Se7en

by Sky Corgan

  Is this real time? Is this what's going on right now? The video looks like it was professionally shot. There are multiple angles. This can't be now. It had to have been filmed in advance.

  I don't care. It doesn't matter. I try to tell myself that, but inside I'm dying.

  I rip the back off of the remote only to find that there are no batteries inside. What the fuck?

  I fly off of the bed, stomping over to the television. Susan is leaning over Chandler. Her mouth presses against his, and he reciprocates, kissing her every bit as passionately as he's kissed me these past few days. She straddles his lap, fisting her hand into the front of his shirt.

  “Oh fuck no. No. No. No,” I say as I press the button to turn the television off. It doesn't work either. “What in the bloody fuck?” I look behind the television for cordage. If I have to unplug this motherfucker at the source, I will. It's mounted to the wall, though, and all the plugs seem to be feeding into a hole in the wall.

  By the time I look at the screen again, they've moved to a sofa. Susan is on top of Chandler. He's caressing her face, kissing her. Her hand is between his legs, stroking him over his slacks. Tears are burning in my eyes, a mix of rage and jealousy and more unpleasant things than I can count.

  I can't do this. Can't stay here.

  I run for the door, pushing it open with all my might. It doesn't budge. At first, I think I'm imagining it. The door only locks from the outside. There's no panel for my keycard inside. I push at it again, but the door doesn't give.

  “What the fuck?” I scream, twirling around to face the room, pressing my back against the door.

  On the screen, Chandler has pulled Susan's bra down. He's sucking on one of her nipples, and she's writhing on his lap. I feel sick to my stomach. I can't watch this.

  I look around for anything that might be a camera, glaring into it and shouting, “What in the fuck is wrong with you? Let me the fuck out of here.” Then I go back to the door and beat my fists against it until I run out of energy.

  The scene plays on. She takes his shirt off. Then his pants. Within seconds, his cock is in her hand, her tongue licking up it. I want to bitterly think that she's getting my sloppy seconds, but I have a sick feeling it's the other way around. Maybe he's been hers all this time, and I just didn't know it. It would make sense that that's why she's here.

  I feel like an idiot, shattered and heartbroken. I close my eyes and cup my hands over my ears to drown it all out. I don't want to see this. Why is he making me watch? I thought he was mine...He made me believe...

  She's sucking him off now, staring into his eyes. The confidence in her expression, the way in which she moves puts her in a whole different league from me—makes me feel like I was a bumbling idiot when he and I were together. Maybe that's why he's showing me. He wants me to see that she's better—that I was stupid to think I could please him.

  Tears sear down my face. I want to pick up the alarm clock and throw it at the screen or tear the television down from the wall, but I know Chandler would make me pay for the damage. Or worse, he'd kick me out and start over with someone else. I'm not even sure that bothers me anymore. Everything I feel is pain. My heart is throbbing from the betrayal. He used me. Utterly and completely used me.

  I head into the bathroom and close the door. It's my only safe haven away from the video. I turn on the faucet in the bathtub to drown out the sound. As if sensing that I'm trying to escape, the volume on the video goes up. I turn on the faucet in the sink, too, but it's not enough to completely cover up the sounds of slurping and kissing from the video. He's purposely trying to torture me. Hell, he's probably watching me right now. He has to be if he knew to turn the volume up.

  “You're a sick fuck,” I say into the mirror, scrubbing my tears away. “You made me think... You made me...” I shake my head, unable to say it. “I should let my dad shoot your dick off.”

  I spend the next several hours listening to the sounds of running water and a combination of moaning and squelching and slapping. He's moaning. She's moaning. She's crying out rhythmically, which means they're definitely fucking. Time passes unaware. I wait for what feels like forever. When the sounds of pleasure die down, I venture out to check the bedside table clock only to find that one video has ended and another has begun.

  Back into the bathroom I go, and that's where I stay until blessed silence finally signals that my unjustly earned punishment is over. I peek my head out of the bathroom to catch a glimpse of the clock. It's 8 PM. That son of a bitch made me listen to him fuck his little house slut for five goddamned hours.

