“Marcus, what happened?” she asked him in a terrified voice, feeling very sick now, as she pulled his shirt tight around her.
“Wouldn't you like to know.” He looked amused, he was laughing at her. She had been completely unconscious. “You were great, babe. Unforgettable.” He sounded cold and hard and angry.
“How can you say that?” She started to cry. “How could you do that with me passed out?” She felt her stomach rise to her throat again, and her chest tightened with asthma, but she felt too sick to look for her inhaler. She couldn't even sit up and look around her.
“How do you know what I did?” he said evilly, as he walked across the room, his splendid body exposed for her to see it. “Maybe I always work like this. It's so much cooler.” He turned to face her then, so she could see all of him, and she looked away, trying not to see it. This was not how she had wanted their first time to be, and she didn't know if she was more hurt than angry. It was what it had always been for her. Rape. It was what he had wanted. “Actually,” he went on, as he strolled slowly back toward her, “nothing happened, Grace. I'm not a necrophiliac. I don't go around fucking corpses. And that's what you are, isn't it? You're dead. You go around pretending you're alive, and teasing men, but when it gets down to the big time, you just roll over and play dead, and dish out a lot of excuses.”
“They're not excuses,” she said, sitting up awkwardly. She had found her jeans on the floor, and she pulled them on and then stood up unsteadily. She felt awful. And she turned away a moment later to take his shirt off and put her own on. She didn't even waste time putting her bra on. She felt too sick to worry about it. Her head was both pounding and reeling. “I can't explain it, that's all,” she said in answer to his accusations. She was too sick to discuss it, and she kept having the feeling that something terrible had happened. She remembered kissing him, and his saying things to her, and for some reason she remembered lying there with him, but she couldn't remember anything else. She kept hoping it was all a nightmare induced by too much wine on an empty stomach. She kept having flashes of him tantalizing her with his body. But she had no memory of his raping her. And she was almost certain that he hadn't.
“Even virgins fuck eventually. What makes you think you're so special?” Marcus was still furious at her. She was a tease and he was bored with it. There were plenty of other girls he could have had, and he had every intention of having all of them. He had had it with Grace Adams.
“I'm just scared, that's all. It's hard to explain.” Why was he so angry at her? And why did she keep remembering him naked above her?
“You're not scared,” he said, picking up his camera and making no effort whatsoever to put his clothes on. “You're psychotic. You looked like you were going to kill someone when I put a hand on you. What is it with you anyway? Are you gay?”
“No, I'm not.” But he wasn't far from the truth about her killing someone, and she knew it. Maybe she would always be that way. Maybe she would never be able to have sex with anyone. But she wanted to know more than anything now, for sure, if anything had happened while she was unconscious. She wasn't sure at all what he had done while she was passed out. And she didn't like the feeling of the flashes she was having.
“Tell me the truth. What did you do to me? Did you make love to me?” she said with tears in her eyes.
“What difference does it make? I told you I didn't do anything. Don't you trust me?” After what had just happened, not really. He had taken advantage of her while she was out cold. He had gotten her to undress, almost nude, but not entirely, and had taken his own clothes off. It certainly didn't look like a wholesome scene when she woke up, but nor did she feel as though she'd been raped. She knew that would have been a familiar feeling. Remembering that comforted her. Maybe he had done nothing more than she remembered. A lot of fondling and kissing and touching. And she had liked most of it, but she knew that it had scared her. She had the feeling that he'd been close to making love to her, but then he hadn't. Maybe that was why he was so angry. It was plain old frustration.
“How can I trust you after what you just did?” she said softly, fighting a fresh wave of nausea.
“What did I do? Try to make love to you? It's not against the law, you know. People do it every day … some people even want to … And you're twenty-one, aren't you? So what are you going to do? Gall the cops because I kissed you and took my pants off?” But she felt raped anyway. He had taken photographs she hadn't wanted him to take, and seduced her into exposing more of herself than she wanted, and he had tried to take advantage of her sexually when she was drunk. The odd thing was that she had never gotten drunk on a glass and a half of wine before. And even now, she felt ghastly. “I'm sick of playing games with you, Grace. I've invested a lot of time, and patience, and Saturday afternoons and pasta dinners. We should have been in bed two weeks ago. I'm not fourteen. I don't do shit like this. There are lots of other girls out there who are normal.” It was a mean thing to say to her, but as she watched him now, in his natural habitat, so full of himself, as he finally put his pants on, she realized that he wasn't the man she'd thought he was. He had a real mean streak, and it was obvious he didn't love her. He had only been nice to her in order to get what he wanted.
“I'm sorry I wasted so much of your time,” she said coldly.
“So am I,” he said nonchalantly. “I'll send the contact sheets to the agency. You can pick the shots you like.”
“I don't want to see them. You can burn them when you get them.”
“Believe me, I will,” he said acidly. “And you're right, by the way. You'd make a lousy model.”
