33. Lia
33
LIA
“This isn’t how I want things to be, Berry. I had such big plans.”
“I know.” I’d been there when he was making most of them. My fingers were laced with his, it felt like I was holding the roots of a cold tree.
“I’m going to tell you something horrible now.”
I propped myself up on one arm beside him. “If you tell me you wanted to bone Jenny McHutchinson in senior year, I’m going to punch you. I don’t care if you have cancer.”
He laughed. It was a hoarse sound, such a far cry from the satisfied bellows I’d gotten used to for the past ten years of my life, but I would take any joy from him I that I could get.
“It’s that Caleb has a crush on you.”
I managed not to panic, but it wouldn’t have mattered if I had, Mason’s eyes were only for the ceiling.
Is it a crush, if it’s wildly reciprocated?
“Why is that horrible?”
“Because he’ll never get out of his own head, or his own way, to be with you. We both know that.” Mason finally twisted over to look at me. “Also, I didn’t really want to be a doctor.”
I smoothed his wispy hair off of his forehead to kiss it gently. “Such a disappointment to your family,” I teased.
—Sarah, from One of a Thousand Wishes by A. R. McGeorge
R haim wasn’t in his office the next day, either, which I didn’t like, until he called.
I almost didn’t pick up, because talking on the phone was ridiculous, but when Monster flashed on the screen, I knew I should.
“Good morning, little girl,” came through the line.
“Good morning, sir,” I chimed back, unable to hide the sheer pleasure from my voice.
“I was worried you wouldn’t pick up. I know how you are about phones,” he teased.
“When is Mrs. Armstrong coming back? Because I’m really not good at this,” I said with a laugh. And maybe because once she did, I could actually be his intern. We could put a desk in his office for me and everything. “Why did you call?” I asked. “Did you need something?”
I’d already laid out my plans for the day—I had a few more quarterly transcripts to get through, and then I was going to try to make sense of things from very far back, from when Corvo first started, and see if I couldn’t break his official books, looking for any financial discrepancies.
“I just wanted you to know that I’m always thinking about you. Even when I’m away from you, or when I seem busy or distracted.”
I blinked, flattered—but also concerned. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t call and tell you nice things? I would’ve thought you’d like that.” I heard the sound of a car door shut and then the outer world press in from wherever it was that he was now.
I ducked into his office, so I could make sure my side of this conversation would be private. “Where are you? Are you okay?”
“It should be me asking you that,” he said, sounding briefly stern, before chuckling darkly. “I’m fine, moth. I just have a few more people to run numbers by this morning.”
“And then are you—” I started, then snapped my mouth shut. A million and one things I Should or Should Not Do came rushing up, trying to save me from myself, not being terrifically needy chief among them.
“Use your words,” he prompted me, and I realized the more important thing was that I wanted things between us to feel safe.
As safe as they ever could be with a murderer who I was madly in love with.
“You’re not the only one who gets lonely,” I confessed. “If you’re not here, am I allowed to text you some, during the day?”
“As long as you don’t expect a quick response, yes.”
“But you will respond?”
“Always,” he said, and then added, “Do you feel better now?”
“Yeah,” I breathed. The inclination to apologize for pressing him rose up my throat and rode on my tongue, but I remembered my promise to him in time to swallow it back down. There was no need to act like I was sorry—I’d asked for what I’d wanted, and gotten it.
“Are you still doing what I asked?” he said, with a very intentional leer in his tone, over the sounds of the city and cars honking behind him.
“Yes,” I laughed and beamed. “Even though there’s no one here to appreciate it but the carpeting.”
“I never thought I’d find myself jealous of office furnishings,” he said with a snort. “Take a?—”
“Don’t make me take a picture,” I said quickly enough to cut him off. “Please.”
I heard him make a thoughtful sound on the other end of the line. “Mmmm. Is this really the one time you want to ask for permission to disobey?”