  I rush to the door to see if it will open. It gives way, and I burst out into the hall as if I've been stuck in a room with no oxygen. My lungs fill with freedom. I pant and look around like a wild animal that just escaped a cage. I don't know where to go. I'm scared to return to my room in case Chandler locks me in again. But I don't want to go to the dining room either. I don't want to see him. Don't want to see Susan. Because now I know they've been laughing behind my back. Hell, that's probably why I don't see either of them all day. They're off somewhere fucking.

  I press my back against the wall and slide down it until I'm hugging my knees. For not having done anything but stressed out all day, I'm absolutely exhausted. My emotions are frazzled. I feel like someone took an ax to my heart and chopped it into a million tiny pieces. I just want to go home and forget that any of this ever happened.

  “There you are.” Chandler's voice startles me.

  I look up to see him standing down the hall. I glare at him with all the contempt I feel. He seems completely unfazed by my obvious bad mood.

  “Dinner is ready,” he informs me.

  I want to tell him that he's a monster. I also want to ask why Susan didn't come to retrieve me. Having him come personally is a rare treat—would be a treat if I didn't hate his guts right now. Before I have time to decide which to say, he's already turned to go to the dining room.

  I chew my bottom lip, considering staying in the hall. It feels like there's no safe place for me in this house now. If I go back to my room, I could be tortured some more. If I go to the dining room, I'll have to share a meal with Chandler, and that will be almost as painful.

  I opt for the lesser of the two evils, taking slow steps towards the dining room. No doubt, Chandler will have started eating without me. He doesn't seem to wait for anyone.

  When I get there, I'm confused by the dim lighting. My chest tightens as I see Susan sitting across from Chandler. There are candles on the table. Three plates of spaghetti and meatballs are waiting. I'm on the end cap. It should feel more intimate since I'm closer to Chandler, but he has to turn to look at me, so it's not.

  “What is this?” I gesture to the spread, not bothering to hide my annoyance.

  “It's dinner,” Chandler replies plainly before standing to pull out my chair. It's an unexpected nicety that I don't want. “To be more specific, Italian food, just as you predicted.” I can hear the smile in his voice. The motherfucker must be finding this really funny.

  I consider asking what Susan is doing dining with us, but it's clear that I'm the one out of place here, not her. She's barely looked at me since I entered the room. She seems as sterile and emotionless as ever, totally different from the girl who was just fucking my man in that video.

  My man? I scoff at myself. Maybe I'm the one who is messed up for getting so attached to him so quickly. It's blatantly obvious that he was never mine to begin with.

  Dinner is tense, made worse by the fact that not a single one of us speaks a word throughout the entire meal. Susan looks stiff. Chandler is the only one who is relaxed, eating as if nothing fucked up just happened—as if he didn't keep me a prisoner in my room all day and make me watch his sex tapes.

  So much goes through my mind as we sit at the table. There's so much that I want to say, and all of it is dripping with venom. I'm too close to the end of this project to bow out now, though. I need to be the bigger person and see t
his through to the end. These paintings are going to make me famous. They'll open doors for me. I can't throw it all away because I'm jealous—because I've been manipulated this entire time.

  Keep yourself together, Emma. You've got this. Finish the project, and then you never have to see Chandler Lexington ever again. You won't be able to speak ill of him in interviews because you signed that contract, but you can damn sure vent to your friends and family...and maybe see a psychiatrist. I have a feeling that some mental therapy will be in order after this is all over.

  I finish eating before both of them and politely excuse myself to my room. There's no offer of sleeping medicine. Perhaps Chandler has been avoiding conversation all night, realizing that I'm looking for any reason to lash out at him. Whatever the case, I'm grateful, because I definitely would have accused him of drugging and raping me just to be nasty.

  I return to my room, deciding that I'll break the television if it turns back on. There's only so much that I can handle, and I'm officially at my wit's end.