“Thanks,” she said unhappily, as she put on her sweater. In a single instant, he had become a stranger. And then, she picked up her bag and walked to the door, and looked back over her shoulder at him. He was standing at a table taking film out of his camera, and she wondered how she could have been so wrong. But then, standing there, looking at him, the room spun around again and she almost fainted. She wondered if she was coming down with the flu, or just upset over everything that had happened. “I'm sorry, Marcus,” she said sadly. He just shrugged, and turned away from her, acting as though he were the injured party. He had had fun with her for a while, but it was time to move on. Pretty girls, in his life, were a dime a dozen.
He never said a word to her as she left, and she practically crawled downstairs from his loft, hailed a cab, and gave the driver the address of the town house. And when they got there, the driver had to shake her to wake her up and tell her what the fare was.
“I'm sorry,” she said thickly, feeling sick again. She was feeling really awful.
“You okay, miss?” He looked concerned as she handed him the fare and a good tip, and he watched her go inside. She was weaving.
And as she closed the door behind her, once she got in, Marjorie looked up from the couch. She'd been doing her nails, and she was horrified when she saw Grace. She was so pale she was green, and she looked as though she was going to pass out before she got to her bedroom.
“Hey! … are you okay?” Marjorie asked, jumping up and going to her, as Grace started to collapse in her arms. Marjorie helped her to her bed, and Grace lay there, feeling like she was dying.
“I think I have the flu,” she said, slurring her words again. “Maybe I've been poisoned.”
“I thought you were with Marcus,” she said with a frown. “Weren't you going to shoot with him today?” Marjorie vaguely remembered.
Grace only nodded. She felt too sick to tell her the details, and she wasn't sure she wanted to anyway. But as she lay on her bed, she started to drift off again, just the way she had in the white chair, and then when she'd woken up and found him naked beside her. Maybe when she opened her eyes again, Marjorie would be naked, too. She laughed out loud, with her eyes closed, and Marjorie stared at her and went to get a flashlight and a damp cloth. She was back two minutes later, and put the cold cloth on Grace's forehead. Grace opened an eye but only briefl
y.
“What happened?” Marjorie asked firmly.
“I'm not sure,” Grace said honestly with closed eyes, and then she started to cry softly. “It was awful.”
“I'll bet it was,” Marjorie said angrily. She could figure it out for herself, even if Grace couldn't. She turned the flashlight on, and told Grace to open her eyes.
“I can't,” she said miserably. “My head hurts too much. I'm dying.”
“Open them anyway. I want to see something.”
“Nothing's wrong with my eyes … 's my stomach … head …”
“Come on, open them … just for a second.”
Grace fought to open her eyes, and Marjorie shone the flashlight in them, which felt like daggers in her head to Grace, but Marjorie had seen what she wanted.
“Where were you today?”
“I told you … with Marcus …” Her eyes were closed again, and the room was spinning.
“Did you eat or drink anything?” There was silence. “Grace, tell me the truth, did you do any drugs?”
“Of course not!” She opened her eyes long enough to look insulted, and then fought to prop herself up on her elbows. “I've never done drugs in my life.”
“You have now,” Marjorie said angrily. “You're loaded to the gills.”
“With what?” Grace looked frightened.
“I don't know … coke … Spanish fly … downers … LSD … some weird mixture. God only knows … what did he give you?”
“All I had was two glasses of wine … I didn't even finish the second one.” She laid her head back on the pillow again. It made her feel too sick to sit up. She felt even worse than she had at the loft. It was as though the effect of whatever he had given her had heightened.
“He must have spiked it. Did you feel weird while you were there?”
“Oh did I …” Grace moaned. “It was so strange.” She looked up at her friend and started to cry. “I couldn't tell what was a dream … and what was real … he was kissing me and doing things … and then I was asleep, and when I woke up he was naked … but he said nothing happened.”
“Sonofabitch, he raped you!” Marjorie wanted to kill him, on behalf of Grace, and their entire sex. She had never liked him. She hated bastards like that, particularly the ones who took advantage of kids or greenhorns. It was such easy sport, and so damn vicious. But Grace just looked confused as she went on.
“I don't even know if he did … I don't think so … I don't remember.”
“Why did he have his clothes off then?” Marjorie said suspiciously. “Did you have sex with him before you passed out?”
“No. I just kissed him … I didn't want to … I was scared … I did want to … but then I tried to stop him. And he was really mad at me. He said I was psychotic, and a tease … he said he wouldn't make love to me because it would be like … like doing it to a dead body …”
“But he let you think he did, is that it? What a nice guy.” Marjorie was dripping venom for Marcus. “Did he take pictures of you with your clothes off?”
“I was wearing underpants and his shirt when I passed out,” or at least that was what she remembered and she'd been wearing the same when she woke up. She couldn't remember her clothes ever coming off, even when he'd touched her.
“You'd better ask him to give you the negatives. Tell him you'll call the cops if he doesn't. If you want, I'll call and tell him.”
“No, I'll call.” She was too mortified to have anyone else involved. It was bad enough telling Marjorie what had happened. But it was comforting too to have her there. She brought Grace another damp cloth and a cup of hot tea, and half an hour later, she felt a little better, as Marjorie sat on the floor next to her bed and watched her.
“I had a guy do that to me once, when I first started working. He slipped me a Mickey in a drink, and the next thing I knew, he wanted me to do porno shots with some other girl who was as drugged out as I was.”
