Cut So Deep: Break So Soft Duet

by Black, Stasia

  With every level the elevator descends, my heart starts to slow. But it’s only when I’m breathing the warm, humid Bay Area night air as I scramble away from the Gentry Tech building that it finally sinks in—I made it. I’m away from him.

  I’m safe.

  I let out a large, body-shaking breath, but I do not cry.

  I’m going to be a new version of myself going forward, and the new Calliope Cruise has no more room for tears.

  Chapter Twenty

  The next week, I alternate between curling in on myself in bed and running to the shower to scour myself until the water runs cold. Then it’s back to bed. At least until the memories of that day sneak their way past the tripwires I’ve set up in my mind.

  Inevitably they find their way in and I remember every disgusting touch. The rush of degradation and filth swarms me all over again. I can’t breathe until I’m scrubbing at my skin under water that’s so hot it’s all but scalding.

  It brings a little relief. Momentary. Fleeting.

  But that’s how I’m handling life these days.

  Minute to minute.

  Breath to breath.

  Which is a joke because I’m still suffocating most of the time.

  At least it got better once Shannon left. I didn’t have her on my ass, asking me every other second what I was doing to get Charlie back.

  Another knife piercing my lungs.

  Because I haven’t been able to face Jackson, even enough to call to check in about the family court lawyer. It’s just another thing I’m failing at.

  I should never have allowed Jackson to be a go-between for his lawyers and me. If he’s still offering me the services of his lawyers after everything, then I should have direct access. Jackson can’t be involved at all.

  And I’ll make it clear to him the next time I see him. I will.

  But, I shudder and pull my comforter tighter around me, I just can’t handle that confrontation today.

  Tomorrow, I’ll do it tomorrow. Although, that’s what I’ve been telling myself all week.

  Shannon left to visit our parents yesterday and I breathed a sigh of relief as soon as I heard the locks click behind her as she left.

  Finally, I was alone. I didn’t have to put on a mask for anyone. I could simply be. Be as empty as I felt inside. No more pretense. No more… anything.

  I close my eyes and let myself start to sink again. My limbs become liquid. One with the mattress.

  One. Two. Three. Four. I continue the endless counting. When I get to ten, I start over again at one. The numbers and the distraction they provide are eternal. There don’t have to be any other words in the world. No other realities except these ten words.

  Numbers have shapes. I think I read somewhere once that for some people, numbers have colors. Smells. I like that idea.

  And really there are eleven numbers to get to ten.

  Zero comes first.

  Zero is black. Zero smells like bleach.

  I want to bathe in zero.

  Zero surrounds me until it’s the only number I can say, whispering over and over in my mind until it’s my mantra. Zero, zero, zero.

  It lays out in my mind like my high school track around the football field. Zeroooooooo. Nothing. Endless around and around and around.

  If I do it right, I can trick my brain into not thinking at all. A buffer against all thought. Which is a safe harbor when my own mind is full of jagged and bloody places.

  But no, no, I can stay safe in the shallows with my focused zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zeeeeeeeeeero, zero, zero, zero, zzzzzero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zerrrrrrrrrooo, zzzzzzzeeeerrrrrrrrroooooo, zero.

  It stretches and flexes in a million permutations. It’s perfection.

  Zero, zero, zerooooooooooooooooooooooooooo—

  Knock, knock, knock, knock.

  I blink, startled at the noise. It was loud and close. Like someone knocking at my front door. Who’s there? Who could it be? My whole body goes taut for a long moment.

  The string of rapid-fire knocking comes again.

  I close my eyes and shrink back into the mattress. Probably just someone selling something. While most of the time I’d eagerly head toward the door, hoping it was Girl Scout cookies’ season, the last thing I want to see right now is another human being. I pull my comforter over my head. Zero, zero, zero, zzzzzzzzzer—

  “Calliope, open this door,” comes a muffled shouting. I shoot to a sitting position in my bed, the fastest I’ve moved in days.

  Even through the door, I recognize that voice.

  Jackson.

