Taylor stops swabbing my cuts and takes a deep breath. “I was thinking we could get him on the hook for all of this. Make him pay for everything. He’s been so careful, but I think he has finally slipped enough that we can get him.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“We can say he did all of this.” Taylor motions to my body with the hand holding the cotton ball.
“You mean frame him?” I ask in disbelief. Do people do that in real life?
“Yes…but, never mind. Lying is difficult for most people. You’re not like me, and I don’t expect you to be able to pull something like that off.” I feel a little offended by his underestimation.
“What would we say, that he did all of this? The cuts and bruises?”
“Shyla, do you have any idea how hard it is to lie to the police convincingly?”
“I mean, I know it’s hard, but I want to get him so bad, Taylor. I want to make him pay for everything. For what he did to me, to us.”
“Me too, more than you know, but undertaking something like this is a big deal. There cannot be any holes in our story. Your wounds, for example; they’re not typical of an attack. We would have to have a story that is consistent with these types of wounds. If you say he sexually assaulted you, well then did he make you bathe? Did he wear a condom? They will go over these details many times with you. Are you prepared to handle that? Are you prepared to lie at this level?”
“Are you?” Taylor gives me a look of disbelief. Of course he can, Taylor does whatever he wants. “And if we don’t do this, what is our other option?” I ask.
“Shy, I have tried other avenues. He is not easily intimidated and he’s a smart son of a bitch.”
“So there aren’t other options?”
“The other options would be outside of the law. Well, all of our options are actually.”
“You wouldn’t -”
“He’s crossed a line. I can do only so many favors for my father.”
“Taylor, if you do anything serious to him, then you go to jail and I am not going to let you go down that path.”
“He’s asking for it. And I am smart enough not to get caught.”
“I can’t believe we are even talking about that as a possibility. I won’t let you put yourself at risk to protect me, or even yourself.” I know what has to be done. I have to protect us from Eric, and more importantly, protect Taylor from himself. If the injuries on Eric are an indication of Taylor holding back for his father, I am afraid to imagine what Taylor would do with abandon. Even if he was never caught, he would be pulled further into the darkness. I cannot lose Taylor. “So, how would we pull this off?” I ask.
Taylor looks at me and cocks his eyebrow. “Are you sure? Have you really - ”
“Yes. We don’t have much time. The longer we wait, the more suspicious we appear. How do we pin this on Eric?”
“Shyla, if this were just me, I would have no reservations, but you have been under a lot of stress and this is only going to add to that. This is not some movie; there are serious consequences. I don’t mean legally, I mean the weight of living with a lie forever.”
“I am already living with the consequences. I think I have continually proved that you have underestimated my ability to deal with all kinds of things.”
“Just understand that there are huge implications for both of us if we fuck this up, so you need to nail the story.”
“Taylor, I want to protect us and I want Eric gone. I am so sick of him and his sick, twisted bullshit. I don’t want you to put yourself in a position to go after him. There is no way they can prove he didn’t do this to me. It would be my word against his! It’s just stretching the truth about what happened. He broke the law, he violated me. I’m just giving the legal system the opportunity to get him this time.” Taylor thinks in silence for a while. I give my final plea. “I know you can take care of yourself Taylor, but I just want this to be done. If the police start looking for him, then you and I can just go on with our lives.” I caress Taylor’s cheek. “We deserve to be happy. You deserve to be happy.”
Taylor smirks his crooked, devilish grin. “You’re amazing. Is it fucked up that I kind of find this conniving side of you really hot right now?”
“Yes, but I like fucked up,” I reply.
Taylor takes my wrist and slowly kisses each cut one by one.
“You’re making me really horny Shy.”
“Likewise…This is bad,” I remind him. How can we even be entertaining the idea of sex right now in the midst of all this? His coolness under pressure is contagious; so is his libido.
