by B. B. Easton
“Ken…” I whispered.
“Hmm…”
“You have to get some blinds for that window.”
“Nuh-uh.” Ken shook his head and curled up tighter around his spare pillow.
“Why not?” I whispered.
“Custom,” he grumbled. “Expensive as fuck.”
I pouted even though he couldn’t see me. If I was going to spend the night there with any regularity, I’d have to get creative. A sheet over the window maybe? Or newspaper? That was what serial killers did, right? Ken would love it.
“Hey,” I whispered a little louder. “Do you want to go to the museum today? They have this exhibit that’s on loan from Paris…”
Ken grunted and pushed himself up into a sitting position, his back still turned toward me. The morning sunlight illuminated every red, raised laceration I’d inflicted upon him the night before, causing my hand to fly to my mouth and my heart to plummet into my stomach.
“Can’t.” He yawned, rubbing his face. “I have to work.”
“Ken, your back!” I squealed into my palm. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry!”
Ken shrugged sleepily and stood up, revealing even more welts marring his perfectly high, tight ass.
Jesus Christ. I’m a monster.
Ken turned and looked at me for the first time that morning. His eyelids were heavy, his features relaxed. “It’s fine.”
I winced. “Does it hurt?”
Ken looked at me as if I’d just asked him the dumbest question ever uttered. His head tilted an inch to one side. His eyebrows rose fractionally. “You can’t hurt me,” he stated. As if it were obvious. As if I should have known better. Then, he walked his tall, toned, beautiful body across the room and out the door.
“You can’t hurt me.”
I stared at his open bedroom door, blinking away the sting from that offhanded comment.
“You can’t hurt me.”
His words echoed in my ears as I heard a shower turn on somewhere beyond that doorway.
YOU…can’t hurt…ME.
I knew that he was probably just referring to his pain tolerance and hadn’t meant anything personal by it, but that was not how it felt.
It felt like a slap to the face.
I gave Ken plenty of space that morning. I waited until he was out of the bathroom to go brush my teeth. I took my time getting ready, applying an extra-bold swipe of liquid eyeliner and going back and forth over whether I should tuck my rumpled burgundy bob behind one ear or just brush it all forward and hide behind it like Cousin Itt from The Addams Family.
I went with the single ear tuck and a hefty helping of false bravado. Pulling on my favorite ripped jeans and a black Ramones T-shirt, I took a deep breath, held my head high, and sauntered down the stairs like the badass punk rock princess I was always pretending to be.
Fuck Ken Easton. Who the hell is he? Just some hot, smart guy with a killer bod and a gorgeous house. Pssh. Whatever. He doesn’t even have any tattoos. I refuse to get upset over a guy who has anything less than a full sleeve. And at least three piercings.
“Good morning.” I beamed as I crossed the living room into the kitchen.
Ken was sitting at his sun-drenched breakfast table, eating a bowl of cereal. His hair was still damp from his shower. I could smell the Irish Spring soap on him from across the room. And he was wearing a light-blue button-up shirt that made his eyes look like a pair of tropical lagoons.
Eyes that were trained on the television in the living room where a man in a suit was announcing stock market projections.
“Cinnamon Toast Crunch, huh?” I teased, casting a judgmental look in the direction of the box on the table. “I figured you for more of a dozen-raw-eggs kinda guy.”
Ken’s aqua gaze lifted to mine. “Breakfast of champions,” he said with a half-assed smile. “Want some?”
My stomach growled—no, snarled in response. I’d atoned for all the damage I’d done at Gusto’s Trattoria on Valentine’s Day by successfully abstaining from food the entire next day, but now, we were going on day two, and that was pushing it. Even for me.
I could feel my mouth begin to sweat and my hands begin to tremble as I stared at the box full of empty calories on the table. With that simple two-worded question, a familiar battle had begun. The one between my basic need to survive and my irrational need to be Kate Moss. Pangs of hunger clawed at the walls of my stomach, but they didn’t have the desired effect on me. I liked the pain. I liked to see how long I could hold out before it became unbearable.
