Surviving the Merge

by C P Harris

  I snatched her hand, tugging her into the building. “Let’s go before you get me kicked out of the neighborhood.” I introduced myself to the cheerful, stout doorman before dashing with a giggling Sam at my heels to catch the closing elevator doors. I pressed rapidly on the call button, and through the half-opened doors I could see an elderly man snarling while smashing his gnarled finger on what I guessed was the door-close button.

  “Be nice, Mr. Newton,” Sam chastised. He let go, grudgingly, wrapping a leash around his wrist before backing into the far corner.

  We entered. “You must be Old Man Newton?” I asked pleasantly. “And this”—I bent to get a good look—“must be the mute dog that I’ve heard so much about.” The small brown terrier hid behind its owner's legs.

  Sam groaned. “I said they call him Old Man Newton, not that you should call him that—to his face.” She spoke from the side of her mouth, trying to muffle her words from the man who I’d unintentionally insulted.

  “Oh…” But before I could apologize, the doors opened, and he hustled himself and his dog down the hall.

  We made quick work of taking the bedroom measurements, leaving out with a game plan and time to spare before my appointment with Julie.

  “We can take my bike to the furniture store,” Sam suggested.

  “I am not riding on that deathtrap, Sam.” I bypassed her Harley sitting in front of the building. “We’ll take my car.”

  “But I brought a helmet for you,” she whined. In response, I made my way to the tenant parking lot at the side of the building. To my car. My safe, sleek car. Sam grumbled behind me, then caught up. I smiled to myself.

  “What did a motorcycle ever do to you, huh?” She glanced back longingly at her bike.

  “Damon had a motorcycle years ago and crashed it. The scar it left behind serves as a reminder of what I almost lost. I’ll never willingly get on one again. Neither will he.”

  “Who’s Damon?” Sam asked.

  “He’s my husband,” I said, absently, as I fished in my pockets for my key.

  “Huh? I thought your husband's name was Blake?” she asked.

  Shit. “Blake’s his middle name.” Not ready to divulge everything, yet, I went with the technical truth.

  A few miles down the road, we pulled into a semi-rundown strip mall, passing a biker bar and an exotic costume store before parking in front of the furniture store. I began to get a sinking feeling. We were still in an area of Kisla, but one I’d never visited.

  Sam wiggled in the passenger seat. I knew enough to know that her excitement should worry me. I took a last look around at the other shops, unsure if they were abandoned or just uncared for. Sam reached over to cut the engine, then yelled, “Let’s go!’

  She jumped out and rushed to the shop’s glass door, holding it open, waiting impatiently for me.

  Stepping through the doors, I immediately came to a full halt. Sam bumped into my back.

  “Hey, why’d you stop short?” She came around, rubbing her nose.

  I appraised her. The wild, curly mane of dark hair, the black leather tank-top, skin-tight black jeans with holes through them and ending at the spiked boots. Then I peered around the store again and muttered, “I should’ve known.”

  “Don’t judge it ‘til you’ve fully seen it. There’s some great stuff in here.”

  “Everything has whips and chains hanging from it, and if it doesn’t, it has implements in place that you can attach said whips and chains to.” I walked in further and turned in place. “I mean, I’m all for a little rough play—believe me. But I don’t need my furniture informing everyone who walks through my door of exactly what goes on when the lights go off.”

  “We’re not here to furnish the whole apartment, Justin,” she said with mock-patience. “We’re here to buy a bed. The only person coming through your door that needs to see the bedroom is your hot-as-hell husband.”

  She had a point. But still… She gripped me by the shoulders, spun me around, and pushed me in the direction of the bedroom furniture.

  We entered that side of the warehouse-style store, and my mouth gaped open. “Holy... hell.”

  She peeked around me to see what caught my eye. Satisfaction leaked through her voice. “I told you so.”

