59. Writer In The Dark
LORDE
Space did not need a face to hate it.
A body to feel the weight of it.
A hand to be choked by it.
A mouth to hear its scream.
It stalks around every corner,
watches from every shadow,
its heartbeat in every clock.
Seconds you can’t outrun—
a tick… tick… tick…
Ding.
The elevator doors open, and I step into the penthouse, somehow feeling both angry and numb.
It’s been exactly 4 hours and 12 minutes since Andrew said he needed space (which is the precise amount of time for me to lose my goddamn mind).
The second the words left his mouth back in Ramsey, I hit the button on my app, called a car, had a stranger rescue me.
If he needs space from me,
I’ll give him space.
I’ll give him so much fuckin’ space he’ll need a rocket ship to find his way back.
Ben’s here, lifting weights on the terrace.
I haven’t talked to him since the day he smacked me—humiliated me, violated me—and if it were any other day, I’d continue avoiding him.
But after what happened today? Timing for his punishment couldn’t be more generous.
I step out onto the terrace.
The skyline’s bleeding noir.
Like the city got stabbed in the chest,
and a gothic sunset poured out.
The wind sneaks up the side of the penthouse and slips over the terrace wall, mean little fingers digging into my clothes and behind my ears.
Ben sees me and drops the weights,
scoops up his water bottle,
and sits on the bench.
“Hey, Baby,” he says, caution threaded through. He uncaps the water and chugs half the bottle down, eyes on me—Andrew’s fist still on one of them, the bone near his nose bruised brown.
“Three years,” I say. “Three whole years, that’s how long you managed not to be this fuckin’ stupid. So tell me, Ben, what’s the punishment clause if a Boy puts his hands on me?”
His elbows fall to his knees,
and he tilts his head up at me,
wiping a bead of sweat from his brow.
“We really gotta do this?” He lets out a bitter chuckle, chin tucked, eyes up. “I ain’t mean nothin’ by it, Baby. I was playin’. That’s all it was. Normal girls laugh at shit like that.”
My laugh falls out strangled. “A joke?” My smile stays, cutting up the bottom half of my face. “Is that what we’re calling it now? You tried humiliating me in my own house. Left your handprint on my body. Now we’re filing it under funny?”
He stands, swiping a towel from the bar, dabs sweat off his skin. “You’re overreacting,” he mutters, then blows right past me.
Past me.
His words hook me, and spin me around until I’m staring at his back as he walks inside.
The door slams, rattling the glass.
The shock of it nails my feet to the grass.
The fuck is happening?
For a fraction of a second,
I’m stunned so stupid,
I forget I’m Baby.
I forget he’s a Boy.
I forget that I fucking live here.
The wind knocks me forward, reminding me who I am.
And I hate that I’m following him inside.
I’ve never followed Ben or a Boy.
Boys follow me. Boys wait on me.
Boys live in my house, by my rules.
He's at the fridge,
grabbing another water.
“This shit you’re pullin’?” I say, closing the terrace door behind me.“I don’t do this. This is not how this works.”
Ben watches me from the fridge,
bottle sweating in his hand.
“I don’t chase men through my own house.
I don’t beg for basic respect. I don’t try to talk to you.
You listen to me. Are we on the same page, or do you need to go check yourself?
” My voice is shockingly calm for the rage burning through me.
“Maybe get your ass kicked at the gym for a few hours first?”
Ben looks at the floor first,
then at me, eyes coward-blue.
“What you want me to say? I don’t know why I did it, aight? You know I respect you. Wasn’t tryin’ to embarrass you. It just happened.”
“No.” I shake my head, voice fragile now.
“It didn’t just fuckin’ happen. Rain just happens.
Traffic just happens. A pigeon shittin’ on a tourist just happens.
” I unbutton my jeans fast, then yank them down over my hip.
“This?” The edges of the palm print are fading yellow-green, the crescent center still purplish-blue. “This was you.”
His hand flies to his forehead as he stares.
I slide my jeans back on. “You hit me so hard, it’s still here. After eight days, Ben. So don’t stand in my kitchen and tell me it just fuckin’ happened.”
“Shit, Baby…” He steps back, running a hand through his hair, eyes wide.
“I didn’t mean for it to be that hard. I wasn’t thinkin’, alright?
” He throws his gaze off to the side. “Fuck!” His hand drags down his face, trying to erase the mess he’s made.
“Things were good, baby. I was good. Everything was fine. Then he came in. And everything got fucked up.”
His eyes swing back to me, wet with anger. “I just want it back to how it was.”
“How it was? Aight. You signed a contract. You agreed to this clause. You picked your own punishment,” I say, holding his guilty blue stare. The contract exists for this exact reason. As much as I don’t want to do this, if I don’t enforce it, the contract means nothing.
