I had another thought: he wanted me, literally. He wanted my body to be his. Not only had he insisted on an exclusive arrangement, and stalked my personal life. He was also methodically and intentionally ruining me for other men by making sure they could never be as perverted, as passionate, as forceful as he was. He was devouring me with his desire, his charisma. He was taking from me until he had all of me and I had nothing left.
And he gave me none of himself in return.
“Get out of me,” I said when he finished, using my limp arms to push myself up.
“Stop.” He grasped my hips with enough force to still me, and pushed himself deeper. “Stay there.”
“Get out of me,” I said more loudly.
He slapped my ass. Hard. “Don’t fucking order me around. I’ll get out of you when I fucking feel like it.”
Escorting wasn’t supposed to be like this. It wasn’t supposed to be violent and antagonistic.
“I’m not seeing you again,” I said, and this time I meant it.
His fingers moved a little on my hips. “Did you learn anything just now?” he asked. “Anything at all?”
“I learned that we hate each other, and that you’re a stalker.”
He made a gruff noise that sounded like disagreement and pulled out of me, and got up off the bed. He went in the bathroom and started the shower. I stayed where I was, too heavy with self-loathing and depression to ever move again.
“Chere,” he yelled, when I didn’t join him. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t spend any more time with him right now.
I heard him get in the shower, heard the change in the water’s patter. I got up and dressed in record time. My eyes fell on his briefcase. What was his name? What did he do?
If I went digging through his briefcase, and he caught me, what would he do to me? I was afraid to find out.
Anyway, I knew he wouldn’t leave any identifying information in there. If there was anything in that briefcase I could use, he wouldn’t have left me unattended with it. His wallet was with his clothes in the bathroom. That might have provided some identifying information, and I could probably go in there and grab it before he could stop me, but then I’d be no better than him. A dishonest, aggressive stalker. I wasn’t sure I cared about his name anymore. I didn’t want to care. I didn’t want to see him again.
I made sure I had all my shit, and then I whipped open the curtains with the same snapping flourish he’d used to draw them closed.
“Chere,” he yelled from the bathroom. “Get your ass in here.”
The water shut off and I ran for the door. I didn’t check to see if our session had timed out. If he didn’t want to pay me because I left early, he didn’t have to.
Sometimes running like hell was more important than money. Sometimes saving yourself was more important than sticking around for the payout, and this qualified as one of those times.
In Between
The whole way home, I looked over my shoulder, like W might be coming after me. He wasn’t, of course. He might be angry, but he’d have to hash things out with Henry, not me. I wasn’t seeing him again. I’d let Henry straighten everything out.
When I let myself into the loft, it was almost a relief to find Simon passed out, snoring, on the couch. I couldn’t handle a blowup tonight, or some drug-fueled drama. He’d probably be a mess later though, when he woke up. I’d sleep in the spare room, with the door locked.
What had happened to me, that I was sleeping behind locked doors? Why was this my life now? Because you’re weak, and a loser. Why don’t you change?
Maybe walking out on W was a start. Maybe it was the first step in figuring out my shit. Getting Simon under control was the second part, but that wasn’t all me. He had to get to the point of wanting to change too. Maybe this upcoming show would do it. I hoped so. I hoped so desperately hard.
I tiptoed through the living room and kitchen, past my snoring partner, into his artist’s studio. I looked at all his works-in-progress while I had the time and privacy to do it. I wondered if they were good enough to bring him back, to revitalize his career. The thing was, they looked crappier than his earlier works. Sprawling, messy, unfocused.
I was so tired. I needed a shower. I stood under the hot water, but it didn’t wash away the soreness of my nipples or the welts on the backs of my legs. My pussy was still wet and my jaw was still sore from the blowjob, and I didn’t even get any poetry or kisses to make it better. That was my fault, but first steps required sacrifice. Getting better required sacrifice. I stayed in that shower and washed W off my skin until the water started to run cold, and I still didn’t feel like I’d gotten rid of him.
I ate a little bit of leftover Chinese from the refrigerator, and I would have made coffee, but I was afraid the smell would wake up Simon. I grabbed a bottle of water and a self-help book about codependency, and went to hunker down in my locked room.
It’s Your Life: Recognizing and Overcoming Codependency. I’d been trying to get through the book forever, but it wasn’t helping much. It wasn’t giving me any practical steps, just warning signs to look for, which I absolutely recognized by now, and goals to strive for, which still seemed so far out of reach as to be ridiculous. There was a whole section missing out of the middle, namely explicit instructions on how to reach those goals.
It is unhealthy to rely on other people for happiness.
It’s better to have no love than to have dishonest love.
It is okay to be alone.
Fuck you, dumbass author. You don’t know. You don’t understand my struggles and my problems, or anything about my life. I closed the book and rested my cheek against the cover, emblazoned with bold primary colors to compel me to take action.
I tried to think about Simon and how to help him, rather than enable him, but my mind kept drifting to my date with W instead. There was something so sad and unfinished about us, some lack of understanding that had probably doomed us from the start. I didn’t understand how he could make me feel sexy and wonderful, and so horribly devastated at the same time. He’d given me more than any other client, and yet refused to give me anything at all.
