Let Me Watch_A Dark Romance

by Sansa Rayne

  “I’m sorry, Pierce. Really, really fucking sorry.”

  Sibel!

  “Stay away,” I say.

  Fight it!

  My eyelids close. I pop them back up, but they fall again, as if I’m trying to start a car with a dead battery. “Don’t hurt…”

  Chase pats my shoulder. “You’ll be okay later, don’t worry. And I’m not going to kill her, I swear.”

  Get up, Pierce! Get the fuck up!

  I try to move, but I feel completely drained. Unconsciousness pulls me down like an anchor.

  “Pierce, if I never see you again after today, then… thank you, for everything. And, I’m sorry.”

  This can’t be fucking happening.

  “Goodbye, Justin.”

  The door shuts gently behind him, and I sink to the bottom.

  I come to with a start and a muffled scream. One quick sweep of my surroundings shows I’m still in the warehouse, only I’m not where I was when I passed out. I remember standing where Chase left me for hours, shivering from near nakedness and dread. Time crawled by, every second hoping beyond hope that Pierce would burst in and free me. Inside, though, I knew Chase would be the one to show first. I must have been right, because at some point in the night he moved me to the bed.

  Muscles in my arms still burn from being held aloft for hours on end, but when I move my fingers I can feel them. I wiggle my toes, looking down at my shackled ankles. Shaking my legs gets me nowhere, and I vaguely recall the whine of an electric drill. My limbs are spread apart, rendering me totally immobile. When I shake them, the resistance comes from below, so I think that my chains have been secured directly into the floor.

  Pierce is going to find me. He will.

  I don’t know what time it is — between the windowless warehouse and the inability to tell time in this state, it could still be morning, long before he would wake. But we weren’t planning to see each other. Chase could have his way with me for days, and no one will be coming for me.

  The realization brings me to tears. I want to hold them in, to not show any fear, but I can’t — not in circumstances like this. Plus, I’m not even sure he’s here — unless he’s skulking in the shadows.

  “Chase! You piece of shit fucking bastard! Let me out right fucking now!”

  All I hear back is my echo. I’m not sure if I should be relieved or not. I should probably count every second Chase isn’t here as a blessing.

  “Chase, I swear to god I’m going to kill you!”

  What if he’s not here, but he’s watching?

  From my angle, I can’t really see them well, but the cameras are there, trained on me.

  “I hope you’re recording this, asshole! It’ll be Exhibit Fucking A!”

  Does he think he’s going to get away with it? I hate to consider the possibility that he just doesn’t care, because then what is he capable of? What will he do when he’s… finished? Is he a killer? Will he see me as a potential witness to be silenced? Or as Sibel, the woman his best friend loves?

  For that matter, how could he do this to Pierce? Does their friendship mean nothing to him anymore? Has he just been using Pierce this whole time?

  Chase struck me as creepy when we met — there’s no question of that. But a serial killer? No, not really. He seems like a macho asshole, not somebody who could pull off a sophisticated, lifelong masquerade. His personality felt like it came from the surface, and why not? He’s spent years of his life working on camera, simulating the exact deed he’s committing now. I suppose it shouldn’t come as a surprise that his work was more than just a show for him.

  Oh, god. Did Pierce know?

  He and Chase have worked together for years. How could he have not been aware?

  Pierce… what haven’t you told me?

  I understand why people keep secrets. Telling Pierce about my time as a prostitute was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do. I never found the courage to tell Steph or my parents. So I do get it — but my secret hasn’t put anyone in danger.

  As much as I try not to, I start imagining what others will think if I don’t survive. Social media will go crazy.

  Of course, the KINKY SEX ARTIST got killed by a psycho. What the fuck did she expect?

  Yeah, sure. My bad. Never crossed my mind.

  Why was she not rolling with twenty-four-hour bodyguards?

  Do people not know how expensive that shit is? I may be famous, but I’m not exactly rich.

  Wait, you’re saying that she actually knew him? And she knew he had a thing for her? Wow, what a dumbass.

