Cuffing Her

by Emily Bishop

  “I mean your voice, as I’m sure many have. When your album comes out, I’ll buy a thousand copies.”

  “A thousand?” I give him a look of surprise.

  “I told you the guests here would buy copies,” Randall whispers to me.

  Yes, he did. But a thousand?

  “Come.” Randall holds my hand. “Let me introduce you to some of the other guests.”

  ***

  An hour later, I’ve lost track of all the guests I’ve met. I know someone was the head of something at NASA, one was an astronaut, one was a Senator’s brother. One woman, who was the wife of some CEO, said she had seen my video. I can’t remember all their names, much less match the name to the face to the title.

  There are just too many of them.

  “How do you remember who’s who?” I ask Randall as I take a sip from my second glass of champagne.

  “I don’t,” Randall confesses, drinking from his own glass. “If you noticed, I only introduced you to someone and that person introduced you to someone else and… well, you get the idea.”

  “So, you just need to know one person?”

  “You need to know the right person,” Randall answers.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Brewster, am I correct?” a voice interrupts us.

  I tense. It’s a familiar voice, too, but it isn’t Gil’s.

  It’s the voice of the person I’ve been dreading to see.

  Vince. I had a feeling he was going to appear tonight.

  I take a deep breath, straightening my shoulders before turning around to face him.

  “Yes, you’re correct,” I say, gripping Randall’s arm as I stick out my chin.

  “And you are?” Randall asks.

  “Vincent Lestair.”

  I feel Randall’s body tense, too. He’s angry. I can feel it.

  He reminds me of a wolf who has just seen his prey, ready to pounce, fangs bared and hocks raised.

  I squeeze his arm.

  Easy, boy.

  “Never heard of the name,” Randall says, calming down a little but with his jaw still clenched.

  “Really?” Vince’s brows furrow. “Surely, Mrs. Brewster has mentioned it.” He looks at me. “It is Mrs. Brewster, isn’t it?”

  “She already said it was,” Randall says.

  “Sorry,” Vince says. “It’s just that I find her very familiar, almost like someone who was very dear to me.”

  My heart pounds.

  “I’m sure you’re mistaken,” I tell him, hanging on to my composure.

  Like Randall said, if I can’t face him here, I won’t be able to face him anywhere.

  “Funny.” Vince’s gaze goes down my dress, and I suppress a shudder. “You look exactly like her. Same eyes. Same—”

  “She said you were mistaken,” Randall cuts him off.

  “Of course,” Vince says. “My mistake. Everyone makes mistakes, you know. Even me.”

  What is he trying to say?

  “Careful,” Randall warns as he swirls the golden liquid around in his glass. “Some mistakes have a price. A very steep price.”

  “Yes.” Vince doesn’t flinch. “I’m sure now that it isn’t her. After all, the woman I knew could speak for herself and stand up for herself.” He glances at me. “She wouldn’t hide behind her husband.”

  Is that a challenge?

  “I don’t appreciate you insulting my wife, Mr. Lestair,” Randall tells him.

  “Oh, no insult meant.” Vince laughs it off. “Maybe she just looks familiar because she looks like someone I’ve seen on the Internet recently.”

  He saw the video?

  “Or was that you?”

  “Yes, it’s me,” I answer. “I’ve always wanted to be a singer, you see. Someone tried to take that dream away from me but he didn’t succeed. And now, I’m going to make it come true no matter what.”

  Vince grins. “How admirable.”

  “If I ever see that bastard again, I swear I’ll crush him to bits,” Randall threatens. “And I’ll do the same to anyone who dares stand in the way of her dream again.”

  “You do seem like you could crush a boulder.”

  “Yes,” Randall agrees. “A person—no, a monster—especially someone who takes advantage of innocent, young women and hurts them, would be relatively easy.”

  Vince still projects an image of composure. “Careful, Mr. Brewster. Force doesn’t always get you what you want.”