  “Open the door, or I swear I’ll break it down,” he shouts. “You haven’t answered your phone in days and I swear you have five seconds before I’m coming in. Five, four—”

  Shit! Motherfucker is probably crazy enough to do it, too. I scramble out of bed and dash toward the door.

  “Three, two—”

  My hand is at the deadbolt before I fully realize what I’m doing. It’s flipped and the door is open in the next second.

  My chest heaves up and down as the bright midafternoon summer sunshine fills my entryway. That is, apart from the large shadow that is Jackson Vale blocking the door. I wince and squint and take a step back from him.

  He’s silent and tall and imposing and immediately he reminds me of everything I’ve been hiding from all week.

  Pain.

  It hurts everywhere.

  Just seeing him makes it all as raw as the first day, as when they, they—

  “I’m alive.” My tone is clipped and pissed and I don’t try to hide it.

  Get rid of him.

  I have to make him go. I need a shower. My skin is itching with filth. Have to wash it off. Now. Make him go, make him go, any way I can.

  “You satisfied? Surely I’m not the first girl ever to not take your calls.” I roll my eyes, “or hell, maybe I am, so let me translate. It means I just didn’t want to see you. Take a hint.”

  I try to shut the door in his face, but he puts out a hand, palm up, and easily stops the door from closing.

  “What’s wrong, Callie? Is it Bryce? Is he somehow forcing you to ignore me?”

  I cringe but the knife’s already sliced deep. That name. Oh God, even hearing the monster’s name… Zero, zero, zero— Bryce’s face flashes. Zero, zero, zero, zero— That sadistic grin.

  Why isn’t it working? I slap a hand to my forehead. It’s been working for days and then Jackson Vale shows up and all the sudden the fucking hurricane is about to burst past the levee. No. Fucking no!

  “Look, I just don’t want to see you right now. It’s not a discussion.” I go again to close the door.

  “The hell it’s not,” Jackson says, and this time he not only keeps me from closing the door, but moves like he’s going to shove his way past me into the apartment.

  “Don’t you dare!” I shout. I don’t know if it’s my words or the shrillness of my voice that stopped him, but he freezes. I don’t fucking care. The fact that he was even about to—the gall of this guy— Of all of them.

  He’s a foot taller than me and I should be intimidated, but I’m not. I get right up in his face.

  “You think you have the right to just come into my apartment when I told you no? You think you can just do that because you’re a man and stronger than me? That you have the right to do any fucking thing you want? I told you no!”

  His face blanches and he takes a backward step so that he’s clearly on the opposite side of the threshold, outside the door.

  Too fucking late, pal. Way too fucking late.

  “No,” he holds up his hands, “no, Calliope, I would never think that. God, no. I just thought this conversation should be had in private—but of course I’d never—if you’re uncomfortable—” he stops talking, as if finally realizing he’s just digging a deeper and deeper hole for himself.

  “Jesus.” He drags a hand through his hair, looking furious at himself. He looks back up at me and his eyes
are tired and haunted.

  “Forgive me, Calliope. Even though, shit, it’s unforgiveable. No is always no, no matter what, no matter where or when.” More than haunted, he looks anguished as he says it. “I’ve just been so worried. You were going to hand in your resignation at Gentry Tech on Monday, but then I never hear from you again. I’ve been going crazy all week. Please, I just need to know that you’re okay.”

  “I’m fine—”

  He’s shaking his head already. “Stop bullshitting me! I can tell you’re not okay.”

  I grab onto the door handle so hard I think it might shatter. No, it’s me. I might shatter.

  Why is Jackson doing this to me? I feel the scratching of my throat and I hate it. Hate it.

  What, I’m going to cry now?

  Fucking now?

  After everything else, this is gonna be the thing that breaks me—stupid fucking Jackson Vale and his goddamned compassion?

  Because I can fucking feel it. Cracks in the dam I spent the past week fortifying with every ounce of my strength—I took what happened and I sank it deep, deep down and I’ve sealed up each and every goddamned fucking emotion until my soul is a calm, placid lake on a windless morning.

