Bad Boy

by Elliot Wake

  “I love you, too,” she said.

  It needed more than that. More than words. I pulled her face to mine, cheek to cheek. It felt like this should be the way to fix everything—to pull her back into my life. If I just held tightly enough. If I just tilted my face, let my mouth graze hers. If we just kissed like this, like we used to, our lips fitting together so familiarly, the nip of her teeth lighting every nerve in my spine.

  I pushed myself away.

  “Fuck.” Couldn’t look at her. “Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Stop saying sorry.”

  The taste of her was in my mouth, cool smoke and spearmint. Below my belt everything was electrified. Her hand lay on my thigh, slid higher.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, meeting her eyes. “This was a mistake.”

  And stood before I let this happen. This thing I wanted so badly.

  We’d been together before Adam, before any of this. Established an intimacy. She knew my body as it had been before and as it was now. No surprises or embarrassments. It was so easy with her. So safe.

  Ingrid settled back on the sofa, unfazed.

  Knowing me.

  Knowing I’d come back.

  “I can’t,” I said, even as I knelt at her feet. “I can’t do this again, Inge.”

  One hand raked through my hair, rough. She twisted, made me peer up at her.

  “There’s a reason we keep doing this,” she said.

  “It’s not romance. It’s codependence.”

  “Whatever.” She pulled me closer, between her knees. Into her heat. “You want it, too.”

  “Of course I do. But it’s sick, Inge. You don’t really want me, you want the girl version of me. She’s gone.”

  Ingrid put her mouth to my ear. “When my eyes are closed,” she said, “you’re still her.”

  For the very first time since I started T, I hurt her.

  I grabbed the hand I’d smashed years ago. She writhed but I held on, stronger. I pushed that weak middle finger back, farther, farther, till she gasped. Then I held it there.

  Ingrid smiled. In a tight voice she said, “ ‘I don’t hurt girls.’ Liar.”

  “You’re not a girl.” I pushed harder. “You’re a predator.”

  “You’re acting exactly the way people expect you to now.”

  “How is that?”

  “Violent. Out of control. Like a typical guy.”

  I released.

  Bitch, I thought. Pushing my buttons.

  But I’d kissed her first. Crawled back, missing this intimacy. I didn’t want it with her—I wanted it with Tamsin, with a girl who saw me as the boy I really am. But maybe this was all I’d ever have. Because I was broken, my heart’s compass cracked, the needle pointing to this person, forever.

  Get out. Get air.

  Before I grabbed my coat, the buzzer rang.

  “That’s Tam,” Inge said.

  My eyes narrowed. “You asked her to come over?”

  “We have a new development.”

  “Adam?” I said, strangling the name.

  Ingrid didn’t respond. She opened the door, smiling.

  Tamsin sensed my sullenness and clasped my hands, but I slipped free, guiltily. I couldn’t touch her when my dick was hard from Ingrid. Such a fuckup.

  “What’s this development?” I said.

  Inge pulled up the map of Adam’s movements on her iPad. We already knew that he’d been sniffing around Corgan U, coffee shops, even, once, my parents’ house.

  Trying to run into me.

  Odd, because Crito knew where we lived. Wouldn’t he have told Adam? Weren’t they best bros? Hadn’t they already gotten Norah to drag me through the mud?

  Something didn’t add up.

  Ingrid zoomed in on downtown. To Umbra.

  And pinned a marker on the map.

  “When?” I said.

  “Last night.” Tam frowned at her phone. “Couldn’t get a good pic.”

  “What was he doing there? They’ve already driven me out. I can’t show my face at Umbra anymore.”

  Just a week ago it was the face of a “hero.” A survivor.

  Now it was a monster’s face.

  Inge shrugged. “Maybe he’s meeting with someone.”

  “Who?”

  “Who, indeed.”

  Tam touched me and again I withdrew. This time I got my coat.

  “Where are you going?” both girls said, then eyed each other, shrewdly.

  “Where do you think? Tam, stay here with Inge.”

  “Like hell I will. I’m coming with you.”

  “So am I,” Ingrid said.