I had to walk away. I had to stop thinking about his passion and energy, and all the attractive things about him, and remember all the ways he made me hurt.
It is unhealthy to rely on other people for poetry.
It’s better to have no love than to have violent love.
It is okay to save yourself.
My phone buzzed, displaying a number I didn’t recognize. It wasn’t unusual in my business. I answered with a noncommittal “Hello?”
“Chere?”
Oh God. It was W. It shocked me that he would call. I couldn’t believe he’d reveal something so personal as his phone number.
“Chere?” he said again, when I didn’t answer.
“How did you get my number?”
I heard him take a breath. “Does that really matter?”
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Hang up on him. I did not hang up.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“You didn’t wait for me to say goodbye.” He sounded angry. Stern. Bad whore, leaving without saying goodbye.
“I had to go.” That was the simple truth. I had to get out of there.
“You didn’t wait for me to try to make things better.”
“You can’t make things better when they’re that fucked up.”
He was silent a moment. Then: “I don’t think we’re that fucked up.” Another pause. “I try to make things better afterward. I didn’t want you to leave.”
“I’m sorry. I felt like I had to leave.”
“Why?”
It felt strange to talk to him on the phone, to talk to him in a situation where he couldn’t hurt me. At least not physically.
“Why did you leave?” he prompted. “Because I hurt your feelings? Because I hurt your body?”
He didn’t say it mockingly, or I would have hung up. “Yes,” I said. “To both of th
em.”
“You didn’t give me a chance to hold you afterward. I think that’s important. I worried about you after you left.”
I tried to picture him in the Standard, worrying, pacing back and forth in front of the big glass window with all the voyeurs outside. I couldn’t imagine it. I couldn’t imagine him caring, but he’d called me. Henry would never have given him my number. He must have gotten it the day he went through my bag.
“I’m fine,” I said sullenly. “I was just reading.”
“You’re at home?”
“Yes.” Ugh, I shouldn’t have told him that. It was none of his business. None of this was any of his business. “I’m not supposed to talk to clients outside of our sessions,” I told him. “We’re supposed to go through Henry. I can’t talk to you.”
“Don’t hang up.”
I cradled the phone against my ear and waited.
“I like being with you,” he said.
I closed my eyes. There was something in his voice I’d never heard before, some longing or tenderness. My throat constricted in despair.
“I can’t talk to you.” I had to force the words out. My voice trembled. “I have to go.”
“Are you crying?”
“Phone calls aren’t allowed.”
“I don’t give a fuck what’s allowed.”
Goodbye, tenderness. Hello, scary person I didn’t want in my life anymore. I wiped my eyes put the phone down on the bed.
“Chere?” I could still hear him. I swallowed hard and steadied my voice as well as I could.
“I have to go. I’m sorry, but I can’t see you anymore. I have to...change something.”
I pushed the button on the screen to end the call. Goodbye. So easy, one finger could do it. Even so, I felt a terrible loss. The sobs I’d held inside broke free, ugly and desolate sounding. I buried my head in the covers, wary of waking Simon. I couldn’t stem the tide of grief.
My chest ached with pent up emotion, with all the weird hopes and aspirations W had spurred in me. All of it was hopeless because we couldn’t be together. Tony’s rejection had hurt me. W’s continued rejection would eventually kill me, and I couldn’t even understand why.
I flung the codependency book across the room. I hated him for doing this. I hated that he messed me up this way. It is okay to save yourself. It is okay to protect yourself.
Five minutes after I hung up on him, the phone rang again. I looked at the number and sent it to voice mail. Twice more he called. Finally, I answered.
“Don’t hang up,” he said, and this time it was less of an order and more of a plea.
“Why are you doing this? Why are you calling me?”
“To be sure you’re okay.”
“I’m okay,” I said, and I was bawling.
“You don’t sound okay. What happened today, Chere? Things were okay between us. I mean, they weren’t great, but you seemed to get something out of our sessions before. Today you seemed hollow. Upset.”
“You hurt me! You called me a liar, and said all kinds of other terrible things.”
“I also said you were magnificent, and I meant it.”
“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t take away everything else.”
He was quiet a moment. I wondered where he was, what his place looked like. Was he lying on a couch? In a bed? Did he have a wife in the next room? Kids? A dog?
“I’m sorry about that guy,” he finally said. “That jackass who left you at the restaurant.”
“Yeah, well, he didn’t approve of my career.”
“I think you’re great at your career. That’s what I would have told you if you’d stuck around. It was a hot fucking scene today. I thoroughly enjoyed myself.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t have any words.
“Chere?” he asked after a moment. “Are you still there?”
“I’m not going to do escorting much longer,” I said. “I’m already thinking how to get out of it. It’s not making me happy.”
“It’s not making you happy, or I’m not making you happy?”
I sighed. “This isn’t about you. There’s so much more fucked-up shit in my life, shit that has nothing to do with you.”
