by S. E. Lund
Lara stood, her hands on her hips. “What – are you looking for a dungeon or something? I can guarantee you there is none.”
“No,” McDonald said. “My uncle has one of these old places and is thinking of renovating. I like the way you’ve joined the two apartments.”
McDonald turned to me and smiled. “Really glad to see that you’re doing well. You were lucky that there was a security detail so close with medical training or you might have died.”
I nodded and handed him and St. James their coats.
“I know. Drake was concerned about my safety. He ordered the security detail a week or so before the accident. He was worried about Lisa.”
“He had good reason to be worried.”
With that, the two detectives said goodbye and left us alone. I turned to face Lara, who sat back down at her place on the sofa.
“Well?” I asked. “What do you think?"
Lara reached out and squeezed my arm. “There’s no way Drake wrote those emails. He would never complain, Kate. If he was unhappy in any way, he’d act. He wouldn’t whine. He’d fix things.”
“I know,” I said, squashing down the tiniest bit of doubt.
“They’re fakes. If Drake never said anything about emailing Lisa, I'm sure he didn't. Certainly not anything personal, unless he was trying to convince her to leave him alone."
"Why did they come by again? Just to show me the emails Drake supposedly sent to Lisa? They didn’t ask anything different than before.”
She shrugged. “The detectives like to get a sense of how a victim is doing and whether they might be lying. I’m sure they were looking for consistency in your story. Plus, maybe they showed you about the emails to see if you'd confess your doubts about Drake.”
She shrugged and raised her eyebrows as if helpless.
Of course, I felt a sick at the thought Drake was carrying on an email conversation with Lisa about anything personal. Why would he? If he did, it had to be to shut her up or stop her from pestering him. I knew Drake loved me… I knew he had no interest in Lisa…
I sighed. “I told them the same story already so I hope they have everything they need. I appreciate you coming by.”
She shook her head and waved me off. “Don’t mention it. I think I’ll stay until Drake gets back so we can talk about what happened.”
“Sounds good to me,” I said. At that moment, I heard some rustling from the bedroom on the baby monitor and went in to find Sophia was awake and kicking. Seeing her pretty little face made me relax a bit. I picked her up and carried her into the living room.
Lara stood and came over right away and looked at Sophie.
“She’s so beautiful, Kate. You must be very happy.”
I nodded and forced a smile. “I am. I wish all this was over.”
And then, I started to cry. Tears filled my eyes and I couldn’t help myself. I was so confused. So happy to have survived, so happy that Sophia was healthy and thriving. And yet – I felt like crying all the time. Even thought I didn’t really believe it, the idea that Drake had been secretly emailing Lisa all along made it worse.
“Oh, poor Kate,” Lara said and put an arm around me, kissing my forehead. “I'm sure Drake isn't involved with Lisa. In fact, I know he isn't. These are fake emails that she's made, nothing more. I know he has absolutely no interest in her. None."
"I know," I said and part of me fought with myself. I knew Drake had no interest in Lisa… "I seem to cry so easily now."
"It’s the baby blues,” she said and squeezed Sophie and me. “I’ve read about it. All new mothers get it for a few days or weeks.”
“It’s been months,” I said tearfully. “I still cry at the drop of a hat.”
“Does Drake know?” she asked and pushed hair from my face.
I shook my head. “I don’t want to upset him,” I said, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. “I should be happy. Why can’t I be happy?”
She sat me down and took Sophie from me. Then, Lara glanced at me.
“You have PTSD, sweets,” she said, her face so solemn. “You better go to a psychiatrist or see a therapist. It’s very common in victims of crime. You had a terrible time of it – almost dying, losing your uterus, being in a coma. Drake should be aware of this.”
“I don’t want to burden him,” I said. “It’s been hard on Drake having this happen – Lisa attacking me, him giving up his Fellowship, putting his career on hold.”
“Sweetie,” Lara said and made a face. “This happened to you as well. Drake is much stronger than you give him credit. You can rely on him. Believe me.”
“He didn’t sign up for all this,” I said with a catch in my throat. “He had everything in his life arranged the way he wanted it. It was all going smoothly. Then I came along and now his whole life is different. He never wanted to get married, he didn’t ever think he’d be a father…”
Lara sat closer to me and put her arm around my shoulder. I took Sophie back from her.
“Hun, believe me, he is so happy that all this happened. He was trying to keep busy so he didn’t have to think about why his personal life was a mess and why his marriage failed. He said to me once that he was never happier than when he was with you. He finally felt that he had a real life and not a busy schedule. So, don’t ever think he regrets meeting you and doesn’t want all this. And don't for a moment believe he was secretly writing to Lisa.”
I let her hug me and tried to accept what she said but it was hard.
“You have the baby blues, hun,” she said and looked me in the eye, brushing my tears off my cheek. “I’m going to stay here until Drake gets back so I can talk to him, make sure he understands that you’re not doing well. He’s a doctor, sweets. He knows how to handle this. He almost went into psychiatry, if I recall correctly.”
