by Toby Neal
“I don’t know if I was. They say I was drinking and partying and loving every minute of it.” Some part of me, having accepted their version, wants to believe it. The alternative is too terrible. I’m not even sure I’d have ever left them if Rafe and Ruby hadn’t taken me away.
“It sounds like you were drugged. Raped. And then sold a bill of goods, and deliberately hooked on heroin.” Red flags of anger brighten Dr. Rosenfeld’s cheeks. “Your sister and brother-in-law are very worried about you. They suspect something happened to you that changed you. And I concur. This was not your fault.”
“No. I know what was in me. What’s still in me. I love sex, I love heroin. I am who I am.” I stand up, casting off the awful idea of having been a victim. It’s not a role I can play, any more than hide the bruises of my attack. “Connor and Keenan showed me who I am. And I’m grateful for it.” I walk to the door, and out through it. I feel ten feet tall, filled with a righteous sense of something—not anger, but something like victory.
I wonder if my face shows it. If I were photographed now, if that feeling, so defiantly triumphant, would show on my face. Because I know how great it is to be pleasured by two men who adored my body, the experience enhanced by drugs. I wouldn’t want to have missed it.
I get outside Dr. Rosenfeld’s building to discover night has fallen. That burger I ate, without the bun, feels like a lead ball in my belly as I stride along the sidewalk of midtown. I’m not entirely sure how to get home but I know the general direction, and keep heading there, just angling across streets.
Walking is clearing my head.
I come down from the weird high of that dark place and feel shame again. See the situation as Dr. Rosenfeld sees it. Wonder how I live with myself. And realize I’m approaching Boston Common and the woman with the bag of knitting.
I reach into the pocket of my jeans, take out the card I slid into the pocket. MAGNUS THORNE. He specifically told me to call if I was tempted. I lean against a brick wall, shutting my eyes. Debating.
I remember the pinwheeling colors of lights spinning by, Magnus’s solid presence blocking the wind that cut my face, the studs of his belt under my hands, the thunder of the engine between my legs.
I need to be distracted like that again.
I look around and realize I’m only a few blocks from the Common. I find a phone, dig a few coins out of the bottom of my purse.
“Hello?” His voice is a sharp bark. Not friendly at all. I remember I’m calling from a pay phone and he won’t recognize the number.
“Magnus? It’s Pearl.”
“Pearl. Hey.” His voice changes, warms. It encourages me.
“I’m tempted.”
“Are you?” His voice is playful now. I can almost see the crinkles around his dark eyes, the curl of his lips.
“I’m a few blocks from the Common. I had a really upsetting therapy appointment, and... I realized I was heading back there. To the park.”
A long pause.
“I’ll come get you. Where are you?” Back to an unfriendly bark.
“Corner of Beacon and School Street.”
“Wait for me.” He hangs up brusquely.
I hug myself in my coat, leaning against the building. My eyes move up and down the street, because it’s dark here, and I don’t feel safe anymore.
Anywhere, if the truth be known. I was drugged, raped, and whored out by my boyfriend to his brother. And I went along with it. I feel sick again and want to retch. Want to forget. Wish I could. Wish I could experience that weird victorious feeling I had in Dr. Rosenfeld’s office, but it seems fleeting as a mirage, some trick of belief and emotion I can’t get to again.
Thankfully, no one approaches me and twenty minutes later, the Harley pulls up. Magnus looks dangerous in that sleek black helmet, his leathers gleaming, the buckle on the ankle of his boot catching a stray beam from the streetlight. He does not look like someone who’s keeping me from falling off the wagon—more like he’s planning to take me to hell.
And if Magnus asked me to, I’d go there. I deserve it.
I pull away from the wall and approach. He takes the helmet off, shakes out his thick, coarse black hair. “Tempted, huh?”
“I can’t joke about it,” I say. “Please. Just make me feel better. Like you did before.”
He looks at me for a long moment, and nods. “Motorcycle therapy. Got it.” He points to the saddlebag on the back. “Helmet.”