Maybe Ken and I weren’t so different after all.
“No, thanks,” I replied after swallowing a mouthful of saliva.
Ken narrowed his eyes at me. “Not a breakfast person?”
“Nope.” I met his questioning gaze with one of stubborn defiance.
Shrugging, Ken stood up and carried his bowl over to the sink.
He hadn’t touched me since we woke up. Hell, he’d hardly even spoken to me.
I stood in the center of the kitchen, feeling awkward and unwelcome, as Ken placed his bowl and spoon in the dishwasher. Opening a drawer next to the machine, he began removing tiny objects and putting them into the pockets of his low-slung khakis—his car keys, his wallet, a blue pen, maybe a pack of gum. Then, he paused before removing one last item from the drawer.
Turning toward me, Ken’s face was all business. I didn’t like his vibe. I imagined it was how he regarded his employees whenever they fucked up. Impassive. Impersonal. Impervious to their emotional bullshit.
“I gotta go,” he announced, placing the last object on the kitchen counter. “Lock up when you leave, okay?” Ken pulled his hand back, revealing a single…silver…key.
My mouth fell open. My wide eyes flicked to his. And my brain screamed one long, high-pitched syllable that sounded a lot like the word, KEEEEYYYYYYYYY!!!
I nodded vigorously. “Okay,” I squeaked.
Then, I jumped him.
After sending Ken off to work with nude lipstick smeared all over his pretty face, I locked the front door and turned to find myself in Oz. The sun warmed my pale skin. The birds sang a collective chorus. A patch of cheery yellow daffodils was beginning to bloom beneath the large Bradford pear tree in Ken’s front yard. Winter, that bitch, was finally releasing its hold on me.
In December, my relationship with Hans had crashed and burned, taking with it a few close friends and my first taste of adult independence. In January, I’d retreated into the protective shell of my parents’ house, becoming a streetwear-folding, term paper–writing, psychology-studying ghost girl. But, that February, as I drove home, admiring the shiny new key hanging next to the can of mace on my key ring, I felt something I hadn’t in a long, long time.
Hope.
I tried to tiptoe across the threshold of my parents’ house, but it was no use. I was busted.
“Brooke Bradley, come in here and sit down.” My mother was standing in the kitchen with one hand on her hip and the other pointing at a barstool, a rare show of authority coming from her. Her long red hair was pulled up in a high bun, and she had on her usual Sunday attire of yoga pants and a tie-dyed T-shirt.
I hung my head and did the walk of shame down the parquet hall.
Sitting where I’d been told, I dropped my overnight bag and purse on our sad excuse for a kitchen island.
“This whole coming in at all hours of the night thing has got to stop,” she announced. “I know you’re an adult now, but when you don’t come home, I can’t sleep. I stay up all night, worrying about you.” She began to pace across the linoleum floor, throwing her arms this way and that. “If you’re gonna keep living here, we’re just…I don’t know…we’re gonna have to go back to a curfew or something.”
Just when I thought she was done, she added, “And you need to eat. You look…Biafran!”
I snorted. I couldn’t help it. She was just so cute when she was mad.
“Mom,” I started, holding my hands up and trying not t
o laugh. Looking left and right to make sure my dad wasn’t in earshot, I said, “I’ve just been coming home in the middle of the night because I keep falling asleep on Ken’s couch.”
“Well, you need to just stay there if you’re sleepy. It’s not safe to be on the roads with all the drunks and cops out that late.”
“I did. Last night.”
“Well…okay then.”
“Okay.”
“Fine.”
I braced myself for yet another lecture about condoms, but instead, my mom blew out a sigh of relief and plopped down onto the opposite barstool.
“So…” She smiled, propping her freckled chin on her hand, leathery from years spent working with clay and paint. “Ken. He’s the one who was helping you study for your art history class, right? What’s he like?”
I laughed. “He’s…I don’t know. He’s not my type. Like, at all.”
“That’s good.” My mom smiled, exhaustion weighing heavy on her eyelids. “Your type sucks.”
