Back when I was free, I was a reader. I never read sex slave books, but I was aware of the market, had scrolled past the bestselling titles on my Kindle as I searched for my vanilla romances. I knew, from my brief perusals, that the sex slave relationship was often romanticized, the Master an ultimate alpha male, one who ordered fabulous sex while creating a deeper bond with the captive. While those accounts were fiction, I did understand that there was a psychological break that occurred when a woman was kept like an animal, dependent on one individual for her basic human needs.
Now, in this concrete basement, my knowledge of such relationships had grown one-thousandfold. In part, because of my actual experience. But more so, because of his word vomit. The man had approached our relationship like a science, meticulously testing different practices and recording it in his binders. I didn’t know if he was training for the Slave Olympics or researching for a book, but his questions, his speeches, his explanations had taught me far more about the psychology than I ever wanted to know. I would never tell him, but a small part of me understood Stockholm syndrome. I had felt tugs of loneliness, surges of pride, bits of desire for approval. The breaks had come when I was at my weakest, their arrival giving me a peek into the rabbit hole that always existed in these walls, the ever-present risk to connect out of sheer necessity with my captor.
But that would not be my story. I didn’t have to, in the bones of my soul, be strong. That was what my memories were for. To ground me, to be my lifeline.
“God, you’re incredible,” Brett rolled me onto my back, his body above mine, his chest wet with sweat, my own breasts heaving from the exertion of our activities. Above him, the pattern of my bedroom ceiling, pale yellow painted boards that shimmered in the afternoon sun.
“You say that every time,” I chided, smiling up at him.
“I can’t help it. I’m a man who speaks the truth, it’s my curse.” He bent forward, his mouth soft on mine before he moved to my jaw, then my neck. I felt his neck move, pushing my legs apart, and I wrapped them around his waist. “No,” he pushed at my thighs, keeping them open, his body sliding down mine, the trail of his mouth leaving a teasing line across my breasts, stomach, and hip. He stopped at my open legs, a hand reverently passing over me, my back arching into his touch, the hot exhale of his breath tickling me before he lowered his mouth. I closed my eyes and couldn’t stop the curse when it ripped through me at the first contact of his tongue.
One day, I would be out of here. One day, we would be reunited.
That was the day I lived for, fought for.
I was a Daddy’s girl, always had been. My connection was stronger with him than my mother. I didn’t know why, except to say that my mother—for some reason or another—had wanted a boy. A strange thing, especially in the South. Especially from a woman who epitomized femininity, from her painted red toes to the rollers she wore to bed at night. But a boy was what she always wanted and when I’d turned up, my father was the one who’d welcomed me with unconditional love.
So yes, we were close. He was protective. And his position as Chief of Police, a position he’d held for the last twenty-two years, had often been used to his advantage as a father.
There was the time when John and I were screwing, knee-deep in Israel Duran’s barn straw, and two black and whites pulled in, lights blazing. I had been sixteen and skipping school. They’d put the both of us in the back of the squad car and marched us into my father’s office. That night, a flashlight in mouth—I found a tracking device underneath the rear bumper of my Sunfire.
There was the time when I was arrested at UGA, along with fourteen others, victims of a house-party raid. A room full of underage drinking, weed, and pills on the dining room table, and we were all brought in and kept overnight. I made the mistake of using my one phone call to call my father. Thought that Daddy Dearest might use some political sway to get me released before daybreak. A stupid, drunk decision. I sobbed into the phone, told him I hadn’t been doing drugs, and that I’d only had one Bud Light. Thirty minutes later, I’d had a rape exam, full drug panel working on my blood, and had blown a .21 on a Breathalyzer. They reported the findings (marijuana in my system, no rape, but signs of recent sexual activity) to my father, and I spent two nights in an Athens jail cell, twice what any of my friends endured. And trust me, those extra twenty-four hours sucked.
There had been very few moments where I’d appreciated my father’s position. The encounter with the boys at Beverly’s Diner smelled of his involvement. I’d have to pull him aside at the wedding. Make it clear that he needed to keep his distance. Respect my privacy and new relationship. Allow me to live my own life. I wasn’t sixteen anymore. I could make my own decisions and mistakes. I sipped Folgers and wondered how Dad would react, both to my mandate and to meeting Brett. Mom would be easy. Any person who increased her likelihood of grandchildren (maybe this time it’d be a boy!) would be embraced.
“So.” Brett wandered in, pulling a shirt over his head, the stretch and pop of abs causing my eyes to linger. “What’s the plan for today?”