“Like what?”
I rubbed my eyes. All this time he held me at arms’ length, and now he wanted to have a therapy session? I heard a thump from the living room, and Simon muttering.
“I have to go,” I said.
“Like what?” he repeated. “Talk to me, Chere.”
“I can’t talk to you. I told you that. This is against the rules.”
“And I told you I don’t give a fuck about the rules.”
“Chere!” That was Simon, out in the hall. “Chere!”
Just as I feared, he’d woken up like a bear. Withdrawal was a bitch. He rattled the knob and pounded.
“Chere, open the door! I told you not to lock me out!”
“Who’s that?” W asked. “Your boyfriend?”
“Yes,” I said miserably. “I have to go.”
“He sounds angry.”
“He’ll be fine.”
“Will you be fine?”
More pounding, more shouting. I wondered how much W heard. I curved my hand around the phone like that might block the huge noise of Simon’s meltdown.
I didn’t want to hang up anymore. I wanted W to be there so I didn’t have to go through this alone. “He takes drugs,” I said in a near whisper. “He’s so messed up. If he’s not high enough, he’s unbearable.”
“Then why are you there? Why do you live with him?” His blunt questions were just like the damn book. They didn’t solve any of my problems.
“I’m in a locked room. I’ll stay here until he calms down.”
“Fuck that. Chere—”
“It’s none of your business.”
Simon let loose a string of blistering expletives, and the banging stopped. I heard him stomp away. He couldn’t get at my money because I had it in the room with me. He’d leave now, to go bum money or drugs from his friends. From Rich Rachel, who seemed to provide an endless supply.
“He left,” I said, because W had sounded worried, and I thought he would want to know. “He’ll be gone for a while.”
“You should be gone,” he said, in the most sincere voice I’d ever heard.
“I’m hanging up.” I didn’t want to do this with him. I didn’t want him in my life. I didn’t want him insinuating himself into the other fucked-up areas of my existence, especially since I wasn’t seeing him again.
“I need to see you again,” he said, before I could hang up. “I know you don’t want to see me anymore, but I want to see you.”
I rolled my eyes, my sore eyes that were red from crying. “That’s too bad.”
“What if things could be different? I mean, I’ll never really change. I’m a mean bastard. I’m a sadist, but maybe we can sit down before our next session and talk. We’ll talk before we fuck. I’ll prepare you a little more for what’s going to go on.”
“You mean..?” I paused and swallowed hard. “Are you saying you know what you’re going to do to me from the beginning? That all that stuff you do to me is planned?”
“It wouldn’t be very safe, otherwise. If I just came at you flailing, and deciding things on the fly.”
There was a long moment of silence, then he made a tsk of a sound. “Didn’t you know that? Do you think all the stuff we do together is real?”
“It feels real. When you’re doing it, it feels really real.”
“It’s supposed to feel real when I’m doing it. Then afterward we calm down together and decompress. At least, when you don’t take off. Next time—” His voice cut off, and he made a frustrated noise.
“What?”
“I was going to say that next time, I’d tie you to the bed so you can’t leave. But you don’t want there to be a next time, and making threats about what I’m going to do to you next time probably isn’t the wisest way to proceed.” He sighed. “It’s
late. I’m tired and worried. I’m worried that you won’t see me again.”
“I’m not going to see you again,” I said, but that time, it sounded like a lie. Because what he was saying sounded kind of like an apology, and a promise to do things better next time, for my sake.
“Are you safe there?” he asked. I wondered what he’d do if I said no. Would he come rescue me? Take me to his mystery abode and reveal more of himself to me? More than his phone number? No, Chere. No.
“I’m safe,” I said. “He won’t be back for hours. I’m going to go to sleep. There’s a deadbolt on the door.”
“That’s fucked up.”
“I’m going to hang up now. I’ve had a long day.”
“See me again. Please.” He made a rough noise, a laugh or a growl. “No one fights like you, Chere. I need you to fight me. All the other whores are pansies. Excuse me. All the other escorts are pansies. You affect me more than anyone else.”
I knew what he meant. No one else had ever made me feel the way he made me feel, and I feared no one else in my life ever would.
“You scare me,” I said.
“You scare me too.”
“You know what I mean.”
He sighed. “I’ll try not to scare you next time. We’ll talk. We’ll go slower.”
“And then you’ll still be mean to me and make me feel like shit.”
“I told you why I do that. It has nothing to do with you personally.” He paused. “That sounded wrong. It has everything to do with you being perfect at meeting my needs. That’s the personal side of it. And unfortunately, my needs are to be a complete bastard to you. But I don’t mean to hurt you. Really hurt you.” I thought I heard him set a glass on a table. “I was afraid I really hurt you today.”
“You did.”
“But how much of that was because you already felt hurt by someone else?”
He said it gently, because he knew it was a little mean, but he also knew he was right. “You felt hurt too,” I pointed out. “You flew into a rage about the Tony thing.”
“Ah. His name is Tony.”
Torment Me (Rough Love Part One) Page 14
