Chapter 60
Roni
Simon remains hidden in the shadows of the room he’s in. It’s pitch black beyond the first inches beyond his screen, but I can tell he’s there.
“Hi, Simon,” I offer a simple greeting to break the nonexistent ice.
“Hello, Roni.” His voice comes through my speakers, tired and pensive. “You look beautiful tonight.”
I twist a strand of black hair around my finger, a nervous habit. The green verification badge next to my username glows in the corner of my screen. Three thousand viewers online right now, but I want Simon to think it’s just him and me.
“Thanks. Listen, I wanted to talk to you about something.” I adjust my position on the bed, pulling my knees to my chest. “About all the money.”
Silence from his end. Just the outline of a man, waiting.
“I appreciate everything you've done, Simon. You've been incredibly generous, but I'm starting to worry that maybe we're crossing some boundaries.” The words feel thick in my throat. “Tens of thousand dollars so far. It's not... normal.”
“Do you need more?” He cuts to The Chase, misunderstanding.
“No. God, no.” I run a hand through my hair, feeling the weight of this conversation. “That's exactly what I mean. I think you might be confusing what we have.”
The shadow shifts slightly. I can almost feel him pulling away.
“I enjoy our time together,” he says finally. “Is that so wrong?”
“No, but—” I take a deep breath, steadying myself. “I've been thinking about you outside of these sessions. Looking forward to seeing your username pop up. That's not healthy for either of us.”
“You think about me?” There's a hint of something dangerous in his voice. Hope.
“That's the problem,” I say quickly. “It's not real. What I mean is, we're not—”
The silence stretches between us, filled only with the soft hum of my computer fan. I watch his silhouette, trying to gauge his reaction.
“I know what this is,” he finally says, his voice lower than before. “I'm not delusional, Roni.”
I wince at his tone. “I didn't say you were. But the amount of money you've been sending, it creates an imbalance. And I want to be sure you don’t think it creates some obligation on me.”
“I believe I made the rules quite clear,” he counters.
“You did. And I’m glad we have them.” I shift uncomfortably, aware of how my words might hurt him.
“But I find myself thinking about what you want. What would make you happy. How happy it makes me. How you’re able to get me to melt through digital space.
I don’t know who I am when I’m coming apart for you, Simon. And that fucking scares me.”
“That's—” he starts, then takes a deep breath, continuing across a relieving sigh. “That's how relationships work, Roni. People think about each other.”
“But this isn't a relationship,” I say, the words stinging even as they leave my mouth. “Not a real one. I love my husband. Fucking hell. I love him more than anything anyone could ever give me.”
“I don’t doubt that,” he patronizes me, and something inside my head screams.
“Don’t do that, Simon,” I object.
“Do what?” He feigns ignorance and I find myself wishing I could hurt him.
“You don’t understand why I’m here. Why I do this.”
“Oh no?” I replies with a curious tenor. “Do you really think I’m so ignorant to your needs?”
“I—”
I don’t have a response. Is he more intuitive than I’ve given him credit for?
“You don’t have to say it. I can see it in your eyes.” He’s almost cocky about it.
“So tell me,” I call his bluff. “What do I want?
“Revenge.” The word feels guttural from his throat. “On the entire male population. For what they did to you.”
How could he possibly know that? Who is this man?
“I don’t know exactly what happened to you,” he continues. “But, you said it was physical, so I can make some education assumptions. It’s only natural to want to hunt down those who hurt you. Your rapists.”
My joints lock hearing him say it. I never call them that. It feels to real. But it’s exactly what they are. Rapists.
“Tell me how you would do it.” He pushes and simultaneously I can feel it pulling from my chest. How I want to end all their miserable experiences. How I’ve fantasized about it for two years.
“It’s deeper than that,” I finally say. “I don’t just want to hurt them.”
“I thought not,” he taunts. “So tell me. Paint the picture.”
And I do.
Verbal diarrhea takes hold and I tell him, this follower, how I want to fuck my rapists’ dying flesh until they go limp. Then cut them into a million tiny pieces and feed them to their loved ones. I want to ruin everything they hold dear.
“But that shit isn’t sexy. So I keep it locked inside.”
“Sure it is,” he argues.
“What?”
“I think it’s very sexy,” he adds.
When he pokes holes in my vengeful armor, it fucks me up. I’m the one who is supposed to be in control here. I’m the one who is taking. Yet all I want to do for Simon is give. Why?
“Why can’t I hate you like the rest?” I pound my fist on my desk.
“Shhhh. It’s okay.”
“I'm sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
“Don't apologize,” Simon snaps with an insulted tone. “In fact, I think this is the most real you've been with me.”
I shift uncomfortably in my chair, suddenly aware of how much I've revealed.
“I think we both know what's happening here. This connection we have, it goes beyond just client and performer.”
I start to protest, but he cuts me off.
“No, hear me out. I have the resources to help you get your revenge. To find the ones you seek.”
My stomach drops. “What do you mean?”
“What if I could put you face to face with your abusers?”
I feel something shifting inside me. A dangerous curiosity. I suddenly wonder what Simon does for a living. The type of person he really is. The likely expectation he’d insist on meeting me if I accept his help. Phoenix will never go for that.
“No,” I say, but my voice lacks conviction.
“I hear hesitation,” he presses. “Look, I understand your caution. In your position, I'd feel the same way.”
“You have no idea what my position is,” I snap, trying to rebuild my walls.
“Don't I?” His voice is gentle now. “Someone who's been hurt. Who fantasizes about revenge against those who wronged her? Someone who performs online because it gives her control she never had before?”
My breath catches. He's reading me too well.
“That's enough,” I say, my finger hovering over the disconnect button. “You don't know me, Simon. Not really.”
“I know your husband isn’t doing anything to find the men who raped you. That while you love him, he’s not giving you this one thing you need.”
I shake my head, again declining, knowing I should end this know.
“Simon says, think about it.”
I don’t like this. He’s different. Dubious. Coercive. That’s a problem.