every article of clothing I had. I didn’t feel like that person anymore. I could buy whatever I wanted, but the thought of shopping was almost as boring as the act of shopping itself.

  Opening my purple armoire, I ticked through the hangers and came to the silver dress I’d stolen from the locked closet at Papillion a million years ago. I pulled it out. Too dressy for dinner, but a gorgeous thing. The beauty was in the fit and fabric, but the concept was tame. It wasn’t daring at all. It lacked.

  I’d never seen my father’s clothes as anything but perfect. Maybe I was grumpy. Maybe I’d missed something.

  A dress form in my size sat in the back of a closet, and I wheeled it out then slid the gown onto it. The fabric fell like liquid, fitting over the curves without a drag line or pucker, dropping into impossibly even fla
res below the waist.

  It was perfect, and yet, decades after he’d mastered fit, he hadn’t done much more.

  From the couch, I stared at it.

  What would I have done differently?

  Embroidery? Beads? Applique?

  Nope. Nope. Nope.

  What do you add to something perfect yet uninteresting?

  The answer was nothing. Perfection was an end in itself. It existed silently in a world where the traces of burn on my bottom were reminders of damage, wounds, brokenness. The raw sting of Logan’s hand on my ass celebrated imperfection. It was ours alone and needed nothing more.

  Rifling my supply drawers, I found Daddy’s tailor shears. I kept the ten-inch blades razor-sharp, and clapped them open and closed, asking myself if I was really going to do this.

  I slid a blade under the shoulder strap.

  His work was squirrelled away for museums and historians. This gown was the only one of its kind, and the only one of his I’d ever have.

  I snapped the scissors closed. The strap fell.

  * * *

  “Where were you?” Logan demanded, sitting on the back patio with Colton, tie undone and shirtsleeves rolled up.

  I never got home after him, and I always answered his calls. But I’d shut off the phone, and time had gotten away from me. I got back to the house past ten after a drive home that was interrupted by frequent sketchbook stops.

  “Studio,” I said, throwing myself in a chair. “I did a thing.”

  “What thing?” Colton tossed me a beer.

  I caught it, noticing the roll in his cuffs, where it fell on his ankles, the proportion to the width of the knee. “I don’t know yet. Or long story. Both.”

  “Describe the thing in one word.” Logan took my beer, opened it, and handed it back with a suspicious look—as if he wanted to know if he needed to call a lawyer.

  “Yeah,” Colton said. “Quick before he takes off for a conference call.”

  “Destruction.” I took a swig of beer. It was lovely. Cold and bubbly with a souring blossom of hops. I looked at the label as if I could discern why it was so wonderful from the name or ingredients. “Man, that’s good.”

  Both of them stared at me as if an exotic animal had just strolled out onto the patio.

  “What’s going on here?” I asked. “You guys talking about something?”

  “Ma’s doing Ma,” Colton said with a shrug.

  “Is she okay?” I asked, tensing for potential bad news.

  “It’s not just us for the anniversary party,” Logan said. “It’s now extended family and friends. It’s what she does. Plan small, then invite big. Drives Dad nuts.”

  The beer wasn’t going to be exactly the right temperature for long. Perfection was temporary, so I tipped the bottle into my mouth, taking big swigs to enjoy it before it was gone forever.

  “You sure you’re all right?” Logan asked.

  I took the bottle away from my mouth with a satisfied sigh. “I’m fine.”

  “Yeah,” Colton said. “You got this, like, wild jump-outta-your-seat kinda look.”

  He was right. I felt like a cheetah running across the plains at a herd of gazelles, wanting to eat every one of them.

  “You do,” Logan said. “Nice bath would do you good.”

  “You’re right.” I put down the bottle and stood. “I’m going to do that.”

  Logan grabbed the bottle by the neck and handed it up to me.

  “Take it,” he said. “Our tub has room for it on the ledge.”

  Our tub?

  He could only mean his tub. In his room.

  I took the bottle. “Good call.”

  Logan grabbed my arm. When I looked at him, he nudged up his chin and pulled me down to him. I kissed him, intending a little peck for his brother’s benefit, but I lingered, unable to pull away. His lips were cold from the bottle, sweet with drink, indulgently soft.

  “See you guys later,” I said when we parted.

  Logan looked at his watch and sighed. “Twenty-three minutes.”

  The door closed behind me as he called out the time. I figured I had twenty-two minutes to ask him about it.

  * * *

  After grabbing my stuff, I went through the always-but-actually-never-locked door and into his suite. His laptop was open on his desk, with a big clock on the screen counting down to something. The room smelled like him, and I smiled, allowing myself to enjoy it for a moment before running a bath.

  The water was delightfully scalding and the tub was heated to maintain the temperature and agitate the water so the bubbles stayed bubbly. Fucking rich people really knew how to live.