If the contract means nothing,
then I have no control.
And in a world where I have no control,
emotions can run rabid,
space so easily separates,
hearts get fucking broken,
tears start fucking slicing,
anger un-fucking-leashes,
and everything hurts so much not even a goddamn orgasm can fix it for twenty seconds anymore.
“You got five minutes to shower. When I walk into that room, you better be stripped, on your knees, and ready to learn what powerless tastes like.”
That room.
Can’t remember the last time I was in that room, but I miss the way it made me feel.
Armed.
Untouchable.
Locked away.
Unslaved by Andrew Harding.
I stop in front of the black door stamped in brass: room 613.
I grip the handle and push it wide.
Used to be in this room every day before I met Andrew.
But this time, when I step inside,
everything about this is wrong.
I am in the wrong place
at the wrong time
with the wrong guy
doing the wrong fucking thing.
White sheets slice through the dark, curtains spilling down in pale, ghostlike waves.
Everything else is black, black, black.
Black walls,
black furniture,
black floor…
It’s supposed to feel endless, a night sky. It’s not supposed to feel like a black hole, a coffin.
Ben plays a statue well: kneeling, eyes aimed at the marble, perfectly still. But I can’t even appreciate it ‘cause Andrew’s voice is circling.
‘You don’t give a fuck.
‘Not about me. Not about us.’
I don’t want to hear it.
I don’t want him pacing in my head.
I cross the room,
my heart pounding with dread.
‘We’re all just pawns in Allison Taylor’s fuckin' world.’ These words have been nailed into me, and they’re rusting with every breath I take.
It’s sick, I feel sick,
how does he have the power
to make me feel this sick.
‘I need space.
‘From you.’
I grab the remote and hit play on the surround sound, shutting him out.
The speakers spit heavy metal, a swarm of electric guitars hijacking the room.
This should make me feel better,
but all I see is Andrew’s face—his eyes.
It makes me want to scream,
to break everything in this room.
To run to Jersey and break Andrew.
But as I stand here, looking down,
all I have to break is Ben.
“Look at me,” I grit out to keep my voice from shaking.
He looks up, eyes bruise-blue and apologetic. It only reminds me of the blue welt he left me, and the throb of it resurrects.
I strike Ben’s face,
my palm cracking against his cheek.
His head snaps to the side, the force so powerful it leaves an echo and stings my hand. Ben’s chest rises as he draws in a sharp breath.
I feel it in my bones,
I feel the vibration crawl up my arm.
A red handprint spreads fast across the side of his face as he goes still, submitting to it.
‘Cause it’s all he can do.
The only other option is to use his safeword, but he won’t.
His head turns to face me again, and his held breath rushes out, hot and hitting my skin. “Why don’t you use me, huh?” he murmurs, gaze creeping up. “Slip those panties off, lemme make you come.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“You would too,” he says.
“When’s the last time you came, Baby?”
I look down at him, my eyes narrowing.
“None of your business.”
He chuckles. “Okay, so, a while.”
My whole body’s ignoring him,
except for my pussy.
It’s turning into a fist trying to punch through with heart-eyes for Andrew. But once it sees Ben instead, the craving in its mouth will go stiff, mummify, ancient and pissed off, waiting for only one man.
“Jersey’s got you like that, huh?” he says. “You would’ve never turned that down before…”
I bite into my smile.
“You’re lucky you’re still here.”
“And why am I still here?” Ben says with humor in his eyes. “Admit it. You need me more than I need you.” He lifts his chin. “I bruised you, Baby. You still ain’t cut me loose.”
My teeth clamp down, and I turn for the closet. “Over a month. That’s how long I haven’t used you. So keep goin’. Tell me how much I need you, Ben.” I grab the dildo from the closet, then turn and wave it in the air. “Got a trained guy livin’ in my house and still don’t grind on his mouth.”
He drops his head back and laughs. “You know damn well if I walk out right now? You’ll break so bad, Ray Ray will have you committed before sunrise. He’ll paint you unstable. Prove you can’t run shit. ‘Look—bitch is crazy,’” he chuckles again, then sighs. “I know you, Baby.
“You can go a week without comin’.
“You can take a few fuckin’ bruises.
“But you can’t take bein’ left.”
I nod. Shrug.
“You wanna test that theory?”
His shoulders fall, and he looks at me with that poor-Baby face. But it falls away fast, replaced with hesitation. He’s second guessing what he’s about to say.
Says it anyway,
“Raymond tried to buy me.”
And the confession locks up my bones.
He keeps going, “Said he could get me BrooklynBros. All I had to do was leave you when he gave me the green light.”
Despite what I know to be true,
my stomach still falls empty,
my breath still traps in my lungs.