Docile

by K. M. Szpara

  I hop up with a smile and make it to the stairs before remembering Elisha’s in no state to appreciate the news. Damn. With a sigh, I call Dutch, instead, to discuss details.

  Around 7:00 p.m., I hear the shower turn on. Half an hour later, I hear the bedroom door open and scramble to look absorbed in my work. I’ve been working all day—or, at least, trying. With a few swipes, I dismiss physical documents to their digital forms and organize them into stacks.

  “Alex?”

  “Yes?” I look over my shoulder to see Elisha hugging his arms to his chest. If he’s cold, the underwear and tee shirt he’s wearing won’t help.

  “I wanted to make some dinner, if that’s okay.” He closes his eyes and holds his breath for a moment, then returns to the world. “Maybe just some toast.”

  “Of course,” I say. “You can always feed yourself if you’re hungry.”

  “Thank you.” Elisha uncurls as he heads to the pantry. Slowly, he removes two slices of bread and puts them in the toaster oven. When he finishes, he leans against the counter as if he’s using it to hold himself up.

  “Sit down.” I stand. “I’ll finish this. The doctor said you need to rest.”

  “I can—”

  “Don’t argue with me or you’ll write lines for dessert.”

  “Oh.” Elisha considers how to end his thought. “Kay.” He sits at the table beside my workstation and waits with his hands clasped in his lap, while I remove the toast and butter it. Haven’t done this for anyone ever—buttered their toast. Feels like a thing you’d do for a child or for a—for a lover.

  “Here.” I set the plate down harder than intended. “Let me know if you’re hungry for something more substantial, later.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  I settle back in beside him and evaluate the documents stacked on my screen. What was I working on? I ignore the soft crunch of toast and select whatever’s on top, determined to at least look busy.

  That night, Elisha returns to his trundle bed. I sleep facing the opposite direction, so I won’t be tempted to check on him every five minutes. Instead, I stare at the wall until my eyes grow too heavy to keep open.

  Screams startle me awake. I clutch at the sheets in the dark, reminding myself I’m safe in my own bed. Then the screams turn to gasps. And they’re coming from Elisha.

  I lean over. “What’s wrong?”

  He sits up, hands pressed to his forehead while he tries to regain his breath. “I don’t—I’m sorry, I … Just a nightmare. I don’t usually get them; it won’t happen a—”

  “Stop that. You can’t predict when you’ll have a nightmare.” Though I hope Elisha’s right. That he won’t scream us both awake every night. Maybe I can help him through whatever this is. “Do you remember what it was about?”

  “Um.” He either hesitates or tries to remember, and I’m worried it’s the former.

  “If you don’t tell me the truth, I can’t help you.”

  Elisha continues to stare at his lap. “I was at a party. Alone. Everyone was—” He whispers, “I don’t want to say it out loud.”

  “It’s okay. Why don’t you…” I glance around the room as if it will provide a solution. It won’t. I’m the only one who can fix this. The more comfortable Elisha feels with me, the more he’ll relax, the fewer nightmares he’ll have. I hope. “Come up onto the bed with me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m always sure.” I throw back the covers.

  Elisha tucks the trundle away and joins me, lying so close to the edge, I worry he’ll fall off. That won’t do. I loop my arm around his waist and drag him across the king-sized mattress until our bodies are flush against each other.

  “There,” I say. “Is that better?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” I flop back down onto my pillow.

  Elisha reclines, his body stiff. He stares at the ceiling while I stare at him.

  “I would never abandon you at one of those parties.” Some norms are beyond my control, but I’d never lose track of him. Never let anyone break him. Mariah and Dutch have already come closer than I’d like.

  “Thank you.” Finally, Elisha closes his eyes.

  And I close mine.

  * * *

  I wake up aroused and excuse myself to the bathroom before Elisha notices or thinks it’s his job to handle. Not that I wouldn’t appreciate a hand, but he’s still having nightmares from his last sexual encounter. I want him to take refuge in me. View me as his protector—I am. I’m the only one he needs to please, the only one who cares.