  There is no more storm or tempest and the things that lay buried in the cold, lightless depths of that lagoon need to remain undisturbed forever.

  But that can only happen if I remain in control.

  Absolute control.

  So I do the only thing I can do to make Jackson Vale disappear.

  “God, what makes you think you’re such an expert on my life? You can tell I’m not okay? Because you have known me, what, all of a month? There’s this magical thing called listening to the words that come out of someone’s mouth. I’m fine.”

  “And even if I wasn’t,” I enunciate each word pointedly and manage to look Jackson in the eyes, forcing a glare. “What in the hell makes you think I would confide in you? Again, our whole four weeks of barely knowing each other?”

  I can tell from the stubborn set of his jaw that he’s still ready to argue with me about some kind of connection with me so I push even harder. “Or is it just that I let you put your cock in me?” I arch my eyebrow and let the sarcasm drip from every syllable.

  “Fun fact, that doesn’t mean that you know me or that you suddenly get any say in my life at all. You don’t get to barge into my apartment. You don’t get to demand that I tell you things. You don’t get to stalk me, come to my house, and ask me why I’m not returning your calls. None of this,” I wave my hand between him and me over the threshold of my doorway, “is appropriate behavior.”

  Jackson’s frame seems to fold in on itself. The posture looks all wrong on him. He’s a confident man, so assured in everything he does. But my words have made him second guess everything.

  It punches me in the chest, seeing him like this, but I immediately numb myself to it. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. He’ll get over it. My points are valid anyway. To any outside observer, his behavior could be interpreted as problematic. Or at least it would have been if it was any other man than Jackson.

  Because Jackson cares for me. My throat constricts. He was worried. He knew I was walking into Bryce’s den. And he was right to be worried, wasn’t he?

  Hands. Hands on my body. Everywhere. Sweat. More hands. I’m choking, oh God, I can’t breathe—

  NO. Zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, zero, ZERO, ZERO, ZERO, ZERO, ZERO, ZERO, ZERO, ZERO, ZERO, ZERO, ZERO—

  “Callie? Calliope? Callie, are you all right?” I come back to myself just to see him reaching out to me. He stops himself even as I cringe and yank back. It doesn’t go unnoticed.

  I watch as his jaw goes taut. He takes two steps back from me and puts his hands out, like someone might do when they’re trying to soothe a spooked animal.

  Shit, is that how he sees me? Is that what I am?

  He looks like he’s about to say something, but I know I don’t want to hear it. I can’t handle any of the questions or observations or anything else from him.

  My own voice has no inflection at all when I ask, “Do I still have a position at your company? If I do, where and when should I report?”

  “Callie, please talk to me. If it’s something Bryce’s doing, if he’s blackmailing you or hurting you in any way, I swear I’ll—”

  Well, that’s that. I live in Silicon Valley, and I have at least one contact. I just need to track down a number for Mr. Henderson, the guy from Lockheed I met at the charity.

  This is what new Callie does. She sees a problem and attacks it. No room for sentimentality.

  Jackson doesn’t physically halt me from closing the door this time. It’s just his voice.

  “Stop! Dammit, Calliope. Of course you have a job at CubeThink. I told you that you always would, regardless of whether or not you ever see me socially again.”

  His voice is firm but no less intimate as he takes a step closer, though he still doesn’t cross the doorway. “I always keep my promises. The law firm will also continue handling your custody case pro bono. I don’t have to be part of it at all if that’s what you want.”

  “That’s what I want.” I swallow, my eyes on the floor. “Also, if I could get the information for the lawyer so I can contact him directly going forward.”

  He nods and doesn’t try to disguise how bothered all of this is making him. “I’ll email you the lawyer’s information.”

  For a second I think that’s it. That he’s going to leave it there. But of course, being Jackson, he doesn’t.

  He maneuvers his face to try to catch my eyes, but I keep my gaze firmly averted. “You never have to worry about any of it falling through—the job or the lawyers. But I do hope that eventually you’ll feel like you can open up to me, Callie. Even if it’s only ever as a friend. You’re an amazing woman and I’m privileged to know you.”