“No, please,” I said and sat up straighter, putting Sophie on my shoulder. “I’ll talk to him. I promise. You go home. I realize now that my hormones are probably out of whack and that’s why I’ve been a bit sad.”
She glanced at me with narrowed eyes. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice hesitant. “You have to promise me you’ll talk to him.”
“I promise,” I said quickly. “I’ll talk to him tonight. After I let him tell me what happened with the editor. Then, I'll ask him about the emails.”
“Promise?” she said again. “I’ll call him myself and will let him know if you don’t.”
I shook my head and waved my hand. “I promise.”
She stood up and looked me over from head to toe. “You look back to normal, Kate, but your hormones aren’t. You have to let Drake know for your own good.”
“I will,” I said and forced a smile. If Lara didn’t believe me, she left anyway.
"And tell him to call me and talk to me about the Herald article. We need some kind of PR response, depending on what it says."
"I'll tell him as soon as he gets in."
I thanked her once more for coming over and closed the door, glad for her to be gone so I could prepare for Drake’s return. I didn’t want him to arrive home to find Lara there with me. I had to pull myself together so I could ask him about the emails to Lisa, listen to what he had to say, and then decide what to think. When he was ready, I’d tell him about my sadness, but there was so much other crap going on in our lives now, I didn’t want to burden him with my own lack of happiness.
I put Sophia down in her swing and went to the kitchen, determined to call Quance and order some food for us. Drake would be hungry when he returned and I didn’t want him to come home to no supper on the table. Besides, cleaning would help me push thoughts about Drake's email to Lisa out of my mind for at least a little while…
Chapter 3 : Drake
I checked in with the front desk clerk who doubled as a security guard. He had me sign a roster and then gave me a temporary ID card. I took the elevator up to the fifth floor and emerged out of the elevator into a posh room with a modular reception desk and a pretty youn
g blond sitting behind it.
“You're working late," I said when I went to the desk.
"The press never sleeps," she said with a smile. "Are you Dr. Morgan?"
I nodded. "Yes. I’m here to see Ms. Peterson.”
She looked me over and smiled brightly. “Please go into the waiting room. She’s down at the news room for an editorial meeting but I’ll let her know you’re here.”
I nodded and went to the small waiting room, taking a seat by a table upon which lay a dozen glossy magazines. I checked my cell to see what time it was and then scanned the headlines on my news app.
Within about five minutes, the elevator doors opened and off walked Janice Peterson herself – late thirties, long blond hair to her shoulders, dressed in a crisp white dress and jacket. The skirt of her dress was rumpled and she looked tired, but she smiled when she saw me.
“Dr. Morgan,” she said, all professional. “Thanks for agreeing to meet with me.”
She offered her hand and we shook, her grip firm. Then, she led me into a corner office, which had floor to ceiling windows on each side of the room, overlooking Manhattan. It was quite impressive. I didn’t realize how high up in the food chain she must be.
She pointed to a chair across from her desk and I waited until she sat and then I followed suit.
“Well, you must be curious about why I called you here,” she said, sitting back in her chair, eyeing me carefully.
“I admit I was. I assume you’ve dug up something about my past and want my reaction.”
“Precisely. One of my reporters came to me with a story about you and well,” she said and laughed a bit sardonically. “I felt a need to check it out myself and then I realized I needed to give you the chance to respond before we went to press.”
“I appreciate that,” I said, crossing my legs and sitting back, trying to relax while preparing myself for what I’d find in the article.
“Like I said in my email, I usually do this over the phone, but in your case, I wanted to talk to you in private. Here’s the article,” she said and searched through a pile of print documents on her desk. “You can look at it but I have to get that back.”
She leaned over and handed me the four-paragraph article with a few red marks on it. I read it over. It described me as the husband of Katherine McDermott, daughter of the well-respected former Supreme Court of New York justice, Ethan McDermott. It said she was involved in a hit and run attempted murder near Central Park in June. The article covered the incident and that Kate had emergency surgery to deliver Sophia. It also mentioned that Kate had to have a hysterectomy and would never have another baby. I frowned when I read that, not wanting the whole world to know that. It was none of their goddamned business as far as I was concerned.
I kept reading and then came to the section that I was sure she called me down to discuss.
It described me as a Dominant in Manhattan’s BDSM community, and said I had been involved for the past six years. According to sources, I was into bondage and dominance, often did demonstrations of rope technique, and had several mistresses over the years. The suggested headline was ‘Manhattan’s Real Mr. Grey’.
“I’m not him,” I said and threw down the article. “If you and your reporter knew anything about BDSM, you’d never even consider that for a headline. I’m so far from him that anyone in the lifestyle would laugh you out of the room.”
“I know that,” she said. “My reporter asked around and people have said that you’re a kitten compared to him. But,” she said and looked at me pointedly. “We also spoke to someone who thinks you have a mean streak in you. She showed us some photographs of her bruises and welts.”
“Who?” I asked, my back stiffening. It had to be Sunita, of course. She was the only submissive I had ever tried using a flogger and cane on – at her insistence. It was during the time when Lara was trying to see if I had any sadism in me. She tried, but of course she never found any.
