Use

by CD Reiss

  She looked me up and down, as if assessing the danger I posed, then slid the gate all the way open. “Pull in. I’ll be out in a second.”

  She went to the small house in the center. I went back to my car to drive through. When I was in, the gate closed automatically. I got out. The door to the little house was still closed, but it wasn’t as small as I thought. Only the top was visible; the rest was built into the hill.

  I approached the last building. The front windows were covered from the inside. The hooks I’d seen were lower than I expected. Hooks to hold plants were usually above the doorframe, but these were about seven feet off the ground, and more hoops than hooks. Beneath them were smaller U-shaped loops that looked more functional than decorative.

  That was number one, Maundy. Of course I should have left it alone. I should have let Fiona’s descriptions, which were heavy with her emotions, suffice as a matter of principle. But I couldn’t stop myself from walking around the house.

  The windows on the side were less carefully covered. Maundy was a private street, so I could understand why they weren’t sealed all around. Had the street been subject to any kind of traffic, they would have had to brick up the windows.

  A huge room with a floor-to-ceiling window overlooked the mountain, and along the wall I could see, wooden Xs were bolted to the tufted wall. There was a line of chairs that couldn’t be called chairs. They were more cushions configured in a way I couldn’t understand until I imagined human bodies on them, crouching, kneeling, legs up, spread, arms back or above the head, shackled down with another body. Then their function became clear. The tables for observers only highlighted the fact that the window looked over Los Angeles if anyone cared to watch.

  Had that been safe for Fiona with her paparazzi-magnet lifestyle? Why had no pictures of her strapped to U-shaped mattresses and wooden Xs surfaced? Screaming, wet, come-dripping pink-slapped skin, begging for more more more?

  “That big window facing the view is one-way,” Debbie said from behind me. “You can see out, but no one can see in.”

  I jumped as if she’d caught me fucking.

  “It’s the first thing anyone asks,” she continued. “You imagine you’re seen, but you’re safe. It’s got to be safe, or it doesn’t work.”

  “Good to know,” I said.

  “Obviously, the side windows are two-way, but the coverings are sealed on the inside when the house is in use.” She smiled, hands folded in front of her. “Come on in.” She stepped aside so I could take the stone path to the center house.

  The center house was stunning, if understated. Two floors, a modest pool, large windows, and a balcony where I sat on a sofa spanning the length of it. The patio overlooked a terraced yard, the lights of the city, and the black ocean. On one of the terraces, in the dotted lamplight, a slim figure danced, flinging her long, straight hair. No, she wasn’t dancing. She was doing some sort of martial art.

  Behind me, an indoor light went on, illuminating the figure. I saw the bare chest and loose black pants. The dancer was a man, and he was working with a sword. He moved it with grace and beauty, like a gymnast with an apparatus. I couldn’t see him well enough to tell more, but his practice was hypnotic.

  Debbie brought out a tray of tea.

  “You didn’t have to,” I said.

  “I already had it steeping.” She sat across from me on a wicker-and-metal chair and pressed her legs together while she poured.

  “This is a fantastic view,” I said.

  “Yes. I take it for granted, but whenever someone new comes, I’m reminded.”

  “Do you live here alone?”

  “With another student. Martin. The middle house is for functions only, and in the end house, the shibari master lives.” She said “master” with a sort of reverence I admired.

  “Deacon.”

  “Yes.”

  “And Fiona?”

  “Yes and no. She’s here when he’s here. When he’s not, she’s not.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “You may ask.” She sipped her tea, giving away nothing, telling me I could ask, but I’d better be ready to hear something I didn’t like.

  “Is that Martin?” I asked, referring to the man below.

  “No. Junto is mine. Martin was removed just before Christmas. He hasn’t been back since.”

  “Martin was in Los Angeles the days before Fiona went to the stables?”

  “Yes, why?”

  I shook my head. I didn’t know why that rankled, but it did. “I thought he was gone. I don’t know why it’s relevant. Probably isn’t.”

