by Sansa Rayne
“Do it, fuck her ass now.”
Somehow, I’d forgotten about Chase. He hasn’t spoken up in some time, no doubt transfixed by our show.
I don’t think Pierce needed much of an invitation. He quickly unties the hook from my hair and sets it aside; with his cock already out, he plunges it into my oiled hole. I moan deeply, flooded by the ecstasy of his massive rod spreading my flesh. Pierce grunts, loud and happy, and begins thrusting like a machine.
Am I not supposed to come now?
I have no idea. It doesn’t matter — the choice is out of my hands. Pierce’s hammering destroys my resistance, and within seconds I’m weeping blissfully. Relief spreads through my body, and all I can feel is unending pleasure. Lifted into subspace for a time, I orgasm with a totality that renders me nearly insensate.
Pierce must have been similarly entranced, because neither of us notices Chase approaching. He’s practically next to us by the time I become aware of his presence. My distorted shriek alerts Pierce to my sudden terror, as I abruptly fall out of rapture. He jumps, he’s so startled.
When Chase walks out in front of me, I see why: in his hand is a gun, the Beretta Pierce used as a prop in Central Park. Chase rakes his eyes over me, drunk on lust.
“Bravo,” he says. “Now it’s my turn.”
I step around Sibel, standing in front of her. “Chase, what are you doing? This isn’t what we decided.”
“Fuck what we decided. I told you, it’s not good enough. I’m doing this. If you don’t want anyone to get hurt, move.”
Is he for real?
“In all the years we’ve made our videos, did I ever keep that gun loaded, Chase?”
He lifts the Beretta and points it at one of the monitors, then squeezes the trigger. Thunder erupts from the barrel, easily the loudest thing I’ve ever heard, and the screen blacks out, punctured by the shot. Sibel cries out, thrashing against her bonds like a fly stuck in a web.
“I loaded it,” Chase says, bringing the gun back to bear on me.
I should have killed him. He warned us this might not work. I should have listened.
“When did you decide to do this?” I ask, looking at the gun. “During the show just now, or while we were planning it?”
Chase’s expression sours from determination to disappointment. “Just now, asshole! I wanted this to work as much as you.”
“If that was true, it would have worked. Just like before,” I say, not bothering to hide my fury. “You talked yourself out of this succeeding so you would have an excuse to get what you want.”
“Shut up, Pierce. I don’t need psychobabble shit from you. You’re not a fucking shrink.” He looks past me, at Sibel. “Your heart was in the right place. You tried to do the right thing. I’ve never known a woman who would do something like that — I’m grateful. Really, I am. But it only made me want you more.”
“You’re a fucking animal,” I seethe.
He nods. “No argument.”
“Pierce!” Sibel shrieks. “Shut up!”
I turn to look at her, not sure what she’s doing.
“Don’t listen to him, Chase,” she says. “It’s not true. You haven’t done anything yet you can’t take back. Just listen to me, okay? And let Pierce untie me.”
I look to Chase, who rolls his eyes before nodding.
“You’re putting her right back in this thing when she’s done,” Chase mumbles. I work quickly to loosen the straps binding Sibel’s limbs. As soon as I’m done, I back away, raising my arms in surrender.
Sibel sits down on the bench, spreading her legs and resting her hands on her hips. “People have called me an animal — a depraved nymphomaniac who needs attention to get off. They’re wrong about me. I don’t need the attention — it just helps.”
I smirk; so does Chase.
Joking at a time like this. Unbelievable.
“You and Pierce are the only two people alive who know the truth about me,” she continues. “You know about my depression and confusion — about what I did, years ago, because of it. You’ve seen what I became after. I chose to be the person I am now — I found my path. It wasn’t easy, but I focused on what I wanted. You can do the same.”
Chase sighs. “What do you think I want?”