  Before me stood the biggest four-poster California King bed that I’d ever seen. I approached and touched it reverently. Made out of solid black steel, the posters were so long I feared they might touch my ceiling. There were metal railings that extended diagonally from the top of each post, meeting in the center, all connecting to a huge steel ring. A canopy-style bed, but no one would mistake it for something you draped with soft, sheer curtains. This bed was made for fucking. Hard, wild, unrestrained fucking.

  The circular opening of the ring sat right above the center of the bed. Thick metal eye bolts were screwed tight into the sides of the ring where long chains hung. At the end of one chain was a set of handcuffs and, at the end of the other, a ball gag. I touched both and tugged experimentally to see how firm the hold was.

  “It won’t break,” said the approaching salesman.

  The name plate pinned to his denim and leather vest read Big-D. I didn’t want to know what the “D” stood for. And it appeared that he and Sam shopped at the same clothing store.

  “Ain’t it a beauty?” he asked.

  Yes, it is. It screamed danger and serious intent, but there was also something aesthetically pleasing about it. It demanded respect. You knew when making the decision to usher it into your home that you did so to use it for its intended purposes. If not, you left it behind.

  At the head of the bed, welded into the posts on either end, was a lowered rail that went across horizontally, serving as a sort of handlebar. It’s the only part of the bed that contained a material other than metal. I touched the rough leathered surface and deduced that its purpose was to provide a secure grip when needing to hold on tight.

  “The four ends have clawed feet and can be nailed down to the floor if needed,” Big-D said.

  I hadn’t yet made it that far into my inspection but, in between the clawed toes on each foot of the posts, were holes where nails could be driven in. A memory resurfaced of Damon telling me we would need something that could be nailed down, and I heard myself saying, “I’ll take two of these.”

  “Two? What? What do you need two for?” Sam asked.

  I tore my eyes away from the bed to look at her. “One for my apartment, and I’m going to be spending time at the house in Chadwick, so I’ll need one there as well. The master bedroom is empty; I can put one of these in it.” Gently touching the posts, I asked, “How soon can they be delivered?”

  “If your place is here in town, I can have this to you as early as tomorrow. I’ll even throw in a pillowtop mattress. The Chadwick delivery I can have to you by Thursday. You’ll need to purchase the mattress for that one, unfortunately,” he said, regretfully.

  Sending a quick text to Ash asking if he could be at the Chadwick house on Thursday for the delivery, I asked Big-D, “Can you throw in the cuffs and gag as well?”

  He considered it, then nodded.

  “Where do I pay?” I asked.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Shit.” I rushed around the condo, getting ready. I had twenty minutes to make it to Julie’s office. Quickly tying my wet hair at the nape of my neck, I twisted the ends into a knot. It was getting too long.

  Dashing into the bedroom, I spun in circles, seeking out my overnight bag that I took to Seattle. “Come on, I just saw the damn thing,” I whispered to the empty room.

  Spotting it peeking out of the half-opened closet door, I grabbed it, dumping the contents on the bed and restuffing it with items to keep at my apartment.

  My phone chirped from somewhere. It had to be Blake texting for my ETA. He could be anal about time. I hadn’t planned on coming back here for a shower, but who knew shopping worked up a sweat?

  Shoving in the book Julie gave me, I zipped the bag cl
osed and thankfully spotted my phone without first needing to turn the place into a crime scene.

  Racing down the stairs toward the door, I came to a screeching halt. “Keys, keys, where the hell are my keys?” Aha. Grabbing them off the kitchen counter, I was out the door and swerving into traffic with fifteen minutes left to make a normally twenty-minute drive.

  I arrived on time to find Blake waiting for me in the lobby. He took my hand, and we entered the waiting elevator. As the doors closed, I turned to him in the confined space. “How do you feel? You look the same.” The seproxetine should’ve been working by now.

  He took a moment. “I feel very relaxed. Not a care in the world. I should be nervous, but I can’t seem to bring about those feelings. Strange.”

