Reveal (A Wild Nights Novel)

by K. M. Golland

  Those words. His words. They would forever penetrate me to the core. Each and every one of them like leaves blowing around in my mind, never to be carried away with the breeze. They swirled and settled, swirled and settled, haunting me. And I knew they always would. I also knew I’d have to live with that and endure it for the rest of my life. It was my penance for playing with fire to begin with.

  As if by some miracle, my rescue had been the result of my phone dialling Brad when it fell out of the pocket of my shorts and onto the floor. From that point, Brad had heard everything that occurred and called triple zero, informing Emergency Services that I was in grave danger. They’d traced my whereabouts by triangulating my phone, and that was how H and I ended for good.

  It was now four months later and the day of his sentencing, and I was just about to enter the courtroom for the judge’s decision. I wasn’t required to attend, but I wanted to. I felt I should. I’d testified on H’s behalf and requested leniency, but at the same time I knew in my heart that he deserved incarceration for the crime he’d committed against me. He also needed psychological assessment and treatment.

  Hearing a thud on the frosted-glass panel beside me, I looked away from the bathroom mirror and to the blurred shadow interrupting.

  “Em, you alright in there?” Cori asked, her concerned but reassuring tone reminding me I was not alone.

  “Yeah. I just need a minute, okay?”

  “Okay, hon. But that’s all you’ve got. The hearing is about to begin.”

  I closed my eyes momentarily then washed my hands one more time, something I did quite often. My psychologist said that I’d developed this compulsion because I felt dirty as a result of what had happened with H. She said that in my mind, washing my hands was a process of purification I’d become dependant upon, and that when I no longer blamed myself for what had happened, the compulsion would subside.

  I hoped she was right—my hands were sore.

  Opening the door, I stepped out of the bathroom and into the busy hallway of the county court building. Women and men dressed in suits and robes rushed about, carrying briefcases and pushing trolleys stacked with case files and legislative literature. They wore concentration and nonchalance as well as they wore their attire, while those seated or leaning against the hallway walls wore anxiety and impatience as they waited quietly. Those people constantly checked their watches and paced back and forth, while others murmured in low conversation, hugging loved ones and offering support.

  It was quite the sombre atmosphere, and one I didn’t like.

  Spotting Cori waiting with Brad at the door to the courtroom, I manifested a smile. It was what I was supposed to do, so I did it. “Okay, let’s get this over and done with,” I said, avoiding eye contact and quickly moving past them to enter the room.

  Brad’s hand shot out and gently clasped mine. “Em, look at me.”

  I raised my eyes and met his, struggling to keep mine dry and emotion-free.

  “Breathe,” he whispered, cupping my cheek. “It’s okay. Cori and I are right here beside you. And we can all leave at any point.”

  I managed a small smile, and this time it was genuine. “I know,” I said, softly, turning my head to lightly kiss his hand. “But I need to do this. I need to be here for me … and for him.”

  Brad swallowed heavily, and I could tell he didn’t like my reasoning. It was no secret that he disagreed with me taking responsibility for the part I played in H’s and my relationship, nor did he agree with my feelings of contrition. But it didn’t matter what he thought I should and shouldn’t feel, because he hadn’t known H like I had. And I knew that in the end I hadn’t known H like I thought I had either, but I had known a part of him that was my anchor. A good part. A selfless part. A part I still held dear. I didn’t want to let that part go. I couldn’t. He’d meant too much to me to ever release my clasp and willingly relinquish it.

  Leaning forward, my wonderful, supportive, understanding boyfriend kissed my forehead. “Okay, pixie. Whatever you need and for whatever reason.”

  Tears filled my eyes, and I willed them away. For the past four months, Brad had been the most amazing pillar of strength anyone could ever ask for. Both he and Cori had jumped on a plane the very day I was kidnapped so that they could be by my side during my recovery. I’d borne no physical wounds, yet the wound sustained to my heart was more devastating and painful than any visible injury could ever be. It had debilitated and stripped me of any joy I possessed.

  It had destroyed me.

  As days passed and then weeks, I’d learned, with the help of my psychologist, how to cope with the hurt, and slowly put myself back together again. It was also during that time that the details and truth behind H’s identity came to light. Some of our neighbours had been present when the police had arrived at the scene, therefore fragments of fact mixed with rumours and hearsay had spread rather quickly. The Wild Nights crew had been informed of the incident so that Cori and Brad could be granted leave, but I’d managed to keep my work colleagues and family in the dark. They didn’t need to know

  I’d felt so ashamed, still feel so ashamed. And I feared I always would. I’d played a high-stakes games of seductive fuckery, a game I’d enjoyed and thrived upon, one that had ultimately led to obsession, emotional destruction, and a man losing his freedom to live an unencumbered life. I’d let our game become real, despite telling myself over and over that I hadn’t. I’d welcomed him into my private life.

  That was my mistake … my fault.

  Taking Brad’s hand in mine, I walked into the courtroom and took a seat near the back just as a court officer escorted H into the room. My hand clenched, gripping Brad’s tightly, my wrist trembling as a wash of emotion hit me in full force. I hadn’t seen him since the abduction because he’d pleaded guilty at his mention, and therefore no trial had occurred.