I put it on, and swing a leg up behind him, my purse sandwiched between us, my arms tight around his waist. The motorcycle roars into life between my thighs, and I immediately feel better.
Chapter 11
Magnus takes us in the opposite direction this time. A new set of roads, highways, and byways, and finally we’re arching along a bridge at full speed. I hold on tight, and his big body is a rock in the sea I’m clinging to, battered by the wind and waves of emotion, thrilled by the speed. We just go and go and go, and finally he circles back and heads to Ruby’s neighborhood.
At the bottom of the stairs, in front of Odin and Beowulf, I get off the bike. “You have to come in and meet my sister and her husband. Otherwise I’ll catch hell. They’ve got me on a short leash and they’ll never believe you’re my program sponsor.”
“I’m not your sponsor,” he snorts. “But I’ll admit to being a sucker for a pretty face.” He doesn’t get off the motorcycle. The multi-paned door at the top of the stairs opens and it’s Rafe, striding down the stairs, looking every bit as intimidating as Magnus. Magnus takes off his helmet and hangs it on the handlebars.
“Who’s this, Pearl?” Rafe says, with no effort at politeness.
Magnus puts down the kickstand, swings off, shakes Rafe’s hand.
“Magnus Thorne.” Just the way he says his name liquidates my core.
But Rafe’s hard blue eyes are still on me, and my brother-in-law points to the door. “Get in the house.”
I think of objecting and decide not to make a scene. I hurry up the stairs and inside. Ruby’s standing under the chandelier in a silk robe, red hair all adrift, and she’s frowning.
“Dr. Rosenfeld called us. Said she was worried about you, that you ran out of the session and she didn’t know where you went.”
“I’m okay. Did she tell you what it was about?” I ask, testing Dr. Rosenfeld’s stated confidentiality policy.
“Of course not. But I’d like you to tell me.” Ruby comes over, puts her hands on her hips. “And that hot guy with the motorcycle brought you home. What the heck is going on?”
I’ve got the door cocked because I can hear the low rumble of male voices down at the bottom of the stairs, and I’m also hearing my sister work up to a tantrum.
“Magnus is a friend. From the program. Yeah, I got upset in the therapy session and left early. I got kind of—tempted on the way home, and scared, too because it was dark. So I called Magnus, and he came and gave me a ride home.”
“It’s well over an hour since you left the therapy session,” Ruby says tightly. “I don’t see how it took that long to bring you home.”
“He helped me!” I exclaim. I hear the motorcycle thrumming into life outside, and I feel desperate, afraid that Magnus will be scared off by my family, by my neediness. And that I won’t get to say goodbye. I wrench the front door open and fly back down the stairs past Rafe, but the motorcycle is already disappearing around the corner by the time I reach the curb.
I stare down the road for a long moment, feeling abandoned, knowing it makes no sense.
I turn reluctantly and head back inside the house. Rafe is talking to Ruby, holding her close. I feel a stab of envy at their bond—of the way Rafe curls long fingers around the back of Ruby’s neck and draws her under his chin, as if she were precious.
I want to be loved like that.
“What did you say to Magnus?” I growl at Rafe, my hands on my hips. “I hope you didn’t give him any shit. He helped me!”
“Maybe he did.” Rafe turns to me, calm
and cool. “He says he’s looking out for you from the program. So your story checks out. But you should have called us, not him. We were planning to pick you up after the therapy appointment.”
“Geez, you guys are stricter than Mom and Dad ever were,” I say. “Besides, I couldn’t call you because you don’t have motorcycle therapy.” I feel a grin break over my face. “I highly recommend it for whatever ails you.”
Neither of them crack a smile, but I see a dimple hovering in Ruby’s cheek. She gets it, oh yeah. After all, she married Rafe at a ridiculously young age.
I run upstairs and throw myself onto my bed, shutting my eyes to relive the entire ride, feeling the roar of noise, the wind, the lights, the solid feel of Magnus in my arms. Motorcycle therapy after real therapy after my harrowing first experience modeling.
Maybe I’m going to have an extraordinary life, after all.