  “I suppose it’s doing its job then.” We knew the anxiety medication would relieve Blake and Damon of any stressors. Peeling back their barriers. But we were in unknown territory, and he might not have been anxious, but my blood pounded through my brain at an unprecedented speed, giving me a feeling of weightlessness. I would be confronting Damon. “Can you feel him?” I asked.

  “I believe I can.” He squinted. Focusing on some internal part of himself. “There’s a weird sensation of being watched. Like something, or someone, is looming in my shadows. That’s the best way I can explain it.”

  And he didn’t have a care in the world. Yeah, the medication was working.

  The doors opened onto Julie’s floor, and after signing in with Sarah, we went right in.

  “Gentlemen, how was Seattle?” Julie offered us both a hug and then instructed us to sit.

  Before my ass met the cushion, I heard, “Seattle was amazing.” Damon’s voice always exuded arrogance. Its pitch much deeper than Blake’s. Jerking upward, I stared down at him.

  “Granted, my view was limited to the hotel suite, but still, I enjoyed myself.” Damon turned his intense, possessive gaze on me.

  “Justin, please, have a seat,” Julie said.

  I lowered myself, not taking my eyes off him.

  “Damon... Are you okay with me addressing you by your first name?” Julie asked. At his confirmation, she continued. “My name is Dr. Julie Hayes, but please, call me Julie. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”

  “Likewise. I’ve agreed to work with the three of you―my other options were not very appealing.” He observed the room around him. “So, here I am.”

  “Yes, here you are.” She offered him a warm smile, unfazed, while I hung nonplussed from the sudden switch.

  “Being here was fairly easy for me. My mind feels open. I’m assuming Blake can re-emerge whenever he likes, or when he’s needed? I’m also guessing we’re sharing awareness?” Damon waited for verification.

  Julie nodded. “Yes, as I explained to Blake during our first session, the seproxetine lowers your mental defenses. You're both on equal footing.”

  Our sessions with Julie typically ran an hour, but that day she had us reserved for two. I listened to their exchange. Offering my input here and there, but for the most part, I played spectator. An interesting seat to be in. Damon nearly lost his cool at Julie’s mention of antidepressants and antipsychotic drugs, and I gained a new appreciation for her skillset as she expertly calmed him without removing the prescribed options—to possibly help control their symptoms—off the table. Honestly, I was just as rattled as Damon. I’d never agree to anything that could alter them so completely. Surely there were other options, measures less severe. But we’d cross that bridge if and when we ever got to it.

  Damon walked her through his childhood much the same way Blake did, except he was able to offer more of a firsthand account. He spoke matter-of-factly about what took place and maintained a bored distance from what happened. Almost like it didn’t happen to him personally.

  If Julie noticed, her face didn’t give it away. Instead, she guided the conversation where she needed it to move. Savvy in the way she handled Damon. Very different to the way she dealt with Blake.

  Julie never used words such as fear, afraid, or worry with Damon. Preferring to opt for versions of those terms that wouldn’t imply weakness on his part. Words like concern and disturb. As in “What concerns you about these sessions, Damon?” or “What aspect of integration disturbs you most, Damon?” She had him eating out of the palm of her hand.

  I learned he was “concerned” that after being gone for so long, Blake had more control than we knew, which could potentially lead to Blake being permanent host and he―Damon―being the alter. He was “disturbed” by the idea that I may not need him as much as I used to. That my love for Blake superseded my love for him. I already knew about that “disturbance.”

  I reassured him that my love for them was different but equal. I rested my hand atop of his the same way I would Blake, but Damon switched their positions so that his laid dominant on top of mine. I tossed my eyes and faced Julie, only to find her smirking.

  “Our time is up, but if you have no objections, I’d like you to stay a bit longer.” Sensing Damon’s impatience, she rushed on to say, “Only a moment longer. Justin has something he’d like to address, and your medication should be wearing off soon. I’d like to see what happens when that occurs.”

  Damon had reached the end of his rope, but one look at my implacable expression and he agreed to stay—if we hurried it along.