  But it was, because Fiona had mentioned that time in session.

  Even if I was so stoned I’d let them knot me, well, Debbie wouldn’t have disobeyed, and Martin was in New York.

  Fiona had a memory of being tied while Deacon was away, and had no idea who had done it. But from what I could see, if Martin had been in town, he was the knotter.

  “I reported all this to the police,” Debbie said. “I knew something was wrong that night. I could tell. Fiona ran out of the house with a bag. I stopped her and asked what was wrong. She was crying. She said she was going to Snowcone. When I saw Master Deacon later, I asked him what that meant. He went to get her.” She stopped and looked at Junto, as if clicking pieces of the night in her mind. “Master Deacon told me I shouldn’t feel responsible for what happened. But sometimes I do.”

  “Anyone would have done what you did.”

  “You care about her,” Debbie said.

  I almost choked on my tea. She watched me sidelong, her gaze suddenly pointed with intention. I felt as if I was being taken apart and scanned.

  “She’s my patient. So yes, I do care.” I was sure she saw right through me. “What about you?”

  “Fiona is one of the few friends I’ve made since I came here. She is very loyal, very strong. When I came, I had nothing. Deacon pulled me from hell because he recognized something in me. And Fiona was right there, making sure I had everything I needed. She introduced me to important people. They’re a beautiful couple.”

  “What did he recognize?”

  “I’m a female Dominant.”

  “Ah.”

  “And good with knots.” She smiled into the rim of her cup, still dissecting me.

  “I’ve been told you’re very talented.”

  “I have skill with certain things. The most difficult knottings involve multiple strands. Anyone can tie two, but tying three, from crotch and over the shoulders, it’s hard to get them to work in harmony. It’s hard to make it strong so that each works equally. But I’ve been taught by the best.” She put her cup down and changed the subject by changing her posture. “Do you run to get clothes for all your clients?”

  “Not usually, but I wanted to see this place. Her life here is part of who she is, and I’ve had trouble imagining it. It’s been a block for me. I can’t understand the day-to-day.”

  “You’re curious?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “I can get you an invitation to an event.”

  “No.” I couldn’t have been more definite about crossing that line. It would damage Fiona’s trust in me completely.

  “Really?” She obviously didn’t believe me.

  “Really. I’m just here to learn about Fiona.”

  She sighed. “Is it breaking a trust for me to tell you what everyone already knows? It’s in the news every night. The public feeds off her like birds on suet. And she doesn’t have the upbringing to stand up against it. No grounding.”

  “She’s had a very traditional upbringing,” I said. “Her folks are religious. She has seven siblings to lean on.”

  “She has a wire mother.”

  I sat back, considering my tea. The study she referred to involved removing newborn monkeys from their mothers and putting them in the arms of a chicken-wire figure that dispensed milk. “Are you referring to the Harry Harlow experiments?”

  “I’m sure I don’t remember th
e name of the doctor. But I saw a film of monkeys clutching a wire mother and biting each other. Almost all of them, in one way or another, was a sexual deviant. It was hard to watch.”

  “That study showed that a newborn without attachment to an adult has a higher chance of being impulsive and violent,” I said. The experiments had been inhumane and horrifying. Human babies rarely faced that level of distance from all adult love. But the point had been made that a wire mother permanently damaged children. “And what’s your theory on what this has to do with Fiona?” I hid the stress in my voice. I’d always seen Fiona as someone with solvable problems. Debbie apparently thought differently.

  She folded her hands in her lap, calmly considering me. “The babies had no warm mother, but they were given every single other comfort they needed. Even more than they needed. What happens when the child of a wire mother is given every indulgence, and then has to deal with the slightest pain? Does the pain break them? Or are they already broken from the pleasure?”

  I leaned toward the railing and looked over the city. The man with the sword had stopped his dance. He sat cross-legged, facing the same direction I was, with his hands out in supplication.

  “When she looks out into the world, she sees only herself,” Debbie continued. “She has a large family with wire parents. Those children are a brood of rich orphans. The fact that she can eke out as much humanity as she does is beautiful to me.”