“What did you do?”
“My father called the cops on him, and threatened to beat the crap out of him. We never posed for the shots anyway, but plenty of girls do. Some of them don't even have to be drugged. They're too scared not to. The guys tell them they'll never work again, or God knows what, and they do it.”
Listening to her made Grace's blood run cold. She'd been falling in love with him. She'd trusted him. And what if he had taken photographs of her with her clothes off while she was passed out?
“Do you think he did something like that?” she asked in a terrified voice, remembering what Marjorie's friend from Detroit had said, and she hadn't believed, that Marcus had shot porno.
“Was there anyone else in the studio with you?” Marjorie asked worriedly.
“No, just the two of us. I'm sure of it. I think I was only out for a few minutes.”
“Long enough for him to get his pants off anyway,” Marjorie said, angry all over again. “No, I don't suppose he did. At worst, he got a couple of nude shots. And there's not much he can do with them without a release from you, if you're recognizable. He can't show your face in shots like that, without having you sign a release. The only use they'd be to him would be to blackmail you, and that's not worth much. What's he going to get out of you?” She smiled at her friend. “Two hundred dollars? Besides, it takes time and some cooperation to set up those pornos. They usually use a couple of girls, some guys, or at least one guy. Even if they drug you out, you've got to be alive enough to play the game. Sounds like you weren't a lot of fun after he hit you with his magic potion,” Marjorie laughed, and Grace smiled for the first time in hours, “sounds like he overestimated his victim, you must have gone over like a tree in the forest.”
They both laughed out loud, and it was a relief to laugh about it. It had been such an awful scene, and a brutal disappointment, but she couldn't help wondering if he hadn't drugged her or tried to force it, would she have been able to do it? Maybe she never would. But she certainly had no desire to try again, and certainly not with Marcus.
“I don't drink very much, and I've never done drugs. It just made me feel really sick.”
“So I noticed,” Marjorie smiled sympathetically, “you were the color of St. Patrick's Day when you got in.” And then she decided to make a suggestion. “I think the photographs are pretty much under control, or they will be when you ask him for the negatives. But maybe you'd like to check out something else. You want to make a quick trip to my doctor? She's real nice, and I'll take you, Grace. I think you ought to know if he did anything. They can tell. It's kind of embarrassing, but you ought to know. Maybe he just played around a little bit, or he could have done a lot worse while you were out cold. At least you should know it.”
“I think I'd remember … I remember being scared and telling him not to.”
“So does every rape victim in the world. It doesn't stop anyone if they don't want to stop. Wouldn't you feel better knowing for sure? And if he did rape you, you could press charges.” And then what? Start the nightmare all over again? She dreaded that, dreaded the attention, the stories in the news. Secretary accuses fashion photographer of rape … he says she wanted it, posed for nude photographs … the very thought of it made her skin crawl. But Marjorie was right. It would be better to know at least … and what if she got pregnant … it wasn't impossible, and the thought terrified her. She resisted at first and then finally she let Marjorie call the doctor for her, and at five o'clock they went to her office. Grace was a little more clearheaded by then, and the doctor confirmed that she'd been drugged with something.
“Nice guy,” she commented, and Grace flinched at the exam. It reminded her of the police exams after she killed her father. But the doctor looked surprised at what she saw. There was no evidence of recent intercourse, but there was a lot of old scarring. She suspected what it meant, and she was very gende when she asked Grace some questions. She reassured her that however great a cad the guy had been in drugging her, there was no sign of penetration or ejaculation.
“That's something at least.” So all she had to worry about was the pictures. And what Marjorie had said was reassuring. Even if he had taken pictures of her that were compromising, if she was recognizable, he couldn't use them without a release, and if she wasn't, who cared. And with any luck at all, he'd give back the pictures. It was still disgusting to think he'd taken them if he had, but she was beginning to think he had just staged the whole thing to punish her for balking at sleeping with him. But the drugs hadn't helped, they had only made her more frightened.
“Grace, have you ever been raped?” the doctor asked, but she already knew the answer when Grace nodded. “How old were you?”
“Thirteen … fourteen … fifteen … sixteen … seventeen …” The doctor wasn't sure what she meant at first.
“You were raped four times?” That was certainly unusual. Maybe she'd had psychological problems that had led her to put herself at risk repeatedly, but Grace shook her head with a woeful expression.
“No. I was raped pretty much every day for four years … by my father …”
There was a long moment of silence as the doctor absorbed it. “I'm sorry,” she said quietly. She saw cases like that sometimes and they broke her heart, particularly with young girls like Grace had been. “Did he get help? Did someone intervene?” Yes, she said to herself, I did. She had intervened. She had saved herself. No one else would have helped her.
“He died. That stopped it.” The doctor nodded.
“Have you ever had intercourse … uh … normally … with a man, since then?” Grace shook her head in answer.
“I think that's what happened today. I think maybe he got overanxious, and wanted to make sure I'd play, so he put something in my drink … we'd been going out for a month, and nothing had happened … I was … I wanted to be sure … I was scared … he said I … he said I got really scared when he tried …”
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