Chapter 2
Lauren
I’ve perfected the art of being who people expect.
I’m an excellent FBI agent for my handler and those at the Bureau above him.
I’m skilled at my job, impressing those around me.
Terrified and fearful? I can be that woman in the blink of an eye, trembling with tears running down my cheeks.
All it takes is channeling memories from my past to make me a little insane and emotional.
A hard-ass who won’t take no for an answer? Step back and watch me work.
Somber and grief-stricken? I’m so sorry for your loss.
All of it is easy as pie.
What I struggle with is misplaced pity. People with opinions they’re too couth to speak out loud.
The only problem is their eyes can’t hide it as well as they think they can.
Several pairs of those eyes watch me as I mingle around the Cerberus clubhouse. Of course, they have smiles on their faces. Tonight is a celebration, after all.
Cheers to a new year, new me.
All of it bullshit.
These people.
This place.
As fake as the designer fingernails on a debutante.
As fake as a housewife’s orgasm, thirty seconds into her husband’s rooting.
I fucking hate fake.
People who pretend everything is perfect make my skin crawl.
This can’t be real. This can’t be the paradise they all try to convince me it is.
Yet, when the women look at their men, I don’t see that familiar fear I’ve learned to read when I’m working.
They don’t flinch when one of the guys hoots and hollers.
I don’t catch them with contemplative looks, as if they’re dreaming of a better life when they think no one is watching.
Even Cara, who was one of the trafficking victims I helped rescue a few years ago in El Salvador, leans against former FBI agent turned Cerberus member, Thumper.
She thought the man raped me the night she and I were pulled from the back of a truck and sold.
Maybe he told her the truth. Maybe she knows I came hard on his dick that night, overcome with pleasure at his violence.
Is that why they pity me?
They think I’m damaged, broken somehow for enjoying the things I do.
I chuckle as I look around the room. Maybe they are as happy as they try to make people think they are.
Maybe vanilla is the only fucking flavor they can stomach.
They’d look at me with more than just pity if they knew the things I’ve done, knew of the things I seek while working.
Pain, degradation, humiliation. I feed off of it. Welcome it. Yearn for it.
Mommy issues? Daddy issues? Sister issues? Hell, Grandmother issues. I’ve got it all, not that I would ever speak of them out loud.
I know I’m different. I know most people would read my full story and use it to commit me to a mental ward. The women would want to help me get better. No sane person would seek such things out, right?
The men, on the other hand? They know more. Hell, I provided the video when I showed up on their doorstep years ago, in a bid to help Thumper after the FBI refused to help him because it would compromise another case.
They thought he was the villain, a man who infiltrated their sanctuary. They were actively searching for him so they could end him for the betrayal.
The video showcased the second time I met Thumper that night I arrived with Cara. It was more graphic, more violent than I’m sure many of them had seen before. It also had my voice begging for more.
I explained my prior relationship with Javier Sosa, aka Thumper, along with providing the video evidence.
It didn’t take long to believe what they had wanted to all along, which was that Thumper wasn’t the epitome of what they despised.
He was undercover, in need of their help, not the monster they were led to believe.
Fucking do-gooders.
Movement across the room catches my eye, and I give one of the wives a quick smile before moving on.
Spade somehow looks irritated and happy all at the same time as he watches a woman standing across the room. They may not be together yet, but I know he’ll end up attached to the first woman who doesn’t bend to his will. The man thinks he needs a little push back to be happy.
He puts on a good front, wants everyone to believe he’s a tomcat on the prowl when deep down he’s a teddy bear needing his head scratched. That’s why he ended up tied to a chair the night he wanted to hook up with me.
He thought he was a badass. I had to prove that I was worse.
His eyes dart away the second they meet mine.
I think I’ve left the man traumatized. The thought makes me smile, and I chuckle as I lift my beer to my lips.
I could deny the real reason I’m here, but I’ve spent years internalizing why I do the things I do. It hurts, which is my goal in life.
Pain is familiar, needed, a requisite for me in life.
But even I need a reprieve sometimes.
I’m here because Cerberus is safe.
The men don’t leer at me.
The women, although they pity me, don’t talk shit behind my back. I don’t catch them gossiping or sneering when I enter a room when their men aren’t around.
I don’t have to worry about the lock on my door being busted in the middle of the night because one of the guys just couldn’t help himself. They don’t see me as something to take without permission.
I guess I’m a masochist because the refuge hurts as much as the uncertainty my job entails.
I benefit in a way from how fearlessly these men protect the ones they claim to love, the possessions they’ve earned with their compassion and care.
They’re safeguarding them, not me.
I’m unworthy of that shelter.
I will always be unworthy.
If they had to choose, it would be no choice at all.
It’s them… always.
Happiness and laughter surround me. It echoes off the walls.
Nothing but good cheer and joyous celebration for these people.
Despite what they’ve seen, despite what they know happens outside of these walls, they manage to find jubilation.
Maybe we’re all just pretending, waiting for the other shoe to drop, and it will.
It always does.
Someone will cheat or be unable to hide their anger. Someone will lash out, get violent at the wrong time, get caught with their pants down.
Bliss never lasts forever. Sustaining it is impossible.
Those that think they can hold on to something as tenuous as contentment are bigger fools than they’ll ever realize.
The wool covering their eyes will be pulled back eventually.
The slap in the face will be harsh, leaving behind a mark nothing can erase.
But I’ve been here multiple times, off and on for several years, and I can never find the pain, the abuse.
I don’t see bruises left behind by the men.
I don’t see the women plying their men with more drinks on the off chance that they’ll be able to fall asleep without having to succumb to their partner’s desires.
I’ve never walked into a room and seen one of the men angry and backing away from his partner in an effort not to be discovered for the monster they truly are.
Maybe they’re better than me at playing their parts, but I know the darkness always rears its ugly head.
The pain always manages to bubble over, spilling on the floor at your feet.
Liana was the best actress of them all.
My sister was a champion at hiding her truths.
I close my eyes, the memories of how her red-tinted pain flowed from under the bathroom door, hitting me out of nowhere. She was always braver than I could ever be. She took matters into her own hands.
It took grit, a certain fearlessness, and fortitude to face her demon.
It took courage to know she’d never get over what had been done to her.
She destroyed her monster.
Then she destroyed herself.
I choke down my weakness with another sip of beer, getting rid of those thoughts of her before opening my eyes once again.
With my smile back in place, I search the room for an outlet, a way to put me back on an even keel.
I come up empty.
It looks like it will only be me and my incessant need for pain tonight.
But that’s okay.
We’ve always been great bedfellows.