Chapter 12
I manage to peel off fifteen pounds by the time I go back to the Melissa Agency for my portfolio shoot. It’s not easy. I’m grumpy most of the first week, my stomach shrinking and growling, but it must be endured and I set my mind to it. I take to jogging after school, too, and enjoy going along the Charles. Winter’s first snowflakes kissing my face and the ruffled water on the river is a new experience. Brandon joins me often and I know he does it at least partly because he doesn’t want me going alone.
I am not worried about jogging alone. Rafe bought me some pepper spray, and I’m defiant that way. I won’t hide from anything or anybody.
Magnus is driving me crazy. He seems to have decided he’s like a big brother or something, and while he’ll give me rides home from the meeting and has appointed himself my “non-sponsor” program guardian angel, he keeps his hands to himself and keeps his distance, except when he lets me cling to him on the motorcycle.
Brandon, on the other hand, has no such problem. He tries to kiss me every time he sees me, and I have to be tactful fending him off. But I’m too busy for dating, and I don’t want to sleep with Brandon and mess things up at the Melissa Agency.
When I think about it, the three-and-a-half months since I left Saint Thomas are by far the longest I’ve gone without sex in two years, and I miss it. I’d take Magnus any way he wants me in a heartbeat, but he won’t have me. Between sexual frustration and starvation, sleep has been hard to come by in the last few weeks.
But now the moment of truth has come. I meet with Melissa, after weighing in with Gazelle the receptionist.
“Congratulations on losing your first fifteen.” Melissa meets me by the door this time and runs an eyeball over me. I’m sucking in my stomach. I haven’t been anything but hungry for two weeks and I haven’t been this slim since seventh grade, but taking a few looks at magazines has already told me this is not going to be enough to get me on those pages. “Part of what we’re looking for is the ability to work hard, endure discomfort, and follow directions. You’re still too heavy, but Chad can work some magic and, if all goes well, get enough good images for a working portfolio.”
She gestures and I follow her to her mammoth desk. “Here’s our standard model agreement. I understand your sister’s an attorney. You should have her look it over, but it’s the usual for the industry. Twenty percent of your fees. We are a management service, not an employment agency.”
“Thank you for this chance.” I pick up the contract and tuck it in my purse. “Modeling seems so glamorous but I can already tell it’s a tough job.”
She leans back against the desk and folds her arms looking at me speculatively. “It’s not often we get someone as old as you in here who has never thought of modeling as a career, and yet is charismatic enough and has the necessary physical characteristics.”
“I would never have thought of it if Brandon hadn’t suggested it.”
She smiles conspiratorially. “And I appreciate that. I have plans for that boy.”
I smile back. “So I’ve heard.”
Now she frowns. “What did he say?” And I realize that this dazzling, powerful woman is starved for bits of news about her son, for insights into what’s really going on with him.
“He really loves engineering and solving problems,” I say cautiously, careful of the line of confidence I’m treading. “If he’s given problems to solve, and it’s presented to him that way, I bet he’d get more involved.”
Melissa’s still frowning, but now it’s because her busy brain is ticking over what I’ve said. Her face clears and she pushes away from the desk. “Well. Something to consider.” She pushes an intercom button on her desk. I can see each of the rooms has a labeled button. “Chad, I’m sending her down.”
“Roger that, Chief,” Chad says tinnily, and Melissa smiles.
She’s very beautiful when she smiles.
I turn and go, the modeling contract in my purse and an afternoon in front of the hot lights ahead of me.
Melissa tells me the feedback on my portfolio is great. She’s filling up bookings for me, and most of them are for lingerie where my fuller form is appreciated. My first ad shoot takes place at the Institute of Contemporary Art, and it’s for underwear. Outdoors, in what is rapidly becoming winter.
Standing in the concrete courtyard of modern sculptures, wearing a long black fake fur coat over a tiny black lace demi-bra and panties, striking a pose as if gazing into the eyes of a lover while thirty-degree wind whistles across my nipples is no one’s idea of fun, but I soldier through it, heated between wardrobe changes in a portable plastic closet with a space heater on an extension cord.
