Secret Girl

by Terri Elliot

  The door swings open. Henry’s frame stands imposing within that of the doorway. He’s paused, taking in what’s set before him. The shock of his appearance, though expected, has rendered me momentarily frozen with something like fear raising my hairs across the back of my neck. I feel the slight breeze from the open door sweep over my exposed skin. I give a sharp inhale. He lurches into motion, as though the sound of my breath catching was a command for approach. Like a predator at the sound of its prey’s frightened scream.

  He encases me. I barely have space for my arms’ mobility, to wrap around him. He’s wrapped around me, his hands rough, insatiable, craving in a way I haven’t experienced in months. His lips drag across mine, his teeth chew at the end of my chin.

  He pulls back in the middle of this heat catching the both of us and looks down upon me, naked, breathing heavy beneath him. His eyes drag down along the chain to my crotch. He reaches forth a hand and wraps his fingers around the chain beneath the collar. He fist squeezes there, then pulls me up towards him.

  “Bad girl,” he whispers into my ear.

  “Yes,” I moan just before he drops me back on the mattress.

  Henry grabs hold of my hip and flips my body over, I feel my buttocks shake, I know he watches them. His hands grip my calves and ride up, over the backs of my knees, along the backs of my thighs, then grip the toned meat of my ass. I bite my bottom lip and groan.

  “Play with it, daddy,” I request.

  He strikes my left cheek with a force that bounces the sound down the hallway. I correct my spine into a straight line, my eyes widen, my jaw falls open.

  “You’ll do as I say,” he says to me.

  A pang of fear races through my body, but on its heels a sensation of vulnerability and arousal I let take me over.

  “Yes sir,” I reply, settling my face back into the mattress.

  He pulls my body down the bed, then wraps an arm around my waist. He hoists it so that my ass juts into the air, up towards his torso. I listen to his belt buckle, then leather slipping along the pants fabric, and the rustle of it lowering. His hand snatches up the thong, the thin strip from between my cheeks, and he pulls it up. It pinches my vagina, but the scene is enough to override the sensation. His control, or perhaps more his appetite for me, has me turned on beyond discomfort.

  He pulls back and tears the fabric. I gasp, and he inserts himself. I’m wet enough to take him, and he begins pumping. Rhythmic slaps accompanied by his grunts and my own guttural moans fill the quiet room, drown out the ticking clock.

  It’s been mere minutes, maybe two, but I feel his sweat drip down onto my back. I feel a sheen of my own across my face, where his hands grip my hips. He fucks me like a beast. No, something worse. Beasts are incapable of this sort of sexuality, the type that consumes, beyond dominates, it destroys. His fingers wiggle in-between the collar and the back of my neck to pull my head back, choking me. He hears my difficult breaths and pumps harder, slamming into me. My gurgling, his sweat, the demeaning nature of our sex taints the room we fuck in, degrades its aesthetics, perishes its memory with the filth of a single act. We engage our desire to--

  He cums. I feel it blast inside me. I don’t quite finish, something like a tremor quakes briefly, but short of an orgasm.

  He releases me and I collapse on the bed. He pulls out of me and I feel his cum begin to leak. I take deep breaths, I feel the red in my face begin to fade as oxygen makes its way.

  “Jesus, Emily,” he says, hunched, half dressed at the foot of the bed.

  “Mmmm,” is all I say. I don’t want to spoil what he’s experiencing, this new wife of his, curious to unlock his hidden sexuality, left dormant for years, now reawakened. I don’t want to return to housewife Emily so soon, I want to let him savor his violence. It wasn’t so bad. I even enjoyed it. I turn my head ever so slightly to view him. The light rises and falls on his face, the candles tossing thin layers of orange across his features, instilling a warm glow in the perspiration coating his face. He was quick. I bite my tongue. Ordinarily, I might bring something like that up, as though a badge of honor on my part. Here it feels like it might undermine what he’s feeling. I think about that a moment, lying here, his sperm making its way into our sheets, naked save the chain and half a thong, while he zips up his pants again and slides off the bed fully dressed. What does that feel like? That power? To have something helpless beneath you? Craving you, or otherwise.

