by Lilah Pace
If I phone Chloe, there’s no guarantee she’ll tell me what’s up. Obviously something is up, but God only knows what. If I don’t call her, maybe I’ll never have to know.
Then it hits me—what if Chloe’s pregnant again?
No. Oh, God, no. The thought of her having one child with Anthony was revolting enough. Then again, Mom would hardly sound so sharp and strange if that were Chloe’s big secret. She’d be totally happy, over the moon, and very coy about not being able to tell me. Instead, she sounded completely off-kilter.
Maybe Chloe’s pregnant, but the pregnancy isn’t a healthy one. They could’ve conceived triplets, and are considering reducing, a decision my mother would look on with horror. Chloe could be on the verge of losing the baby, or genetic tests might have come back with some awful diagnosis.
I can’t take it anymore. As angry as I’ve been with Chloe these past many years, she’s still my sister. I don’t know whether she’s in serious trouble, but if she is, I want to help. So I call.
Chloe picks up so late that I first assume it must be her voice mail. “Vivienne,” she says faintly. “I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. ”
Forget the small talk. “When I spoke on the phone with Mom this morning, she sounded really weird. Are you okay? Is everything all right?”
“Well. ” Chloe remains silent for a long time. “I suppose you might as well know. Anthony has— I’ve asked Anthony to move out. ”
Did she really say that? Did I just hear it?
Anthony is gone?
I bite down on my lower lip to keep myself from laughing out loud for joy. What do I say? How do I sound supportive without sounding delighted? “Whoa,” I manage. “I didn’t expect that. ”
“Things fell apart pretty quickly,” Chloe says in an absent tone, as if she were checking her manicure instead of confessing something that must be intensely painful for her.
“Are you going to tell me what happened?”
Her voice sharpens. “I would’ve thought you already knew. ”
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She could only be referring to one thing. A month ago, right after my father’s heart attack, Jonah confronted Anthony about what he’d done to me—and Chloe overheard. At the time I thought she still refused to believe that Anthony had raped me, but she did at least finally know that what happened went well beyond his version of events in which we were only “flirting. ”
Yet now she’s thrown Anthony out. Does that mean Chloe has finally accepted the truth?
If I press her on it, I’ll only alienate her. That’s the last thing I want to do—especially now, when for the first time in more than ten years, I feel like I might actually get my big sister back.
“Are you okay?” I ask, as gently as I can.
Chloe makes a sound that doesn’t quite count as a laugh. “I’m miserable. But I know I’ve made the right choice. ”
“Is he still in the house?”
“He hasn’t found a place of his own yet, but for the time being he’s staying with his brother. ”
That counts as progress. “I, uh—I’m glad you’ve done what you wanted to do. ”
“I suppose I will be too, someday. ”
Then I hear another voice, high-pitched and more distant. “Who is that? Is it Daddy?”
Libby. As always, when I hear her voice, I can’t help but smile.
Chloe answers her daughter. “No, sweetie, it’s Aunt Vivi. Would you like to talk with her?”
“Put her on,” I plead.
Then I hear Libby say, “Hi, Aunt Vivi. ”
“Hey there! How are you?”
She answers with more honesty than any adult would ever show. “I’m sad. ”
That catches me short. The best news I’ve had in forever is, to this little girl, a disaster—the kind that leaves scars for a lifetime. Remembering that doesn’t make me any less thrilled that Anthony’s been thrown out, but it does remind me that one person, at least, has a reason to be sad he’s gone. “I’m sorry, honey. What are you doing to help yourself feel better?”
“Well, Daddy is staying with Uncle Richie right now, but he comes to see me pretty much every day after school, and he says we’ll spend all of Saturday together. ” I can tell she’s brightening at the very thought. “He’s going to take me to Chuck E. Cheese!”
Singing animatronic rodents. Better him than me. “You guys will have fun, I bet. ”
“Daddy always helps me with the games at Chuck E. Cheese. ” Libby even giggles. “He’s really good at Whac-A-Mole. ”
For all of the wretched things about Anthony Whedon—for all that he brutalized me when I was less than ten years older than Libby is now—he is not only my rapist. He is also Libby’s father, and he loves her. I think he’d try to kill any man who treated her the way he treated me. His adoration of his daughter may be the one truly pure part of his soul.