I lifted my head from the cup. “Not sure. I was just mulling over that. We need to be at the church at three. Until then, it’s pretty open.”
“You always have such a serious expression when musing over lunch plans?”
I smiled and took another sip, letting the bitter heat warm my throat. “I was thinking about my parents. Not sure if they’ll scare you off tonight.”
“These are the police chief/pharmacy tech parents?” Brett asked, picking up an apple from the bowl and asking permission with his eyes. I waved him on, lifting my feet from the other dining room chair and kicking it out for him.
“Yes. The only ones I got.”
He shrugged. “Some people have two.”
“Do you?”
He chewed a bite of apple, the act taking a minute, his Adam’s apple bulging as he swallowed. “Nope. Just one. My parents are still married.”
“Look at us. Two surviving children in a sea of broken families.”
“A good omen for the future of our marriage.” He looked up, winked.
“Easy, Fabio.” I sipped my coffee. “One relationship milestone at a time.”
“I didn’t mean to pressure you last night. With the ‘I love you’ stuff.”
“I wouldn’t have said it back if I didn’t mean it.” I reached out, requesting the apple, and he passed it over, letting me steal a bite. “Let me get dressed. We can run into town and I’ll buy you a real breakfast, give you the five dollar tour.”
He caught me as I passed, his hand gently on my waist as he pushed me against the wall and stole a kiss. “I do love you, Miss Johnson.”
I rose to my tippy toes and kissed him back.
I used to be a man who didn’t care. Who smiled freely, put his shoes up on the table, drank to excess, loved without reserve. Then, the woman I loved more than anything in the world was taken. That day put a cloud over my life. Changed the man I was to the man I am now. A man who considers every action. Who hides more than he gives. Who lies more than he tells the truth.
I was lying when I met Riley. Playing a part that I’d cultivated to such a point that it felt natural. I was in a role, so I kept playing it. Provided a card that contained rows of lies. Talked and hinted of a life I didn’t keep. I played the part, I fucked the girl, and somehow, amid the skin and the touches and the gorgeous crook of her smile, I felt it. Felt a tugging on a part of my heart that I thought had died.
When I first met her, I should’ve let her go. Let her get on that jet and fly back home. Let my heart turn back to black, crush the weakness that had threatened. But I didn’t. I allowed the weakness to fester, to rot at the bones of my ribcage until my chest was cracked wide open and she had crawled inside and feasted on my heart. Inhaled it until there was no longer her and I but only us.
I didn’t know how to go back. Didn’t know how to break off this piece of my soul and give her back. Didn’t know how to sift through the lies and tell her the truth. Didn’t know how to be the man she deserved without losing sight of my goal.
I didn’t know how to hold on to that goal without letting it consume my future.
Chelsea’s wedding narrowed the list of single girls down to two: Megan Gallt and myself. Megan was more in love with Jesus than any man, and would probably be single at least another five years, the pool of men in Quincy too sinful for her tastes. Me … I hadn’t really thought about marriage, not with any of my exes. Not until Brett. But being at a wedding sort of forced your brain in that direction, shoved hopes and dreams down your throat until the moment when you confronted all of it and allowed what if.
What if we got married? We’d have to move to Fort Lauderdale. His job was there, and it was a much bigger job than mine. I didn’t mind moving. Had thought about it before I even met Brett, my restlessness in Quincy finding new ways to emerge: in my snap at a customer, my binge on Netflix series, my scan of big city job search engines late at night. I would happily move. Settle in South Florida, get a new job, find new friends, and we’d jet set back to Quincy a few weeks every year to see my friends and family. Maybe we could have an annual girls’ trip to Atlantis, could relive our bachelorette party weekend.
What if we had kids? Brett would make a great dad. And I’d always wanted a child; my maternal urges sated by the fact that I had become “Aunt Riley” to Tammy, Jena, and Mitzi’s kids. What would it be like to wake up to the sound of a child’s giggle and know we had created that? What was this love that “changed you” and how would it feel to love a baby that much?
What if we grew old together? What if this was it, he was my soulmate and this breathless, nervous excitement that I felt whenever he reached for me, smiled at me – what if it never faded and was there forever? What if our kids had kids, and we retired together and bought vacation homes and went on cruises and played shuffleboard? What if my hair turned white, and he still loved me, and we died like that old couple in Titanic, our hands clasped, us entering heaven within minutes of each other?
What ifs were dangerous. What ifs were terrifying. I watched Brett smile at my mother and stand, reaching for her hand, and she blushed, following him to the dance floor where he carefully spun her around.
What if he broke my heart?