  “I’m going to take a shower,” he says.

  I merely nod.

  I’ll wait for him, then shuffle into my bathroom and clean up in time for dinner. I’ll order something and return to normal Emily, the transition out of sight. Like a secret, kept in the bedroom, and in our darker, lustful thoughts. I’ll serve her up again, this sexual object version of myself to Henry, and we’ll purge the drive from our systems, and return again to domestic contentment.

  My eyes fall to the drawer beside me. The rope. He didn’t even see it. I grin to the fact my body consumed his attention, to the exclusion of his periphery. Next time, I think, as I shut it closed.

  I watch him exit through the side door into his bathroom. He leaves the door cracked open. I can see him grinning, shaking his head before his mirror. What is he thinking? I wonder if a memory returns from his past love, whether he sees Casey in his thoughts, whether he compares.

  I shouldn’t be thinking about her. But I owe her this respite earned from her text. She showed me how to connect with Henry again. I can’t dismiss her.

  But then this isn’t her relationship anymore.

  A stray thought of this being a threeway relationship with a silent, dead second woman chills my body back to a frigid temperature, stealing away the remnants of heat simmering in my flesh. The slap against my buttock no longer tingles, it hurts.

  Lying here in this moment, I know I am going to finish her diary.

  10.

  February 23, 2009

  I can’t leave the bathroom. I had to snatch my journal and pull it in here with me, but otherwise I haven’t left the toilet seat. My head is spinning, I don’t know what to do. Henry is at work, playing pretend businessman, sycophant to the wealthy, assistant to the assholes we mock. Rob. Abuse.

  The plastic stick rested in my hand for minutes after the strip turned. I could only stare at it with fuzzy vision, couldn’t focus on it, couldn’t throw it away. It was the harbinger of grave news. I was pregnant.

  How fucking hilarious. On the eve of our planned murder plot, I discover that I’m in the family way, as it were. With goddamn child. What the hell.

  As I write this, I feel like my chest is caving in. I’ve had only two panic attacks in my life, both while I was a child. One happened on the playground, when I got into a fight with Becky Gunderson and punched her so hard she was knocked out. I was terrified I had killed her. The second was when I found my grandmother.

  Calm down, Casey. Everything is going to be okay. Why does this freak me out so much? It’s 2009, not 1909, there are solutions for these sorts of problems.

  But even as I write that word, problem, it feels disingenuous. What is this, some sort of motherly impulse kicking in? Fuck that, I’m no slave to hormones.

  I can’t keep my mind straight. Henry will be home in two hours. What will I say to him? Do I keep this a secret? This child of ours, what would he have me do with it? Trash it? Carry it to term, raise it, give him a fucking family? The notion of Henry as loving father feels as much like fantasy as anything else. Does that alarm me? It would be absurd to, it’s partly why I fell in love with him.

  Jesus Christ, I’m losing it. I know what I need to do, stop being silly, Casey.

  But what if I wanted to keep it? Why shouldn’t I? I never outright said I didn’t want children. I think I do, I think I’ve probably said as much at some point, maybe during early pillow talk, when there used to be pillow talk. I’m young, but I could do it better than half of this world. More than that. We live in a corrupt, inhospitable world, but chan
ge lies in successive generations. To leave the procreation to the scumbags and shitheads, wouldn’t that be the wrong thing to do?

  Alright, now I’m laughing at myself. I keep bouncing between thoughts, but the one I return to, as I sit here on this toilet, positive pregnancy test still wet with piss in my hand, is that I would make an amazing mother.

  How long did we think we could lead this life? Breaking and entering on the weekend, Henry wearing a suit and tie during the week? We know what it leads to.

  I feel sick. I don’t know if it’s the baby or the murder. I honestly don’t. Probably that the two are in such close proximity.

  I can do this. I can leave this all behind, go straight. Raise a kid. Kill this fucker who would ruin my life for nothing but money, make that my final crime. End a life, begin a life. Could Henry? Should I run away?

  FUCK.

  11.

