Pucked Up Love

by Lili Valente

  “All right,” I promise, dimly aware of Will on the phone behind me, asking someone about flights to Portland. I’m filled with a rush of gratitude so intense, I have to sink into the chair in the corner to catch my breath.

  Thank God for Will, for this good man who never hesitates to help, to care, to do what’s right in a world where so many assholes don’t hesitate to dole out hurt and pain. By the time I’ve calmed Bree down the best I can and promised I’ll call her as soon as I get to the airport, Will is off the phone and my suitcase is on the bed.

  “You’re on the next flight out, leaving at six a.m. They only had one ticket, so I’ll follow you later today,” he says, unzipping the top of the case. “You pack and get dressed, I’ll call for a car. If you leave in the next ten minutes, you shouldn’t have any trouble clearing security in time.”

  “Thank you.” My hands shake as I toss my phone on the bureau and start toward him. “Thank you so much, babe.”

  Will meets me halfway, pulling me into his arms for a fiercely sweet hug. “No thanks needed. Let’s just get you to Bree, and I’ll get to both of you as soon as I can. We’re going to make this better, like you said. She’s a survivor, and she’s got so many people who love her.”

  I nod against his chest, tightening my arms around him one last time before pulling away. “You’re right. She does. I’ll be ready to go in ten.”

  He squeezes my arm gently as he promises, “It’s going to be okay.”

  And I believe him because he’s Will, and he’s always had a way of making me believe everything is going to be all right.

  I believe all the way to the airport, through security, the flight home, and the trudge through customs. I believe him in the cab to my apartment and as I drive across town to fetch Bree from the police station. I believe right up until the moment I see my little sister sitting on a couch with a black eye and a split lip. Until I see the bruises circling her wrists where a man twice her size held her down while she fought with everything in her to be free.

  Until I sit down next to her and take her hand only to realize that the bruises on her wrists aren’t much worse than the bruises on mine.

  They’re almost mirror images, in fact.

  Shame floods through me, making my skin feel too small and my throat too tight, I tug the sleeves of my sweater down, but it’s too late. Bree squeezes my fingers as she shakes her head. “It isn’t the same thing, Hailey. It’s okay.”

  “No, it’s not,” I whisper, fighting tears as I brush her hair gently from her face, frowning as I take in the purple and red blooming around her swollen eye. “But it’s going to be. You’re pressing charges?”

  Bree nods and clings tighter to my hand. “Yes. He messed with the wrong girl this time.”

  “I’m so proud of you,” I say, wrapping my arm around her slim shoulders.

  “You wouldn’t have been,” Bree says, leaning her head against mine. “I totally choked, Hails. I got scared and forget everything you ever taught me until it was almost too late. I barely made it out of his apartment, and if his neighbor across the hall hadn’t been coming home from work…”

  She trails off, and I hug her closer in the loaded silence that follows. “I’m always proud of you, and we all choke. When you’re ready, we’ll just practice harder. And we’ll do some creative visualization.”

  Bree huffs softly. “I always thought those exercises were silly, but you’re right. I think it would have helped. If I had imagined myself fighting back before I actually had to do it in real life…” She sniffs then adds in a voice that reminds me of the little girl she was not so long ago, “Can we go home to your place now? I want to stay with you and maybe move in with you because your building has a doorman and I don’t want to be a tough girl living in a sketchy apartment anymore.”

  “Of course. Let’s go home, and I’ll make bacon pancake breakfast, just the way you like.” I kiss her temple as I guide her up and toward the exit, silently promising not to let her out of my sight again until I’m certain I’ve prepared her properly, the way I should have before.

  But I know lack of preparation on my part wasn’t the problem.

  The problem is that we live in a world where one in four children are sexually assaulted by an adult, where college campuses are breeding grounds for more rapists than honor students, and where, in the most extreme cases, a man feels justified driving a van into a crowd of women, mowing down innocent people because he isn’t getting laid as often as he would prefer.