She shrugs. “That’s up to you. I’m just realizing that you’ve never worked for yourself to accomplish your dream. Pierce provided for you, and you took it, like most people would. He let you coast along, catering to your needs, and when those needs weren’t met, you lost control. But if you put in the work for yourself, you can develop that control from within. People do it all the time, Chase.”
As I watch, he paces back and forth. He lowers the gun a little, but keeps it ready. Is she really getting through to him?
“Okay. So what am I supposed to do?”
Sibel slides off the bench, takes to her feet and slowly approaches Chase. “Just decide for yourself. Do you want to be the man who raped his best friend’s girl, or the one who chose not to?”
Chase shakes his head, staring down at his feet; Sibel moves closer and closer. When he looks up at her, she tells him again: “You… choose.”
He doesn’t take his eyes off her; he just keeps watching as she closes the distance and sets her hand on his. She folds her fingers around the gun, staring him in the eyes.
After a second, he lets go.
She backs away, holding the gun low, pointing it at the ground. I hold out my hand for the weapon, and Sibel gives it to me. Relieved, I eject the clip, empty the round from the chamber and turn on the safety, for good measure. I set it aside, picking up my cell phone.
“I think if it’s alright with Sibel, it’s time to call back Sergeant Wax and make a statement.”
“I agree,” says Sibel.
We both turn to Chase.
He sighs, then nods. “Yeah, okay.”
—
Steph is waiting for us when we arrive at the station; she leaps out of her seat in the waiting area when we walk in. She and Sibel hug, breaking into fresh tears.
“I was so worried,” Steph says, wiping her face. The skin around her eyes looks rubbed pink, but the concern knitting her brow starts to come unraveled. “Glad you’re okay.”
“Thank you,” Sibel says. “You did the right thing. I’m so sorry this had to happen. You’re supposed to be unwinding from the bar. Not dealing with my shit.”
“Yeah, tomorrow you’re buying me all the wine in the East Village.”
Sibel laughs, giving her friend a squeeze. “Anything, you name it.”
“There’s something you should know before you give your statements,” Steph says, letting go. “Pierce, you too.”
She points at a door to a small meeting room; Sibel and I follow her inside.
“Chase has already spoken. He told them about what he tried to do to you, Sibel, starting with kidnapping you last night, pretending to be Pierce. He’s asked for psychological help — he wants to learn how to control himself. He even said he plans to plead guilty — no deals, nothing. I’m sure when he’s appointed a lawyer, they’ll try to talk some sense into him.”
Sibel shakes her head. “Maybe, but I doubt it. It sounds like he’s thinking for himself, for once.”
“If you say so. I think he’s nuts. He even admitted to discharging the gun, which was illegal and… Sibel, this is important. He claimed to be the man with you in Central Park during the ‘Milgram’ performance.”
“Seriously?” Sibel says, jaw hanging.
I can’t believe it either.
“He did. And it was convincing; he knew everything about the operation. He said he volunteered, that he was not paid — it was an honor to be involved, and so on. So they’re going to charge him with whatever they can from that too. Disturbing the peace, impersonating a police officer…”
“Why did he do that?” I ask.
“I don’t know,” Steph replies. “Talk to him.”
“I will.”
She nods.
“Good. Now, the two of you aren’t likely to be charged with anything, but you two have to get your story straight about the last forty-eight hours.”
“Okay,” says Sibel. “Where do we begin?”
In a dream I’m back in art school, naked on stage. I’m performing, and it’s fine. I feel good, and right; when I’m done, they actually cheer. When I wake from it, I smile.
Steph arrives at my apartment about half an hour before my parents. She brings a breakfast spread of bagels, tuna salad and diced melon; they show up with blotchy, worried faces and hastily packed luggage. We embrace for several minutes; my parents cry, but I don’t. I’ve had enough tears for now — and there may be more later.
“I’m okay,” I tell them at last. “He didn’t really hurt me.”
“I should kill him,” says Dad.
“He’s in jail. He’s not getting out for a long time. Don’t worry, okay?”