  I’d tried not to think about him, tried not to remember the moments we’d shared and how I’d overlooked or not seen what had been coming. I’d tried but failed.

  H sat down, his wrists in handcuffs, the standard-issue navy remand overalls swallowing his once burly frame. His head was hung. His postured slumped. And seeing him so withdrawn, unfocussed, and miserable stirred everything that encompassed me. I felt sick, hot. My stomach lurched, my head spun, and I realised being in the room with him was much more difficult than I’d expected it would be. You can do this, Em. You’re stronger than you realise.

  I’d seen my psychologist every few days and we’d made a lot of progress. But as I sat in that courtroom and took in the shell of a man I’d once considered my strength and saviour, the reality of everything that had happened weighed down upon me.

  Heat rising to the surface of my cheeks, my chest tight and constricted, a panic attack festered within. My legs shook, and I was just about to stand and flee the room when the clerk entered from a side door and addressed everybody. “All rise for the honourable Judge Jenkins.”

  Brad stood, his hand in mine, guiding me to stand with him. I complied and focussed on the middle-aged, overweight, and balding judge. Yes, focus on him, Em. He seemed grumpy, and I didn’t know what that meant. Is he grumpy at H? Is he grumpy at me? Maybe he’s grumpy because of the God-awful wig he’s wearing? Or maybe he’s just grumpy all the time?

  “Em!” A light tug of my hand drew my attention to Brad, who was once again sitting and trying to pull me back down to sit with him.

  “Oh, sorry,” I said with a meek smile.

  Cori squeezed my leg and whispered, “You okay?”

  I looked over at H who had resumed the same head-bowed position, then I turned to my best friend. “Yes, for now.”

  “Good girl.” She squeezed my leg again and kept her hand resting there. The contact reassured me.

  The judge cleared his voice and positioned the microphone in front of his face. “Mr Michael Adam Rydesdale, you have pleaded guilty to two charges, one of Abduction or Detention, which carries a maximum penalty of five years imp
risonment; and the other, Assault with Intent to Commit a Sexual Offence, which carries a maximum penalty of ten years imprisonment.

  “The circumstances giving rise to your offending in this instance may be summarised as follows: At approximately eight-thirty a.m. you entered the elevator at yours and the victim’s, Miss Emily Cassandra Davis, residence, and placed a rag soaked in chloroform across the victim’s face, rendering her unconscious. You then carried her to your apartment and secured her by tying her wrists and ankles to a bed. It was then that you forcibly kissed her, removed her clothing with scissors, and proceeded to touch and place your mouth on various parts of her body, including her legs, breasts and vagina.

  “Many times during her detention she requested you stop and let her go. You did neither. Instead, you continuously coerced her to admit she loved you and to give you consent for sexual penetration, of which she did not. At one point, when Miss Davis stopped resisting you, you untied her and carried her to your bedroom where you proceeded to undo your pants and reveal your penis in preparation for sexual penetration without your victim’s consent.

  “Following your arrest, you denied intent to rape when questioned by the investigating police. You stipulated that you loved Miss Davis and would never hurt her. That your intent was to make her remember that she’d asked you to kidnap her via text message, and when she did recall that conversation, she stopped resisting you, which is when you believed consent for sexual penetration was given. You also stated that you thought she loved you.

  “The court notes that you and Miss Davis had been in contact with each other via text message for thirteen months, and prior to that via a professional website by the name of SexyTexts, where Miss Davis hosts a channel.

  “The court takes into consideration your high levels of remorse, good behaviour while in remand, and no history of a criminal record. The court also takes into account the Victim Impact Statement of Miss Davis.”

  The mention of my VIS made me glance over at H, finding that he too was looking back at me. I wanted to look away, unable to handle his gaze, but when my eyes focussed on his, we spoke to each other. Except at first, I wasn’t exactly sure what we were saying. All I knew was that I didn’t feel anxious anymore.

  It was funny how eyes could convey what words and the body couldn’t. They had their own language … their own understanding. They had the power to express feeling and emotion, and the emotion that H’s eyes currently expressed was that he was truly sorry for what he’d done. That he now realised he’d gone too far and was ready and willing to accept his punishment.

  He was at peace with it.

  Don’t ask me how I knew this by just looking at him. I just did. I also tried to convey my apology to him, for keeping him tethered to me, for leading him astray, and for tossing the tether aside when I’d felt guilty and scared. I tried to convey that I never intended to lead him into doing what he felt he had no choice to do.

  “Mr Rydesdale,” the judge said, demanding his attention.

  Both H and I turned to face His Honour, but not before I sought the eyes of Brad. I needed the solace they gave me before the sentence was handed down, and I needed him to know that this chapter of my life was only moments away from closing. Forever.

  Concern was written all over his face, his eyes darting from me to H. I hated seeing him so worried, something he’d been pretty much constantly from the moment he’d walked into my hospital room.

  Wanting to put him at ease, I mouthed it’s okay before gripping his hand tighter and resting my head on his shoulder.