  We’re having a nice night. Henry and I sit across from Roger, a business associate of Henry’s, and his wife, Susan. We decided against staying in Silver Lake, we felt we needed to stretch our legs, and the younger crowd in Silver Lake gets tiring, crowding Sunset most nights of the week now. So here we are, at a nice, dimly lit Italian bistro on the west side near the ocean. It was lovely when I exited the SUV to smell the refreshing scent of the ocean blowing down the street. Henry didn’t think I could, said it was the seafood spot a block down, but it was unmistakable. The salt almost lifts into the air and travels inland if you inhale deep enough. It can wash away most ill thoughts, haunting thoughts.

  The volume of the conversations surrounding us is low, which ensures every bit of air in ours is felt, so I insist upon talking.

  “Susan, have you tried this wine before?” I ask, swirling the red in the crystal glass between us. The light from the candle glints off the curvature of the glass like it was in a commercial.

  She sips and returns her glass to the table, her eyes falling into it with a hint of a grin on her face, performatively savoring it. She dabbles in wine, but I’ve outpaced her in my own education. “It’s delightful,” she says, holding her gaze with her glass. Her eyes come up to mine and tighten, as if surprised by the quality of the aftertaste. She doesn’t taste it, the earthy finish. It’s okay, I’m not judging her, it’s cute, really. “Truly delightful. Roger,” she gingerly places her hand on her husband’s, “how do you like the wine?”

  Roger nods dismissively, then speaks passingly, “Emily made an excellent choice.”

  Susan turns back to me, lowering her head and smiling. “Roger doesn’t appreciate wine as much,” she says, and gives a light giggle.

  Roger rolls his eyes, which land on Henry beside me. “Wine if fine, but it’s too sweet, or too bitter, or too dry, or too wet. It’s an inconsistent lover, which is why my mistress of choice will always be bourbon.”

  “Lucky me,” Susan jokes.

  “We’ll get some after,” says Henry. “There’s a great place down the way, a beautiful al fresco spot, you’ll love it, Roger.”

  Roger grins.

  I smile politely.

  It’s all very nice.

  But I can’t allow myself to enjoy it. I feel distant from all the conversation, even as it comes from my own mouth. Like script.

  Where have I heard that expression before? Like script. Used to describe a fulfilling routine turned sour. I read it--

  Damnit.

  “Roger,” I say, leaning forward, “Henry was telling me about the upcoming trip. Are you excited to meet with the investors?”

  Roger rubs his hands together, again staring at Henry. He’s the sort of man to defer to other men. He’s a little older, in his late forties, I believe. Not that it’s an excuse, but I’ve never taken it personally. Some men enjoy their boys’ club. It doesn’t bother me, boys will be boys. Although there have been times Henry’s kept me out of discussions I began. Times he thought I wouldn’t appreciate something. Or maybe he thought I wouldn’t understand. Maybe that I was too emotional, or impractical, or inconsistent. Roger speaks, “Quite excited, quite excited. Henry’s going to get the crash course treatment on this one, but you’re ready, aren’t you, Henry?”

  Henry smiles and hangs his head in a show of humility. I place my hand against his back and give a supportive rub, a tight circle between his shoulder blades. He turns to look at me and I see in his eyes a bit of what I’m feeling, like we’re both bored with this conversation. We’d wanted to get out earlier in the night, but this almost feels more cagey than if we’d stayed in. It’s a moment between us and I smile earnestly back at him for the second we share, which will outlast the rest of the minutes of the dinner in memory, making it the longest exchange of the night. He turns back to Roger to reply, but I’m not paying attention to it. I’m savoring the intimacy of our marriage. The unspoken connection that exists between the two of us. Some things don’t need to be said, some things don’t need to be addressed. Love is a powerful force in this universe, you have to brace yourself when seized within its grip. Whatever may come.

  “Excuse me,” I interrupt. “I’m just going to run to the restroom.” I give Henry another look before standing to walk away, rising slowly from my seat in a way that accentuates my curves in this tight black dress. I don’t know why I did that, but it felt right to do. Likewise, while I make my way towards the restrooms, I put a little saunter in my steps. It must have been the look in his eye, a hunger unsatiated by the prospect of food.

