Dirtiest Secret

by J. Kenner

  "Colin? What is it?"

  "You should never have been there in the first place." His head is tilted down and his voice is soft, so that I can barely make out the words. I watch his shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. "If Eli hadn't taken you to London...if you hadn't snuck away to visit..."

  "But I did," I whisper. Does he think I haven't thought of that before, a million times already?

  "I don't like it. I don't like knowing that you'll probably never know who or why. And somehow it just makes it all worse because it should never have been you."

  He lifts his head to look at me. His eyes are red and his voice is thick. "My poor, sweet baby girl. Oh, god, it should never have happened to you."

  --

  Later, I am leaning back in the cushioned outdoor rocker and read the social worker's dialogue I just wrote. My intent is for the filmmaker to overlay her voice on top of scenes showing the children trapped and scared in the hot warehouse into which the kidnappers had driven the bus. So while the social worker is giving the parents hollow comfort, the children are terrified.

  The trauma of a kidnapping is like the death of a child. It will always be with you. It will haunt you at the oddest times, and there is no defense against the rush of fear, of grief. And, sometimes, of guilt.

  I'm not sure if I've got it right on the page of the screenplay, but in my mind, the scene is perfectly clear. The terror. The uncertainty. The cold even in the warmest room, because there is no way to soothe the icy fear that fills your veins and makes you shiver.

  I don't know how those kids found comfort, but I survived only because of Dallas. His strength and, yes, his touch.

  I sigh, then put my laptop aside and stand. I need to focus on the work. My memories can help me, but I can't let them take over.

  I cross to the edge of the terrace and look out over my neighborhood at the stunning townhouses filled with people and their secrets. In a weird way, it's comforting to know that they all have secrets. They all have things they regret, things they want, things they lost. Some have probably suffered more than I have.

  I barely know these people, but I know I'm not alone, and it's a nice feeling. I breathe in, wondering if my social worker should say something like that to the parents. Maybe in act two, when--

  I catch a glimpse of the outdoor clock and curse. It's already close to four and I'm not showered or dressed. Damn.

  I hurry back inside and then down the stairs to my bedroom. I know Brody will forgive me if I'm late, but it will drive me crazy. I start stripping off my clothes the moment I'm through my door, and by the time I've crossed to my bathroom, I'm naked.

  I get the shower going, and step in. I tilt my head back, and as I let the water wash over my face, I'm still thinking of Dallas. Still thinking of the dark and the terror. There'd been the Jailer, who came to me only once, his face hidden and his voice altered. And the Woman, who brought us food. She always wore a loose, flowing gown like a caftan, so shapeless it was impossible to tell if she was thin or curvy. She kept her hair hidden beneath a hood, and she wore a carnival-style black mask.

  After the initial horror of cat food and starvation, she came somewhat regularly, leaving overcooked slabs of meat or cold cans of vegetables on the floor. There were no knives, no forks. And only one bottle of water at a time.

  But mostly she stayed away, and in the gray light, Dallas and I lost ourselves in each other.

  The first time had been sweet and tender and wonderful despite the hell of our situations and surroundings. It had been an escape. A release.

  Hell, sex had been a sanctuary into which we disappeared as often as we could, losing ourselves in each other. Comforting. Soothing. Making silent promises that we would always be there for the other. That somehow, together, we were strong enough to survive.

  We weren't always together, though. Sometimes the Woman came to separate us. To take me away to a dark room where I'd be tied to a cement table. Bound and left there for hours, terrified that this was the end. That the bitch would simply leave me there to die.

  As bad as that was, it was worse when she took Dallas from me. The not knowing was like torture to me--and, honestly, I think that torture is exactly what they did to Dallas during those long, lonely hours. Because each time they brought him back he would pull away from me. Not forever, but at first. As if he was afraid to touch me. As if each moment they kept us apart was a brick in a wall dividing us, and with each return we had to break through that wall and find each other again.

  We did though. We always did. And each time he pulled me close and thrust hard inside me, it had been both a victory and a tragedy. We were alive, yes. But we knew damn well that we might never touch each other again.