  “No.” My voice boomed through the apartment, startling them both. “This is my fight. My responsibility.”

  “Don’t be a tool,” Inge said. “He’s dangerous, and Black Iris doesn’t have your back.”

  Quieter, Tam said, “You don’t have to do this. Why don’t we wait and see what he does?”

  “Wait for what, Tam? Another false accusation, another nail in my coffin?” My teeth gritted. “He’s taken enough of my life. But I’m not dead yet. He won’t take all of me.”

  “We’re going with,” Inge said. I opened my mouth and she preempted, “Don’t argue. Two versus one. You lose.”

  Again they exchanged glances. These girls.

  “Nice full-court press,” I said. “Let’s go, princesses.”

  ———

  First bad sign: the bouncers carded me.

  Armin had beefed up security after the accusation vid, both as a gesture to clubgoers that we took their safety seriously and to cover our own asses. CC cams everywhere. Floodlights. No more dark hallways, no cloak of shadows and fog. No comfort of being half-seen, fashioning yourself from ambiguity and suggestion. It had helped once, before my beard and muscle filled in—Umbra’s ambiance had been a soft-focus filter blurring away the parts of myself that T was slowly blurring away from the inside. At Umbra I was seen the way I wanted to be seen. I learned to be myself in the shadows until I was ready to step into the light. But things were different now. We didn’t want anyone to feel unsafe.

  Not that it mattered. The damage was done.

  Second bad sign: When I sat at the bar, Sox cap shading my eyes, two slices of beefcake in button-downs joined me, towering at six foot fuck-off. I knew them vaguely: gay guys from some frat. There was a hierarchy of privilege in the queer community, and this sort sat at the very top: white, cis, moneyed, male. Cocky, but harmless.

  So I thought.

  I lifted my drink. Something bashed my shoulder. Rum slopped onto my thighs.

  The man on my left said, “Sorry, miss.”

  From my right: “Need some help, little girl? Looks like you wet yourself.”

  I set the glass down. Thick honey beads rolled between my fingers.

  Behind me a crowd gathered. At first I saw them only as pitchforks and torches, icons of hate, but when I looked harder they were faces I knew: boys I’d danced with, girls I’d kissed, all of them looking to see what the fuss was. To see the villain come home to roost.

  Me. The rapist.

  Instinctively my back flexed, feeling for the gun that wasn’t there. It was down in my locker in Black Iris HQ.

  I thought of an alley, the asphalt slick with rain, and my blood.

  All I said was “Excuse me, please.”

  Walking through that gauntlet of my so-called peers was one of the most terrifying moments of my life. I could’ve called Armin, asked him to oust them, but then Black Iris would know I was here, up to something.

  And if Adam was around, I didn’t want to draw any further attention.

  So I was on my own.

  The guys from the bar followed me.

  I wove across the dance floor, glancing back: stark white light seared all the faces, carved shadows sharply, a horde of grinning skulls. They could’ve been anyone. Any of these people I’d once trusted, felt safe among. Who I’d made feel welcome and safe. Now they saw me as a pred
ator, hunted me like prey. Used my own identity against me, this masculinity I’d fought so hard for. While I was here hunting the man who’d actually done what they accused me of.

  This was so colossally fucked-up.

  I knew Umbra like a lover and I looped through halls and crossed catwalks till I shook them, like Tam shook me that first night. Then down into the catacombs, where the walls were soft and crumbling like bone, the air that of an opened grave. I meant to get my weapon—no intentions, just in case—but someone stood in the hall outside BI HQ. Someone short, raven-haired, brimming with dark energy.

  Shit.

  I did a one-eighty, ducked into a bathroom. Both Inge and Tam should’ve arrived by now, to triangulate Adam.

  I texted Tam.

  REN: I’m drawing too much attention

  REN: And Laney’s here

  TAM: What a perfect shitstorm

  TAM: I’ll be your cover. Where are you?

  I gave her my location. Then took a deep, calming breath and began blotting my pants with paper towels.