  “I always get what I want,” Randall says. “And I don’t have to resort to locking people up and beating them. Only cowards and sniveling little boys who haven’t grown balls yet do that.”

  Vince’s jaw clenches. Ah, it seems he’s at the end of his patience.

  “I will get back what is rightfully mine, Mr. Brewster,” he warns.

  The words send a chill up my spine.

  “Rightfully?” Randall arches an eyebrow. “Forgive me, Mr. Lestair, but I don’t see anything here that is rightfully yours, ever was or ever will be.”

  Vince’s nostrils flare. “We’ll see about that.” He glares at me and then turns on his heel and leaves, heading toward the exit.

  I wait until he’s out of sight, then let go of the breath I’ve been holding as well as Randall’s arm.

  “Sabrina?” Randall stands in front of me. “Are you all right?”

  I nod, finishing the rest of my champagne in one gulp and then setting the empty glass down on a passing waiter’s tray.

  “I just…” I place a hand over my chest in an effort to slow down my still pounding heart. “I think I need to go to the restroom for a bit.”

  “Go, then. I’ll go and make sure that bastard leaves.”

  I go to the restroom, heading straight into an empty cubicle. After locking the door, I sit on the toilet, sucking air into my lungs as I calm myself down.

  Breathe, Sabrina. It’s over.

  Right. Vince is gone. Randall scared him away.

  If not for Randall, I don’t know what I would have done. I probably would have bolted or collapsed.

  I wasn’t sure if I was really able to face him but at least I didn’t break down and cry in front of him. I was even able to resist the urge to slap his face. I should be proud of myself.

  So be proud, Sabrina.

  Eventually, I feel my heart slow down, my breathing even out. I take one more deep breath and then get out of the cubicle, going over to the sink so I can check how I look in the mirror.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I jump, startled by the voice.

  “What? It’s just me.” Helena stands beside me, putting her purse down near the sink and fixing her hair as she stares at her reflection in the mirror.

  Another person I don’t want to see. I almost ask what she’s doing here but I realize she was probably invited, too. Or maybe her husband was. At any rate, she has more reason to be at parties like this than I do.

  I should never have come. It was great at first, but now, there are just too many people.

  “I have to go.” I turn to leave but she grabs my arm.

  Now, what? What does she want from me?

  “Randall is waiting,” I tell her.

  “My brother can wait. You can always tell him that you combed your hair or retouched your makeup.” She hands me a tube of mascara from her purse. “Men won’t mind. They like their women always pretty, and they understand how long that takes.”

  I look at the black tube. “No, thanks.”

  “Your lashes would look better,” she says, applying a fresh layer of lipstick and smacking her lips. “And you’ll have a reason not to cry.”

  I narrow my eyes suspiciously. “Why would I cry?”

  “Because you’re stupid enough to fall in love with my brother. You know he doesn’t love you back, right?”

  “Excuse me?” I face her squarely.

  I was able to stand my ground against Vince. I can do the same with Randall’s sister.

  Helena ignores me, applying her lip
gloss. “He hasn’t told you he loves you, has he?”

  I place a hand on my hip. “How would you know?”

  She chuckles. “I know my own brother, I think.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  She puts her lip gloss back in her purse and picks up the mascara that I refused, applying it. “You know, when I first met you, I couldn’t understand what Randall saw in you. Then I saw your abusive ex just now and I understood.”

  “My what?”

  “Your abusive ex.” She turns to me. “I saw you and Randall talking to him. I saw how scared you were and how angry he was. I saw how that man looked at you. I just knew right away that he’s your abusive ex. Am I wrong?”

  Unfortunately, she’s right. Even so…

  “You don’t know anything, Helena, so stay out of it.”

  “Ooh. Is that a warning?” She goes back to applying her mascara. “Are you feeling brave now?”

  I suddenly wish I had Zombie with me.