We both cracked up, prompting my father to shout, “Keep it down in there, wenches!” from the living room. Our laughter was probably making it hard for him to fully absorb all the doom and gloom on CNN.
Muffling her giggles with her hand, my mom stood up to retrieve her coffee cup from the counter by the sink.
“You know, you can always just call me if you’re worried,” I said, standing, too.
My mom took a long sip from her mug. “I did.”
Pulling my cell phone out of my purse, I saw that I had not one, but three missed calls. “Oh shit. I must have left my purse downstairs all night. Sorry, Mom.”
She gave me a look I’d seen a thousand times before. It was a look that said, If it were legal, I would slap the shit out of you right now.
Slinking out of the kitchen with an apologetic grimace on my face, I turned and ran up the stairs to my childhood bedroom. My mom had redecorated it while I was living with Hans, pulling down all my posters and painting the whole thing a depressingly generic pastel blue. But worse than the color was the size. You couldn’t fit a Volkswagen in there, yet I had managed to cram all of my belongings plus all of the shit I’d stolen from Hans when we broke up into that tiny, shoebox-esque space. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling like suncatchers. Shower curtains and regular curtains and window blinds peeked out from under my bed. Forks, spoons, and knives shared a drawer with my unmentionables. And the remote control to Hans’s big screen TV sat on my bookshelf like a trophy.
If living with Hans had been hell, then living with my parents was purgatory.
Flopping onto my unmade bed, I lit a cigarette, leaned back against the headboard, and listened to my voicemails.
Saturday, February 15, 11:50 p.m.: “Beebeeee, it’s your mother. I’m just wondering when you’ll be home. Call me back. Love you.”
Sunday, February 16, 2:06 a.m.: “Yeah, I’ll leave a fuckin’ message.”
Knight’s clear, deep voice burst out of the phone like a sucker punch. I let out a smoky cough and sat up, my heart already racing from those six little words.
“My message is that you’re a scared little bitch who won’t answer the fuckin’—” The white noise of shouting and cursing and clanking beer bottles blurred together in the background. “I was leaving, cocksucker.” Knight’s voice sounded distant, as if he was talking to someone else. “Put your hand on me, motherfucker. I dare you. Put your motherfucking hand on me and see what happens.” Then, with a scuffle and grunt and a loud crunch, the line went dead.
I sat there in stunned silence, trying to convince my nervous system that I was safe when the next voicemail began to play.
Sunday, February 16, 7:42 a.m.: “BB, it’s your mother again. You need to come home right now. You’ve been out all night, and you never called me back. I’m worried sick about you. Okay? Okay, bye.”
I slowly lowered the phone to my lap, blinking at nothing as I tried to process the warring emotions inside me. My adoration for my mother gave way to my fear of Knight, which gave way to my outrage toward Knight, which circled back to remorse for the way I’d treated my mother, when a new, unexpected feeling bubbled to the surface—giddy, girlie excitement.
Punching nine numbers that I knew by heart, I held my breath and bounced in place as I waited for my BFF to pick up.
“Sup, B?”
“Jules! Oh my God, guess what.”
“Just tell me.”
“Ken’s not gay or a serial killer. He’s a masochist!”
I could hear Juliet rolling her eyes at me. “A masochist.”
“Uh-huh.” I nodded vigorously.
“So, you’re in some kind of S and M relationship with Pajama Guy now?”
“Uh-huh. And he gave me a key to his house!” I squealed.
“Well, that all sounds perfectly normal and not at all rushed.”
“Shut up.” I giggled. “You’re such a bitch.”
“Please tell me he calls you Mistress B.”
“Oh my God, why do I tell you things?”
“Mistress B, Queen of the Dark. You should dye your hair black.”
“I hate you.”
“And buy some nipple clamps.”
“I’m not the masochist here.”
“They’re not for you.”
“I’m hanging up now.”
“Bye, Mistress B! Happy flogging!”
March 2003
“Ooh, Ken. Will you buy me wine? They have wine here!”