  When Tam walked into the bathroom two girls trailed her. Makeup-counter queens, collarbones popping. Hips and elbows cocked like guns. Dangerous girls. The type I used to hook up with.

  They saw my face and gawked.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  The girls blocked the door.

  “What are you doing here,” said one.

  The other’s finger poised over her phone as if she could make me vanish with a button tap.

  Tam said, “Pardon?”

  “He shouldn’t be here,” said Phone Girl.

  “It’s a unisex bathroom,” I said tiredly.

  “It’s not a rapist bathroom.”

  Tam lunged. I caught her arm.

  “Please,” I said. “Let’s just go.”

  For a nauseating moment it seemed Tamsin meant to Take a Stand. To defend me. Start an argument where people would discuss my body parts like slabs of meat, my identity like a disorder. As much as I was grateful she cared, confrontation was the last thing I wanted. Especially with these girls. Their bravada was a revolt against years of sexist social programming, being told they either weren’t virgin enough or whore enough, being shamed and scrutinized and on display 24/7. They were sick of it. Sick of feeling like meat, too. They believed I was a predator, so they seized this opportunity to wield the small scrap of power they possessed.

  I couldn’t begrudge them that. No matter how much I wanted to scream in their faces, I’m the fucking victim.

  Tamsin looked at my face and saw something there. “Move,” she snapped at the girls.

  We walked out together, her arm around my waist.

  Ingrid intercepted us as we drifted through the empty halls of the Oubliette.

  “What happened?” she said.

  “Hate brigade spotted him. Tried to run him off.”

  Inge scowled. “I told you this was a bad idea. I’ll take you home.”

  Tam tried to transfer custody but I stood my ground. “I get a fucking say here, too. I’m not leaving.”

  “You’ll compromise us,” Ingrid said.

  “Go with her,” Tam urged. “I’ll handle this. I’ve been watching Adam unseen for months.”

  “I hate that you two are teaming up against me.”

  Inge made a noise of disgust. “We’re teaming up for you, asshole. You’re fucking welcome.”

  Tam’s fingers curled around mine for a moment, those pale eyes arresting. A glimmer flitted through them, reminding me of the coded patterns in city lights. She squeezed and I remembered, suddenly, When you touch me it feels like a conversation. She was telling me something.

  And I was too freaked out and beat down to hear it.

  I let Ingrid sweep me under her arm.

  Tamsin murmured, “Be careful,” and I wondered, Of whom?

  Halfway up the marble steps to the Cathedral, I froze. Wisps of light flickered around our feet, ghost fingers pulling at us. Ingrid curved her body around me protectively.

  “Did you see—?”

  “I forgot something.”

  Her face was close, eyes glassy. “Your gun?”

  “I need it, Inge. I feel so fucking . . . powerless.” Grimace. “Don’t make a dick joke, okay? It’s not about compensation. I literally do not feel safe, anywhere.”

  “Hey.” She touched my cheek. “I understand. Let’s go get it.”

  We descended back into the chill depths. I nuzzled into her neck, hiding my face, but strangely I also felt succor. This was how it used to be: Me and her versus the world. So tight on the court no one could break through.

  So tight nothing could ever break us.

  I wondered what Tam would think, if she saw.

  Now the hall to Black Iris HQ was empty. I stepped apart from Inge.

  “Stay out of sight,” I said. “I’ll be right back.”

  She ducked into an adjacent corridor and I hauled at the heavy steel door. Before it budged an inch, it stuck.

  From inside, Laney said, “Ren?”

  Shit. “Yeah. Let me in.”

  “Hold on.”

  Pause, and the door screeched open. She looked up at me with that small elfin face. Thick eyeliner and ashen eye shadow, a little smutty, Lolita-ish. A girl caught between innocence and ruin. Other people’s ruin.

  “What’s up?” she said.

  “Need to get something.”

  “What do you need?”

  Of course. This was Laney. She’d wring out every detail. “My gun.”

  No expression, but a thought spun in her eyes, a spiderweb woven from light. “I’ll get it.”

  Against all instincts my hand shot out, catching her as she turned.