  We live in a world where violence against women is trivialized and normalized, and we’re taught to think “it’s not that bad” when we escape with only a black eye and a handful of bruises, when the rape is merely attempted rather than completed.

  And for the past three weeks, I’ve been part of the problem. I’ve been giving away my power, falling to my knees, practically begging to be treated like an object, or at the very least like something less than fully human.

  The word “submissive” means to yield to the established power structure, to humbly accept the status quo. And at this time, in this place, the status quo is seriously in need of an overhaul.

  I’ve always been proud that I teach women to fight back, to assert that they are as worthy of freedom, respect, and bodily integrity as their male counterparts. I’ve been proud to flip that finger to the status quo, despite being raised to be one of the “good girls.”

  I’m not just a good girl. I’m also a cancer survivor, a fighter, a scrapper from way back. Years ago, long before I developed curves or understood what a woman was expected to be and survive in this world, I gazed into the dark unknown on the other side of this life and kept my eyes open.

  I didn’t flinch. I didn’t blink.

  I stared at the void, and the void stared back, and I knew then that life would never frighten me the way it had before. Once you’ve stood your ground against the biggest mystery of all, everything else—even the most terrifying creature lurking in the darkest corner on the roughest street—seems smaller in comparison.

  But seeing my sister beaten and bruised isn’t a small thing.

  And knowing I’ve let down my guard against the disease that created the man who thought it was his right to take what he wanted from her, to treat her like an object to be used for his pleasure and beaten when she didn’t meekly submit to that abuse, sickens me to the core.

  And I haven’t simply stopped fighting; I became part of the problem. Deep down, wasn’t that why I hated what I overheard that night on the roof so much? Because I knew it placed Will and I forever on opposite sides of an impassable divide? That a love for dominating women lumped him in with a group of men I found indefensible?

  But somehow, in the past six months, when missing my other half became too much to carry, the need to find a way back to Will became more important than my need to stand up for what I believe in. It became more important than what’s right. I put getting off ahead of my principles and became someone I’m ashamed of.

  As I drive home, my sleeves sliding up to reveal the bruises lacing my wrists, I am ashamed. As I draw Bree a bath—sweater pushed up to my elbows to keep it dry as I test the water—I am ashamed. As I change into leggings and a long-sleeved tee to watch movies with Bree on the couch, I cringe at the evidence of who I am now.

  The bruises on my wrists aren’t the only marks, the only damage sustained on my way down to rock bottom.

  Looking at the nearly healed rope burn on my ankle and the rug burn on my knees, it’s all I can do to fight back tears. As I wash my hands, meeting my own shamed, miserable gaze in the mirror, I know what I have to do. No matter how badly it hurts, no matter how much the weak part of me wants to stay on my knees, I have to end this experiment, this terrible mistake.

  Before submissive Hailey has a chance to talk me out of my decision, I grab my phone from the kitchen table and type out a quick text to Will—I’ve got Bree, and she’s going to be okay, but don’t call or come over. She needs one-on-o
ne sister time right now. I’ll text you as soon as I can. Love you.—and then shut off my phone.

  I do love him. Fiercely. Deeply. Forever.

  But that doesn’t matter as much as Bree matters, as much as her safety and the safety of the women I love and the girls I teach and the legacy I want to leave behind. When I fade into that final mystery, I want to go with no regrets and no shameful karma dragging at my soul.

  So when Bree falls asleep on the couch mid-afternoon, I slip into my room, open up my laptop, and compose the hardest email I’ve ever written in my life. And then I hit send, curl up in a ball in the center of my bed, and cry without making a sound.

  I refuse to wake Bree, to make her worry, or to hurt her a single bit more than I’ve hurt her already. And this pain will fade. Eventually. And then I will be able to look into the mirror and be proud of the woman in the reflection again.

  That’s important. Worth sacrificing something for. Everything for…

  He feels like everything. Like my heart, ripped out of my body. Going cold on the floor.