  When I return, he’s waiting to shower—a step in the right direction. And after that he takes even more steps, like real clothes and breakfast.

  “How’re you feeling, today?” I ask, cutting the spinach and egg white omelet he slides onto my plate. “You look better.”

  “I feel better,” he says.

  “Good.”

  I watch while Elisha stirs his own eggs, wondering when I should say something about his infraction. Now is the right time. He’s better; the incident is relatively recent. I draw a breath to form the words, After you eat, we need to discuss your punishment. But while I’m holding it, I decide “discuss” is the wrong word, because it’s not up for discussion. It’s happening.

  Elisha walks over with the pan and slides his omelet onto the plate beside mine. Stagnant air burns in my lungs until I’m forced to release it—slowly, and only once Elisha turns his back. I stuff a forkful of egg whites into my mouth to quell any urge to speak. Elisha joins me and does the same.

  Afterwards, we go for a walk along his usual morning route. A cool April breeze wafts over the harbor, blowing his chestnut hair over his eyes; it needs a trim, but in this moment, I don’t mind it. Relaxed, casual, paired with his navy cable-knit sweater, the sleeves pushed up around his elbows, his hands tucked in the pockets of khaki shorts that only half-cover his thighs.

  I want to run my hands over his legs, from the ankles up. Want to recline him on the next bench we pass, toss aside his boat shoes, smooth my palms over the wispy hairs on his legs. Kiss the undersides of his knees, which would probably tickle, and he’d giggle or moan and melt into the bench, under my touch.

  When we get home, I do exactly that. I can’t resist and I don’t have to, so why bother? Elisha arches back onto the couch. His breath stutters out between airy laughs and whimpers when I dart my tongue out into the crease behind his knee. Eventually, when I tire of sucking and probing at the sensitive spot, I kiss the rest of the way up his thigh, stopping at the hem of his shorts.

  He props himself up on his elbows. I balance over him on mine. I shouldn’t be doing this. I should punish him for pulling away from Dutch before it’s too late.

  But then I kiss him because his flushed lips part and he glimpses mine long enough for me to know that he wants them and I want him and, since he’s mine, I can have him whenever I want.

  * * *

  I forgot to punish him, again.

  The thought wakes me up and keeps me that way. It’s been three days; it’s too late. He probably doesn’t even remember Mariah’s, and he’s finally relaxing, so what’s the point? Punishment enforces training, but he’s doing so well without it. It could actually set him back.

  I push the thought away and go back to sleep.

  * * *

  The bed shakes me awake.

  In the trundle, Elisha gasps like someone’s holding him underwater. He wipes the sweat from his forehead, slicking back damp hair with tense fingers.

  What do I say? Are you okay? Of course he’s not okay. He’s still having nightmares. “Elisha, you’re safe.” I reach down and rub his shoulder. “You’re with me.”

  “Sorry,” he whispers.

  “Don’t be sorry,” I say, throwing back the covers. “Come here.”

  He doesn’t hesitate.

  * * *

  When I finally wake up, I’m alone. The bedroom door hangs ajar; natural light filters in from the dow
nstairs windows.

  I roll out of bed and check the bathroom. “Elisha?” I call, when I can’t find him. The trundle’s still tucked away, downstairs lights still off. I hurry down the steps and peek into the den and the kitchen. He didn’t leave. Wouldn’t have left. Where would he—

  “Oh, hi.” Elisha stands sweaty and shirtless, in the foyer. “I went for my morning run. Hope that’s okay.”

  “Yes.” I force myself to end the sentence, so I won’t ramble, and recompose my thoughts. “As long as you’re feeling better, you can pick up your regular schedule. I don’t have your tutors lined up for today, though. You’ll have to wait until tomorrow.”

  “Okay.” He walks at a useless angle, trajectory somewhere between me and the stairs, eyes everywhere and nowhere. “Um, Alex?”

  “Yes?”