Even the best of us isn’t purely good. And even the worst of us isn’t purely evil.
• • •
How am I supposed to get any work done up here on cloud nine?
Yes, I’m worried for Libby, and I know this is difficult for Chloe—but once the call is over, all I can do is luxuriate in my delight. I’ve waited too long for this moment not to enjoy it. So I text Jonah the whole story. He doesn’t reply back right away, no doubt because he’s neck-deep in research. Once he reads it, I know he’ll understand completely what this means to me.
(How often must he have longed for his mother to announce she was divorcing Carter Hale? Jonah has waited more than thirty years for his deliverance, and it still hasn’t come. )
Then I change into my sloppiest, paint-striped jeans and a ratty old hoodie. It’s time to make some art.
I share studio space with a number of other local artists, most of them also affiliated with the fine arts program at UT Austin. We have our designated stations, though when the studio is mostly empty, we feel free to spread out a bit. When I walk into the broad, concrete-floored former warehouse, with its high ceiling and exposed metal beams, I see I’m by myself today except for Keiko, one of my fellow TAs. She’s sitting at the pottery wheel in the corner, her hands slathered in clay, and can spare only a quick glance at me to smile hello. Although her art is something I’ve only dabbled in, I know very well the dangers of looking away while you’re throwing a pot.
My own station is much more dangerous, actually. See, I work a lot with acid. Although I sketch, and even paint a little, my first love is etching. This means I draw an image on a plate, burn that image into the plate with acid, and use it to make prints. Depending on the acids, inks, and printing techniques used, the final etching can express many different shades of meaning—while the plate remains the same, each print has its own unique identity.
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Today, I want to work on creating a new plate; I’ll need to broaden my range of work for my final portfolio review next semester. But what should I work on first? The problem isn’t that I don’t have any ideas. It’s that I have too many. Whenever life offers new people and experiences, new artistic inspiration arrives—and no matter what else you might say about Jonah Marks’s influence in my life, he has definitely provided inspiration of every kind.
Wait. What if I created an etching that symbolized Jonah himself?
I’ve never done that before—tried to personify anyone in my life as a symbol in my work. Yet the idea immediately catches fire in my mind. Jonah has challenged me, frightened me, freed me. He’s brought me from despair to ecstasy. Portraying those complex emotions in one single image . . . now that would be a challenge.
And the different roles he plays in my life, those could be shown with new inks, new papers, new techniques. My mind goes into overdrive even as I start setting up my station. I could use thick, black, blotchy ink on stained fabric—or even on burlap, maybe. Then something silvery on dark gray paper, good stuff, the same stock as top-quality formal stationery—
I catch myself. Thinking ab
out all the creative ways I’ll print this is putting the cart in front of the horse. First I have to choose the image, and create it.
And yet—one image that could capture everything Jonah has meant to me? What on earth would it be?
For ideas, I pull out one of my sketchbooks. This is the one I took along when Jonah swept me off to the Scottish Highlands for a week. Every night we made love in a little inn on the rugged coast of the Isle of Skye; every day, he went out on the water for his research, and I was free to wander, see, and draw. Maybe something here will spark my imagination . . .
My phone rings; the song it plays is the ringtone I assigned to Jonah. Smiling, I answer, “Hey. I was just thinking about you. ”
“That son of a bitch is gone,” Jonah says without preamble. “I’m so happy for you, Vivienne. ”
“I feel like throwing a ticker tape parade,” I confess. “Or drinking champagne, or dancing in the streets. It’s like a hundred New Year’s Eves rolled into one. ”
“You’d like to celebrate?”
The low tone in his voice as he says it sends electricity crackling inside me. “I would. ” I try to sound innocent. “Do you have an idea?”
“I do. Would you be in the mood for something a little more . . . elaborate than usual?”