  Logan came in and sat on the edge of the tub just as the pads of my fingers were wrinkling. “You sure you’re all right?”

  “Yeah. Just a good art day.”

  “Ah.” He laid his hand on my knee. “You going to show me?”

  “Nope.” I sucked in a breath when his touch inside my thigh went below the water.

  “Why not?”

  He opened my legs, and the rush of hot water on my folds made me gasp.

  “It’s not ready. I have to protect it.”

  “But I’m your husband.” His fingers found another kind of wetness. “You’re safe with me.”

  “Am I?”

  “Probably not.”

  When he pushed inside me, I slid down the tub, resting my head on the porcelain with my knees up, groaning his name.

  “Star,” he said, thumb circling my clit, “I’ve wanted you all day.”

  “I’m already naked.”

  He got off the edge and kneeled at the side of the bath. His arm was so deep in the water, his rolled cuffs were soaked. Bubbles rested in the ridge of the fold, and I was watching them pop when he took his fingers out of me and—leaving his thumb on my clit—pushed deeper.

  “Get—” The sentence ended in a gasp as he increased the pressure.

  “Get what?” With that, his finger entered me, and my back arched in pleasure.

  “Get in here.”

  He pulled his finger out halfway.

  “Don’t,” I squeaked. “Don’t stop.”

  Slowly, he slid back in, then out again in a gentle rhythm, kissing my parted lips. “All I could think about today was getting inside your cunt, getting my cock wet on it. Slowly. All the way. So deep in you I touched your name. Making you come so I could feel you throb for me.”

  “I’m going to come.”

  A vibrating chime came from his bedroom. He pulled his hand away.

  “Hey!” I said, sitting straight with a splash.

  “Time’s up. Conference call.”

  “How long’s that going to last?”

  He tossed me the towel and—still smirking like the devil—grabbed a small hand mirror before leaving me throbbing and dissatisfied.

  “Asshole,” I grumbled, draining the tub.

  The bathroom door was open and I could see clear into his room, where he was at his desk, tapping into his laptop. I started to close the door between us, but he held a hand out for me, still looking at his work.

  “Come,” he commanded.

  Faces popped up on the screen, and Logan turned around to me.

  “The camera’s covered.” He indicated a little strip of black tape atop the screen, where the camera was.

  I came to him, still wet and still naked, a map of bubbles sliding over my skin.

  “I can’t see you,” the older Asian man said. In the window behind him, it was broad daylight.

  “Me neither,” the white woman said. “Logan?”

  “I’m here,” he replied, pinching my nipple with that same devil of a grin. “Camera’s busted.”

  He was really terrible, evil, bad to the bone—twisting my nipple so hard it hurt in exactly the right way with one hand and putting his index finger to his lips with the other.

  I nodded, consenting to his wickedness. His eyes lit up and he took his hand off my tit.

  “So,” Lo
gan said, staring at me while unbuckling his belt. “George. You saw the liability report for Q1.”

  With my lips, I mouthed, “You’re bad.”

  “Yes,” George said. “I wanted to talk about the scatterplot in Section 24.”

  He mouthed back, “I know,” then said, “Hold on.”

  He took out his erection with one hand, while the other opened a window of charts, stopping on a bar graph.

  If he wanted to be bad, I was the girl for it. I kneeled between his legs.

  “Yeah,” Logan said when I licked the length of him. “I see it. You have it, Joanna?”

  “Yes,” Joanna replied.

  I took him in my mouth and sucked as I pulled out.

  “So,” George said from above, “here’s where I think the data is—”

  The rest of his complaint blended into a hodgepodge of nonsense as I focused on the dick in my mouth. Logan rested his hand on the back of my head, and while he was talking about insurance claims, I looked up at him and opened my throat, taking him deeper.

  He stopped talking mid-syllable, eyes closed.

  Yeah, buddy.

  This is how you do bad.

  “Sorry,” he said to the team. “What I was saying was, there’s a way to manage this that”—he gripped the wet hair at the base of my neck, pulling me back a few inches—“can better stand scrutiny. Deeper”—he pushed me back down, hard, and I opened my throat to take all of it—“if you will.”

  George went on. Joanna said things. I sucked Logan’s dick until he jerked me up. I stood, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand while he scrolled through some shit in a separate window and his colleagues looked on into blank space.

  “Right.” Logan looked at me and turned me by the hips to the screen and two people who couldn’t see my nakedness. “That’s mitigated in section seven.”

  With his foot, he pushed my legs open while describing section whatever to the two people on the screen. That was when I saw the little hand mirror leaning on the side of the screen.

  Logan Crowne was more exquisitely naughty than I’d ever dreamed.

  He pulled me back to his lap, one leg on each side of him, lining his dick up against me, not missing a beat on the call.