“Yes. Please.” I begged again.
There was no way for me to explain aesthetics and lighting and my inability to take a decent picture under my skirt with my arm. Maybe at home, I could frame things with some artful pillows, but as much as I enjoyed masturbating, I was not a porn star—there were some skills I did not possess, and possibly some level of intrinsic shame I still had, not quite excavated out yet.
“All right, fine,” he said indulgently. “But remember—playing that card was your only time.”
I exhaled roughly. “Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet. I do still need to check to see if you’re behaving.”
A thrill of goosebumps ran up my neck and down my arms. “How?”
“Are you in my office? With the door locked?”
“Yes and yes.”
“Good girl,” he purred. “Hitch your skirt up and go sit on my desk.”
I glanced over at it. “Sir?” I asked, wondering if I’d heard him correctly.
“You can move the keyboard over,” he said, and I knew I had.
I walked over and around to his desk’s far side. It was imposing, made of heavy dark wood, and covered with a glass top. I knew what he wanted immediately. I hopped on—and then I hopped off, snapping a quick picture of my ass print on the desk’s top, sending it over quickly. I heard a rustle while he switched to look, and then his laugh as he moved the phone back to his ear.
“Smart girl. So clever.”
I beamed. I could hear the sound of a crowd behind him, and wondered just where he was. “Will I ever get pictures in return?” I asked, as I shimmied my skirt back down.
“That depends. I only promise to give as good as I get.” The commotion cut out and then there was silence, as though he’d entered the lobby of a building. “I need to go now, moth. I’ll talk to you later,” he said, and hung up.
I stood, staring at his desk for a moment. I couldn’t let the opportunity to get pictures in return from him just go by. If I did, thirteen-year-old me would resurrect herself from whatever internal box I’d put her in and kill me.
Which meant that...I paced in a quick circle, then bounced back up onto his desk again. I spread my knees, lifted my skirt up, and took a succession of photos beneath the fabric with my flash.
They were all not very good—and never in a million years would I, in all the fever dreams of my former life, have imagined myself curating badly composed pictures of my pussy to send to him—yet the desire to see what he’d send me back was overwhelming.
So I clenched my teeth, picked the least bad one, and hit send—hoping that he’d be smarter than to open a text from me in a crowded environment, like, say, on a subway.
And then I went back to all of my other duties, to do as I’d been told.
Right before five, Rhaim sent me a picture of his dick.
He was clearly in a bathroom stall somewhere, there was black and white tile on the floor, and a peek of a black stall wall, but his hand was presenting the main attraction, which was a long, thick erection, with a ridge behind its fat head and a vein rolling down one side—the kind of dick of which, when presented in romance books, instantly became a cock.
Because that’s just what it was.
I texted him back my first thought and reaction.
Good fucking lord.
And he texted me back another shot, his hand around it, circling it to pull it toward the camera, where I could see thick clear fluid dripping from its tip.
And then another, and another—it was clear he’d been stroking himself—he might as well have been sending me a video. My free hand dropped between my legs and started grabbing for my hem. I wanted to touch myself—if he was going to send me a picture of him coming, I wanted to come with him.
But then the pictures stopped.
Do we agree that you owe me now?
Yes
I quickly texted back.
Good—because I need another picture from you, little girl. But this time a very precise one.
Anything
I promised, having already broken through the pictures-of-my-pussy horizon.
Good
he said again, then followed it with,
I need you to cuff up the sleeves of your shirt and take pictures of your wrists for me.
The bottom dropped out of my stomach at the same time I felt like retching. “Please, no,” I whispered out loud, but he couldn’t hear me.
I’m waiting.
Seconds counted by the same as years did. It felt like I could feel the seasons change, the sun flying overhead again and again, while the moon swelled, dwindled, and then disappeared, repeatedly.
And no force on the planet could’ve gotten me to show my wrists to him.
A final text from him came in:
You’re in trouble.