  I had never laid a hand on Delaney Keating. And she had never looked at me with apprehension.

  I said, “Let me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you clearly don’t want me in that room. And now I need to see what’s in there.”

  “Ren—”

  My friends truly believed I’d never touch a girl with force, never make her do something against her will. Even Laney believed it. So when she blocked the doorway and I picked her up, she didn’t fight. Just stared.

  “Do not go in there,” she said as I set her down.

  Too late.

  A man sprawled in the armchair where I’d sat months ago, scheming to tackle Crito. Without seeing him in full I could rattle off his stats: six feet, one-seventy, brown hair, brown eyes. Tattoo on left shoulder: the Lannister lion crest from Game of Thrones. For his favorite character, Tyrion Lannister, which should have told me something—a dwarf smarter than all others around him, but tragically seen as a “half man.” Someone life constantly deprived and fucked over. Someone who deserved more. We’d both related to Tyrion, but I’d never told him the reason I did. At the commotion behind him he stood.

  Here’s the face of a rapist:

  He looks just like any other man. Nothing distinguishes him from men who don’t hurt women.

  Evil, we’re taught—by cartoons, fairy tales—marks you. Drags its claws down your skin, inscribes you with your sins. The visibility of evil is so convincing even monsters believe it about themselves.

  I could have anyone. I’ve got money, brains. I don’t need to force girls.

  That’s sick, Sofie. It was just rough sex.

  Stop crying.

  Please stop crying.

  He looked at me. He looked at Laney. In an ordinary man’s voice, he said, “Who’s this?”

  Ingrid and I had scoured the Internet till we found someone equally desperate. We drove out to a house in the woods, drove back into the city with the Beretta. Sleek black, woodgrain grip. Lighter than I expected and still the heaviest thing in the world. I kept touching it the whole ride home, and Inge said, That is one big surrogate dick. Can’t wait to watch you fuck him with it.

  The Beretta lay in a locker across the room, behind the monster.

  In my fantasies I sava
ged him. Turned his body into meat, same as he’d done with mine. Beat him till no inch of skin was visible, only blood and mucus, human smears. Smashed him as small as I could. As small as he’d made me.

  In reality I just stood there, my hands shaking, my body hollow, vacant. I was not inside of it but tethered loosely to the spinal cord, receiving faint neural impulses.

  I couldn’t move.

  “Ren,” Laney said, touching me.

  The monster and I stared at each other. A shadow scudded through his eyes.

  His mouth opened.

  “If you talk,” I rasped, “I will rip your throat out.”

  The shadow in his eyes flared, caught fire. “Oh my god. It can’t be.”

  Now I was moving. “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to fucking kill you.”

  Hands on me, holding. Laney then Ingrid then Tamsin, too, all of them calling my name, my living name, not the dead one, but all I really heard was Adam saying, “Sofiya, is that you?”

  Something guttural and canine echoed in the stone chamber. A roar, so raw the air seemed to seep like a wound after. I didn’t recognize my own scream—never heard myself scream like this in my new voice.

  Reality got glitchy then.

  One second I saw my hand clawing, raking his face, then I was on my knees in the hall outside, retching. Crimson curled under my fingernails. I smiled, tasting acid. In the background Tam screamed—I’d never heard her scream either—I’m done. I won’t be your lapdog anymore. Can’t you see how much it’s hurting him? Seemingly in the next heartbeat I sat on a bench with a cup of water, the night air a cool balm on my fevered skin. Then the city blurred across the windows of a train, red and white lights streaking past, ribbons of blood and bone. Then I was home, bent over the bathroom sink, scrubbing my nails till the red ran pink and still scrubbing harder, harder, till fresh red ran in the basin. Getting all traces of him out of me. Just like before. At some point I stopped seeing the now and only saw the then. Blood dripping between my thighs into toilet water, spreading like a poisoned rose. It kept bleeding. Just kept fucking bleeding out every last bit of girl that was left in me.

  —7—

  TWO YEARS AGO

  VLOG #203: TOP SURGERY

  REN: Holy. Shit. You guys.

  This is it. This is the big fucking day.