That was evidence of Dr. Brinkman’s work right there.
“True. But I have to do some re-sewing and re-sizing. And still have to dye a bunch of things…”
“I’m sure it’ll turn out amazing. Everything you do is amazing,” I said lamely, my body on high alert.
I was looking around every corner and kept checking behind us to see if anyone was following us.
“What do you keep looking at?” Luke asked, his voice full of concern.
“Nothing. Just cop stuff,” I said, hoping to distract him.
I interlaced my fingers with his.
“Oh, I just thought of something. Fenwick texted me today,” he said.
I snapped to attention. “Oh?”
“Yeah. He wants us both to come over for dinner at the end of the week,” Luke said.
“Good,” I grunted. I made a mental note to go over to Fenwick’s with backup ready outside. I’d make that fucker give me a tour — and take pictures of anything that looked out of ordinary.
Again, I thought of the beautiful, angelic man next to me as a pure white bird. But instead of worrying about whether or not he’d fly away from me, I had my eye on the sky for the predator circling above.
“You okay, Adam?” Luke asked, his voice thick with concern.
“Yeah,” I said, that one-syllable lie carrying heavier fear than it was possible to explain.
“I worry about you sometimes,” he admitted. “It makes me feel like you aren’t telling me everything.”
“We’ve been over this,” I said sternly. “I can’t tell you everything. I’ll do my best to tell you what I can, though.”
“Alright, but Dr. Brinkman said I need to work on articulating my emotions to you. So here’s what they are.”
He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and looked me in the eye.
“When you don’t tell me about your day, I feel like I don’t know you anymore. It feels like you’re laying the foundation for a breakup.”
“Luke, you know that’s not true—”
“It’s what I feel.”
The air was silent between us, and suddenly it seemed like he was on the other side of a canyon.
“A relationship is two people helping each other with things. Growing together. I know due to the nature of what we do in the bedroom, it’s your job to make sure all of my needs are taken care of so I can please you. But in real life, it needs to be more equal. Let me help you. Let me in.”
I was taken aback, stunned to silence. I didn’t know what to say.
“Just something to think about,” Luke said with a meek smile.
I should have kissed him then. If I could go back in time and re-do that moment like I did over and over in my head, I would have slipped my fingers under his jaw, tilted his face up, and told him everything I felt about him in that gesture.
But I didn’t. And that was something I would regret for the rest of my life.
Luke
Because of the last few weeks with Dr. Brinkman, I was able to manage my anxiety better than ever. Before, it was like an unpredictable tropical storm that could swarm through my mind at any given moment. But Dr. Brinkman had taught me to recognize the subtle shift in air pressure, the sound of the birds going quiet, the breeze dying down.
Through weeks of therapy, my attacks had been reduced from category five hurricanes into simple cloudbursts. They were still there, they were still uncomfortable, but they weren’t nearly as powerful as they used to be.
It made it easier to untangle my thoughts and stress as I untangled the roping on one of my outfits, my fingers fumbling on the model’s hip. I could hear the chattering of the crowd behind the curtain.
When I stood up, my heart was racing. I’d have to walk out after my models, smile for the cameras, and all of those people… they’d be judging me.
I’d been over this with Dr. Brinkman a few times — all of my fearful feelings, about not being good enough, about why I shriveled when I had to show my work to strangers.
He provided a beautiful grain of insight to all that — and it was that growing up, my family had been all about appearances. My mother gave me love and validation in direct proportion to how I looked to the world; how good my reputation was. So now, as an adult, I felt like I was unworthy of love unless I had the approval of strangers.
After chewing on that for a few days, it felt like something untied itself in my mind. It was like getting a massage for my thoughts, working out the kinks.
I was still nervous, but now I had tools to fight that self-sabotage. One of those tools was appreciating my own work.
Twenty-two outfits on gorgeous models were lined up before me: One for each of the 22 major arcana cards. All of the looks followed the Tarot and BDSM theme: Ropes, chains, and straps with studs peeked out under luxuriously long, soft fabric. Some of my showstoppers had an ombre color pattern and lace touches.
Every single one of the models had a differently designed collar.
Pride swelled in my chest at my collection. I’d outdone myself and I knew it.
When I closed my eyes, I could still see Professor King’s look of surprise when she saw it in the classroom.
“Bravo,” she’d said.
With that word, it was like she was releasing me from her constant pushiness. And once I was out of it, I realized that it had flung me into the heavens; into a nirvana of creative achievement.
She’d pushed me beyond my limits.
Tears sparkled in the corners of my eyes as anticipation shimmered through the air. I’d pushed my limits a lot during this semester — in and outside of the classroom. I’d pushed myself to make new friends and meet new people in the BDSM community. I pushed myself to see a therapist. I pushed myself to manage my relationship with my family better. But most of all, I’d pushed myself to improve my relationship with Adam.
Adam. He was out there with everyone else, waiting to see the pinnacle of my achievement. He’d seen plenty of pictures of my works in progress, but never the final work in motion.