  “Thanks for taking care of me. I think.” He scratches the back of his head and walks toward the stairs.

  He thinks? Oh. He isn’t sure whether I’m caring for him or if I’m going through the required motions. He can’t decide if he’s supposed to thank me. I make it easy for him. “Just upholding my end of the contract,” I say. “Second Right.”

  “Well, thanks, anyway.” Elisha leaves before I can bring myself to mention his punishment.

  It’s been too long, anyway. To be effective, discipline must be administered as soon as possible. And besides, he’s learned his lesson. He even atoned in the moment. The point of training Elisha is so that he’ll become eager and obedient like an on-med would. Right now he’s closer than he’s ever been. Punishing him would set him back.

  I can overlook it. Just this once.

  16

  ELISHA

  As spring gathers speed, I run more than Alex prescribes. Between the rhythm of my feet and the warm breeze from the harbor, it almost feels like home—like freedom. Like I’m okay right where I am. Alex doesn’t mind when I go, so long as I ask. He extends his trust, and I’m happy to earn it.

  I finish, sweaty and panting, high from the rush of endorphins and the tingling in my toes. Tom holds the front door, ushering me into the building. “Good to see you again, Elisha.”

  “You too.”

  “Do you mind if I, uh…” He walks beside me, like we’re going to the same place. Even waits with me for the elevator. “Do you mind if I join you?”

  “No,” I say, assuming he must be riding up to visit another tenant.

  “Penthouse,” I say, once we’re inside. Tom does not request another floor. We stand side by side in silence while the elevator rises. My heart beats faster than it should

  Then, with a swipe of his hand, Tom stops the elevator. “Forgive me for going about it like this, but I wanted to reach out to you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Elisha, I work with Empower Maryland.”

  Oh god. “No.”

  “I wanted to—”

  “I can’t talk to you.”

  “—let you know that I’m always here if you need me.”

  “For what?” I don’t mean to shout it. “What can you possibly do for me? The last time your organization tried to help me, I was locked in a cubby for an hour.”

  Tom presses his palms together as if in prayer. “I’m sorry. Eugenia and Roger don’t know Alex like I do. I asked them to let me reach out to you, first, but—”

  “If you want to help me, you can leave me alone.” I stand in front of the closed doors. This conversation is over. It has to be. Alex seems to know everything, and if he finds out about this? I can’t face him that angry, again. Can’t live with the regret and fear and shame, in the dark of the cubby for seventy minutes. Already my heart feels like it’s going to explode and my hands vibrate at my sides. I clasp my fingers to still them.

  “Look.” Tom holds up his hands to show he means no harm. “I’m risking my position telling you this, but I’m extending my trust and hope you’ll do the same.”

  “Then don’t tell me.” I squeeze my eyes shut. The last thing I need is more information to hide from Alex. I don’t know if I can lie to him.

  Tom swipes at the sensor and the elevator moves, again. “I know you’ve been to the lab with Alex and, if I know him like I think I do, he’ll take you again. He wants to trust you—it’s easier for him if he can. And the more he trusts you, the more likely he is to give you access to places and information that we could only dream of.”

  “I’m not stealing information for you—I’m not even supposed to be talking to you. I’m supposed to tell Alex if anyone from Empower Maryland contacts me.”

  A soft tone signals our arrival.

  “Are you going to?”

  Already the dread of living with this secret—of seeing Tom every day and knowing that he works against Alex while smiling to his face—presses slowly on me. Another rock on the pile. And yet, if I tell him? He’ll be angry. It won’t matter that I’m doing what he told me; he never believes me when the truth is hard. When his inventions don’t work like he thinks or his loyal doorman is keeping secrets.

  “Probably not.” Relief comes when I step onto the familiar hardwood. Even more so when Tom doesn’t follow.

  “Thank you,” he says. “Remember that I’m always here if you want to talk—about anything. And if the worst happens—whatever that means to you—know that I can get you out of here. Take you somewhere safe.”

  “I’m good, thanks.”

