by Seth King
“Snap out of it,” he tells me as he hits me again and then puts the jacket in his lap. “You’ve been staring off into space for days, Stell, and I’m over it. You’re officially pussy whipped. No girl is worth growing a vagina for. Either fuck her and get it over with, or just walk away, but I’m not gonna deal with hanging out with some lovesick zombie forever.”
“Then fuck off, numnuts. I didn’t ask for your opinion.”
I hear something and turn to see those annoying girls standing behind me. My nerves are already shot from worrying over the Taylor situation; I don’t want to have to deal with this, too.
“Hey,” one of them says, “we were just wondering if you-”
“I’m sorry,” I break in, trying not to sound rude, “I’m kind of busy. Would you guys like to talk another time?”
The blonde girl’s face sours. She puts her arm on her friend’s shoulder.
“Come on, Tamar,” she sneers. “It’s true- he is gay.”
I shrug and then face Kane and Simon again. As the girls stomp back to their table, whispering about me all the while, Simon shakes his head at me.
“Jesus, man. You’re just gonna let total strangers talk to you like that? Why didn’t you say anything back to them?”
“Hey,” I say, “I may be a dick to Kane here, but I was still raised in the South, and I gotta use my manners. I can’t be treating girls badly.” Except when I’m pinning them under me and fucking them with ice cubes, I think to myself. “There’s nothing wrong with dudes liking dudes, anyway,” I continue. “And besides, those girls can think whatever they want about me. I belong to Taylor now. She’s all I care about.”
“Yeah,” Kane interrupts. “We know.”
He points down at my phone background, and I smile at the picture I took in the car; Taylor’s lips displaying the slightest of smiles and her eyes sparkling as I kiss her hair.
“You’ve never had a picture on there of anyone besides James,” Kane says. “It’s weird, Stell. Two years of no action, and suddenly you’re falling for some girl you barely know. I thought you were stronger than this.”
“She’s my main priority, of course I would put her on my phone,” I respond. “And are you saying I’m a chump for falling for her so quickly? You would have, too. She’s perfect.”
He crosses his arms. “No, Stellan, I’m saying that you can’t do this to her. She doesn’t deserve it.”
“Deserve what?”
“Come on. Does this girl have any idea what she’s getting into?”
“No, she doesn’t know about Nashville,” I say quickly, throwing a glance in Simon’s direction to make Kane shut up. “At least, I hope she doesn’t. And I also hope you close your mouth right now before I make you.”
“Okay, well tell me one thing, and then I’ll get out of your hair- are you sure you’re strong enough to be with her?”
I take a long, deep breath. I’ve been thinking about this day and night, sunup to sundown. The truth is, it doesn’t matter whether I’m strong enough, because I want to be with her anyway. I can’t lose yet another person that means something to me- I wouldn’t be able to survive it. I don’t know many things about this world, but I do know that without a doubt the worst agony you can experience in life is being separated from a person you love. There are many different things that can separated you from someone, and there are a million different forms of love you can have for a person, but whether death separates you from a family member or fate separates you from the love of your life when she gets engaged to someone else, the pain is the same. It’s still the same horrible reality of knowing that you love someone with everything you have, and not being able to be with them. It claws its way into your soul and roots around like a black snake, destroying all of you. And I’m not sure I would be able to walk away from Taylor and endure that pain yet another time.
“I hope I am,” I finally tell Kane, taking advantage of our moment of privacy while Simon is absorbed with texting someone. “I’m getting stronger every day. It’s weird- it gets harder and harder to prevent myself from hooking up with her, but then when I give in and do it, it gets easier to control the…rough stuff. She’s changing me- she’s making me calm down. She stopped me from breaking two guys’ faces at the park, and I would’ve never been able to turn away from that without her. But there are still…cravings that come up when I’m around her, that’s for sure. And they scare the hell out of me.”
“Well what’s next?” he asks quietly. “What are you going to do if she finds out about Caitlin?”
“I don’t know,” I sigh as I shiver runs up my back. “This doesn’t make any sense to me either, Kane. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Sometimes I think I should tell her, explain everything and see what she thinks, but I’m scared shitless that she’ll run away. That can’t happen- I have to be with her.”