  That’s fair, I guess.

  More importantly, though, I wonder about what I should have done in terms of my parents, and Steph. Should my life end without ever telling them about my nights on the streets? If I die here, Pierce won’t tell them, will he? I don’t think so — clearly, he can keep a secret.

  But should I? Has my silence been a mistake? Would I want them to wonder if they even knew their own daughter? It’s not fair to them. At least, I don’t think it is. Maybe they’d be happier not knowing certain things.

  I’m still thinking of my parents when Chase arrives. I’ve shed most of the tears I had to shed, but my wet cheeks still glisten.

  His footsteps are slow and cautious, as if he’s afraid of what might be waiting for him. Could I have gotten loose if I fought harder? I seriously doubt it, though maybe he’s not so sure. If I’d screamed more, maybe a lucky passerby would have heard?

  No way.

  “Sibel,” he says at last, approaching with trepidation. “I’m sorry about all this.”

  I grunt. Bullshit.

  “Let me go right now and maybe this can end without anyone getting hurt.”

  He steps up to my side and crouches down so I can see him. “When I’m done, I’ll let you go. I promise.”

  “When you’re done?”

  He reaches out to touch my shoulder; I flinch violently, rattling all of my chains at once. He drops back, still skittish.

  Is he conflicted about this? Can I convince him to stop? Maybe there’s still some hope. Pierce might have thought so. It would explain his actions.

  “Where’s Pierce?” I ask, trying to tap into anything that could make Chase hesitate — especially Pierce.

  “He’s not coming,” Chase whispers, shaking his head.

  “Did you hurt him?”

  Chase glares at me. “No, Pierce will be fine. It’s just you and me here, Sibel.”

  My mind races, wondering if this is him being real, or if it’s part of his pathology. Does he want me to provoke him, or to be scared of him? Maybe it doesn’t really matter at all. How would he react if I don’t say anything?

  Can I keep him talking long enough for someone to find us?

  “So, what? You’ve got until Pierce wakes up and calls the cops — is that it?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “You’re not worried?”

  Chase stands up and starts to pace. “I’m past that,” he sighs. He pulls his arm into his sleeve and shucks his shirt off. Despite his ugliness above the neck, he’s got a well-developed chest. He’s not a bodybuilder, but he clearly works on his appearance. I figure it’s because of the videos he shoots — he has enough pride to not look like a complete degenerate on film.

  “You know your friendship with Pierce is over. Do you really not care?”

  “Of course I care!” he shouts. He turns toward me. “I do. I care.”

  “And you did this anyway?” I scoff, trying to crane my neck to see him.

  “I had to,” Chase mumbles. He nods to himself with solemn conviction, like a doctor giving a terminal diagnosis. “Sibel, from the first time I saw you, I knew you were going to be the one to send me over the edge.” His eyes slither over my body, taking it in. “I’ve never been obsessed with a woman before, if you can believe that. The ones I know are all whores or porn stars.”

  I flinch, an involuntary reaction. Pierce didn’t… He couldn’t…

/>   “I was eavesdropping last night,” he explains, guessing my thoughts. “Pierce had no clue. He’d been defending your honor ever since you met. Said you’re an artist, not a whore. The fucking irony.”

  “Fuck you,” I snarl.

  Chase laughs. “Hey, I like whores. But, obviously, you’re different. I resisted my old self until I met you.”

  “You could still resist it,” I say, trying to sound genuinely hopeful. “You’ve held off this long. You don’t have to stop now.”

  “Sibel, this shit is overwhelming. Pierce gave me a way to play out my fantasies — I’ve been doing it for years, and it’s still not enough.”

  Holy shit.

  “You mean the videos,” I say.

  Is that why Pierce makes them? Is that what he’s been doing this whole time?

  “Yeah.”

  Everything I know about the two of them is playing back through my head. I feel like I’ve seen it all improperly, up until now — blurry, or colorless, and now I’m getting the complete picture. Or, almost.

  “How did you…? What lead to…?” My mind reels so fast, I can barely ask the question.