  Tom nods and the doors close.

  That was the right answer. Saying anything else—thinking anything else—while standing in Alex’s house feels wrong. Besides, I don’t know these people. If they were willing to intercept me on a run, to follow me into an elevator, to violate Third Right, then who’s to say I’m any safer with them? At least with Alex I know what I’m getting. At least I’m with someone who cares for me.

  17

  ALEX

  Elisha stands naked and damp, looking over the clothes I’ve laid out on the bed: two navy seersucker suits, crisp pink button-downs, plaid pastel bow ties, matching pocket squares and socks, rose-gold cuff links, and brown belts with matching hardware. All the makings of Preakness fashion.

  “Are we going somewhere?” Realization settles on his face when he looks at me. He immediately stares at the floor. “I shouldn’t have asked. Alex, I’m—”

  “Shhh.” I smooth a hand down his bare back, absorbing leftover water droplets from his shower. Training him without Dociline has not been easy, but after four months of mistakes and consequences, he rarely misbehaves. Asking questions has been one of the hardest aspects of Elisha to train away. He’s human. He wants to know what’s going on and why. And he is allowed to be curious—it’s good for his education—I just don’t want to hear it.

  “We’re on a schedule,” I say. “You don’t have time to write lines, so you’ll kneel on the rice until I’m ready to leave. Understood?”

  “Yes, Alex.”

  “I trust you to carry it out, yourself, while I get ready; do it in here.”

  “Okay.” He leaves while I peel off my clothes and toss them into the hamper.

  Elisha’s wet footprints still soak the bathroom rug. I lean in and turn the water on, testing the temperature while his feet pound back up the stairs. I watch through the partially open door while Elisha sets the old silver serving tray on the hardwood and uses the scoop to pour a thin layer of uncooked rice over its surface. When he reseals the rice bag, I step into the shower.

  Disciplines are easier, now. Elisha no longer talks back or carries the effects with him. He acknowledges his mistakes and atones for them without a fight. But that doesn’t mean I watch. They’re a time when Elisha can reflect, and I don’t want him nervous, thinking about how he should be reacting. And they’re too intimate.

  I finish, dry, and dress. Elisha kneels at the foot of the bed. Silent, still, eyes closed. He holds his hands behind his back—no longer requiring the restraint of his cuff. His fingers are the only part of him that moves, tightening and loosening t
heir grip on one another.

  “Time’s up,” I say.

  I hold out both hands to Elisha and he takes them, leveraging his weight against mine to rise. He doesn’t cry or whine about it, simply makes his way into the bathroom to remove the remaining grains with a hot towel.

  When he returns, I help him dress—the finer points—fixing his bow tie, introducing him to cuff links, showing him how to fold a pocket square so that it looks put together, yet casual. As I fasten his lapel pin, I can’t help feeling like I’m taking him to prom.

  I don’t regret choosing a Docile over one of the Board’s pre-approved marriage partners. Elisha, despite earlier hiccups, is blossoming into a perfect companion. Well behaved, educated. Refined and attractive. Capable from the kitchen to the bedroom. And I cannot wait to show him off to the Board, at the races.

  * * *

  Preakness Village occupies an exclusive section of Pimlico Race Course—too close to the Infield for my liking. InfieldFest is like Halloween for people of limited means. They put on their brightest formal wear, then ruin any semblance of class by drinking cheap beer until they pass out on the dirt. Their mascot is a shirtless man dressed as a centaur and inaccurately named Brewnicorn. Kill me.

  Our car pulls up to a private entrance, void of cameras, recording devices, and Brewnicorns. Too many paparazzi want to ask me how the ODR renovations are going, instead of reading our press releases or going to see the progress themselves. I tell as much to Chadwick Bell, who manages to sneak past security, dressed as a jockey, and ask whether Bishop Labs is too involved with local government. No, we’re the right amount involved. The same day Dutch emailed me the news, we mobilized all of our resources to complete the structural upgrades within a month. There’s no timeline money can’t buy.