“But you’re still a nutcase,” he tells me, and I shrug. “Stellan,” he reprimands, “I’m serious. This is dangerous. The girl could be hurt, or worse. Can you promise me you’ll walk away from her if you start to lose your temper again?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
I look out the window at the growing bank of clouds piling up beyond the parking lot; their grey, billowing bases sagging with rain that has yet to fall.
“Because I’m in love with her, Kane. I’m in love with Taylor Haney.”
13
Taylor Haney
I glance at my phone and check the time.
Two hours. For two hours I’ve been sitting here, unable to move, unable to speak, unable to think of anything but this:
I’m falling for a killer.
As the storm rages outside I grab my iPad again and read the story for the thousandth time:
THE NASHVILLE GLOBE-JOURNAL
SATURDAY, JUNE 7
FIFTY SHADES OF MURDER: LOCAL TEEN DIES DURING WILD SEX ROMP, BOYFRIEND CLAIMS INCIDENT WAS ACCIDENTAL – INFAMOUS EROTICA BOOK TO BLAME?
NASHVILLE – In an upscale Brentwood neighborhood, fiction has never been more real. In an event with eerie echoes of the popular sex novels, promising Vanderbilt student Shepard Stellan Goode was taken into custody yesterday after his girlfriend, twenty-year-old Caitlin Elizabeth Hoshton, suffocated during a session of extremely rough sex. The defendant is claiming full innocence and has retained Tennessee’s best defense team for the approaching court battle, but whatever the outcome of the case, it seems that the summer ahead will prove to be anything but golden for this junior member of one of Music City’s wealthiest and most renowned families.
As I read the last words I feel the familiar pangs of terror erupt in my stomach again. I can’t believe it- not only have I been hanging out with an accused murder for the past week, but I’ve been begging him to do the very thing he did when he killed someone. I’ve been risking death every day. My brain shows me all the times I could’ve been an inch away from losing my life: maybe Stellan could’ve thrown me into the huge mirror that first night, or maybe he could’ve strangled me while he had my hands above my head during our second hookup. It would’ve been so easy- like a lion playing with a tiny little gazelle, he had me cornered. A terrible horror blows into me when I remember that I even let him get on top of me and pin me down on the couch that night. I feel absolutely sick to my stomach- how could I have been so stupid?
At least the mystery is solved- at least now I know why he transferred to Duke out of the blue using his middle name, with no Internet past and barely any friends, becoming celibate and creating this whole Christian persona. And no wonder he had “RIP CH” engraved on his watch. Suddenly every comment he made, every dark expression that filtered into his eyes, makes perfect sense to me. “I used to bad, and I don’t want to be bad anymore.” “Trust me, you don’t want to hook up with me.” He was trying to warn me to stay away the whole time, terrified that it would happen again. He’s terrified of himself, and I would be too. I should’ve believed him the first time he showed me w
ho he was. I didn’t want to listen to my instincts because he was also so charming and classy and well-mannered, but in the end my subconscious was right: he was the villain, not the shining white knight. I should’ve remembered that life isn’t some cheesy ‘80s movie; that the bad guys aren’t always leaning up against a motorcycle in a dirty jacket with slicked-back hair. Sometimes the bad guy comes in a Mercedes convertible wearing Calvin Klein knitwear and a Rolex, and I can’t believe I was so fucking stupid not to have seen that.
And one of the scariest things of all: I look just like Caitlin. Long brown hair, dark eyes, the whole nine yards. Is that the type he likes to kill? Is that why he told me he wanted to “fuck” me that first night? Am I just his next victim? Has our whole relationship just been a countdown to my imminent death?
