Power Bottom

by Jeremy Jenkins

  I hesitated. And oh, how that hesitation cost me.

  Like a flying monkey, she collided with me and flailed.

  I felt a cold bite on the side of my neck where the blade of the knife kissed my flesh. I didn’t feel any pain yet, though, so the cut couldn’t have been too bad.

  Claire appeared next to me and tackled the crazy woman off of me.

  She had the woman pinned on the bed, her knees pressing on the woman’s wrists. Even still, Claire had to pry the knife from her hand.

  I leaned over the bed to check on the guy tied down — now that I got a closer look at him, horror unfurled within me as I recognized a striking resemblance to Luke.

  The guy was blonde, had a slight form, and big puffy lips like two rose petals pressed together.

  “What’s the status on him?” Claire asked loudly over the woman’s screams.

  “Drugged,” I said, prying one of the dude’s eyes open.

  “Another one?” Claire asked.

  “I guess so,” I said, gnashing my teeth together.

  This man was the third our squad had found in a month.

  Later, me and Claire were leaning against the fence next to the house, backup and EMTs whirling around. Backup rounded up the Russians and took them into custody. Other members of our squad were sweeping the property, and our detective was inside looking for evidence.

  “There you go, this shouldn’t be too bad,” the EMT working on me said.

  He’d already numbed the area on my neck and finished giving me my two stitches. The acrid smell of rubbing alcohol drifted up to my nostrils as the numb tugging sensation stopped.

  “Band-aid?” the EMT asked.

  “Sure,” I said. Then I thought of Luke — he would worry about this cut. “How bad is it?”

  “Not bad,” the EMT said, examining it.

  But his smile didn’t reach his eyes.

  I felt a gentle pressing sensation as the EMT pressed the bandage to the side of my neck.

  “There. All fixed up, ready to rock ’n roll.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  The EMT wandered back to the ambulance, leaving Claire and me alone.

  We were quiet for a few seconds, and I was surprised to find that I didn’t like the absence of her chatter.

  “Do you think that kid’s going to be okay?” I asked.

  “You mean that gremlin in the house? Yeah, probably, CPS is taking him in.”

  “No, I meant the guy on the bed.”

  I couldn’t stop picturing that guy as Luke, tied up and helpless.

  She blinked a few times. “Yeah, he’s alive. But we’ll know more once the detective starts asking him questions.”

  Sometimes I wished I was a detective. Then I’d at least get the satisfaction of knowing what happened after something like this. When you were just a foot soldier, you never got to find out.

  That was the part I liked least about my job — the not knowing.

  “This is the third one we’ve found,” I said ominously.

  Claire nodded slowly. I had the curious sensation that she could see where my mind was going. “He seems to have a type, doesn’t he?”

  All of this serial killer’s victims were blonde guys around Luke’s age. All of them had similar builds; all of them had nearly identical faces.

  All of them looked like Luke.

  “We’ll catch him,” Claire encouraged. “We always do.”

  “I hope you’re right,” I said gruffly as we got back in the cop car. Finally, I dug my hand into the bag and pulled out my Boston Cream donut.

  When I took a bite, I felt the sweet custard explode in my mouth. It tasted like happiness. It tasted like heaven.

  It was a momentary distraction from the fear quivering inside my body. I had to put on a brave face and look like none of this was getting to me. Inside I was terrified.

  How long until I stormed a room and Luke was the one tied on the bed — and not in a good way? Was it safe for him to be walking around outside?

  I finished my donut, and Claire handed me a fresh coffee. The warm cup heated my cold hands.

  “Thank you, Claire,” I said, gratitude dripping on my voice.

  I was really starting to like her. Maybe this partner would be a good fit after all.

  “No problem, Big Guy,” she said with a wink.

  “You were on top of your shit in there.”

  “Of course I was. Why do you think I finished first in the academy?”

  “People underestimate you,” I admitted, coming to terms with how I’d underestimated her for weeks.

  She stretched out in the driver’s seat. “You know what they say… play to your strengths.”

  I smiled as I took a sip of the coffee. The bitter dark roast swirled in my mouth, bringing life to my exhausted post-adrenaline body.

  “Alright, let’s see what the damage is,” I said, flipping the visor down so I could peer in the mirror. “Oh, fuck.”

  Along my neck was a wide bandage — one of the white cloth-looking ones with tape. Cotton balls were stuffed underneath to absorb the blood.

  “Yeah…” Claire said softly. “That bitch must’ve been sharpening that knife because she sliced through a few layers of skin.”

  “How did it not hurt that much when it happened?!” I exclaimed, touching the bandage carefully.

  “You ever been cut before? A sharp knife doesn’t feel like anything,” she explained. “I’m surprised she kept it sharp — my boyfriend is always gettin’ on my case about sharpening our knives after I use them, but it’s such a pain, you know? I’ve got better things to do with my time…”

  She continued to babble, her chatter soothing this time.

  I took another look at the huge bandage on my neck in the mirror, my mind circling one singular thought:

  Luke was going to kill me.

  Luke

  The sound of sirens outside echoed through the halls of Parsons.

  I twitched.

  Could that be trouble with Adam? Would he be okay?