  Thankfully, that doesn't happen. I change into my nightclothes and stew over the day's events, tossing and turning all night because I keep swearing that I hear the television turn on. Being here is driving me crazy.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I dread the next morning. In fact, I try to sleep through it, hoping that Chandler will just leave me alone until he needs me again. I'm not that lucky. Someone knocks on my door in the morning. I think about telling them to go away before I remind myself that I'm here for a job. Then I force myself out of bed and open the door to Susan's deadpan expression.

  “Aren't you a bucket of cheer this morning.” I glare at her.

  “Breakfast is ready,” she tells me before taking her leave. I give her backside the finger as she's walking away.

  I take my time changing, hoping that Chandler will eat without me and spare me his presence. When I arrive in the dining room, he's sitting at the table with an empty plate in front of him.

  “Good morning,” he says, following me with his eyes.

  “Morning.” I purposely leave out the good part. There's nothing good about being here. Not anymore.

  I pick up my fork and knife, trying to figure out how to attack the eggs benedict laid before me.

  “Emma, we need to talk.” His voice is all seriousness.

  “What about?” I try to pretend like I don't care.

  “Last night.” He leans back.

  “What about last night?” I cut a too-large bite of egg and English muffin. If he's going to try to hold a conversation with me, then I'm going to eat as quickly as I can and retreat to...wherever he's not.

  “It's not what you think.”

  My fuse reaches its end. I set my fork down and meet his gaze. If looks could kill, I would have murdered him in cold blood three times over already. “Oh really, Chandler? What do you think I think? Please, by all means, enlighten me.”

  “Calm down.” He furrows his brow as if I'm the one in the wrong, which only pisses me off more. “That wasn't Susan in that video.”

  “It wasn't? Well it sure as hell looked like her.” I keep my voice low. A low yell. Is there such a thing?

  “It was her twin sister, my ex-fiance,” Chandler explains, looking out the window. “She died two years ago during childbirth. Our son didn't make it either.”

  I want to pity him, but I can't because I still don't understand what's going on.

  “I don't remember reading anything about you having a fiance.”

  “We were very private about it. She didn't want to be in the limelight because I'm famous. We met at an art gallery—”

  “Spare me the sentimental story.” I hold my hand up to cut him off. “Why did you show me that video? Why did you make me think that...”

  “That I don't care about you? That I just used you?” His words strike at my heart, hurting far more than I thought they could.

  “You don't care about me. You did use me,” I clarify.

  “That's not true.” He reaches across the table to take my hand, but I pull it away from him. When he realizes that I'm disgusted by him, he slumps back with a sigh. “You said that my paintings are full of emotion. I needed to capture a certain emotion for that specific piece, and the best way to do it was by—”

  “Torturing me.” I rake my eyes across his face, searching for some sign of remorse.

  “You'll understand when you see the exhibit.” He insists. “Tell me, how did watching that video make you feel?”

  I think for half a second before I respond. “It made me want to cut your dick off.”

  He chuckles. “My dick would rather be inside of you than cut off, but okay. And what else did you feel?”

  “Betrayed.” I can't even look at him. “It made me feel like you betrayed my trust.”

  “And?”

  I have a feeling I know what he wants, but I can't force myself to say it. “Chandler, is there anyone else in your life? Like another woman.”

  He smiles brilliantly, and I hate myself for wanting to forgive him. A lot hinges on this answer, though. “No,” he tells me. “There's no one else. Just you.” The way he says 'just you' ignites something inside of me that I was certain had died when I saw that video. How can an ember stay alive when you throw freezing cold water on a fire? He drops his gaze to the table, picking at a spec of food stuck to it. “Emma, I want to thank you for sticking by me throughout this project. I know it hasn't been easy. There are only two more images I need to capture. I promise they won't be as hard as what you've already endured. Today will be a fun day.” Chandler nods to himself.

  “What do you have planned for today?” I ask him suspiciously.