“Sure, honey,” Mom says. “Just promise us you’ll be careful.”
I nod. “Definitely.”
We sit down and eat; Steph gives them the timeline for how it all went down from her perspective. I don’t want to tell my parents the scarier details. However, there is something I have to do which will be far more painful.
“I need to tell you all something,” I say after we finish our meal. “And I want to spare you all the worst parts of it, but I haven’t been fully honest with you about something important. I don’t think it’s been right for me to keep it a secret. You deserve better.”
As I explain, I don’t utter the exact phrase, I was a prostitute, but I do tell them about dropping out of art school, of my depression and the twisted logic that brought me to the lowest point in my life.
“I did things that I’m not proud of, that I wish I could take back. I’ve never been the same since, but I’ve made my peace with it. My experiences have made me who I am today — they’ve given me ambition, and a motivation to make things different. I’ll be able to help others, because of what I went through, and that’s something I wouldn’t change.”
Dad holds out a hand for me to take. He curls his fingers around mine and looks at me not with sadness, but with resolve. “You’ll always be our daughter, Sibel. No matter what. We’ll help you in any way we can. We’re here for you.”
“Yes,” Mom agrees, putting her hand over mine and Dad’s. “You can come to us with anything, honey.”
“I’m with you, too,” adds Steph. “Hopefully mostly as your friend and not your lawyer.”
I laugh, taking her hand with my other. “And if I’m ever being secretive, or self-absorbed or over-combative, please call me out. Don’t walk on eggshells, or worry about upsetting me because of my past. I want to handle my pain — not hide from it.”
They all nod and voice assent; the relief blankets me in happiness and warmth. My secret’s out, and the people who love me didn’t even flinch. How could I ask for anything more?
—
A few days later, Steph and I sit in a waiting room on the twentieth floor of an office building in midtown. I feel oddly nervous, though I shouldn’t.
“Ms. Isaacs? Lori will see you now.”
I look up at the young administrative assistant working for Lori Gellar, my criminal defense lawyer, to whom Steph referred me.
We make our way into Lori’s office; she introduces herself and gets up to shake my hand, then gives Steph a quick hug. She asks Steph about the bar, and while they chat I check out Gellar’s many degrees, which hang from the walls in expensive-looking, modern-styled frames.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Lori says to me at last. Middle-aged, with long blonde curls that betray a hint of gray, she speaks energetically, as though her body metabolism has been permanently raised a notch. “I really admire your work. It’s strange for my taste, but I appreciate what you’re trying to do.”
“Thanks,” I say, blushing a little.
“Okay, on to business then?” She doesn’t wait for me to nod before continuing. “I’ve spoken to the DA about your case, and they offered a deal. They say it’s in light of your recent ordeal, though I’m confident the city doesn’t want a media circus, which is your specialty. They’re willing to drop the charges down to public lewdness.”
Steph pumps a fist and nods. “That’s amazing!”
It is — I’ve looked up the statutes and penalties. This is just a misdemeanor. “Jail time?” I ask.
“Out of a possible three months, they want six weeks. You’d likely be out in less with good behavior. Also, there will be a five-hundred-dollar fine.”
I nod, thinking about the night Pierce prepared me for prison. “Okay. I can live with that.”
“Are you sure?” Steph says. “We could try to fight it. You had a permit, and the event demonstrated artistic merit.”
“It’s okay,” I reply. “I did this because I believe in my message, and I’m willing to live with the consequences. I’ll take the deal.”
“But what happens next time you make a scene like that?” asks Lori. “You’ll be a repeat offender. You won’t get the same treatment. And then what about the time after that?”
I sigh; they’re right. “I’ll think about how I stage my performances in the future. I do want to express myself in public, but not spend half my life in jail — I’ll have to find a middle ground, I guess.”
“That’s good,” Lori says.
“I’m going to have so many legal questions,” I tell Steph, grinning. “Fair warning.”
