But what the hell could I do to stop it?
Thomas
I SAT ON the toilet, scrolling through my phone (don’t pretend you never do it). It was not the most scenic or hygienic locale, but the toilet stall was the only place I could go to guarantee privacy in the real estate office. If anyone peered over my shoulder and saw the images I was looking at, they would be horrified. I was horrified. They were violent and disturbing. And they were meant to destroy me.
My pants were around my ankles for veracity, but I was just sitting, just staring. The e-mail had come in while I was in my office cubicle pulling comps. When I saw the name, my heart had skipped a beat: Chanel69. I’d hurried to the men’s room, locked myself in a stall, and dropped my pants. Only then did I open the missive.
This was the third e-mail I’d received from Chanel69. The first had arrived a few days after I’d returned from the bachelor party, still puffy and bleary and full of drinker’s remorse. I hadn’t been that wasted since college. It was embarrassing. And unsettling. Because most of that night was a blank.
I’d almost deleted the message without opening it, thinking it was spam.
Hi Thomas,
I met you at the Golden Dunes golf resort. I gave you a lap dance and you took me back to your room. When we were alone, you were violent with me. I want you to see what you did.
Chanel
At first, I thought it was a prank. Leo and Roger had to be behind it; they were taunting me for getting so messed up. I’d opened the first photo and I had to laugh. The image was comical! I was seated in an Eames-inspired armchair that I recognized from Roger’s suite. My hands gripped the arms, my expression a mixture of embarrassment and sheer terror, as the stripper (was her name really Chanel? Leo and Roger had probably made it up) gave me a lap dance. “Chanel” had long dark hair, large fake breasts, a tattoo of a phoenix snaking its way from belly to collarbone. Her ample butt cheeks were rubbing the front of my blue linen shirt. I looked like I was going to piss myself from fear. Or, possibly, start crying. It was funny. Viv might not have seen the humor in it, but my discomfort was comedically obvious. But the next photos were not humorous. Not at all.
The first shot was dimly lit, but I’d recognized the masculine bedroom. I recalled the double bed with its gray bedspread and two red throw pillows, the funky lamp on the nightstand. My black carry-on suitcase was on the chair in the corner. On the bed lay a man with a woman astride him. It was me. And it was Chanel.
I was fully dressed—that’s how I recognized myself. Viv had bought me the linen shirt, an aqua blue that worked with my skin tone, she said. Though my face was indistinguishable, the color was visible even in the faint lighting. I had a vague memory of the lap dance in the living room, but I had no recollection of being alone with Chanel in the bedroom. But there I was, flat on my back, being straddled by a naked stripper. I felt embarrassed and ashamed and frightened. Because if this photo ever got out, I’d be humiliated. My wife would kill me. But when I’d clicked on the next image and it filled the screen, my stomach dropped.
This photo showed the damage: Chanel’s delicate neck was black and blue, the bruises revealing the distinct shape of four fingers. Her throat had been gripped, roughly, brutally, by a man’s large hand. Someone had tried to choke her, to strangle her. The next image was even worse. On the top of Chanel’s ample breast, just above the phoenix’s flames, was an angry red bite mark.
I couldn’t have done it. I’d never been rough with a woman in my life. Yes, I’d been blind drunk that night, but tequila didn’t turn a mild-mannered dad into a violent misogynist. Even if I’d been drugged (some of the guys had taken MDMA), I would not have hurt the exotic dancer. There was just no way.
Was there?
I shouldn’t have responded. Or I should have responded differently. By apologizing, I’d incriminated myself. And my words made it clear that I had no recollection of my time with Chanel.
I’m very sorry this happened to you. But I didn’t do it. I couldn’t have.
The second e-mail came a few days later.
I expected you to deny it, but these photos are proof. I can send them to your wife, your kids, and your boss. I can post them on your social media. Then everyone can decide for themselves.
It was clear. Chanel was looking for much more than an apology.
What do you want?