  Damn him. Damn him to hell.

  My whole chest feels warm and hurts at the same time. I’m hollow inside, but with every word he speaks, it’s like I can feel the ache of the emptiness, the contour of all that’s missing. Zero.

  I stiffen my back and swallow hard. I am in control. I am fucking in control. No more zeros. I will count to ten until I’ve made it to a billion a million times over before I fucking crack, I swear to God.

  Jackson’s voice is soft as he continues, “You start next Monday. Go to the seventeenth floor and ask for Marissa in HR. She’ll get you your security badge and then introduce you to your team. I was going to do that but,” he hesitates, “I imagine you would prefer her.”

  It sounds like one last lifeline he’s holding out to me, but I do what I have to. I quash it. My eyes are still on my shoes as I answer. “Yes, I think that would be best.”

  Even from the corner of my eye, I can see the pained expression that crosses his face. I force myself to ignore it.

  “Goodbye, Jackson.”

  “Goodbye.”

  I feel his lingering stare but I don’t look up again. Moments later the charged air feels empty and I know that he is gone.

  Epilogue

  One Month Later

  My self-defense instructor is a bad ass. When she talks, people pay attention.

  “Watch closely,” Lydia’s voice sings out. “Reach behind you, grab the attacker’s shoulder— though in real life you can grab anything you can get your hands on, even an ear—then use your hip as a fulcrum to flip them over.”

  She repeats the move at the front of the class. I watch in awe as she flips a man in full padding almost twice her size with apparent ease flat onto his back to the mat at her feet. The man lets out a small roof of surprise, but he’s smiling the next moment as Lydia holds a hand down to help him back to his feet.

  I watch Lydia’s body as she moves. Her small frame is strong and graceful and packed full of muscle. She’s everything I aspire to be.

  When I was searching for self-defense classes a few weeks ago, I just wante
d one that was taught by a woman. I had no idea I’d find a friend in Lydia.

  After my second class which meets at a local gym, I stayed after. I saw a punching bag, started hitting it and then couldn’t stop. I just wailed on the damn thing.

  I had no idea what the hell I was doing, of course. It just felt so good to finally hit something. I’d done what I promised myself I would—I kept my shit under control. I didn’t break, even when that horrible afternoon replayed on repeat in twisted nightmares over and over and over.

  The nightmares didn’t vary much. Always those sweaty hands holding me down on that goddamned table. The stink of men and sweat and sex. Except in the nightmares the afternoons never end. I’m kept there for eternity, chained like a dog as their slave—

  So yeah, I was there smacking the hell out of the standing bag that was almost as big as I was until a soft voice stopped me.

  “Hey, aren’t you in my six-thirty class?”

  “What?” I was in such a haze, releasing my fury on the bag it took me a second to register the petite woman with mocha-colored skin and intelligent hazel eyes.

  “You know,” she said conversationally, “there’s a reason that you’re supposed to wrap your knuckles up before you start slamming the bag like that.”

  She nodded in the direction of my hands. I followed her gaze, only then realizing my knuckles were bloody.

  Holy shit. How long and hard had I been going at it?

  “I… um...” I dropped my hands, only barely fighting the impulse to put them behind my back in a pathetic attempt to hide them.

  “Come with me,” Lydia said decisively. “I’ve got a first-aid kit in my locker.”

  I followed along after her. I was embarrassed, but she seemed assured about what to do and even a quick glance at the mess I’d made of my knuckles told me they’d be hard to patch up on my own.

  Shannon was home after the visit to our parents, but we weren’t on the best of terms right now. She stayed in the apartment only because it would look better to the courts, she believed, if Charlie had two stable adults to come back to if and when the custody grant was repealed. But Shannon barely spoke to me. No matter how much I swore the drug test was a false positive, she was convinced I was lying and it was my fault Charlie’d been taken. Just the thought of my sister made me want to head back out to the heavy bag, bloody knuckles or not.