He runs his hand up the nightshirt, squeezing my behind. “I know,” he says as he leans in and kisses my neck. Then it flashes unexpectedly: the image of the man covered in black leather hovering over me. I shudder and Taylor stops.
“What is it? Are you okay?”
“Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Sorry.”
“Oh…I, uh…I’m sorry.” His face sinks, remembering his brother’s trespass.
“No, it’s okay,” I reassure him.
“We really shouldn’t right now.” He’s right, but I want to erase Eric, I want to purge him from my body. And the only way I know how is by replacing him with Taylor.
“You’re right, if they examine me, it wouldn’t look very good.” We sit up and I pull down the nightshirt. “So what’s the story?”
Taylor stands up and scans the room. “You cannot say he attacked you in a conventional manner. We can make this work because you can tell them he has been following you, that he has some sort of obsession with you. This will not be the case of some stranger coming in and throwing you around. It has to be more sinister, more calculated…”
“That makes sense. Eric is careful, he is methodical. We know this.”
“Your cuts, your bruises are not from defending yourself against an attack. They come from consensual acts, albeit rough acts, so we have to have a story that supports that physical evidence.”
“How?”
Taylor walks over to me and looks at my wrists, which are lightly bruised from the handcuffs he used last night. “You are going to say he cuffed you to your bed at knifepoint, turned you on your stomach, and whipped you with his belt buckle.” I take a deep breath. Taylor is right -- even though this didn’t happen, it will be difficult to retell. Taylor pulls down the neckline of my nightshirt to reveal bruising around my neck. “He then turned you back onto your back, and assaulted you, using a condom, while choking you. He cut you too, before intercourse. As far as your lip, just say that happened the way it actually did. This is not some random attack, this is a man who is obsessed with you and did not want to harm your beautiful face.”
“This is sick, Taylor.”
“Shyla, remember what he did to you. He is just as depraved as we are making him out to be. He just didn’t get caught the first time around. Who is to say what he would have done to you in the hotel room if you had discovered it was him and not me?”
I nod. He’s right. Sometimes in order to get rid of scum, you must grovel in filth.
Taylor paces around the room, walking through the scene like a sleuth would in a crime film. “Then, he uncuffs you and forces you to bathe, just in case. He leaves you alone in the bedroom for a few seconds, where you find your phone, call me and the rest happens as it did. The lack of forensic evidence is in line with his experience in security. However, I am sure they will find something of his in here, at least enough to place him in the scene.”
Taylor makes me rehearse the story over and over again until he is sure I have every important detail down. “Now Shy, it is important that you stick to this.Do not change or add anything. If they ask you a question that throws you off, only repeat back what you have already said or just say you can’t remember. Do not add layers to the story, it will be impossible to keep track. Just stay consistent and simple.”
“Okay.”
“One other thing…how bloody were those cuts when you first made t
hem?”
“Uh, I don’t know, I mean they’re shallow, but there was a small stream of blood. I do it in the tub.” Confessing that very private ritual makes me feel uneasy, but Taylor is unfazed. He knows all about the darker side of humanity.
“They are going to wonder about blood on the sheets, or lack thereof, but there is no way I am having you spill anymore blood today. Just tell them that the cuts were slowly made and did not draw much blood. Stick to that no matter what they say.”
“No, we shouldn’t leave any holes.”
“You’re not doing it again. No.”
“Taylor, we can’t have any holes in the story. Just this once.”
“No.” Taylor looks stern, immoveable, so I stop. He is not thinking logically, he doesn’t want me to draw blood because he loves me, not because it’s the smart thing to do.
“So, when do we call?”
“Whenever you’re ready, but you should rehearse the story a few more times.”
“Can I have a second? Alone? I just need to focus in.”
Taylor looks surprised, but then nods. “Sure, I’ll be in the kitchen. Do you want something?”
“Tea would be great.”