  “I know more than you do, darling.” She bends over the sink as she examines her eyelashes. “I know that Randall is just protecting you and you’re just using him.”

  “I’m not using him,” I argue.

  “Not anymore, but it started out that way. Sadly, you fell in love with him, mistaking his protective instinct for love.”

  “It’s only normal for a person to want to protect the person he loves,” I point out.

  “Yes, that’s true.” She puts her tube of mascara back in her purse. “But tell me, Sabrina, what came first? The love or the protective instinct?”

  I don’t answer.

  “If it’s the latter, how can you be sure that there is love and not just that instinct?”

  I sigh. “You know, Helena, I’m tired. I’m leaving.”

  I start walking away.

  “Do you know that he didn’t love his first wife, either?”

  I stop. “What?”

  “Don’t you find it strange that he doesn’t talk much about her?”

  I face Helena. “It’s not strange. Randall loved his wife so it hurts to talk about her. How can you say he didn’t love her when she was the mother of his child?”

  She combs her hair. “Are you saying all husbands love the mother of their children?”

  “No, but—”

  “Did Randall tell you how he met her? How she died?”

  “No, but I’m pretty sure he’ll tell me when—”

  “Dinah was a chambermaid at a hotel,” Helena narrates as she continues to comb her hair. “One of the guests was trying to force himself on her and Randall rescued her. The guest was a rich man. He complained. Dinah got fired. Randall took her in. He took care of her and then he got her pregnant.”

  I want to leave but my feet won’t move, my ears eager to hear the rest of the story. He told me that the story of how they met wasn’t special, I think.

  “Of course, Randall married her after.”

  Now I know why Helena asked me if I was pregnant.

  “And they were happy for a while but, like all married couples, they started fighting. I don’t know exactly what they fought about but, when Dinah was in her final trimester, they had a really big fight. She left the house and she ended up getting hit by a car. Her baby survived but she didn’t. Randall blamed himself for her death. I think he still does.”

  No. It can’t be true.

  Helena puts her comb back in her purse and sighs. “I thought he’d never marry again. But I guess he found someone else who needed protecting. And who knows? Maybe this time, he might actually be able to protect you and find salvation.”

  So, he’s the one who’s actually using me? He doesn’t love me? But he…

  What? He wants you and has crazy sex with you? That’s lust, honey, not love. He wants you to be a famous singer? That’s admiration, support.

  Not love.

  I freeze, my chest and throat suddenly tight.

  I was thinking that Randall loved me because of his strong desire to protect me. I thought he cared. But now, I realize he might just be protecting me for the sake of protecting me, just for his own selfish intent.

  Randall doesn’t love me.

  “You know I’m right, don’t you?”

  I glare at Helena, then leave for real this time.

  “Go on,” she calls after me. “Ask Randall if I’m right.”

  I don’t really want to but I know I have to. I have to know the truth, no matter how much it may hurt.

  I have to know if I’ve been a fool. Again.

  ***

  “What’s wrong, Sabrina?” Randall asks as he changes his clothes beside the bed, realizing I’m not doing the same. “Are you still bothered by that conversation with Vince?”

  Throughout the trip home, I’ve been silent, holding back tears. Now that we’re here in the bedroom, though, I can’t hold back any longer.

  “That’s not all that’s bothering me,” I tell him.

  “Then what else?” He approaches me, still unbuttoning his shirt.

  I look at him. “Randall, is there anything you want to tell me?”

  He looks confused. “Like what?”

  “Something about Dinah.”

  He shrugs. “What’s there to tell?”

  “Funny. You said the same the last time. Whenever I ask about her, you say there’s nothing to tell. But there is, isn’t there?”

  His hands fall to his sides. Now, he looks even more confused.

  “What’s going on, Sabrina?” he asks.

  “Why did you marry me, Randall?” I ask him.

  “Because I couldn’t just let you put yourself in danger.”

  In other words, because he wanted to protect me.

  “And why is that?”