  “By reason of your very early and remorseful plea of guilty, you are entitled to a high discount on the sentence which otherwise would have been imposed. You have saved the state the time and expense of a trial and facilitated the course of justice. You have saved your victim the trauma of having to give evidence, and I am satisfied that you are genuinely sorry for your offending.

  “Although your offence is serious, and taking your victim’s impact statement into account, I consider your actions to be a spontaneous and opportunistic exercise of appallingly poor judgment rather than that of an inherently deviant person.

  “It is hereby that the sentence of the court is as follows:

  “On charge one: Abduction or Detention, you are convicted and sentenced to be imprisoned for six months.

  “On charge two: Assault with Intent to Commit a Sexual Offence, you are convicted and sentenced to be imprisoned for twelve months.

  “I further order that upon release, you undertake a Community Corrections Order for a period of three years. Do you understand the terms and conditions that I have just read out, Mr Rydesdale?”

  “Yes, I do,” H said, his voice clear and accepting.

  The judge signed a piece of paper before him and closed a file. “That concludes today’s proceedings.”

  “All rise,” the clerk announced.

  We all stood as directed, and my eyes met H’s one last time.

  From the moment we said hello,

  goodbye was inevitable.

  I feed from the desire he has for me.

  It cures my hunger … my need.

  It fills a void left by the ghost of another.

  Then again, I was always told ghosts weren’t real.

  H was a ghost, a ghost that would be freed into society some time today. Over the past eighteen months while he’d been incarcerated, I’d toyed with the notion that if I’d pretended it never happened, one day I’d truly believe it hadn’t. And for the most part, that notion worked. H was out of sight, out of mind, and Brad was my primary focus. My only focus.

  Sitting in front of my favourite turquoise and orange beach hut, laptop open and resting across my legs, and Brad, Josh and Cori in the water and performing ridiculously good dolphin impersonations, I could not pretend that H had never existed, because he had and he still did. And with continuing sessions with my psychologist, I’d come to realise that it was okay to accept that.

  “You coming into the water, sexy pixie?” Brad asked, standing above me like a bronzed god, dripping water and overt sexiness. Run your hand through your hair. Run your hand through your hair.

  He ran his hand through his hair.

  I sighed.

  I smiled.

  My vagina copied.

  “Not just yet. I need to log in another half an hour on SexyTexts.”

  He not-so-gracefully dropped to the towel next to me, turning to lie on his side, his head propped up by his hand. “Sucks to be you.”

  I glared playfully at him. “Yeah, well, I have this new client. He’s only two days old, and he’s … er … different.”

  Brad crept up the towel higher so that he could see my screen.

  “I’ve called him S,” I said, giggling and swivelling my laptop to show him.

  I watched Brad’s face as he read the sext in question, his eyebrows drawn, a smile slowly creeping onto his face.

  Shoeman: What are you wearing tonight?

  Lady N: S, I’m wearing your favourite.

  S: The purple ones?

  Lady N: Yes. Just for you.

  Lies.

  I didn’t own a purple anything. I hated purple. But apparently S liked that colour, so I gave it to him.

  Brad chuckled. “The dude’s got a shoe fetish, huh?”

  “Appears so.” I waited for S to respond.

  “You should have some fun and get real kinky with him.”

  I snapped my face toward Brad, loving that he was so supportive of my decision to keep professionally sexting after everything that had happened, and that he was keen to give me input. Sometimes too much input.

  My role as a part-time sexter was one I was never ashamed of, because we should not live by the expectation of others. We should be who we were, and only who we were. No one else. Emily Davis was who I was: theatre actress, member of the Itty-Bitty Titty committee, lover of Tim Tams, lover of anal sex, and part-time sexter. I’d learned that flaws were not necessarily flaws at
all, that they were there to strengthen our character, and if we recognised and used them to our advantage, we were ultimately unstoppable.

  “Really kinky?” I asked Brad, amused, wondering if he knew just how kinky I could get. “What do you suggest?”

  He stole the laptop from me and grinned devilishly.

  “Brad! No! You can’t keep doing that. It’s wrong.” My scolding was half-arsed—he had a habit of hijacking my sessions.

  The cheeky bastard scoffed and his grin widened as he typed. “Shoe fetishes are wrong.”

  “What are you writing? Show me?” I tried to snatch my laptop back.

  “Wait. Wait. There,” he said, pressing return before I could stop him.

  He happily handed my laptop back to me, threaded his hands together, and rested them on his head, lying back on the towel while closing his eyes and smiling toward the sun.

  “Shit! What did you … BRAD!” My hand shot to my mouth.

  Lady N: So tell me, S,

  if I asked you to slide a heel in and out of your arse,

  would you? For me?

  Pretty please?

  I whacked him on the stomach and he hunched over, laughing. “I can’t believe you typed that.”

  “What? He probably does it everyday.” Brad sat up and crawled behind me, his hands finding my shoulders and his fingers kneading my skin with perfection.

  “Oh Godddddd that feels good,” I moaned.

  His fingers pressed deeper and his thighs gripped my hips.