  Shifting my weight so I could carry my supply bag with one hand, I plucked my phone out of my pocket.

  The screen was blank.

  The nervousness quivered deep in my stomach as I felt my all-consuming fear plunge through me.

  That quiver was always a canary in a coal mine; it was a threat from my brain saying, you need to get your shit together, or I’m going to make you pay.

  I tucked my phone back into my pocket with a frown.

  As I walked down the bright, open hallway, the other students blurred out of focus as I fixated on Adam. I knew that he couldn’t get to his personal phone when he was on the job, but it put me in the dark. It left me waiting nervously in anticipation, wondering if he was okay.

  I didn’t know if he was hurt; I didn’t know if he was dead.

  He could be dead right now, and I wouldn’t know.

  Again, my brain whipped up images of handsome, manly cop-Adam spread out on a gurney. Only this time, the memory of that Russian Tarot reader came to the forefront of my mind to reinforce it.

  She’d pulled that jester card and said I was at the beginning of something; to enjoy it while it lasts.

  My fingers began to flutter at my sides as my steps quickened toward my classroom.

  Could it be possible? Was Adam hurt or dead?

  No… there was something inside of me that felt like if Adam died, I’d be able to feel it somehow. There had to be some sort of intuitive sense that would tell me.

  He couldn’t just disappear… right?

  I hurried into the classroom, already a bag of sizzling nerves.

  What most people didn’t think about mental illness was accessibility. All of these people with perfectly healthy brains could just waltz on into this classroom and pick a seat wherever they wanted.

  But I had severe anxiety, and the anxiety demanded that I sit close to the door. In case I had a panic attack, I needed to be able to dash out of the classroom at
a moment’s notice.

  And I already felt the tingling sensation threatening in my fingertips.

  When I sat in the stool next to the door, I spread out my supplies on the flat desk in front of me, trying to concentrate on breathing. I organized the scissors, the compass, the swatches of fabric, and my drawing pad into a neat grid.

  Sorting everything where I could see it gave me a slight sense of control.

  That kept my anxiety at bay for now.

  Professor King entered the room, carrying an aura of power. She must have just come from a meeting with the administration.

  There was no, “Hi, how are you, class?” There was no, “How did you all sleep last night?” or any of the pleasantries of the sort.

  Without any of the usual nonsense greetings, she jumped straight to the point like a typical New Yorker.

  There was only a sharp gaze at the ten students scattered throughout the space and a short, “Today we will be working on themed work. By the end of the class, you will all have a theme.”

  “Wasn’t this going to be a semester-long project?” A mousy girl in the back asked.

  “Not anymore,” Professor King quipped as if the closing of her mouth on that last syllable was closing a box of hope. “You will pick themes today, and by the end of the class, you will be locked in for the rest of the semester.”

  “But what about Nell? She isn’t here today,” another girl in the class piped up.

  “She’s out of luck, my dear,” Professor King quipped. “This is why we have a zero-tolerance policy for tardiness or attendance.”

  “That’s not school-wide, that’s just you,” a sassy gay from the back said.

  “Right. And this is how I choose to run my classroom. This is what the fashion industry is like — it’s not fair, it’s not reasonable, and it can change the rules on you at any time.”

  “I’m going to report you to the dean!” the sassy gay threatened.

  “See if I give a hoot,” Professor King fired back.

  I watched as he cowed down under her thumb.

  “Any more protests? The clock is ticking,” she reminded us, glancing at her watch. “You have two hours and fifty-four minutes to come up with themes, drawings, and color pallet. Go.”

  The class stared at her, mouths agape.

  “GO!” she cried.

  A fire lit up inside of me, but it wasn’t due to my anxiety. If anything, the monster seemed farther away than ever.

  I was in my element. I knew exactly what to do. Even with the time limit, it felt like more of a challenge than a limitation.

  I could do this. I knew at my core that I could.

  Diving into my supply bag, I pulled out the tarot deck I’d bought at that Russian florist’s store. I’d been thinking about the anachronous art style on them, a cog in my mind whirling away with ideas on how I’d turn them into designs.

  And then I began to draw.

  As soon as my pencil touched the paper, I was in the zone. It was like I was in a trance, and time slipped by without making a single sound.

  I was focused; I was on. This was the only time during my day that I wasn’t running from my anxiety; that I didn’t feel it press uncomfortably close to the edges of my thoughts.

  Suddenly, an idea popped into my head like it had been placed there by a god. The idea was too good to be my own — the deities of fashion design must have slid it into my mind through my ear.

  I scribbled furiously, weaving together themes and ideas. The tarot cards I’d picked up from Vikka’s flower shop fanned across my desk, each one looking slightly macabre.

  Time ticked by, and I was riding the flow of inspiration like a wave. It was at moments like these, and when I was in Adam’s arms that I was truly happy.

  Midway through the class, Professor King started to walk carefully among the rows of students.

  My eyes were glued to my page. I was busy coming up with designs, so I didn’t see her until she was right on top of me.

  I looked up at her face, breaking my concentration.

  Her sand-colored eyes flicked down to my drawing pad, and her lips pursed together.

