Never Touched

by Laney Wylde

  “Can I kiss you?” I asked. He studied me for a moment. “I won’t try to unbutton your pants, I prom—” Cash bent, smoothing my hair from my temples to the nape of my neck, stealing my words with his lips and tongue. My hands skimmed his chest, his neck, until my fingers reached his hair. He had the best hair. He inched closer until his body pressed mine into the pillar, cascading hot chills down my neck and thighs. His lips moved along my jaw and down my throat, his hands to my waist and hips. “Cash?” I breathed, trying to focus.

  His murmur was hot in my ear, “Sawyer?”

  I pushed my hands gently on his chest. “You should stop unless—”

  He pulled away. Scanning my face as if trying to convince himself of something, he sighed and nodded.

  Resting my forehead on his chest, I closed my eyes so I could listen to his lungs and heart calm, quieting until the ocean drowned them out.

  We sank into the sand a few yards away to watch the steady repetition of the waves. I sat with my back against his chest, feeling it rise and fall. His legs bent on either side of me, and his arms wrapped around my waist. He rested his cheek on my head and said, “Can I ask you something? You don’t have to answer.”

  “Sure.”

  “What was your dad like?”

  I relaxed my head against his shoulder, feeling my face come alive at his question. No one but Jake had ever asked about my dad, not in a way that let me talk about him like he was alive. “He was very…Cuban. Intense and careful and frugal. Worked harder than anyone I’ve ever met. He was a wet-foot-dry-foot immigrant, and his family got sent back on their first attempt. Because of that, he took being American really serious. Always voted, was involved in local politics, all that. And he was obsessed with American literature. We lived half a mile from the beach. When the weather was decent enough, we’d walk down there after he got home from work and sit in the sand against this fallen tree. He’d read Hemingway, Twain, or Faulkner aloud. He’d wrap his arm around me, and I’d snuggle up to him even though he smelled grimy because it was his smell, and I loved it. I was just a kid so I didn’t really understand the stories, but I loved his voice and when he laughed at Twain’s jokes that I didn’t get. His sound was sweet and deep, and his accent was rich like espresso. It was one of the few times I’d hear him speak English.”

  Cash leaned to the side to see my face. “You speak Spanish?”

  “Sí, mi papá sólo me hablaba español.”

  “What did he do for a living?”

  “He was a mechanic. But he was only doing that because he knocked my mom up, and one of them had to work while she went to school. His parents were so pissed.”

  “About him getting your mom pregnant?”

  “No,” I answered immediately. But then I realized, “Well, probably. They were mad because they nearly died getting into the United States and my dad had been accepted to Stanford, but he turned it down to work so my mom could get her degree first. Then they were really mad when he died without ever getting to go to college.”

  Cash’s fingertips traced along my neck to sweep my hair behind my shoulder. “Sawyer, I’m so sorry you lost him,” he said into my neck as he pressed his lips there.

  I rested my head back, relaxed into his warmth, and sighed. “Me, too.”

  Every single day, I thought about what my life would be like if he hadn’t died. His death was the defining moment of my life—I guess that was what someone could call it. The shitty thing about defining moments was that they weren’t the big ones we celebrated or prepared for: the first day of school or graduation, a first date, or a wedding day. They were ambushes, shooting from their hiding spots in mundane trenches of everyday moments.

  And that was life, wasn’t it? A battlefield each person had to walk through, terrified and shaking, looking over their shoulder, glancing right and left while wondering who would die next. The battlefield itself wasn’t scary. It was nothing out of the ordinary. Just grass or shrubs or buildings or streets. It was those defining moments lurking in the darkness waiting to strike, waiting to fuck people over—that was what made it war.

  I woke up in a panic after my first deep sleep in a month. It was bright outside, midday bright. “Shit,” I hissed. I leaned up on my side from Cash’s chest. “What time is it?”