“Who is none of your business right now. Let’s say she has incriminating photographs and video which suggest you are into pain, no matter what you claim.”
I shook my head. “There isn’t any sadism in me. Quite the opposite. I love pleasure, not pain. Administering a punishment, such as a spanking, is done solely to reinforce our roles and I didn’t enjoy it. I didn’t get off on pain – not in the least bit.”
She raised her eyebrows at me. “I saw the pictures. I saw you with her in various poses. And the video is, well, pretty damning.”
I sighed heavily, and regretted again that I had ever agreed to do that video.
“That was when I was learning and discovering who I was. I learned that I didn’t like pain – giving or receiving. I made sure from then on to screen my partners very carefully so I didn’t get anyone who expected pain or was into it.”
She nodded. “So my reporter says, but we still want to include that woman’s experience in our story, although we will protect her privacy. And of course, we won’t be showing any of the graphic parts of the video on our website.”
“What about my privacy?”
She shook her head and smiled. “I’m sorry, Dr. Morgan, but you don’t have the luxury of privacy any longer. Especially now that your wife’s case is in the news. You better prepare yourself. It’s not going to be pleasant for you or your wife.”
“Why did you ask me here if you’re going to run the story anyway?”
She shrugged. “I wanted you to have a chance to tell your side of things. We’ll present both sides – your story and her story and let our readers decide which one is more believable.”
I exhaled and leaned back. “The truth is that this woman you interviewed – and I know who it has to be because there was only ever one woman who might talk about pain when speaking of me and who would have a video-- she’s a very unhappy young woman. She had a bit of an obsession with me and so she might be vindictive. If she says I enjoyed administering a punishment, she’s lying. That’s why we ended our association in fact. She wanted it and I didn’t.”
“That’s not what she said. She said you enjoyed it and she broke up with you because you weren’t skilled enough. You actually hurt her."
I sighed at the prospect that Sunita had lied about me. Again. She must have been hoping to hurt me, hurt my career, my relationship even more than she had already.
“Have you done any background research on Sunita?”
“We have,” she said and nodded, a pencil in her hand. “We don’t blame victims.”
“She wasn’t a victim,” I said a bit more forcefully than I wanted. “She did this voluntarily. She signed waivers—.”
“That doesn’t mean she isn’t still a victim. She was abused as a child, you know. She grew up being abused. Someone like that can’t consent. It would be like saying that it was okay for her ex-husband to beat her because she agreed to live in his house.”
“It’s not the same at all. Safe, sane and consensual—.”
“No, no,” she said and held out a hand, wagging her finger, interrupting me. “Don’t try to tell me that people who do this are sane. Sorry. Not buying it.”
What could I say to that? Of course, I knew that a small percentage of people who got into BDSM did so to work through trauma. Some people found BDSM attractive as a way to deal with their issues. Most people liked the excitement of trying new things.
“She was a consenting adult. Any psychiatrist could tell you that.”
“Consent is a tricky concept, Doctor. Can you consent when you’re mentally ill?”
I closed my eyes. It was a question I had often thought of and why I steered clear of anyone who seemed the least bit motivated by a need to work through childhood trauma.
“She wasn’t mentally ill.”
We stared at each other across her desk. Finally, I took in a deep breath.
“Look, I can’t stop you from publishing that article or releasing that video. But you should know that Sunita had a history before she ever met me. She
was looking for something. I was looking for something else. It didn’t work out for us and I moved on although she was quite upset for a while. If she suggests that I’m a sadist in any way, she’s lying. Plain and simple.”
Peterson made a face, holding the pencil between her hands and playing with it. “That’s what other people told us – people who know you both. I wanted to meet you and see what you had to say for yourself.”
“What I have to say is this,” I said and leaned forward. “Lisa Monroe is a very sick woman. She was stalking me, jealous of my happy marriage, and when she was expelled from the program at NYU, she attacked my wife, almost killing her in the process. We had a few brief encounters at private parties— “
“Dungeon parties,” she added, her eyebrows raised.
“Private parties,” I said again, and when she and her partner indicated they were interested in a threesome, I turned them down. You can contact Derek Richardson if you want. He’ll back up my story.”
“The Derek Richardson?” she said, an expression of surprise on her face. I grimaced, realizing that I’d outed him as a BDSM aficionado, but he was so rich that I doubted it would affect his business.
I nodded. “Yes. I spoke with him about Lisa and he said he was concerned about her mental health. You should talk to him.”
She wrote something down on a sheet of paper. “You seem to have surrounded yourself with troubled women, Dr. Morgan.”
I said nothing in reply. What could I say? I had the bad luck to run into two women who had emotional issues.
“So are you going to run the article as it is?” I asked, impatient.
She shrugged. “I’ll think about it. I’ll talk to legal and see what they say but I can’t promise anything. You must realize, Dr. Morgan, that your situation is public now. If I don’t run this story, some other paper will. We have the exclusive interview with this woman. We’ll run it. I have a responsibility to the shareholders.” Then she shrugged as if she had no other choice.
“Can you include some of your other sources?” I asked. “Sources that support my side of the story, at least?”