  Nothing was taboo between us, nothing shameful. We loved each other. And so help us, we were trying to cram a lifetime into those dark days that might be our last. We never thought about the consequences, and in retrospect we were lucky I didn't get pregnant. I don't know why--maybe I'm not fertile. Or maybe I was so thin from near-starvation that there was no way it could happen.

  Even if we'd thought about it, though, we wouldn't have stopped. As far as we knew, we'd be dead before the sun came up. But more than that, we needed each other. Hell, we saved each other.

  And each time Dallas kissed me--each time he held me close and moved inside me--each time he made me explode so that for at least that moment I was free--I knew that I would always need him. Would always love him.

  And somehow, I would always find my way back to him.

  Now, in the real world with our past haunting us, I just have to figure out how.

  I know that I need to get dressed, but when I leave the shower, my mind is too full of Dallas, and my body too tense with the need for release.

  I hesitate, but I want this. The touch. The fantasy.

  And so I stretch out on the bed, my body damp, and slide my hand between my legs. I stroke myself, slowly at first and then with more purpose, my fingers sure as I draw them over my swollen clit, now wet and slick.

  I should get up. I should tear my thoughts from the past--from Dallas. I should be doing about a million things other than masturbating, my legs shamelessly wide and my thoughts on the man I want between them.

  But I don't stop. I won't stop.

  I want this. I think I even need it. And this time I close my eyes and let myself slide back into the past again.

  I think about the night before he left for boarding school and the story he'd told me in the dark about how much he'd craved our first real kiss that night, and how hot he thought I looked even in a stupid Looney Tunes T-shirt.

  And I remember the wonder in his eyes when he'd first seen me naked in that dark, dank room, lit only by the dim glow of a flickering yellow bulb.

  I think about the way his hands felt, so strong and sure even at fifteen. And I recall the way his fingers had roamed, exploring every inch of me, making my skin quiver. He'd been so sweet the first time, so afraid of hurting me. But I'd welcomed the pain, because it was Dallas giving it to me. Not strangers in the dark. Not shadows and monsters.

  I'm so wet, and I buck my hips and quicken the small circles as I stroke my clit, as I think about other times. His touch, his mouth, his cock. I imagine he's inside me now, his body warm against mine, his voice whispering that it will be okay. That we're together. That it will all be fine.

  And it's that voice that takes me higher and higher. I cling to the memory of it as I touch myself with more urgency. As I whimper and shift and try to find satisfaction. And then, finally, as I explode, my cry echoing through my quiet bedroom.

  I gasp and try to gather myself, but I'm spent, utterly limp. And it's only when I let my head drift to the side that I realize it's now four-thirty and all I've managed is a shower and an orgasm. I have to get all the way to Brody's apartment in the Village by five.

  I scramble out of bed and pull on a stretchy cotton maxi skirt and a funky, flowy top I bought on my last trip to Lon
don. I'm searching for my sandals and wondering how long it will take to get a cab when the doorbell chime reverberates through the floor.

  I ignore it at first, but when it chimes again, I remember that it's Ellen's day off and hurry downstairs. There's a security camera camouflaged inside the porch light, and when I glance at the monitor at the base of the stairs, I gasp.

  I'd expected a delivery. Maybe a neighbor.

  Instead, it's Dallas.

  For a moment I consider pretending like I'm not home. For one thing, I'm in a hurry to get to Brody's and don't really have time to talk. For another, considering what I'd just been thinking--what I'd just been doing--I'm feeling a tad awkward about letting him in. As if he'll be able to smell his scent on me. As if he'll look in my eyes and know that I touch myself while thinking of him.

  But I can't quite bring myself to ignore him. After all, I'll be spending time with him on the island this weekend, so I probably could use the practice. And besides, I was the one who invited him over. I was the one who said we should get together. That we should try to be friends.

  And now here he is, outside on my stoop.

  And here I am, inside eating my words.