She’d demanded $50,000 in bitcoin, sent instructions for setting up a cryptocurrency wallet that would allow the smooth and anonymous exchange of funds. Now this third e-mail had added a timeline.
I’m sick of waiting. You have two weeks, or these photos will be sent to everyone you know.
I couldn’t let it happen. Being photographed in bed with a stripper was bad enough, but the bruises and the bite mark… Jesus Christ. They must have been staged. Viv and the kids had to know that I would never, ever strangle a woman, never ever bite her. But even if they believed me, they’d be humiliated.
If the photos were posted on social media, there would be at least a few viewers who would doubt my claims of innocence. The agency would drop me. I’d lose clients, friends… my reputation. Somehow, I had to make this go away.
There was no way I could pay Chanel $50,000. Viv and I had curated the appearance of wealth, with our big house, the luxury cars, and our son’s fancy college. But I’d bought the house for a song when it was in foreclosure, and the cars were leases. We were still paying off the bathroom and closet renovations my wife had insisted upon. I’d married a woman who excelled at making things look pretty and perfect, even when they weren’t. It was her special skill, and she’d turned it into a career. We were just two of millions of Americans living beyond our means.
But I knew how to negotiate. It was my job. And I’d read numerous books on the subject. The best way to deal with a ridiculous offer was “strategic umbrage,” remaining calm and poised while clearly taking offense. My response would make Chanel see that her request was ridiculous, completely outrageous. I e-mailed her back.
I don’t see how that would ever work.
My blackmailer would be offended, pissed off, but she wasn’t going to release the images of me. Why would she? Then it would be over, and she’d get nothing. If this was really about money, she’d come back with a lower number. I’d counter. There would be some back-and-forth, but eventually, we’d agree on a more reasonable figure. I could pull from our line of credit if need be, and hope Viv didn’t notice. It was a risk I had to take.
I stood, pulled up my pants, and dropped the phone into my pocket.
Eli
I TOOK AN Uber home from my job interview. The account was attached to a credit card my parents had given me when I was at college—for emergencies. This wasn’t an emergency; it was a celebration. I’d taken the bus to the gastropub in Goose Hollow, but I deserved a ride home. I’d nailed my interview and gotten the job. My first training shift was on Monday. I felt a weird combination of relief, elation, and a perverse sense of triumph. My parents had wanted me to get a job and now I had one. But they weren’t going to be happy about it.
The brewery/restaurant was totally hipster. It served roasted brussels sprouts and deep-fried pickles and thirty-seven kinds of beer. My new boss, Peter, was in his late thirties and had a handlebar mustache. The gastropub had pool tables upstairs and live music on weekends. The main floor was family-friendly, offering a kids’ menu with mac and cheese and chicken strips. That’s where I would start (unfortunately) busing tables in the evenings. But when I turned twenty-one, I’d move to the upper level. I wanted to be around the action—and the money. Eventually, I could become a bartender: make big tips, meet cool people, grow a beard. It wasn’t the kind of future my parents wanted for me. And that made me want it all the more.
If they knew I viewed my busboy job as a launching pad for a career, they’d freak out. I had two years of an economics degree under my belt, and now I wanted to walk away from it to sling beers. But this was my life. I was sick of my mom
and dad living vicariously through me, taking out their educational regrets on their kids. I was sick of my family in general. My parents were so tightly wound, and my sister was a bitch on wheels. Once I started making decent money, I’d get my own apartment. Until then, this job would at least get Mom and Dad off my back. And give me a reason to get out of the house.
The Uber pulled up in front of our home and I saw the driver glance at it, heard his low, appreciative whistle. Our house wasn’t the fanciest in the neighborhood, but I knew it was impressive. And my parents took excellent care of it. They were always renovating something, always updating the furniture or rugs. They were “house-proud,” a term I heard them toss around when talking about their real estate or decorating clients. To me, a house was just a building.