  Chapter 20

  Will

  The email hits my inbox just as I’m getting back from a run. I’m still soaked with sweat when I pull it up on my phone, certain it’s going to be an update from Hailey on her sister and what I can do to help. Maybe she needs me to make a grocery stop or a wine run—Hailey rarely drinks, but I know Bree enjoys a glass of wine now and then, and surely the poor kid could use something to take the edge off after the night she had.

  I’m thinking about what else I should bring over to Hailey’s—some cookies from the macaroon place on my corner, my old gaming system in case they want to zone out with an alien-killing RPG, or Monopoly for old-fashioned board-game therapy—when I read the first line of the email and realize this isn’t what I thought it was.

  Record scratching in my head, I go back, reading the first line again, my stomach hardening into a rancid ball as I realize what’s happening, what she’s doing, how fast all our dreams are burning to the ground.

  *

  To: Saunders_Will

  From: HaileyRaeRawr

  Subject: What we need…

  Dear Will,

  I’m going to start with “I’m sorry” even though I know it’s not enough.

  But I am sorry. So sorry.

  I thought I could be what you wanted me to be, but I can’t.

  No matter how much a part of me wants to be the girl kneeling by the door when you get home, that’s not who I am.

  Or maybe it is.

  I don’t know…

  I’m not sure exactly who I am or what I want anymore, everything’s so mixed up in my head, but I do know one thing for sure—I need to fight on the side that protects the innocent and defends the defenseless and helps create a world where men like the monster who hurt Bree understand that women aren’t objects or toys or trash. Before I die, I want the world to be a better place than it is now, and that’s not going to happen if I spend the rest of my life giving away my power.

  Yes, I’ve loved every second of the games we played. And yes, I understand that consensual power exchange isn’t the same thing as what happened to Bree, but it’s too close for comfort, Will.

  I was holding Bree’s hand today, and we had matching bruises. And how can I promise to protect her when I look like a victim myself?

  I can’t. And I won’t. I won’t do that to her or to the other people I love.

  But I will always love you and treasure you and wish you all the best of everything. You deserve it.

  Please don’t write back, at least not for a while. I’m weak right now and need time to get strong again.

  So sorry,

  Hailey

  *

  Cursing, it’s all I can do not to throw my phone at the brick wall of my building.

  But if I throw my phone, I won’t be able to text Hailey, and I’m going to text her. I’ll respect her need for physical space, but there’s no way I can let this stand without responding.

  She’s got it all wrong. What we do in the bedroom has nothing to do with rape culture or the shitty way women are treated by men who have fucked up notions about what Dominance really means.

  Dominance means responsibility and respect, not imposing your will on someone else without their consent. Every game Hailey and I have played, every line we’ve crossed, every boundary we’ve blurred, has been agreed upon in advance. She’s given her consent and can withdraw that consent at any time with her safe word. I may be the one tying her to the bed, but she’s the one who’s ultimately in control.

  That’s the opposite of what happened to Bree, and we’re both part of the good fight.

  I have to make her see that.

  I have to show her that she doesn’t have to run or push me away. We don’t have to suffer through another year apart, another day apart. We can have our happy ever after and our kinky ever after and still hold our heads high at the annual fundraising banquet for the women’s shelter next door to our gym.

  I compose my text swiftly, but carefully, pacing back and forth on the sidewalk outside my building, too keyed up to be penned in by four walls.

  I explain my thoughts, make my most compelling arguments, and end with an appeal straight from the heart—I love you, Hailey. More than any lifestyle choice or game or anything else. I think we’ve both enjoyed our lessons, and I don’t see any reason we should have to stop doing something we enjoy, but if it means that much to you, I can be done with it all. Right now. This very fucking second. There is nothing in my life that means as much to me as you do. Your heart is the most precious thing I’ve ever been entrusted with, baby. If you’ll just keep trusting me, I swear I won’t let you down. Just keep the lines of communication open, and we’ll get through this. Together. All my love, your sexy boyfriend.