  Chase takes a deep breath and tells me the story of the night he kidnapped a woman named Tammy. He explains how Pierce paid for her silence and the promise he made to her. That night, Pierce Williams Productions changed its format, and Chase never touched another woman who hadn’t agreed to it.

  When he’s done, I’m left speechless. It’s too much to process. I don’t know whether I want to strangle Pierce for not telling me, or kiss him for what he’s done. Maybe he should have turned Chase in — I can’t say what I would have done in his position. Chase was family, so Pierce protected him.

  “Pierce got you to stop that night. You can stop again now,” I say at last, trying to inject my voice with complete sympathy.

  “Tammy was a random slut I saw outside a club when I was drunk. I’ve been fixated on you for months. Huge fucking difference.”

  Fuck. This can’t be happening.

  “Chase, addicts find ways to stay clean every day! They teach themselves to overcome temptation and rely on others for help. Pierce will help you — I will too, but you have to stop!”

  He steps back, and for a minute I believe he’s really considering what I said. Standing in front of the table full of sex toys, he glances between it and me. Back and forth, as though speaking to the angel and devil on his shoulders. Then he picks out the ball gag I was wearing earlier and comes back.

  “Please, Chase. You don’t have to do this! You don’t! You-”

  My final plea is cut off by the gag, filling my mouth with the taste of dust and rubber. He reaches behind my head to buckle it, and then lets go.

  “Sibel, I appreciate that you’re trying to help me, but you’re not going to change my mind. We’re going to get started. I promise we’ll go slow.”

  My head feels like a grape squashed by a steamroller. The thunderous hammering against my door doesn’t help. Something reeks — vomit on the floor and the side of my couch. I get the lingering smell of bacon grease mixed in, and a fresh wave of nausea brings a wet cough.

  What the fuck happened? I remember calling my mom and making breakfast. The rest is fuzzy.

  Where’s Chase?

  The knocking returns, somehow louder this time.

  Wake up!

  I feel a powerful sense of urgency lurking in my subconscious. Something I’m supposed to be doing, but when I try to remember, there’s only a blank.

  What time is it now? I was up late last night, but I didn’t even set an alarm. I shouldn’t be tired. And why am I on the couch?

  I wince as the door rattles in its frame.

  “Pierce! Open the goddamn door!”

  Avoiding the mess below, my legs start to find purchase on the floor; I can hardly claim to be in control of them, but they’re doing well enough on their own. I brace myself on the arm of the couch, shaking off a dizzy spell.

  Move your fucking ass!

  “I’m coming,” I say, inhaling deeply. “Hang on.”

  Staggering slowly, I amble forward. Keeping my balance gets easier with each step. By the time I reach the kitchen and see an open box of doughnuts, my memory clears a little. I’m fucking furious for some reason, but I can’t nail down.

  Sibel.

  Adrenaline kicks in like a system reboot, and I throw open the door to see Steph.

  “Is she here?”

  Sibel. Something about Sibel.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “Come in.”

  “Are you okay?” she asks, pushing past me and slamming the door. “You look like shit. Sibel!”

  “I don’t know what happened,” I say, “I was here… making us breakfast.”

  “For you and Sibel?”

  Was it for her?

  No.

  “For Chase. Sibel’s not here.”

  Steph disappears into the apartment, conducting a quick search. When she stomps back to me, there’s a panic in her eyes; her knuckles are white from clutching her phone.

  Laying low.

  That’s what I’m supposed to be doing. Because Sibel and I… yesterday.

  Chase!

  Fucking piece of shit!

  “Steph, you haven’t heard from her?”

  Blanching pale as a sheet, she shows me a string of texts between her and Sibel.

  I can’t today. Cancel the interview.

  WHAT? This is going to be huge! Are you okay?

  I’m fine. I’m with Pierce. Reschedule it.

  The blood drains from my face as I read. Checking the clock, I see the texts all came in the last few hours.

  “Steph, call the police,” I say, throwing on my sneakers. “I think I know what’s happened to her.”