  I felt the friction of my middle finger on my upper lip before I even realized I was rubbing it. I shifted my hand down. That habit triggered my mind’s gears, no matter how much I didn’t like it. Her parents still hadn’t visited to tell her about her brother. They were leaving it to the children to sort out amongst themselves. Had it always been that way? Had something else broken her? Did there need to be more?

  Everyone had a bucket that represented their capacity for pain. Some buckets were bigger than others, and everyone maintained the overflow differently. Did it matter that Fiona’s bucket had been filled slowly, drip by drip, over years, if she hadn’t been given the tools to manage the runoff?

  “People are terribly complex in their simplicity.” My general statement wouldn’t betray any confidences, but it was possibly that simple. Or not. I had enough to chew on.

  “I’m glad you came by.” Debbie placed her cup carefully back on the tray. “It was nice to meet the man who is helping Fiona. She’s a good person with a good heart.”

  I stood. “Nice to meet you as well.”

  We shook hands, and I left. I dropped the bag of clothes on the passenger seat, but I was halfway down the hill when I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to know what she’d packed, what she expected Fiona to wear.

  The zipper on the bag screeched when I opened it. The shoes were in a separate drawstring bag. They were white sneakers with Velcro, plain and simple. Was it wrong that I found them so sexual in their pure plainness? The lack of sensuality, the creases at the backs where they’d been smashed. The way the tongues were off kilter. The back heel of the left shoe was more worn than the right. She favored her left foot. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.

  I was having intimate feelings for a patient by way of a pair of running shoes.

  I jammed them back in the bag without looking at the clothes and zipped it up, declaring to myself that I’d never look at them again. But it wasn’t the sneakers that were the problem. It was me. I was the problem.

  CHAPTER 21.

  FIONA

  Jonathan seemed obsessed with physical activity. He wasn’t at the ping-pong table when I went looking for him after dinner, but he was on the basketball court under the lights. His motions were much the same as they’d been with the paddle: dribble twice, then a whoosh into the net. He caught the ball and started over. The grounds were populated with all kinds of psychos huddling in little groups under the lights and in the dark corners of night. None went near Jonathan. He was a red menace all his own. Mister Joker. Mister Tons-of-Buds.

  I leaned on the pole that held the hoop. “Making friends, I see.”

  “I have you, Fee.” Swoosh. “I don’t need friends.” He smiled.

  I hadn’t expected any kind of cheer from him. “Who removed the stick from your ass?”

  “Guy can’t catch a break. What am I supposed to do? Have another heart attack?” He took his shot. “And how are you doing? Try to attack your therapist lately?”

  “Not lately, fucktard.”

  He passed me the ball, hard. It took the wind out of me, but I caught it.

  “Twenty-four hours of self-control,” he said. “A personal best for you.”

  Jonathan was back. The guy who couldn’t stand me, who ribbed, chided, and pushed my buttons until I either stormed off or slapped him.

  “And you?” I said, passing it back as hard as I could.

  He caught it without a problem and dribbled.

  “You aren’t some great example of self-control. If I want that, I’m looking at Theresa.”

  “She’s gonna bust one day.” Swoosh. “Leave a bunch of lace and pearls all over the place.” He made an exploding gesture with his hands. “Boom.”

  I caught the ball on its way down. “She said she’s sorry she got mad at you, by the way.” I tossed it to him. “She called you names, apparently.”

  “I don’t blame her. But yeah, she lost it. From now on, I’ll be a model of having my shit together. Anything I can control, I will. Done. And sorry, Fee, but I’m staying away from you. You’re a bad influence. Staying away from Dad too. He’s worse. He makes me want to break his face.” He took his shot and missed. Retrieving the ball, he said, “Control. Everything in my line of sight.”

  “You think it’s so easy?”

  “Yeah, I do. It’s a choice. I can see crazy coming now. You. Then Rachel. Then me. I know the signs now. I got it.” Bang. The ball went off the rim. “I’m watching Theresa next. Margie’s on her way. We’ll all be here at some point until we learn.”