My dad wasn’t home. His weekends were spent driving clients around to look at properties or hosting open houses. He had associates who sometimes did it for him, but I think he enjoyed it. When I told him about my busboy job, he’d make a sarcastic comment, something like: I didn’t realize you liked picking up dirty dishes so much. That sounds much better than working at a bank! My mom wasn’t going to be thrilled either, but she’d hide it better.
I jogged up the front steps, digging my key out of my pocket, and let myself in. For a second, I thought the house was empty, but then I heard my mom moving around in her upstairs office. She worked from home but was sometimes at a client site, or an exercise class. I decided to tell her about my job now, to get it out of the way. I knew what to expect: a fake smile, some mildly encouraging words. If she told me I was settling, that I could have done better, I’d point out that they’d wanted me to find work and I had. But my mom was nonconfrontational, unlike my loud and blustery dad. She would probably try to hide her disappointment.
Kicking off my shoes, I climbed the stairs. My mom must have heard my footsteps because she swiveled in her desk chair to face me. “Hi, honey.”
“I’ve got some news.”
“Oh?”
“I got a job.”
A broad smile spread across her face and she stood. “Good for you, Eli. Where?”
“The Thirsty Raven. In Goose Hollow.”
I saw her face fall, just a little, but she covered. “I’ve been there. They make a great Cobb salad.”
“They have thirty-seven types of beer.”
“What will you be doing?”
“Busing tables to start. But I can move up.”
“Busing is a great summer job. You’ll make a few tips and meet some new people.” She looked genuinely pleased. Maybe I’d misjudged her. “And you’ll be happy to get back to school after a few months of clearing dirty dishes.”
My jaw clenched. I would tell her again, in no uncertain terms, that I was not going back to Worbey College. If my parents tried to make me, I would leave. I would move out, stay with friends, even sleep on the streets. But then she reached a hand toward me.
“You have something on your cheek.” She wiped at it as if I were a toddler.
“What is it?”
“Chocolate maybe? What did you eat for lunch?”
“A turkey sandwich.”
My mom sniffed her fingers. “Oh my god, Eli. It smells like poop!”
“On my face?” I didn’t wait for a response but stormed to the bathroom down the hall. In the mirror I saw the faint brown streak on my cheek. I turned the faucet on and that’s when I noticed the smudges on my hand.
Mom had followed me. “Did you fall in some dog doo?” she asked, elbowing her way to the sink.
“I didn’t fall. It’s on my hand.” I was vigorously pumping liquid soap with my left hand, scrubbing my right hand and face.
“Did you take the bus home?”
“I got an Uber.”
“It could have been on the car door handle.”
“I would have smelled it.” As I continued to scrub, a thought struck me. I turned off the faucet, quickly dried my hands and face, and rumbled down the stairs.
“Where are you going?” My mom was on my heels, but I didn’t answer, didn’t pause. I yanked open the front door and went onto the porch. I looked at the hand railings, freshly painted last summer, clean and white because my dad wiped them down every weekend when he did his yard work. Then I looked at the front door.
The handle was smeared with a sticky brown substance: shit.
Tarryn
ON WEEKENDS, I hung out with Georgia and Luke. We went for walks, to the mall, sometimes we smoked weed. Our friendship was comfortable to the point of being dull, like a pair of worn-in sneakers that still felt good, but we all craved a pair of six-inch stilettos. At least, I did. Sometimes I was tempted to tell them about my camming life, just to shake things up. Georgia would have been shocked. Luke would have been impressed. But I’d decided that my alter ego, my second life, was mine alone.
When I got home around four o’clock, my dad’s car was in the driveway. He was rarely home on the weekends, busy at open houses or chauffeuring potential buyers around. Still, it wasn’t unusual for him to pop home and then go out again later, so I didn’t think anything of it. But when I opened the door and saw my mom, dad, and brother seated in the living room deep in conversation, I felt a prickle of foreboding. They immediately stopped talking and looked at me.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” my mom said quickly. “We just wanted to talk to you.”
I kicked off my shoes. “About what?”
My parents exchanged a quick look that filled me with dread. Something bad had happened. Had my grandma died?