“Hey, that lady had a program. I need a program!”
“Oh my God. Did you see those T-shirts?”
“Tank tops!”
“Coffee cups!”
My head was on a swivel as Ken guided me by the elbow through the gift shop of Cirque du Soleil’s Grand Chapiteau. Outside, the tent was the size of a city block, swirled with stripes of royal blue and canary yellow, but inside, it was a wonderland of colors and sounds and smells and merchandise, and we hadn’t even made it to our seats yet.
“You can get an entire bottle of wine for that price.”
“Those programs cost fifteen bucks.”
“No.”
“You will never wear that.”
“You don’t even drink coffee.”
By the time we made it to our seats, I had been reduced to a pouty toddler. I folded my arms across my chest and scowled as the house lights went down, and the stage lights came up. Hans would have bought me everything my little heart desired…until his credit card got declined, of course. But not Ken. Nooooo. He had to be all responsible and shit.
Nature sounds and animal noises and tribal drums and opera singing rose to a fever pitch as acrobats dressed like fantastical prehistoric reptiles slithered onto the stage and dispersed into the audience. A particularly predatory-looking bird woman pecked her way down our aisle, stopping to claw and squawk at me. A man with snowy white angel wings tumbled down from the rafters, two silken ribbons unfurling from around his almost-naked body as he spun.
And I pouted.
Contortionists twisted.
Jugglers juggled.
Tumblers flipped and cartwheeled and landed on top of one another.
And still, I pouted.
In fact, I pouted so long and so hard that I didn’t even notice Ken had left his seat until a plastic wine glass full of golden nectar appeared in my periphery. Turning to my left, I found a stoic, well-dressed man sitting next to me, his hooded eyes giving nothing away. In one hand, he held a glass of chardonnay, and in the other was a plastic bag containing something large, rectangular, and flat.
My face split into a shameless grin as I reached for my goodies with grabby hands. With the grace of an acrobat, Ken moved at the last second, holding the wine just out of my reach.
“What do you say?” he asked, a hint of amused condescension in his velvety voice.
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t fully retract my smile. “Thaaank yooou, Kennnnn,” I drawled, elongating every syllable.
Satisfied with my gro
veling, Ken handed over my wine and program. Our fingers touched as I accepted them, sending a jolt of electricity up my arm and through my body. Still images of his perfect naked form hovering over me flashed behind my eyes. It had been a week since our first night together. A week of school and work and studying and scheduling difficulties, but Ken had still managed to see me every single day. If he pulled the night shift, he’d come have lunch with me at work. If I had school, he’d meet me for dinner on my way home. And on the nights that we were both off, he’d invite me to come over, knowing good and goddamn well that I was not there for a fucking pillow fight.
If I didn’t know better, I’d almost think Ken was my boyfriend.
Except for the fact that he didn’t do the boyfriend thing.
Staring at his now-empty hand, I felt my mouth start to water. If hugs were uncomfortable, I knew hand-holding would be a hard pass. But I wanted that jolt again. I needed it. Just a little bump to get me through the night until I could strip off his tie and lash him to the bedpost with it later.
Downing my entire glass of chardonnay for courage, I eyed Ken’s right hand resting elegantly on his knee. I was going to grab the whole thing, lace my fingers through his, and stake my claim, but I chickened out at the last minute and hooked my index finger around his pinkie instead.
What the fuck are you doing?
I don’t know! Shut up!
This is so weird.
Yeah! I’m aware!
I was just about to excuse myself so that I could go die of mortification when Ken slowly rolled his hand over, exposing his palm.
I stared at it in disbelief as my skin tingled with the pricks of a thousand tiny heart-shaped arrows. Placing my palm flush against his, I bit my lip and squealed on the inside as Ken slid his warm fingers between my ice-cold ones.
I remained in my own little world for the rest of the show, thumbing through the glossy, Technicolor pages of my program, drinking the tart white wine Ken had bought me whenever he noticed that my glass was empty, and pretending to focus on anything other than the place where our hands were joined.