I remember our would-be weekend at the cabin, where Jonah kidnapped me, tied me up, and used me as savagely and perfectly as I could ever have dreamed. We would have spent three days like that, instead of three hours, if not for my father’s sudden crisis. I’ve never stopped longing for those days back. “Oh, yeah. ”
“Give me another three hours,” he says. “Then come to my apartment. I’ll explain the scenario then. Lay down the rules. ”
“Yes. ” I can’t imagine what the rules will be. I like not knowing. Mystery invites that frisson of fear that makes everything more tantalizing.
After we’ve hung up, it occurs to me that celebrating with one of our games is possibly not the most mentally healthy way to commemorate my rapist’s expulsion from my family.
But to hell with that. Healthy left me behind a long time ago. Tonight I feel powerful, overjoyed, and invincible.
That will make it so much sweeter when I surrender to Jonah completely.
Seven
Jonah’s apartment complex sits downtown, very near the lake. This is the most desirable location in the city—at the very heart of Austin, secure, luxurious in a low-key way.
He’s given me the security code to punch in at the ground level of the building’s parking garage, so I drive in without any fuss. My heart thumps hard in my chest as I maneuver my Honda Civic into one of the spots marked with the yellow, spray-painted word Visitor. My palms are sweaty against the gearshift as I put it in park, on my keys as I pull them from the ignition. I can feel my pulse between my legs, steady and insistent, already longing for him.
When I changed out of my studio clothes, I made sure to put on one of the little dresses I’ve bought at Goodwill for the express purpose of being destroyed, if Jonah so chooses. This one is dark blue, bandana-patterned, with skinny straps and a hemline that stops several inches above the knee. Both the cooler fall weather and local style would call for a cardigan on top and cowboy boots on my feet. I go without. Warmer clothes are in the large backpack I’ll carry in, so I can change into them before I leave hours from now—once Jonah’s done with me. For now my shoulders are bare, as are my legs all the way down to the ballet flats I wear. Small gold hoop earrings are my only jewelry.
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No bra. It only gets in the way. Panties, yes—because both of us enjoy it when he tears them off.
The elevator’s heavy metal doors slide shut around me. I punch in the numerical code that allows me to travel to the penthouse floor. That space belongs to Jonah alone.
When the doors open, I blink in surprise. No lamps are lit anywhere in the apartment. As I step out, however, my eyes adjust to the darkness and take in the city lights beyond the broad windows, and the shadows in front of them. One of those shadows is Jonah.
“Put your things down,” he says. His voice is still his—we aren’t yet in the game. But that wasn’t a request; it was a command. Jonah’s as impatient for this to begin as I am. “Take off your shoes. ”
I slide my foot out of one ballet flat, then the other. A nearby chair provides a place to ditch my bag. Slowly I walk forward. Jonah stands still, waiting, forcing me to come to him.
More details take shape. Something is dangling from one of the high beams overhead—one rope, I think. Jonah wears solid black from head to toe, and whatever he’s got on outlines his powerful form like a second skin. He’s holding something soft and black in his hands.
My breaths are quick and shallow by the time we’re standing face to face. Very quietly Jonah says, “I’m going to restrain your hands. And I’m going to shut you up. You remember how to stop me if you can’t talk?”
In our very first conversation about the rules of our games, we devised an alternative to our safe word. “I snap my fingers. ”
“So I’m going to tie your hands. You show me you can snap your fingers even when you’re bound. The minute you do—the game is on. And you belong to me. ”
Fuck. Just hearing him say that makes me dizzy with need. I nod, and hold out my wrists.
Instead of taking them, Jonah first turns his attention to the black cloth in his hand. When he tugs it on, I see it’s a mask—not a ski mask. Just simple, flat, and black, like the sort of thing sold at Halloween. When even that much of his face is hidden from me, he becomes anonymous. More frightening. A shudder runs through me.