Taylor, steps out of the room. When he clears the hallway, I slip into the bathroom, grabbing the razor blade I used earlier. I reenter the bedroom and lock the door behind me. I walk over to the head of the bed and lift the razor to my forearm. My hands are unusually shaky since I am not used to rushing this. It’s usually a painfully slow and drawn out ritual. One slice is carved, a little deeper than the others to ensure blood drips. I squeeze the cut, dripping as much blood as I can. Then I wrinkle the blankets, smearing the blood so it doesn’t look so perfect. Taylor knocks on the door.
“You okay in there?”
“Yeah.”
“I have your tea.”
“Give me a sec.”
“What’s going on?”
“Uh, nothing.” I scramble to the hydrogen peroxide on the counter, desperately trying to clean my arms, but blood continues to run.
“What are you up to in there?” I don’t answer. “Shyla…Shyla? Are you—? Are you fucking doing what I think you’re doing? Goddammit! Open this door or I’ll fucking knock it down.”
In my panicked haste to clean my arm the bottle of peroxide tips over. “Shit!” I pick up the bottle and look for something to wipe the mess on the counter. My favorite red shirt lays on a chair. No way in hell am I going to ruin that with peroxide.
“Shyla, I am counting down from three. Three-two-”
I whip the door open. “Taylor just relax. I need a towel from the linen closet.”
“What the fuck?”
“I spilled peroxide, please just grab it.” My arm is still dripping blood, albeit slowly. Taylor was gone for five minutes and I have already managed to create a mess so quickly. Taylor returns with the towel and I direct him to the spill, which he soaks up. He turns back to me, grabs my arm and sees the fresh cut. “Fuck! You just promised me not fifteen minutes ago that you would never cut yourself again!”
“It wasn’t like that. This was business. We needed the evidence and now we have it. You weren’t thinking logically, you were trying to protect me. It had to be done.”
Taylor sighs, and sits on the edge of the bed. He knows I am right. “We need a vacation, and not to New York, to fucking Mars or something.”
The surprising levity of his statement makes me chuckle. Then Taylor starts to laugh, which in turn makes me laugh harder. In seconds, we are laughing hysterically, tears streaming down our cheeks. This might be the hardest I have ever seen Taylor laugh. The tragic ridiculousness of this entire fiasco is not lost on us. The laughter is cathartic, in a much different manner from my cutting earlier in the evening. When we are finally able to breathe again, I sit next to Taylor.
“Give me the razor. We have to clean it and put it back where you would normally hold it. We’ll just be honest about the peroxide, your clumsy ass spilled it when we were cleaning your wounds,” Taylor says.
“Okay. I’ve got this. We are going to nail him.” I say, trying to psych myself up.
“You are a little devil. A hot little devil.”
“Only if someone messes with you.” Taylor’s gorgeous crooked smirk makes an appearance. “Okay, well should I call?” I ask.
“No, I’ll do it.”
“Okay.”
Taylor grabs his cell phone and walks out to the living room. Seconds later I hear him in the distance.
“Hello. We need the police.”
CHAPTER TWO
In minutes, the apartment crawls with police. The first officers do a brief initial round of questioning, but soon after they tell me I must go to the hospital for a rape kit. An ambulance waits for me, but Taylor offers to have Harrison take me instead. I am happy to take him up on the officer as the ambulance will only serve to heighten my nerves.
I put on some yoga pants, but keep on my nightshirt. Taylor hands me a chunky cardigan from the wardrobe. I couldn’t care less how presentable I look, in fact, the more disheveled, the better I assume.
When we slide into the back of the SUV Harrison and I make eye contact through the rear view mirror, his are softened, unable to hide his concern. Harrison is the only other person who has even the remotest idea of how rough of a night I have had. Being in Taylor’s arms with Harrison at the wheel in the confines of the dark SUV make me feel like I am the safest person in the world.
“Ms.Ball, I am glad you are okay.” He is a man of a few words, and that simple sentence, in an unusually warm tone, fills my heart.
“Thank you, Harrison. We should get together soon and finally plant some flowers.”