  Julie gave me the floor. I faced her, not daring to turn in his direction for fear of lashing out. “A several weeks before that night,” I started, and his brows drew together in confusion, then raised to his hairline in comprehension, “I got a text message from you asking me to meet you at your dorm. Still pissed at you for forcing my roommate to request a room change―”

  “He wanted you―”

  “He was straight,” I said through gritted teeth. He wisely shut up. “I came over anyway, and when I got there your former roommate―who, by the way, was gay and blatantly wanted you―”

  “And I got rid of him as soon as you asked―”

  “You’re missing the point―”

  “Which is?”

  “—and it wasn’t as ‘soon’ as I asked!” I’d turned in my seat, my body leaning toward his, ready to tear him open.

  “Okay, gentlemen. New rules.” Julie’s voice cracked through the air like the tail end of a whip, effectively silencing us. “Justin, I need you to relay your story without pauses to insert correlating blame. And Damon, I need you to listen. That’s your only job, for now.”

  We gave our agreement.

  “I walk in and find your ex-roommate on his knees, with your prick down his throat and a look of pure drugged bliss on your face. Fast forward, and I’m so far on the edge, I get drunk at a house party and allow some stranger to get me in a position that I couldn’t get out of. One that left me breathing but dead on a black floor.” I stopped to take in some air. “And days later after not speaking, eating, or drinking anything, I finally decide to take my first meal in the form of a bottle of pain pills.” Something inside my chest frayed.

  “I woke up in the same hospital bed I was in only days prior, but this time, I don’t have all sorts of instruments and hands up my ass extracting DNA and testing for god knows what. I woke up, still breathing but dead. No matter how bad I didn’t want to be breathing.”

  God, it hurt so bad. I couldn’t sit still any longer, I roughly pushed myself up and went to the window. I placed my palm flat against the pane and allowed the reverberation of the downpour beating against it to placate me.

  “It wasn’t me,” Damon said, his voice small.

  I turned to find his face darkened by anger. “Don’t lie to me. We can work through this. I’ve already committed to it. First, I need you to acknowledge what you did and to know how much damage it caused. But do not lie to me,” I warned.

  “Just... I’m telling you—I didn’t do it.”

  Before I could speak, he held up his hands to stop me.

  “Before our fight about your roommate, I was coming down w
ith something. Do you remember?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “You were getting a cold. So what?”

  “The next day, I could barely get out of bed. I had a fever, chills, muscle aches, you name it. Pumping myself full of any and everything I could find in the medicine cabinet. I couldn’t even remember anything half the time when I would come in and out of consciousness.”

  I listened to him with a sick, sinking feeling in the pit of me.

  “You wouldn’t answer my calls or texts. It took a full week for me to be well enough to shower the stink off and leave my room. I tried tracking you down at your campus, but I always seemed to miss you. You either left your class before it was over, or you didn’t show up at all. I couldn’t get into your dorms. I was going crazy.”

  I backed up in a daze, bumping into the window, leaning against it for support.

  “Finally, I got a visual on you. You left one night dressed like you were going on a date or something. My plan to jump you and haul you kicking and screaming to my place went out the window. I followed you to that party and waited long enough before coming in so you wouldn’t spot me. I watched you have a few drinks, and then I turned my back for a second, and you were gone. I thought you’d left, but when I went outside your car was still there. So I thought maybe you’d left with someone, but after looking around, all the cars that were there when I came were still there. That’s when I started checking the premises and eventually found you in that room.”

  Damon’s nostrils flared, and the arm of the sofa yelped from his brutal hold. Julie sat still, unconsciously spinning her wedding band.

  “Think, Just. Do you really believe I’d ever let anyone else touch me? You’re my life. My heart beats because you allow it. You are my reason.” His eyes blazed with fury and fear. An intense fear that obviously overrode anything else, or those sentimental words would have never left his lips. He wanted me to believe the unbelievable.

  “It. Wasn’t. Me.” He sat there, now half on and half off Julie’s sofa, fighting both the need and the inability to come closer to me. I’d never seen him so meek.