Desperate to find more sense in all this, I turn to Google News and retrace his story, starting with the headlines at the beginning and moving forward from there:
SCION OF PROMINENT GOODE FAMILY ARRESTED ON MANSLAUGHTER CHARGES; FREED ON MILLION-DOLLAR BAIL HOURS LATER
EROTICA MURDER: DUE TO RUMORED LACK OF COOPERATION FROM VICTIM’S FAMILY, AUTHORITIES REPORTEDLY HAVING DIFFICULT TIME BUILDING CASE
NASHVILLE SEX KILLER UPDATE: AS YOUNG SUSPECT RELAXES IN FAMILY’S LUXURIOUS BRENTWOOD MANSION ON HOUSE ARREST,
LEAKED COURT DOCUMENTS SHOW CASE AGAINST HIM MAY BE ON VERGE OF FALLING APART
EROTICA DEATH BOMBSHELL: CITING LACK OF EVIDENCE, NASHVILLE DISTRICT ATTORNEY DECIDES NOT TO MOVE FORWARD WITH TRIAL OF YOUNG MILLIONAIRE SUSPECTED OF MURDER; DOZENS OF PROTESTORS OUTSIDE COURTHOUSE CRY CELEBRITY JUSTICE AS ALL CHARGES DROPPED
And then, about six months later:
A “HOT” LAWSUIT INDEED: AFTER COLLAPSE OF GOODE TRIAL, VICTIM’S PARENTS REVEAL PLANS TO FILE CLASS ACTION LAWSUIT AGAINST EROTICA AUTHORS FOR INSIPIRING SEX SESSION THAT KILLED YOUNG DAUGHTER; NATIONAL ROMANCE AUTHOR ASSOCIATION REMINDS COUPLE THAT BOOK SALES ARE PLUMMETING AND THAT VAST MAJORITY OF AUTHORS CLAIM NET WORTH IN THE DOZENS OF DOLLARS
I let out a little sigh and turn off my screen, unable to read any more. I almost wish I had never Googled him – I’d dug beneath the surface on my own volition and found nothing but bones. What a mess. But still, in the end, Stellan was never convicted of anything, and the true story of what happened that night may never come out. So what really went down? And even if I find out, will I ever be able to be around him again?
At least one thing is clear: I have never known of a better time to escape to my parents’ house and give myself some time to think.
I head downstairs, pour myself a glass of wine, and then return to my bed and take a few sips before stretching out and waiting for oblivion to take my away from all this. Soon the rain dies down and the wind subsides to a whisper, and just before I fall into the watery depths of sleep for good, a tiny prayer dances across the surface of my fading consciousness like a bug skipping across a still pond on a quiet afternoon:
Help me, Lord. No, seriously, help me, because I’m going to need it. I think I might be falling in love with a murderer.
†
At eleven the next morning I open the door to my shitty old Hyundai Genesis and find a Krispy Kreme box sitting on my front seat. I know I’m a bonehead for always leaving my car unlocked overnight, but still, why would I expect someone to come and leave me free donuts? I open the lid and find myself closing my eyes and inhaling the delicious smell- they’re fresh, from this morning, and one is missing. As my appetite whips to life I spot a little note that fell onto my floorboard, and my heart skips a beat as I pick it up and read it:
Babe-
Just wanted to stop by before leaving town and show you that I like you like you like donuts. Hope you’re hungry. I think you’re just grawesome, and I’ll see you soon.
Stell
PS – Okay, I confess, I took one. Please forgive me for swiping it.
I stare down at the paper for several seconds after I finish reading, my eyes unfocused, and for once, my heart doesn’t swell up at his adorable thoughtfulness. The cold, hard truth is that someone with a criminal past came to my house in the middle of the night and left me something in my car while I was asleep upstairs. I toss the paper on my floorboard and slide onto my seat- I have got to stop leaving this stupid car unlocked.
I merge onto the highway a few minutes later as the sordid details I learned last night circle around in my head, trying to come together in some way that makes sense to me. Some of the initial shock has been dulled after eight hours of sleep, and now I just want to figure out what happened, and figure out how I feel about what happened. Do I really think Stellan Goode is a murderer?
I’m simply not sure. If he killed Caitlin cut-and-dry, then why did the case fall apart? Wouldn’t it have been a slam-dunk conviction? I do find it very interesting that Caitlin’s parents wouldn’t cooperate and help get him thrown in jail, because if it was really Stellan’s fault, wouldn’t they have jumped at the opportunity to get revenge?
I reach over to grab my second donut, and I feel my eyes rest on his note again. I try not to smile, I can’t deny it: murderer or no murderer, the boy’s got style. I think back on all the adorable, considerate things he does- the way he remembered that lasagna thing; how he got me that Chap Stick; when he took that picture of us and seemed to cherish it so much. The Stellan I know is an angel, and an angel could never murder someone.