  “Why?” His eyebrows go up. “What do you mean why? Anyone would want to keep others out of danger.”

  “No.” I shake my head. “That’s not true, especially if it involves endangering oneself. In most people, the self-preservation instinct is strong but it seems your protective instinct is stronger.”

  He places his hands on my arms. “I don’t understand what you’re trying to say, Sabrina. Are you saying it’s wrong for me to protect you? Are you mad because I was the one who scared Vince away and—”

  “Do you love me?” I blurt out the question, slowly lifting my eyes to meet his gaze.

  “Sabrina…”

  “Did you love Dinah? Or did you just feel sorry for her?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  “That’s why you took her in, right? Because you felt guilty that she lost her job and because you wanted to protect her. But you also wanted her so you got her pregnant and then you had to protect her again from the consequences of that so you married her. But you couldn’t protect her.”

  “No,” he admits, his head bowed. “I couldn’t.”

  “Now you want to protect me? Do you feel sorry for me, too?”

  Again, no answer.

  “You know, I asked David earlier what the two of you talked about the day he ran away. He said that you explained why you married me, that you said you were protecting me from someone and that was all.” I take a deep breath, keeping tears at bay. “That is all, isn’t it? This is all just about protecting me.”

  “That’s not true. I…”

  “Want me, too? Yes, I know that. You want to keep having sex with me and then that will give you more reasons to want to protect me, yes?”

  He sighs as he squeezes my arms. “Sabrina…”

  I step back, shrugging his hands away. “Do you love me, Randall? Because I love you.” Tears trickle down my cheeks. “I love you. I didn’t want to. I was afraid. But when you love someone, you can’t help it. I fell in love with you just like I fell in love with Vince. Once again, I’ve given my heart to someone who doesn’t really want it, to someone who will never give me his back.”

  “I’m sorry, Sabrina.”

  He steps forward, trying to put his arms around me, but I slap them away.


  “I’m sorry, too, Randall. Because I don’t want your protection! Not if that’s all you can give. How can you protect me when you’ve already hurt me? And you know what else? I feel sorry for you if protecting is all you can do, because you can’t really protect someone. You can’t do anything at all.”

  With those words, I leave the room, heading to one of the guest rooms where I lock myself in, throwing myself on the bed and clutching a pillow as I cry.

  I know Randall isn’t the same as Vince. I know he’s kind and he didn’t mean to hurt me. But even kindness can hurt when what a person wants is love.

  Love.

  Why did I have to fall in love with him? And I know it is love because I didn’t feel this way when I found out Vince didn’t really love me. I was disappointed, angry, but not like this. Not this torn or this lost or this hurt.

  And the worst part is I can’t do anything about the pain except cry myself to sleep.

  ***

  I wake up to someone shaking me. At first, I think it’s a dream. Soon, Lucy’s face comes into focus.

  Lucy’s pale, troubled face.

  “What’s wrong, Lucy?” I ask as I sit up.

  “Harry came back.”

  I rub my eyes, which are still sore from crying.

  “What do you mean?”

  Doesn’t he always come back after bringing David to school?

  “He’s hurt. He barely made it home.”

  “What?” I feel jolted awake.

  “He said they were attacked on their way to David’s school,” Lucy says.

  “They?” I put a hand over my chest, which suddenly feels tight as I begin to understand what’s going on.

  “Sabrina, they took David!”

  Taken

  Randall

  “Fuck!”

  I pick up one of the pots in the garden, hurling it at the fountain. It hits the side, the clay cracking against the marble, the soil spilling and the roots of the plant exposed.

  I don’t care. I don’t fucking care.

  I’d like to go to the gym, actually, and throw all the weights out the window. I want to go to the kitchen and break all the plates. I want to go to the art room and throw each sculpture down on the floor, over and over until they either get pulverized or the floor breaks. I want to beat my fists against a wall until they bleed. I want to hit my head against the pavement until my skull cracks.