Ruby comes home a few days later, her green eyes wide. “Oh my God! Pearl! You’re on a billboard above Massachusetts Avenue in panties. Dad would roll in his grave!”
“Let’s go see your moment of fame,” Rafe says. We pile into the four-door antique Jag, and moments later we’re getting honked at as we drive as slowly as possible on the busy thoroughfare beneath a mammoth billboard.
I’m a twenty-foot lingerie-clad giant, standing with one arm around a sleek silver sculpture, the other on my hip, long blond curls blowing in very real freezing wind. The dark furry coat and tiny black lace panties set off my creamy skin and my hair looks like an iridescent silver curtain. The only spot of color in the photo, making a whole lot of naughty promises, is my pouty, shiny, bright red mouth. It’s the size of a Volkswagen Beetle.
I can’t believe that’s me. Both hands come up to cover my mouth. “You’re right about Dad rolling in his grave,” I say, and my eyes fill.
“Oh, Pearl, I didn’t say that to make you feel bad,” Ruby reaches back to touch my shoulder. “I said it because you’re so damn sexy that it must be God’s gift.”
“Some gift. I’m never going to live this down at school,” I say miserably.
I didn’t expect to be an underwear billboard after my first photo shoot! I think back to what Brandon said about Cindy Crawford—it’s not really her. It’s the idea of her. And now I know that idea’s a little overwhelming to live with, let alone become.
We circle back home, and there’s a black Harley pulled up illegally on the sidewalk in front of the house.
“Oh, thank God. I need motorcycle therapy after what I’ve just seen,” I exclaim, hopping out of the car and bouncing over to Magnus.
He’s leaning on the Harley. His arms are folded over his vast chest, and taking one look at his smoldering dark eyes, I know he’s seen the billboard.
“Get on. We’re going for a ride,” he says. And I hope like hell he means it in more ways than one.
Chapter 13
I swing onto the Harley and give a little hop to sink into the padded seat, my thighs tight against the back of Magnus Thorne’s muscular legs. I tuck my face into his jacket, inhaling the smell of leather and the trace of intoxication that’s just him, feeling something deeper than arousal but not sure what it is. My arms slide under the jacket to circle his waist. I feel the cool metal studs on his belt, the way his big body flexes as he cranks down the starter, the way my
touch makes his belly tighten.
I smile, inside my helmet.
If all it took to get his attention was a twenty-foot billboard of me in black lace lingerie hanging over the traffic on Massachusetts Avenue, then it’s worth it.
My sister Ruby and her husband Rafe, my guardians, haven’t said a word as they watch us leave. After all, I’m over eighteen and Magnus has been a gentleman up until now, taking me out when I need “motorcycle therapy” and acting a whole lot like my twelve-step sponsor while refusing to be called by that title.
But something has shifted, and I can’t wait to see where he’s taking me.
There’s a hypnotic quality to riding a motorcycle in the dark. So many sounds, sensations and sights whirling past and through me make it almost impossible to process. I lean my head on Magnus’s back, out of the wind, and watch and listen and feel. I just am, in this moment, and wish it could go on forever.
It’s a relatively short ride this time. He takes me outside of town, through gently-wooded suburbs, and then we’re turning down a narrow lane bordered by pines. The road is rutted, with deep ice-filled puddles. I cling even tighter as he slows the bike way down and we make our way through and around some serious potholes.
I lean my head out to peer around him as we slow and he turns the bike into a towering dark barn; I have just enough time to spot a log cabin with smoke coming from the chimney before we’re folded in darkness that smells like horse manure and musty hay.
He rolls the bike to a stop, drops the kickstand. I lean over and hop off.
I lose my balance, though, and luckily still have a handful of his leather jacket to grab. His arms come around me as he stabilizes me. “Careful.”
His voice is a little hoarse. I feel how reluctant he is to let go of me and we stand there in the dark pierced by the bike’s headlight, helmets still on, but it doesn’t feel awkward. It feels like anticipation.