Mom patted the sofa beside her. “Come sit.”
But I selected the designer chair in the corner, farthest away from them all. “What’s going on? Is Grandma Joyce okay?”
“She’s fine,” my dad assured me. “Everyone’s fine.”
My brother leaned forward in the armchair, his face dark and scowling. “Those kids put dog shit on the door handle!”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. It was just so bizarre. And clearly, Eli had touched it. The thought of the little prince with dog poop on his hands was too much.
“It’s not funny,” my brother snapped. “It’s fucking sick!”
“It is,” I said, forcing a serious expression. “But how do you know it was dog shit?”
“Shut up,” Eli muttered.
“It could be cat shit. Or human shit.”
“That’s enough!” my dad bellowed, as my mom scolded, “This is serious, Tarryn!”
Dad cleared his throat. “Someone had the nerve to come onto our front porch, in the middle of the day, to put feces on the door handle. Who would do that?”
I felt the weight of their eyes and realized the question was not rhetorical. They expected me to answer. “You still think I know something about all this?”
“The eggs and the apple could have been random,” my dad replied. “But painting poop on our front door? That’s personal.”
“Is there something going on at school?” my mom said gently. “Or with your friends?”
“What about on social media?” Eli said. “Do you have beef with someone?”
“Maybe a younger boy?” my dad suggested.
“Oh my god,” I snapped, “this is so chauvinistic.”
“What?” Dad looked completely befuddled.
“It’s like… that boy pulled your pigtails because he likes you. As if males don’t have to take responsibility for their bad behavior. I’m so fucking over this bro-culture bullshit.”
“Tarryn.…” Mom was admonishing me for my swearing, missing the point altogether. At least my dad looked a little sheepish.
“And how do you know kids did this?” I threw in.
“Because it’s childish,” Dad responded. “Adults don’t act that way.”
“Don’t they?” I looked at him. “Maybe it’s some psycho from your work. Maybe he doesn’t like the house you sold him.” I addressed my mom. “Or it’s some woman you pissed off at spin class. O
r she hates your decorating.” And then I turned to my brother. “Plenty of kids hated you in school, Eli. Mr. Popular. Mr. Perfect. Mr. Soccer Star.”
I saw them take this in, saw the doubt flicker in their eyes. But only for a second.
“If you’re not willing to be open and honest with us,” Mom sniffed, “then I guess we’ll just have to suffer this abuse.”
“I don’t know anything!” I snapped, standing up. “And I can’t believe you’re trying to guilt-trip me when this is not my fault!” I stormed out of the room and hurried down the basement stairs.
Alone in my bedroom, my anger bubbled over. I got that they were upset. Shit on the door handle was next level, totally taking things too far. But these assaults were not about me. I didn’t have enemies. I didn’t have beef. I was basically invisible to my peers. Why would they attack me when they didn’t even notice me? It was only when I was camming that I felt seen and important. And no one in my chat room knew who I was or where I lived.
And then I remembered, about a week ago, there had been an odd comment.
I like the red hoodie you wore today.
The words sounded innocuous, and they would have been if they had been posted anywhere else. But I never wore more than a bra and panties when I was camming. Not to mention a wig and heavy makeup. None of my online fans knew my real name, my identity, or even that I lived in Portland, Oregon. The camming website had extreme privacy controls. So, none of my viewers knew that I had recently bought a red hoodie that I wore to school, out for coffee with friends, and on errands.
The commenter’s handle was unfamiliar, but I always had guests popping into my chat room. If they made a rude comment or request, I blocked them. If they liked what they saw, they’d become regulars. The mention of my hoodie had to be a coincidence. Or spam. But I’d blocked the viewer, just to be safe. And then I put it behind me. Because no one in my real life knew that I was camming; I’d made sure of that. I hadn’t even told my closest friends. And even if someone discovered my cam page, they’d never suspect that the sexy, erotic Natalia with the bright red hair and dramatic makeup was plain old Tarryn Adler.
The Perfect Family Page 5