I was sure it would blow him away and make him proud.
But there was another feeling trailing that hope, and it was pride in myself. I was emitting it like there was a reactor inside me, pressing happiness out through my pores.
I’d never felt so happy and fulfilled.
The music began, the announcer said my name, and the first dress — designed like The Fool card with its zig-zagging crimson ropes walked beyond the curtain.
The crowd went quiet, and all I could hear was the fluttering of camera shutters.
When the model returned, the one wearing my piece based on The Magician parted the curtain and stepped through, her decorative chains clinking on every step just like they were supposed to.
Again, there was a furious fluttering as pictures were taken.
Look after look stepped through the curtain and then returned a few seconds later.
The crowd made no noise except a faint fluttering.
It was only until the last look went out there — my ombre showstopper with intricate lace and chains — that the crowd broke into a loud applause.
I knew that dress based on The World card was incredible. It was something that came from the creative part of my mind, the part that Professor King had worked tirelessly to unclog.
The announcer said something — it was getting lost as the sound of rushing water filled my ears. There were so many emotions flying through me in that moment that it felt like I was having an out of body experience.
Then I watched as my models lined up and began to march onto the runway.
This was it. This was when I was supposed to get in line behind the models and follow, pausing at the end of the runway to take my bow. In a way, it was like signing my name at the bottom of a magnificent piece of art.
I did this. I created it. I was the one with the courage to show the world my taboo.
I took two steps to stand behind The World dress, and my vision went black.<
br />
My eyes snapped open in a dimly-lit hotel room. I was lying on top of a bed. I tried to move my hand to scratch my eyebrow, but it was bound.
So were my feet.
“Huh— wha?” I cried, beginning to panic as I struggled against the ropes. They bit into my skin painfully.
These weren’t the same as the silk ropes Adam used on me during playtime. These were hard and bristly, unforgiving restraints. They felt like what Kirk used to use on me when we’d have our encounters; ropes that he’d gotten at the hardware store.
For a moment I froze in panic, feeling the tides of anxiety within me rise. Did Kirk get out of jail? Did he snatch me from the show?
Then all of my thoughts came rushing back to me at once: The show. My pieces. My grades.
Adam.
Adam would notice I was missing. He’d know something was wrong with that cop sixth sense of his… wouldn’t he?
Using the techniques I learned from Dr. Brinkman, I breathed in a few times with control and steadied my heartbeat.
“Your anxiety is like an engine,” he said. “If you give it more fear, it acts like gasoline and before you know it, it’s out of control. The only way to slow it down is through breathing and thinking of an anchor.”
Breathe in, breathe out.
Adam.
Breathe in, breathe out.
Adam’s smile.
And just like that, the tide of anxiety receded. It was just me in this dark room by myself.
There were two ways to approach a problem, Dr. Brinkman had said. You could think your way out of it or feel your way out of it.
I was used to feeling my way out of things, using that to try and resolve any issues in my life. But this situation called for me to think; to use logic first and put my feelings of fear and hopelessness on the back burner.
First, I took a look around the room.
I was on a single king-sized bed. Not tied to it; only my wrists and ankles were bound. The decorations on the walls indicated I was in a high-end hotel room somewhere.
But why? My brain asked.
I thought of the last thing I remembered — of feeling that swooping sensation in my stomach about having to go on stage, followed by blackness.
It wasn’t anxiety though — that blotted out my vision with white fireworks and then blackness. What had happened to me behind the curtain was a simple cut to black.
No— there was more. A jerking sensation, like someone was pulling me from behind…
I felt a pang of emptiness inside of me. Was I… was I kidnapped?
I’d seen the news. I knew there was a serial killer out there, but there was a part of me that didn’t think it was real. And Adam — he would tell me if there was a killer in the streets he was chasing, right?
…right?
Despair began to take root in me at the lack of trust Adam had for me, but the wallowing would have to wait. Right now, I needed to get out of these restraints.
Luckily whoever tied me up had left my hands on my chest so that I could examine the knot. Since I was a Rope Bunny, this knot was easy enough to recognize… and it had an easy way to twist out of it if you knew how to do it.
Contorting my shoulders into an unnatural shape, I twisted myself until I could pull my wrist in just the right way to undo a loop of the knot.
Then I did another and another, unwinding myself until my hands were free.
Rubbing my wrists where the red marks were, I had the fleeting thought that if I’d never learned how to manage my anxiety, I wouldn’t be able to get out of this.
I leaned forward and undid the bindings around my ankles, too.
Then I got up and tried the door.
Locked.
Fear swelled within me again, dark threads pulling on the memory deep inside of Kirk leaving me in that basement for three days.
I staggered back onto the bed and stared at the door, not sure what to do. Did my kidnapper plan to leave me in here indefinitely? Did they plan to let me starve like Kirk did?
Even he came back to check on me after three days went by.
Panic was whirling to life within me. Then I reached for my phone and my heart lurched when I found it was gone.