  I draw a breath, push the button to unlock the door to the foyer, and hurry to meet him.

  "Hey," I say as I pull open the door and invite him in. I'm certain my smile is awkward, and I can't help but feel like he's about to take me to prom. It's an awkward, twitchy feeling, but I remind myself that the point of this exercise is to get comfortable around him again. A little twitchiness is to be expected.

  "Right. So come on in." My words are really not necessary as he's already stepped into the room, looking like he belongs here. Which, of course he does, as it was once one of his family homes, too.

  He's carrying a canvas grocery bag and he holds it up with one hand and reaches inside with his other. When he pulls out a Resident Evil game cartridge, I have to laugh.

  "You were serious?"

  "I'm always serious about zombies." His tone is bland, which only makes me laugh harder.

  "You are going to be so disappointed," I say.

  "You're that good?"

  "I'm that bad," I admit. "Truly. I've got a friend with an old Pac-Man in his living room. Even that's too much game for me."

  His lips twitch with amusement--which is unfortunate as I find myself remembering just how they feel against my skin. "This isn't a problem," he assures me. "I like to win."

  "Well, then you're going to love playing with me."

  "I know I will."

  He's looking right at me as he says it, and suddenly the double-meaning of our words is all too clear, and what had been a light banter between us has turned into something much more provocative.

  "I--"

  I have no idea what I was going to say, so it's good that he interrupts me.

  "And there's more," he says hurriedly, reaching into the tote and pulling out a clear plastic bag filled with my favorite snack in the world.

  "Chocolate covered popcorn? From Serenity on Seventh? I take back every bad thing I've ever said about you."

  He chuckles. "Then it was entirely worth the seven-bucks-fifty." He nods toward the stairs. "Come on. Let's play."

  Once again, our eyes meet. Once again, neither one of us acknowledges how we really want to play.

  "I'll get drinks and a bowl for the popcorn," I say quickly. "You go get the game set up."

  I don't wait for him to agree, I just hurry to the kitchen, press my hands to the counter so I can draw a few slow, calming breaths, and then start to put together a tray.

  I hesitate over the wine--because who knows where alcohol will lead, and the point of this evening is to see if we can force a wild lust to downshift to just friends.

  Right, I think. Sparkling water it is.

  I take the tray up to the game room and find that he's already set everything up. I ease in beside him and pick up my controller and try to remember exactly what I'm supposed to do with all these damn buttons.

  Fortunately, Dallas takes pity on me and gives me a little tutorial, walking me through the first scene of the game, letting me get used to turning and shooting and punching and all that good stuff.

  He also lets me have all the health bonuses we find. Not to mention the ammo.

  "Told you I'd always protect you," he says with a grin.

  I smile back but, honestly, his words make me a little melancholy. And when he looks sideways at me with a crooked smile, I know he realizes it.

  "Should I apologize?"

  I shake my head and grab a handful of popcorn. "Just play."

  He does, and since we're partners against the zombie horde, I can't actually say he beats me. What I can say is that I died four times in the first fifteen minutes, and by minute seventeen Dallas is laughing his ass off.

  "Do I need to tell you how pathetic you are at this game?"

  "You really don't," I say as the screen flashes death number five.

  "Remind me to come rescue you when the zombie apocalypse happens. Without me, you're zombie food."

  I grin happily. This is the Dallas I know. The one I can laugh with and hang with.

  And yet at the same time, this Dallas scares me. Because the Dallas who touched me so intimately in the cabana is the one I at least know how to fight, even though sometimes my willpower fails me. I can look at his harem. His ridiculous media antics. And I can honestly say I want no part of it.

  But this Dallas is real. This Dallas is mine. He always has been.

  And even though I know we need to just be friends, I'm not sure if he and I can ever "just" be anything.

  After I die yet another time, Dallas takes the controller from me and switches off the game.

  "Told you I was terrible," I say cheerfully, but my smile fades when I see his face. "What?"

  "I don't want to tell you because I don't want to screw up a good evening. But you really need to know."