  I caught his ball mid-bounce. “You’re delusional.”

  “You know who my girlfriend was obsessed with before she died?”

  “Jesus?” I took a shot and, bang, missed. I was never much of an athlete.

  “You.” He snapped the ball out of the air. “Talk about delusional. She thought you were the shit. Thought you had the life.”

  “Why?” That knowledge poked me in a weird place. I was many things, but admirable wasn’t even on the list. Yet, a swell of unexplained intimacy throbbed around the admiration when I was sure I’d never met Rachel at all.

  He bounced his ball but didn’t take the shot. “She was a normal, regular girl. Bad family, but otherwise, she was real. The way we live was like a fairytale to her.” He laughed and bounced the ball until it flew over his head. He caught it and dribbled again. “When she saw how you lived, the way you spend money, she admired it. I should have caught it then. I think what bothered me the most when I heard about her and Dad was that I hadn’t seen it. How did that shit slip under my radar? I don’t like being blind. I felt like I got it in the back of the head with a baseball bat. Then, the party, and I wake up, and she’s gone.” He took a shot. Swoosh. “She was real, and then… not.”

  “Because she wanted to be us.”

  “Crazy fucking world,” he said, passing me the ball.

  I stood in front of the net and tossed the ball up. By some miracle of chance and physics, it went swoosh.

  “Nice shot.” The male voice came from my left.

  I turned to find Warren Chilton palming the ball I’d let fly.

  “Drazen,” he said, flipping Jonathan the ball.

  “Hey,” Jonathan said back.

  I was sure he was trying to place Warren’s face. Warren was about seven or eight years older, but there was a good chance they’d pulled smoke from the same bong, somewhere. Jonathan took his shot, missing because he seemed cautious in a way he hadn’t before. He passed it back to Warren.

  “Where have you been?” I a
sked, returning to the pole as Warren jumped for the hoop and missed. Bang.

  “I had a dispensation to go to my sister’s wedding. Got the ankle bracelet off with a blowtorch and bolted.” He lifted his pant leg, revealing a red, raw burn wound.

  “Wow, dude.” Jonathan dribbled, staring at Warren’s ankle. “Where’d you go?”

  “Stole my dad’s car and went up to Santa Barbara.”

  “Cool.” He flicked the ball to Warren, who missed the net again. I couldn’t believe Jonathan would be impressed with the high drama, but he was sixteen.

  “Wasn’t even a blip on TMZ. You guys are still eating up all the bandwidth.”

  Jonathan laughed as his rebounded Warren’s miss. Warren fouled Jonathan and bounced into me, shoving a little baggie of blue oval pills into my hand. I tucked them into my waistband as he winked at me.

  “What’s on the news about us?” Jonathan said as he passed to Warren. “Anything that’ll get me laid when I get out?”

  I glanced around to see if anyone had seen me tuck away the baggie.

  “Fiona,” Frances called to me.

  I turned. She was standing next to Elliot. They waved me over.

  Shit.

  CHAPTER 22.

  ELLIOT

  I could see she was on her best behavior, hands in her lap, sentences short and spoken softly. Her effort to not come back at us appeared monumental, and I was proud of her for keeping it together in front of Frances and sympathetic to how hard it was to seem awake when saying “yes” and “no” when she wanted to say so much more.

  “Do you understand the rules for tomorrow’s visit?” Frances asked. She spoke to her peers with bite and wit, but she spoke to patients as if they were children.

  “Yes,” Fiona said, looking each of us in the eyes from across the conference room table, the same table we’d betrayed her at two weeks earlier. “One hour. Just talking. No going outside the garden area. You’ll have a guy on us the whole time.”

  “Miss Drazen,” Frances said, softening her voice slightly, “I hope you don’t feel persecuted. We’re trying to make sure this is a safe visit. This man is the reason you’re here, for better or worse. There is violence in your past together, so we have to be careful for your good and the good of the other residents.”