  “You'll see.” He smirks at me mischievously before his expression goes serious again. “Do you think you can be intimate with me again, now knowing that I'm yours and yours alone?”

  My mouth falls agape. Did he really just say that? More importantly, does he mean it?

  “Mine and mine alone, huh?” I shift in my seat.

  “I am right now.”

  Ouch. He makes no promises for the future. Still, knowing that I'm not sharing him—that I haven't been sharing him—puts my mind at ease.

  “I think I can go a few more rounds with you,” I confess, feeling my body craving him the more time we spend together.

  “Good. Then I'll let you finish eating and meet you out on the deck. I certainly can't have you getting beefier than me.” He winks at me before standing.

  My cheeks heat up as I realize he did hear me yesterday when I challenged him. I guess that means he also heard me call him a sick fuck in my room yesterday. Hopefully, he'll spare me bringing that up.

  “See you outside,” I reply before stuffing the bite of egg and ham and English muffin into my mouth. We've been talking for so long that it's gotten cold.

  I spend the rest of breakfast so happy that I'm practically wiggling. It's odd how quickly things can change. In just the span of one conversation, I went from wanting to kill Chandler to loving him again. Is this really going to be okay? I'm starting to think it might have been better if I had stayed mad at him. At least, it wouldn't hurt so badly when I have to leave.

  I join him on the deck, and the sexual tension is as thick as ever. We workout and talk and laugh. He picks me up, claiming to be using my body weight for arm exercises. It's too flirty and strangely romantic, especially when he looks at me affectionately with those dreamy chocolate eyes of his. I can't wait to have my lips on his and my hands on his body again, knowing it's only a matter of time.

  Even though I'm enjoying hanging out with Chandler, our workout can't be over soon enough. I take a bath with glee, looking forward to whatever is to come. It's like we've just had a lover's quarrel and are moving towards the makeup sex phase.

  I wish he had given me some clue about what we're doing today, but at least I know it involves taking our clothes off, so again I wear as little as possible. After today, I will have exhausted my stash of dr
esses, so he'll have more articles of clothing to remove from me. Or I'll have more to remove from myself, depending on his mood.

  I wait in my room for Chandler to come retrieve me, feeling unusually nervous but every bit as excited. It's strange how one day apart can make you miss someone's touch so much. Every cell in my body is revved for his arrival.

  He knocks on the door, and I practically leap to my feet, smiling broadly as I open it to him. His face lights up the second he sees my expression.

  “Are you ready?” He takes my hand in his, and I blush.

  “I'm ready.” I nod, closing the door behind us and walking with him down the hall hand-in-hand.

  He's dressed down in a pair of sweatpants. No shoes again, which probably means he's going to want us to shed clothes before we enter the room. Even though holding hands with him gives me butterflies, I kind of wish I was walking behind him so I could see the cute dimples above his ass. I'll get to see plenty of that, though, when he finishes undressing soon. A mischievous grin spreads my lips as I predict that he's not wearing underwear. I wonder if he normally does in day-to-day life. It's been 50/50 since we've been here.

  He stops in front of a door and lets go of my hand to pull his keycard from his pocket. He swipes the card and then immediately opens the door for me, stepping aside so that I can enter the room. The scents of fruit and sugar waft out, confusing my senses until I realize what I'm looking at. Inside the room are tables filled with food. I give Chandler a queer look before apprehensively stepping up to one of them. There are bowls of cherries and strawberries, assorted cupcakes on platters and various cakes. There are bottles of whipped cream and flavored syrups. And artistically spread out amongst them are other things—things that make my cheeks heat up. Candy underwear, gummy bras, edible condoms, flavored lube. It doesn't take me long to realize that everything in this room that's not furniture is edible.

  I turn from the table, observing my surroundings. The walls and ceiling are all white. The floor is white tile. Aside from the tables, the only furniture in the room is a white pallet on the floor. It can't even really be called a bed. More like a thin mattress dressed in white sheets with two white pillows atop it.