  I frown. "Okay. I'm listening."

  "Ortega's dead."

  The news rocks through me and I'm on my feet in a second. "No, that's not true. Bill would have told me."

  "Suicide," Dallas goes on. "And he didn't tell you because it's classified."

  "Then how the hell do you know?"

  He scowls for a second, as if I've asked him an inappropriate question, but answers anyway. "You know my friend Quince's in British intelligence. He told me, but don't repeat it or you could get his ass in serious trouble."

  I nod numbly. "Suicide. That doesn't make any sense." I look at him as if he has answers. And then the real import hits me. "He was WORR's best lead."

  "He was," Dallas acknowledges.

  "Oh." I feel my knees go weak as all my hope drains away. That they'd find who'd taken us. That Dallas and I would finally have answers.

  I'm starting to sag, but Dallas is right there to catch me. I hook my arms around his neck, and as I do, the whole world shifts again. It's no longer me and Dallas and Bill and Ortega. Or even me and Dallas and zombies.

  It's just me. It's just Dallas.

  Just the two of us and this living, breathing need that beats between us. That we can't erase, can't destroy, can't tame.

  He is looking at me, and I can see he feels it, too. And when he bends his head almost imperceptibly I know that he is going to kiss me. And I want it. I shouldn't--I know I shouldn't. But so help me I want this kiss.

  But what I want, I can't have, and I close my eyes, put my hands on his shoulders, and gently push him away.

  "Jane?"

  I shake my head. "Go. Please, Dallas. Could you please just go?"

  And, dammit, he does.

  --

  "Well, at least you had a good reason for blowing off book club," Brody says after I've told him about my evening game fest with Dallas. I'd actually arrived just as the last member, Leo, was leaving, so I gave him a quick hug, promised I'd read the next book, and then let Brody lead me back to the kitchen so we could talk while Stacey
cleaned up.

  She's wearing a short purple wig today. After she finished chemo and her hair started growing back, she decided to shave it all anyway.

  "Now I can have a different color every day," she'd told me. "And honestly, life's too short not to have fun hair."

  She's stuck by that motto, too. According to Brody, they converted the spare bedroom into Stacey's closet, and one entire side is for her rainbow of wigs.

  Now, as we sip the celebratory champagne while she moves in and out of the room with dishes and glasses, I realize that Brody isn't the only one who knows my secrets. Stacey does, too. I'd given him permission to tell her when she was doing chemo. He'd wanted to talk with her during the long hours in the chair, and I'd wanted to subtly let her know that I loved her and would share her burdens, too, whenever she wanted to talk.

  So even though I've never spoken with her directly about what goes on in my head and my heart, she undoubtedly knows most of it.

  "So here's the important question," Brody says. "Did you have fun?"

  "I did." I think about it once more, just to be sure. "I really did and I think he did, too."

  "So, that's good, right?" Stacey asks. "That's where you two are trying to get? To be comfortable around each other as friends?"

  I tilt my head to the side and shrug. "I said it was fun. I didn't say it was comfortable. Just the opposite, actually. I mean, at one point I banged the crap out of my knee because I practically leaped to the other side of the couch when he leaned toward me. Turns out all he was doing was reaching for the TV remote. And then when he told me about Ortega--"

  I break off, shivering with the memory of how it felt in his arms. There'd been nothing overtly sexual in the way he'd held me, in the comfort he'd given me. But I'd wanted more. I'd wanted so much more, and I hate the way that wanting him makes me feel. Lost, when I've managed to find my way back in so many ways. Unsure, when I've fought to build up my confidence.

  I lean forward and thrust my fingers into my hair. "I'm a complete mess."

  "You are," Brody says. "But not as much of a mess as you should be. By rights, you should be seriously fucked up."

  "Um, hello?" I point to myself. "Dictionary definition of fucked up sitting right here."

  "You're not," Stacey insists. She's a small woman, so petite she makes me think of fairies. But she's fierce, and she's captured me with her pale gray eyes. "You're a survivor. Trust me. I know the type."