Harrison nods and smiles.
Taylor looks at me and cocks his eyebrow and I mischievously grin. I am forming my own relationship with Harrison outside of my universe with Taylor.
When we arrive, Taylor is asked to wait alone while I am taken into an examination room and asked to put on a hospital gown. Sitting on the table with my ass hanging out, I realize I much prefer the gown Taylor gave me in Russia. This “gown” hardly feels luxurious.
Shortly after, a very young doctor enters the room and introduces herself. She calmly explains the exam she is about to perform without any excitement or emotion in her voice. It is oddly comforting not to be spoken to like a victim. I explain to her that I was forced to bathe and that there will likely be little she can recover. She takes note and performs the exam. On the ceiling above the exam table is a poster of a stony brook. I let it take my mind elsewhere, imagining Taylor and I hiking towards it, then Taylor guiding me across it, catching me as I slip. But then, in the distant woods, hidden by old trees, I see Eric coming for us. This cannot be our lives, he will always be lurking unless I can pull this off. The exam is over much faster than I had anticipated, and once she is done, she informs me someone will be entering the room to photograph the injuries on my body.
A female officer enters with a large camera in hand as the doctor leaves. Like the doctor, she briefly summarizes what she will be doing and then quickly gets started.
“Can you show me your forearms, like this?”
I do, and she snaps a shot.
“Can you tilt your chin up?” She snaps.
“Miss, can you turn around and reveal your buttocks?”
I nod and lift up the hospital gown to reveal red marks along my butt and hamstring. The woman in front of me is completely professional, not letting any emotion peer through, but I am sure she sees me as a victim. What would she think if she knew that all of these marks, these bruises and cuts, were things I consented to? Would she see me as a deviant instead? I don’t consider myself to be either one, but if I am neither, then what am I?
“We’re finished,” the officer tells me after what feels like one hundred snapshots. She gives me the option to get dressed again before the detectives enter to speak to me and I oblige. A few minutes later, there is a soft knock on the door.<
br />
A tan, short, balding man, who looks like he never met a double cheeseburger he didn’t consume, enters the room.
“Ms. Ball?” He leans in. “I’m Detective Acosta.” I stand up. “No please, have a seat, I just want to go over what happened tonight.”
“Of course.”
“It has been an especially busy night so I don’t have another detective with me. However, if you would prefer the presence of a woman, I can bring in an officer to sit with us.”
Keep it simple. “No, thank you, but it’s okay. I am fine speaking alone with you.”
“I understand this is very difficult, but the more details you can provide, the more likely we will be able to solve this. I am going to record this, so we don’t have to make you relive this with the same questions over and over.”
“I understand. Anything I can do to help catch him.” For some reason, I had expected to have Taylor at my side during questioning. I had not planned for this scenario. “Did you speak to my boyfriend, Taylor?”
“Yes, we took a statement from him while you were being examined. Why do you ask?”
“Well I uh, I was just hoping to have him here.”
“Of course, it’s all up to you, but as I mentioned every detail is important, and I will need you to be able to speak freely about what happened.”
“Oh yes. You’re right, there are things I am not sure I want him hearing. At least not yet.” I don’t want to stir the pot any further, so I nod in acceptance.
“Okay. We’ll, let’s just begin with what happened, start to finish.”
I rehearse the story like a pro: Taylor and I had a disagreement, so I came home late into the night. I was unaware that Eric was already in my home until he approached me, blade in hand. He cuffed me and assaulted me, beating and cutting me. Afterward, he forced me to bathe. He then left the room for a few moments. I barely managed to dial Taylor. Just before Eric returned, I tossed the phone hoping Taylor would hear us and call the police. When Eric realized the phone was on, he ran, fearing the police were already on their way. I don’t need to conjure up tears, they flow freely on their own. There are plenty of real reasons to cry. I have never considered myself an expert liar, but my motivation to protect Taylor is strong and I deliver the story so well I almost believe it myself.
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