  I wait for ten minutes. Twenty.

  At the half-hour mark, I force myself to head upstairs to my condo and take a shower. I bring my phone with me into the bathroom so I can listen for the ding of an incoming text, but my cell remains silent—silent for the rest of the afternoon, silent for the entire next day, silent as I wake on Saturday morning to dark gray skies and the sound of thunder.

  Over coffee, I transcribe the text into an email and send it to her that way—pathetically hoping her lack of response is due to some glitch that resulted in my text not being delivered—but within an hour I receive a reply.

  *

  To: Saunders_Will

  From: HaileyRaeRawr

  Subject: I can’t

  I’m sorry, Will, but I can’t do this. I need to stay focused on helping Bree get back on her feet. I can’t debate or negotiate with you right now. I’m too confused, and I don’t trust myself the way I did before. Our lessons turned my world upside down, and if that isn’t proof that I made a mistake, I don’t know what is.

  I guess I’m not as strong as either of us thought I was.

  Good luck at the game tonight, and be careful on your way to the arena. This storm is supposed to get worse before it gets better.

  Hailey

  *

  “Get worse before it gets better,” I murmur aloud as I shut my laptop, forcing myself to give Hailey the space she needs.

  I want to write back immediately and tell her that she is strong, that confusion is a natural part of growth and change, and that I have no doubt she’s going to come through to the other side of this and realize there’s nothing wrong with the way we love each other, even when that love is expressed with handcuffs and a spanking.

  But that would be a lie…at least the last part.

  I’m not sure she’s going to come through to the other side or that she’s going to come back to me or that I will ever get to hold her the way I did that last night in Vancouver. The only thing I’m sure of is that everything is going to get worse before it gets better.

  Or maybe just get worse. Period.

  Leaving my laptop closed and quiet, I stand and start my day, a day witho
ut Hailey in it. A day that will be darker than those that came before, no matter what happens with this damned storm.

  Chapter 21

  Will

  It’s a shit night at the end of a shit week, and the last thing I want to do is fight my way through this nightmare storm to play hockey. On my way to the arena, I catch a weather report saying several funnel clouds have been spotted off the coast and naively hope the game might be canceled due to inclement weather.

  But the Badgers fans are die-hard ones, and “cancellation” isn’t in management’s vocabulary.

  I arrive in the locker room soaked through from the brief dash from the parking lot and find the rest of the team in similar spirits. The fact that we’re playing one of the lowest ranked teams in the league—a new expansion team out of Kansas City with a meh fan base and a meh reputation and a meh game—doesn’t help improve morale. There’s no rivalry to get us fired up, no history, and not much on the line for the Badgers.

  We know we’re going to beat these guys, it’s just a matter of by how many goals.

  We’re cocky, yes, but we have reason to be, and I have no reason to assume this game is even going to distract me from my miserable life for a few hours.

  We hit the ice a few minutes after seven o’clock, accompanied by a roar from our fans and a crash of thunder, and that’s about as exciting as things get for the next hour and a half.

  First period, we score three easy goals right in a row, so quickly the fans start to seem a little let down by the lack of drama. But by the time Nowicki slams goal four into the opposing team’s net, our fans are chanting the Kansas City goalie’s name in a jeering way that leaves the poor bastard so red in the face he looks like a blister about to pop.

  The second period is more of the same, until the score is six-zero and we start to feel bad for being so awesome. But then again, we’re not actually playing all that well.

  Comparison…it’s the thief of joy.

  If I’d never had these past few weeks with Hailey, for example, I wouldn’t be on the verge of ripping my own hands off to keep from texting her again. I would still be missing her and wishing we could have worked things out, but I wouldn’t know how perfectly with fit together as Dominant and submissive. I wouldn’t know beyond a shadow of a doubt that we were meant to be, perfectly matched in every way, crafted by some higher power to fit together the way my custom molded skate boot cradles my wedge-shaped foot.