But then I remember his demon side. The side that takes possession of me and does whatever he wants to me without any thoughts of my wishes. Could that side of him have done this?
The more I think about it, the more I realize I’m not so sure. I even start to feel bad for thinking so negatively about him last night. I mean, yeah, he gets rough, but lots of people have rough sex and don’t kill someone because of it. I can tell he has bad forces inside of him, things that take over sometimes and motivate him to do bad things, but don’t we all? Hell, for all I know, Caitlin could’ve done it to herself. When I Googled her name, the stuff that came up made her seem a bit crazy- there were whispers of drug use and stints in rehab. Sure, Stellan’s rich parents could’ve bought his freedom just like every other millionaire who ever got charged with anything, but what if there was something more? (Another thing I learned last night is that Stellan’s father is connected to a branch of the Goode family in New York that is literally worth billions, with a B. No wonder his parents need security.) But what did the jury know that I don’t? Is Stellan Goode an angel or a demon?
And now for the biggest questions of all: could I ever see him again after this? And could I ever be intimate with him again, knowing what I know now?
The thing is, I don’t know. But I intend to make a decision. Soon.
Just before noon I turn into my neighborhood and sigh as heaps of worry and anxiety evaporate off my chest: this is just what I needed. My house is in a hilly, leafy neighborhood in the hills a half hour north of downtown Raleigh, and I wouldn’t have grown up anywhere else in the world even if I’d had the chance. Two-story brick Colonials, white picket fences, children playing in the street, the whole nine yards. Not only that, but Raleigh had the perfectly mild climate for me – we got all four seasons, with pumpkin-orange autumns and petal-pink springs, but the summers weren’t bad, and it rarely got miserably cold in the winter. North Carolina is God’s Country, a sign says as I turn onto my street, which makes me cringe so hard, my face starts to hurt.
Then why am I doing such sinful things here?
When I pull up in my driveway, I can’t help but smile up at my big brick house. My parents had bought it back when they actually had money, before everyone took care of their insurance needs with two clicks on Google, and so it’s bigger than it needs to be, with a huge kitchen leading into a cozy family room that connects to a pretty little sunroom where my mom paints mountain and marsh scenes in her free time. I love the family room in particular, and on the rare occasion that it snows here, I love to curl up on the ottoman in front of the fireplace wi
th my Kindle and my mom’s cat and get lost in a good book while the flames warm my feet and the snow falls outside. We’ve got a rolling backyard that descends down to a little garden with a fountain where deer come to hang out during the spring, and on the back porch is a swinging bench where I love to sit with my mom and talk about animals and boys and friends and life. Even the thought of losing this place because of my parents’ money problems breaks me open inside.
I enter the kitchen silently through the garage, place the box of donuts on the counter, and spot my mother sitting obliviously in the breakfast nook tinkering with some new hi-tech coffee maker that she just took out of the box.
“Cy,” she calls to my dad as he sits in the family room, “how the hell do you work this Keurig thing? What are all these little buttons and stuff? I just learned how to use the iPad, damn it, and I don’t have the brain space to memorize another gadget.”
“You put in the little flavor pod and then close the lid and press ‘power,’” I say, making both of them look up in excitement. “I swear, a monkey could learn faster than you, Mom.”
“My baby!” she bellows as she gets up and holds her arms out. I wrap myself up in her and get lost in her signature smell, a mixture of Chanel No. 5 and her Pantene Pro-V shampoo. I say a little thank-you up at the ceiling when I note that the stench of hard liquor is not involved in that mix of scents, at least not today. My mother and I share the same big brown eyes and brown hair, but her nose is straighter than mine and her hips are twice as wide, just another warning that my genes are soon going to fail me if I don’t change my lifestyle and start jogging again.
“Where’s the little guy?” I say as I look around the empty kitchen.
“Mimi took him for the next few days so I can prepare for the party,” she says with a roll of her eyes. “I have no idea how she’s going to be able to handle him. She’s already called twice saying he locked himself in the laundry room and wouldn’t come out, and then he peed on her front porch. I’m liable to get a call any minute saying the house burned down and there were no survivors.”