  Cash patted the desk for his phone, picked it up, and squinted at the screen. “10:03,” he mumbled in his thick, sleepy accent. We must have fallen asleep watching Sherlock. He had never seen it. I made him watch it with me after our date so he could see his celebrity hair doppelganger. He hadn’t even known who Benedict Cumberbatch was. What kind of guy was I falling for?

  “Oh, no, no, no! I have that appointment at 10:30!” I climbed over Cash, knees and hands straddling him, and gave him a quick kiss. “I gotta go. Stop by later?” I slid off the bed. When my feet hit the floor, I bolted toward the door.

  “Can’t wait,” he called.

  I managed to brush my teeth and change before getting in the car. At a stoplight, I corralled my hair into a matted ponytail. I made it to the cozy waiting room at 10:34. Thankfully, the psychologist was running late, too. He was tall, Cash tall, with broad shoulders and a sturdy torso. Despite his bull-sized frame, his face was gentle and kind.

  “Sawyer,” he greeted me with a handshake. “It’s great to meet you. I’m Dr. Pewter.”

  Nodding, I took his hand. I followed him through the door to his office, a comfy chair across from a couch with the middle cushion disproportionately broken in. “Go ahead and have a seat,” he said, picking up a clipboard from the end table by his chair. “How are you doing today?”

  “I’m all right. You?”

  “Great, thanks. Okay, so let’s get this out of the way.” He handed me the clipboard. “These are confidentiality forms that basically say anything we discuss stays within these four walls with three exceptions: if you are a threat to yourself or someone else, if you mention ongoing elder abuse, or ongoing child abuse.”

  I scribbled my signature.

  “Now, of course, since this is for legal proceedings, it is in your best interest to release this information to your lawyer. For that reason, this session will be recorded. If you sign that second form there,” he pointed to the next page on the clipboard, “I will be able to share what we discuss as well as any diagnosis I may make with Attorney Colburn.”

  I scribbled my signature—what the hell—then handed him the clipboard.

  “Thanks,” he said under his breath. He set the clipboard down on the side table and pressed a button on the recorder. “Okay.” He pulled his ankle up onto his opposite knee. “What brings you here?”

  “Well…” I crossed my legs. “Wait, what if I told you I did something illegal? Are you going to report it?”

  “Are you abusing anyone?”

  Not currently. “No.”

  “Then I’m not telling anyone.”

  “Okay, well, I’m a stripper. Or I was. I kinda got fired last weekend because I assaulted a client, though he tried to rape me first, so…basically, Colburn wants your help showing I took my self-defense too far because I was traumatized or something.”

  “Do you think this assault was trauma-induced?”

  I shrugged.

  “Can you tell me everything you remember from that night?”

  I told him everything I could. I told him I snapped, that I thought Jeff had found me and was trying to rape me. And I told him about Jeff, that he raped me in front of the camera and posted it on the darknet, that Buchanan wanted to pay me for sex with that little girl. I was honest because my freedom was on the line. I had to be.

  “All right, this thinking someone was your stepfather or someone else from your past, has that ever happened to you before?”

  I shook my head.

  “Do you ever feel separate from your body? Or like you’re in a dream when you’re not?”

  “Sure.”

  “When has that happened?”

  “During sex.”

&
nbsp; “Every time?”

  “Not with Jake.”

  “And who is Jake?”

  I waved my hand as if to push him on to the next subject. “He’s not part of my life anymore.”

  “Okay…” He dragged out the word as if to say, okay, we’ll come back to him. Not a chance. “Did you feel separate from your body when Allen attacked you?”

  “Sort of. I can’t remember much of that part.”

  Face neutral, he continued. “Did you have anything stressful happen earlier that day?”

  “Nope.”

  He nodded. “Other than Saturday night, do you ever see or hear things that other people don’t?”

  “No.”

  “Have thoughts of hurting yourself or others?”

  My body hanging out over the ocean last night came to mind. “No.”

  “How’s your appetite?”

  “Normal.”

  “How’s your sleep?”

  “Fine.”

  “Do you have trouble falling asleep, staying asleep, or waking up?”

  “No.”

  “Nightmares?”