  Part of me wants to keep the police out of this, just so I’ll have a chance to beat Chase until he’s a fucking red smear on the wall. I want to choke his last breath out of him for even dreaming of hurting Sibel. But Sibel’s more important.

  If he’s harmed her, I’ll never forgive myself. For now, though, I need to stay calm.

  “It’s going to be okay,” I tell Steph. “You know about the warehouse? You know where it is?”

  She nods. “Yes. Are they there?”

  “I think so. Call the cops. Tell them I’m on my way.”

  I don’t wait for her to answer. I don’t waste a single second. I run for my truck.

  Don’t hurt her, Chase. Please.

  —

  My plan to stay calm and sneak up on Chase collapses the second I enter the warehouse; muffled screams emanate from the main video room, preceded by the sharp slap of leather on skin. I’ve beaten the police here, but they’ll catch up soon. I break into a sprint, barreling through the dark hall until I see them.

  Sibel is naked on the bed, chained down with her limbs spread apart. Stripped down to just his boxers, Chase stands over Sibel, whip in hand. Red welts cross her chest and stomach, and dark splotches of makeup run down the sides of her face. Saliva drips from her gagged mouth.

  The world narrows down into a tunnel with Chase at the other end. Musty smells fill my lungs; my tongue feels like parchment. It all happens in slow motion, especially when Chase turns and sees me. He raises his hands, dropping the whip, but it’s too late. I’m already shoving him away from the bed. A chain binding one of Sibel’s feet gets in his way, and he trips. I get in a pretty good punch before he falls, pummeling his nose.

  I don’t give him a chance to recover. My next swing drives into his gut, knocking the wind from his lungs. He lets out a deep croak, trying to inhale. I hold down his shoulder with one hand and pull back my other fist, wanting to hit him so hard I dislocate his jaw.

  But I stop. Sibel’s screaming from the bed breaks through my bloodlust. I’m not done with Chase, but she needs me first. “Are you okay?” I ask, taking out her gag.

  “I will be, yeah,” she says, nodding.

  “He didn’t…”

  �
�No. Just the whipping. He didn’t have time for more.”

  “Thank god,” I say. “Hang on, I’ll get you out.”

  I stride back to Chase, who’s still on the floor, his chest shaking as he takes short, rapid breaths. “Where are the keys?” I ask, prodding a foot into his side.

  He lifts a hand long enough to point at his pants, which lie in a pile on the other side of the bed. I get Sibel out in less than a minute.

  Relieved but shivering, she gathers up the bed sheet and wraps herself in it.

  “You shouldn’t be… up yet,” Chase gasps.

  “I got an early wake-up call,” I growl, crouching down next to him. “Steph came by my place. She didn’t buy your texts.”

  Chase nods. “Smart.”

  Then the world seems to break; a massive boom and a tremor shake the room. All three of us turn to the sound, uncomprehending. Then we hear the footsteps — lots of them, heavy and fast — as a squad of police officers streams into the room, weapons pointed at all three of us. They scream and bark orders, all of them at once, but we know what to do: hands up, on the ground.

  “Who else is here?” a cop asks me, pointing a flashlight in my face.

  “No one, just us.”

  “What the fuck is this place?” he asks, noticing the chains and cameras, as well as the table full of sex toys and Sibel’s nudity.

  “Prayer group meeting,” I snap. “What the fuck does it look like?”

  The man glares at me, then turns to Sibel. “I’m Sergeant Wax. Are you alright, Miss?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” she replies as another officer hands her the bed sheet. “What’s going on?”

  “Are you Sibel Isaacs?”

  “Yes.”

  Wax lowers his gun and thumbs his radio. “She’s here. Stand down.” He gives her a look from top to bottom. “Got something you could put on?”

  Not seeing any spare clothes, I throw off my shirt and throw it to Sibel; she’s so short compared to me, it covers far below her waist.

  “You’re Pierce Williams? Can I see some ID?” Wax asks, turning to me. “The woman who called said you might be here.”

  “Sure,” I say, fishing out my wallet.