There is a unique kind of naked feeling that comes from without having a phone. I felt disconnected. Left behind. Forgotten. I was the woman in the stone well, trapped as Buffalo Bill vanished from sight.
Again, I used the technique Dr. Brinkman taught me.
Adam. Adam was coming to rescue me. He was coming right now; I could feel it.
Minutes dragged by into hours as I battled my anxiety. It seemed to come in waves: I’d calm down and think of parts of our relationship I loved — the banter, the breakfasts, me bossing him around in the bedroom… but the second I began to feel an inkling of doubt, the sneaky monster would lurch out of the shadows and try to throttle me.
Again and again I went through this battle until I felt exhausted.
To distract myself, I began exploring the hotel room. There was no food in the fridge, no drinks in the wine cooler, and nothing in the bathroom — not even a shower curtain.
An uncomfortable feeling began to crawl up my spine. Why would someone do this to me? What did they plan to do to me from here?
Fear swaddled me like a black blanket as I laid down in the same place I’d woken up, the ropes lying on the bed next to me. It was like I was literally in bed with my anxiety monster. I could feel its weight on the mattress next to me, wrapping me in its tight arms…
Then it occurred to me that I just might die here. I might just never see Adam again.
I began to cry, weeping softly into the pillows, thinking of how mean I’d been to him these past few months. How I wanted that closeness from him, and I punished him by yelling at him whenever he opened up.
It was only now that I realized I’d been looking at our relationship through the lens of my own fear, unable to see past it. Everything was a threat. There was everything good and kind and generous and protective about Adam, but I had been looking at him as someone that might be taken away.
That’s what made me lash out. That’s what drove the wedge between us.
And now, I was trapped in this hotel room with my entire life taken away from me. Who knew if I’d ever see Adam again…
There was a clicking noise from outside, and I stood up straight and watched the knob flutter.
The door opened and there stood Fenwick, fully dressed in one of his tailored suits.
“Well well well, looks like you’ve wiggled out of your restraints. What a clever little boy.”
I was stunned, the fear rooting me to the spot. My eyes flicked past him to the door.
He closed it.
“What do you want? Why did you do this to me?” I asked desperately, fighting for time.
That was what every regret in the world boils down to, right? Wishing you had more time. The second hand was unrelenting, ticking me closer to whatever this guy was about to do to me without mercy. The clock didn’t care that I loved Adam with all of my heart. The clock didn’t want to hear anything about justice or who was right or wrong. Like the submissive version of myself, time only had one job. And that job was to march unrelentingly into the future.
Fenwick came closer and sat on the edge of the bed.
Tremors wound their way up my spine, tingling down my arms and making my hands shake.
“I’ve been watching you for some time,” he said, running his hand through his salt and pepper hair. “You’re perfect, Luke DuPont.”
“Are you the serial killer?” I blurted out.
He chuckled. “Killer? I’m an artist.”
Alarm bells were going off in my head. He didn’t answer the question.
“Tell me about your art,” I said, my heartbeat thundering like a drum. I wondered if Fenwick could hear it.
He stood up and paced through the room, stopping to stare out the large, square window. “I’m an expert Rigger, as you know.”
He chuckled again, that grandfatherly noise grinding against my ears. “Don’t worry, boy; you’ll see my masterpiece soon enough.”
Masterpiece?
I was trembling so hard that I thought I was going to wiggle out of my own skin.
“They don’t appreciate real art,” he said, gesturing out the window. “Normies.”
Normies? I was suddenly reminded very strongly of Kirk. He used that term all the time. I’d learned that whenever someone used that term, it meant that the person was either a lurker on dark websites, a Reddit neckbeard, or someone with delusions of grandeur.
Fenwick whirled around and flew at me, clambering on the bed like a wild animal. “But that’s not you, is it Luke?! You appreciate real art!”
We were nose to nose. I was terrified.
His breath smelled like death, as if he had a rotten molar buried in his mouth.
“Yes… you get it…” Fenwick said, dipping his body on top of mine.
This was exactly like what happened with Kirk. He had me tied up, restrained… had his way with me, and then left me to rot in that caged basement.
Fenwick licked my neck, his slimy tongue lingering below my earlobe.
I scrunched my face up with disgust, but my anxiety had me paralyzed.
Like I was floating above my body watching the scene unfold, I could picture how this would end. Fenwick would rape me and then leave me in here to starve or take me with him to be a part of his “Masterpiece.” Despair and disgust clouded out my senses, and I felt the tethers of misery bind me to the bed.
“Beautiful… so beautiful…” Fenwick muttered.
My anxiety drowned out all noise as he tore at my shirt.
The monster was wrapping me in a cocoon away from all of my senses, trying to protect me from whatever was happening on top of me.
Then my eyes snapped open as the realization hit me: My anxiety wasn’t a monster at all, and it wasn’t tying me down. It was like an overprotective pet, and all it was trying to do was its own way of keeping me safe from the world.
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