  I sighed. “Sure, everyone has nightmares.”

  “How often?”

  “Recently? Almost every night.”

  “When did that start?”

  “About a month ago.”

  “Did something happen a month ago?”

  I pulled in some air while I decided what to tell him. This could ruin my case, right, if I got paid for sex with a client as Delilah, but then said “no” to another for the same thing? I shook my head and answered, “Nothing in particular.”

  The questions kept coming. He asked about my recurring nightmare, my family, my community—or lack thereof. If I drank—yes. How many drinks a week—oh, you know, I’m more of a social drinker, so just a drink or two a week. If I smoked—no. Had I ever had a head injury—kind of. If I had ever seen a therapist or psychiatrist before—hell no. In my church, it was safer to be a witch than a mental health professional. We didn’t believe in therapy. If somebody had a problem, their faith would make them well.

  “Are you in physical pain?” he continued.

  I nodded.

  “Where?”

  “Besides the bruises on my arms and legs?”

  “Mmhmm.”

  “Pretty much everywhere a thong would cover.”

  “How bad is the pain?”

  “Mostly just an aching, dull pain, if that makes sense.”

  He repositioned, crossing his opposite ankle over his knee. “Okay. Let me ask you this—whose fault do you think it was that you were abused as a child?”

  What did that have to do with anything?

  “My stepfather’s.” Obviously. “And my mom’s for not believing me when I told her afterward, and for letting him back home.”

  “What about Simone, the girl you mentioned from your dream? Whose fault is it that she died?”

  I swallowed hard and could barely say, “Mine.”

  “Why is it your fault?” he asked with a softened voice of false compassion.

  Huh. His job was a lot like mine—getting paid to pretend to be something for someone because they couldn’t get it in real life. For me, it was sex and lap dances for men who couldn’t get a girl or whose wives were prudes. This guy, this therapist, was just giving me sympathy, a listening ear, pretending to care because I paid him enough. We were both just great actors, just good liars. Was he really better than me?

  I straightened up to answer with a firm, “I don’t talk about that.”

  “How’d she die?”

  Stubborn silence.

  “Did you kill her?” Pewter asked as casually as if he asked if I had taken the bus to his office.

  “Define kill.”

  “Did you inflict bodily injury that caused her heart to stop?”

  “No.”

  “Did you implore someone else to—”

  “I don’t talk about this.”

  He nodded as if I had said enough to answer all his questions. “And what about Allen? You tried to kill him because you thought he was Jeff?”

  What was he trying to prove? That I was a threat to society? I guessed I was. But society was a threat to me first.

  I released my arms to free them up for some angry gestures and rebutted, “I didn’t want to kill Allen. I had to. Because in that moment, I was eight years old, in my room, hearing my doorknob turn. Allen was Jeff, and Jeff needed to die. That makes sense to you, yes? Because I’m not safe if Jeff can find me. Turns out I’m not safe now that any of them can.”

  Dr. Pewter shifted forward, pressing his elbow into the arm of the chair. He stared at me for a few long moments before asking, “Can you tell me more about that little girl?”

  I snapped back, “Who? Simone? Of course you want to talk about her! They all liked her better. That blonde-haired, blue-eyed Nazi shit. And something about her being willing or looking willing. Apparently, the fantasy is raping kids who want it.”

  “I meant you. The eight-year-old. The one who is scared and alone and has to fight so hard to survive.”

  Is? How was I the crazy one here? “I don’t understand why you’re referring to my younger self in the present tense. She’s gone. I grew out of her. I’m not her anymore.”

  “You just told me you were her on Saturday when Allen attacked you. Can we talk about her?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh, what the fuck is this? There is no little girl anymore. You want to know how I know? Because I’m old enough now to get paid to pretend I like sucking some stranger’s dick. No one’s making me. No one can anymore.”

  Dr. Pewter sat back with his hands folded on his clipboard, his body language composed but his face twitching slightly at my outburst.