  But I saw it.

  There was a flash in her eyes, a subtle opening of the lids as she took in what I was drawing.

  It was genuine excitement.

  She raised her head gracefully and left, the ghost of a smile lifting the corners of her mouth.

  I was over the moon. I thought this idea was fantastic, and apparently, she did, too. That validation only fueled my creative engine even more.

  For the first time, I finished all of my work early. There was still a half-hour left in the class, so I used the time to review what I had drawn.

  Pages and pages of sketches filled my drawing pad, and I smiled as I flicked through them. There was a drawing based on The Fool tarot card, which was a nearly nude, slim female form clad in a sheer nude slip, with ropes artfully draped around her body. Her hair would be loose like she was fresh and new, naive.

  Just like me.

  Another drawing depicted a design based on my Queen of Wands card. I’d done some quick phone research on that one last night since it showed up in my reading. It meant “domination.”

  I loved it.

  So I designed a red dress with a thick, voluminous skirt and chains draped delicately on the sides. The sides of the bodice opened up to expose the model’s skin, but some straps attached the front to back like fabric ribs. Silver studs dotted along them like long ellipses.

  It reminded me of one of Adam’s Dom outfits.

  Those were only two of the design ideas I’d come up with — in total, I’d drawn fifty. Throughout those fifty sketches, I’d successfully combined Tarot with a distinct BDSM style.

  “Excellent, Mr. DuPont,” Professor King stated from behind me.

  I jumped a little, surprised that she was still lurking.

  “You’ve outdone yourself. Rarely do I see a student get it on the first try.”

  “Th-thank you,” I said, feeling pride course through me.

  “I look forward to seeing what you do with this. It’s quite an outstanding idea. I’m afraid execution might be a little more difficult for you.”

  I tried not to let my expression shine through. What was that supposed to mean?

  Then she drifted away, her posture as straight and graceful as a ballerina’s.

  When I got home later that night, my mood was considerably lighter. The constant trembling that was continuously vibrating deep in my body felt muted. Still there, but muted.

  Today was one of my longer days — where my last class ended at seven, well after the sunset. So when I walked into the house, Adam was already there.

  “Adam!!” I cried out when I stepped through the threshold.

  “I’m up here, babe!” he called from the top of the stairs.

  Even though neither of us had forgotten the fight we had last night, I shelved it for a moment. Adam and I were together again, and I would cherish it.

  I walked past the playroom and thumped up the stairs.

  Every day when I came home, I was so grateful that Adam was still there. I knew there was always a chance he wouldn’t come home; a chance he’d gotten hurt.

  But when I entered our living room, I saw the proof right there that he was okay. He was sprawled out on our leather couch in a pair of jeans and a tight black turtleneck that clung to his superman-shaped body in just that way.

  “I missed you so much,” I said, flinging myself into his warm arms.

  All of a sudden, that fight we had last night didn’t seem to matter all that much. My warm need for him replaced my anger. This was the type of need that was the siamese twin of my anxiety.

  In my anxiety’s absence, the need took hold.

  “Luke!” Adam said, getting up off the couch to hug me.

  Every time we reunited like this, there was a solid feeling deep inside of me. I knew on a deep level that I belonged here in Adam’s arms. The circumsta
nces around us didn’t matter — it didn’t matter if we were still in the small town, or New York City, or wherever. As long as I had Adam by my side, I was happy.

  He squeezed me, wrapping his big, muscular arms around my body.

  I felt the warmth of my engagement ring on my finger, like it was glowing whenever I hugged Adam like this.

  Once I pulled away, I sat on the couch next to him and told him about my day.

  When I finished, I asked how his went.

  “Oh, it was fine,” he said evasively.

  I sensed a cold wind stirring the grass. We were teetering on the edges of that fight we had last night.

  “What happened?” I asked, trying to keep the suspicion out of my voice.

  “Today? Nothing, it was a normal day,” he said.

  I could tell he was lying. He was doing it to protect me, I was sure.

  I looked into his deep green eyes sadly, wondering why he felt the need to hide things from me.

  “So, that sounds like a good idea, what you came up with for your themed piece,” he said. “It’s based on BDSM stuff? You want to show me?”

  I could tell he was trying to distract me.

  His hand went to his neck, and I fixated on his engagement ring there, shining in the light. My eyes drifted to the side of it and noticed something white poking out, just a few centimeters out of his turtleneck.

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “What?”

  I gestured to his neck.

  “My shirt?”

  “Drop the charade, Adam. You know what I’m pointing at.”

  His shoulders sagged, and he looked forlorn. “It’s just a scratch.”

  “Let me see it,” I commanded, my voice bossy.

  “You don’t need to see it. It’s just a scratch.”

  “Well, from the look of that bandage, it doesn’t look like just a scratch,” I mocked.

  My voice was getting meaner. I could hear it, and I hated it, but I couldn’t help myself. My fear teased out the worst parts of me.

  “Leave it alone,” Adam said.

  “No, show me!” I cried, lunging forward.

  I was suddenly possessed by a ravenous need to see what he was hiding under his bandage.

  “Luke, stop it!” Adam cried, trying to wiggle away.