  I step into the darkened hallway where the restrooms are, and I put my back against the wall. I feel my heart flutter a bit in expectation. Footsteps draw nearer, a shadow casts itself against the wall and a figure emerges. My breath catches, but the stranger walks past me with a grin and into the unisex bathroom. I feel my cheeks burning, I want to cry and laugh at the same time. I hang my head, then feel the touch of a hand beneath my chin, lifting. Henry.

  I lift my face into his and he meets my mouth with his, hard, followed by his body forcing me against the wall. His hands pull at the end of my dress, I let them. I feel it rise over my underwear, a matching black thong. His hands grip my buttocks and my legs lift to latch around his waist. He pivots, pushing us through the door of the second unisex bathroom. Inside, we land atop the wash basin, both giving exasperated breaths. I reach down between our bodies towards his cock, I feel it through his pants, hard, begging. I squeeze it while his tongue lashes around my mouth. I bite down on his lip and pull back. I open my eyes and meet his, fiery, lustful, but loving.

  The door opens and my body lurches to the sound of a shocked patron’s gasp at the sight of us. They quickly retreat with either a hushed apology or admonishment, I can’t tell which, but it doesn’t matter. The spell is broken. We catch our breath before losing it again with laughter. I reach over to the doorknob and flip the lock to the side. “Whoops,” I say.

  “Got a little too carried away to think of it,” he says.

  I smile at him, biting my lip.

  He smiles back.

  I can see there’s something behind his expression, something he wants to say. I think to keep mysterious, but the curiosity mounts, I crave more from him if we’re not going to finish what we started. “What is it?” I inquire.

  His mouth lifts and falls, smiles and pauses on the start of a word a few times before he chuckles lightly to himself. “I was just thinking…”

  I push my forehead against his to angle his face parallel to mine again. I give him a light peck against his lips and hover near. “Just thinking?”

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “What were you just thinking, Mr. Garner?” I say, pushing my fingers through his belt loops and gently tugging.

  He chuckles again. “Well, Mrs. Garner-Broadhurst, I was just thinking...about…” he trails. Then he adjusts his posture to be more direct, straightens his back, stares back and wipes the playful tone from his face. I mirror, knowing this is important. He has something serious to say. I feel butterflies batting at the walls of my stomach, my fingers nervousl
y twist around in his belt loops. I feel like a teen again. Like I’m waiting for him to say he’s in love with me. But he’s my husband. “Thinking about our family.”

  My fingers freeze, the fabric of his pants choking their tips. The butterflies fall to the pit of my stomach, their wings splashing in acid. “Family?” I repeat.

  He nods, the hint of a smile resurfacing. “Yeah,” he says. “We should try again.”

  I give a nervous laugh, my eyes fall to the buckle I hadn’t yet gotten to undo. I see my fingertips in my periphery. They’ve turned purple. “Maybe…” I say softly.

  “It was just something I was thinking about,” he says, diplomatically.

  Children. Pregnancy. I feel the presence of the fucking journal in this bathroom with us in this moment. It seems I can’t escape the damn thing, like it’s playing puppet master in my life. Like Casey’s words have collected into a sentient, metaphysical, omnipotent force in my life.

  “Anyway, we can talk about it later,” he says. I release a breath. “I’m excited,” he adds softly and the tension returns immediately to my body.

  “Let’s go finish this boring dinner, hm?” I say.

  He grins and nods. We unlock the door and exit to the scowl of the older woman that had interrupted us. I scowl back, thinking how we wouldn’t have had that conversation had she not opened that door. We’d still be fucking, and I wouldn’t be thinking about Casey Simpson once again.

  I have to purge this dead girl and her secrets from my life.

  12.

  I hate downtown LA. It’s dirty, I don’t care what they say about its improvements. I paid twenty dollars to park in a lot three blocks away from this building, and the walk to the lobby included no fewer than three men ogling, one of which called me a hot bitch. I’m sure none of them slept indoors.