She nods and takes my hand. “It’ll be my pleasure.”
—
The court system expedites my hearing, eager to get it off the docket before the press gets wind. They give me a week to turn myself in. Pierce and I make the most of that time, spending every minute together. He even meets my parents when they come back to visit. When the subject of how we met comes up, we change it. We’re not ready to go there just yet.
On my last night of freedom for a while, we sit on deck chairs on the roof of Pierce’s apartment building, sipping wine underneath the stars.
“You know what I did this morning?” he asks, rubbing my bare knee.
“What’s that?”
“I signed up for a free filmmaking class.”
I grin, picturing him in a room with a dozen young students. Will he introduce himself as Pierce Williams or Justin Blake? “That’s great. When I get out, maybe I’ll be in some of your class projects.”
“You’re going to be in something,” he says, reaching up my skirt.
I gasp as his fingers probe past my panties and feel for my damp entrance. Looking around, I see plenty of lit windows in the neighboring buildings.
“Pierce, somebody could be watching.”
He laughs. “Did you really just say that?”
I snort, squirming as his fingers play inside me. “What if someone reports us? I’m already in enough trouble!”
“Then I’ll have to be quick.”
“Pierce!” I huff, trying to keep my voice down; the swirls of bliss are mixing with the pleasant buzz from the wine. “This is reckless!”
“Yeah, but you love it,” he says, moving in.
“I do,” I say, and then he’s kissing me.
I don’t want to think about how much I’ll miss this for the next few weeks; I’d rather just sit back and enjoy the moment — to remember it, for when I have some lonely nights ahead.
“This is going to be one of the hardest times of my life,” I say when our lips part.
He nods. “I’m going to miss you so badly. Like, I’m going to write you letters, and bake cookies to send you — the whole nine yards.”
I shake my head as he plunges his fingers deeper. “You better study hard in film class, Pierce. When I get back, we’re putting everything you learn to use.”
“Absolutely,” he says. “When you get out, we’ll make up for every lost second.”
Though the three weeks I spend in jail are not traumatic, they don’t leave me
with a desire to ever go back. I make an exception for visiting Chase.
When Pierce and I head there together in mid-November, it’s my first time seeing him since that night; Pierce has seen him only twice. He would go every weekend, but Chase has asked that he not.
“He says he needs to be on his own,” Pierce explains. “He can’t grow if I’m there, constantly looking out for him.”
I think Chase’s absence has broken up Pierce’s sense of normalcy in a profoundly unexpected way. He was living with Chase and looking out for him for years — then Chase was gone. Not long after he left, and for three weeks, I was gone too. For the first time since Chase got out of prison all those years ago, Pierce spent some time alone. Aside from visiting his mother, I’m not sure he knew what to do with himself. It certainly made for a happy return, the day I got out.
I don’t really want to be back here. The sound of electric door buzzers makes my skin crawl. But I’ll endure, for Pierce — and for Chase, to a lesser extent.
He comes out to meet us in the visitor center, hands cuffed in front of his tan uniform. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s put on some muscle — he looks pretty good.
“It’s good to see you,” he says to me, though he’s looking down at the cafeteria-style table between us.
“How are they treating you?” I ask, scanning the area for the guards. Though I don’t believe Chase poses a threat, I can’t help wanting to be alert in his presence.
“Fine. I’m in therapy, learning about impulse control.” He shrugs. “I don’t know if I’m making any progress. In here, there’s not much temptation.”
“I’m sure it’s helping,” I mumble. Am I setting him back just by being here? Or does he need to learn how to handle situations like this, where his control is tested? I’m not sure, but I don’t want to risk upsetting his progress. “I’m sorry, I should go,” I say, getting up. “But, Chase. I do want to thank you. I’ll never forget our day at the park.”
Chase smiles at me. “Thank you, too. For helping me choose a better path. I’m grateful every day for… not having to be what I could have been.”