  I leaned forward, elbows to thighs, biceps to breasts, hands clasped between my knees. My voice was just above a whisper, sultry and smooth. “You want to know this little girl so bad, then there are a hundred sites you can find her on. Maybe you’ve already met her. If you’re looking at me hoping for her, you’ll be disappointed. I’ve been told she’s more fun to fuck than me.” I tilted my head to the side and narrowed my eyes. “That all you need, baby?”

  Face tightening ever so slightly, he nodded.

  * * *

  Cash was in class when I got back to the dorm. I put my key in the lock, feeling naked and followed with a prickling, crawling sensation under the skin of my arms. I needed a drink. That would dull it all—all those feelings that shrieked so loud when I was sober.

  In my room, I took off my pants, changed back into Cash’s sweatshirt, and found the nearly full bottle of tequila in my desk drawer. I curled under the covers with it and Fitzgerald, whom I was reading for class.

  I didn’t wake up when Cash knocked the first time. Or the second. I didn’t hear his text alert, either, but I saw it after I vomited into the trash, which I barely found in the now-dark room. I was thirsty and had no water. At least I remembered to put pants on before I went into the hall to fill my bottle.

  “Sawyer,” Cash called through his open door. I held up a finger as I passed, trying to walk straight as I hunched over to keep from puking again. Of course he didn’t leave me alone. “Are you okay?”

  I nodded and ducked into the bathroom, making it to the toilet just in time to puke again. I came out to fill my water.

  Cash took the empty bottle from my hand. “Go lay down.” But he didn’t sound compassionate like usual. He was pissed, or Cash’s polite version of pissed. So I obeyed. He handed me my water half a minute after I got back in bed. He flipped through my covers until he found the bottle and what was left in it. “Where’s the rest?” he demanded as he held it up.

  “Rest?”

  “You can tell me, or I’ll just start going through your stuff.”

  “Knock yourself out.” I pulled the covers over my face, groaning when he flicked the light on. He wasn’t exactly subtle when he tore through my wardrobe and searched under my bed. “I don�
�t know what the big deal is. Am I not allowed to drink if we’re dating?”

  He stood up and crossed his arms. “Sawyer, this is not normal drinking. This is self-medicating.”

  “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  I peeked over the edge of my comforter as he neared my liquor drawer. He pressed his hand on my desk and pulled open the top drawer. “You need better ways to cope. Here we go,” he said as he opened the drawer with my stash and started collecting the bottles in his arms, the glass clinking together.

  “What are you going to do with those?” I asked, struggling to sit up.

  “I’m going to dump them out.”

  “No, no, no, no. Cash! Stop!” I grabbed his arm.

  “Why? You don’t need it to get through the day, do you?” He raised his eyebrow in a challenge.

  “You don’t understand. Faulkner said, ‘Pouring out liquor is like burning books.’”

  “Has a book ever made you this sick?” he asked, unzipping my backpack and placing the bottles inside.

  “Yes! Wuthering Heights.” Cue high-pitched, girly voice, “‘Oh, Heathcliff, you and I are one because we are both the most intolerably obnoxious people in the world. I can’t live without you, but I’m going to marry some pathetic, pale little guy anyway because I’m an idiot.’ Gag me. Bitch, just die already.”

  Cash’s eyebrows wrinkled together as he stared at me. “What?”

  “Please, just leave them alone! I had to do unspeakable things to pay for them.” Crap. Still drunk. Shouldn’t have said that.

  “That’s a terrible defense,” Cash muttered before taking off down the hall with my backpack slung over one shoulder. I could almost hear the clug-clug-clug of them draining helplessly into the sewer where they never belonged. I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye. I should have fought harder for them. I should have blocked the door, punched Cash, locked him out, anything. But I felt too crappy to even get up.

  Cash walked in all friendly, acting as if he hadn’t just stolen and destroyed my property. “So, how’d the psych eval go?” he asked in that sarcastic way like he already knew the answer.

  I flipped him off.

  “Aw, you’re such a sweet drunk,” he said, plopping on the edge of my bed.