Then Jonah’s broad hands grip mine, he pulls me over to stand underneath the rope. There’s a second coil of rope on the floor by my feet, and Jonah forces me to kneel before him as he uses it to loop my wrists together in a complicated-looking knot, being careful not to cut off my circulation. When he’s finished he drags me up and pulls my arms above my head, securing my bound wrists to the other rope. For one panicked moment I think he’s going to haul me off the ground, but he doesn’t. Instead, Jonah stops at the point where my hands are completely overhead and I can hold on to the rope and stand on my tiptoes. It’s enough for me to support my weight, but not enough for me to feel sure of my balance. I couldn’t kick him without pulling painfully on my arms.
His voice is low. “Now show me how you can stop this. Show me how you want it. ”
In this one instance, the safe word is the signal. Trembling, I bring my fingers together—and snap.
“Look at this. ” Instantly his voice transforms into a growl. His hand runs up and down my body as if I were something he had purchased, his to inspect. “Got you right where I want you. ”
He wants to know that I can call this off without words; that means he plans to muffle me. First I have to goad him into doing it. “Please, stop,” I beg. “Let me go. Whatever you want—money, anything—I’ll get that for you, I promise. Just untie my hands and let me leave. ”
“Anything I want?” he murmurs. His fingers trail down to the edge of my dress, which has been hiked so high that it now barely covers my crotch. I feel him tracing a line up my thigh. “You’re gonna get me what I want? Yeah. I think you are. ”
“Please—” My words break off in a gasp as he yanks my panties away so hard they tear. My skin stings, and I try to writhe away from the sensation—but then I nearly lose my balance and have to still myself.
Jonah laughs as he makes a fist around my panties. Surely he can feel the dampness against his palm. He can smell how much I want him.
With his free hand he pinches my nose, forcing me to part my lips to breathe. As soon as I do, he lets go of my nose and stuffs my own panties into my mouth. I try to protest, but it comes out muffled nonsense, nothing more.
“What’s that?” Jonah murmurs as his fingers trace the neckline of my dress, find the space between my breasts. I bet he can feel the pounding of my heart, the proof that
he controls me down to my pulse. “What did you try to say?”
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No. Stop it. I keep attempting to talk, because it seems to turn him on. And I allow myself to believe it—that I am held captive in the dark by a stranger, and that I want to plead for my safety even though I know it’s too late. Stop.
“Still don’t understand you. ”
Both of Jonah’s hands go to the fabric bunched between my breasts. He tears it in two, ripping it nearly down to the hem. Now my body is all but exposed to him. Jonah makes a satisfied sound, almost a hum, like he’s pleased with what he’s caught.
“I’ll have to guess what you want,” Jonah murmurs as he tears one of the fragile spaghetti straps of my dress. The cotton slides away, now dangling only from one arm. “Let’s see. Are you telling me you want to get fucked?”
No! No! I try to scream through the panties in my mouth. The sound is slightly muffled, but my desperation is clear.
Jonah laughs. “Sounds like you want to get fucked bad. Don’t worry. I’m gonna take care of you. ”
He tears the other strap; the remains of my dress flutter to the floor. I twist my body away from his, but the bindings on my wrists pull so tightly that I can’t get far. The struggle only seems to amuse Jonah more as he walks around me, squeezes my ass.
“Are you scared I won’t fuck you hard enough? Because trust me, I’m going to pound you senseless. ”
Jonah pulls apart my legs. I scream again, but he ignores me. Although I can still balance, the muscles in my arms and shoulders are burning from holding the stretch now. My face is flushed and hot as his fingers push inside me.
“Feel how wet that is,” he whispers. His breath is warm on the back of my neck. “No wonder you’re begging me to fuck you. ”
I hear him open his zipper. No, no, don’t, I attempt to shout into the gag of my own panties. It means God, yes, now.
Then I feel his cock against my ass. One of his hands grips me at the pubic bone, fingers spreading the lips of my cunt. By this time my whole body is shaking, but he’s still merciless—teasing me with it, rubbing the head against my cunt, slipping in just barely before pulling back again.
“Are you ready to get fucked?” he growls into the curve of my neck as he lifts and tilts my pelvis to angle me just right. “You better get ready. ”