Crossing the Line

by Lauren Landish

  “What was his plan?” Shawnie asks, and I grin at the horror of it all. It's either grin or get angry.

  “He latched onto the idea of finding and developing the ubermensch, what bad translations have come to call the super-man. His solution was to selectively breed, which I guess wasn’t exactly unique. Just his motivations were. It resonated with certain people, and so the Program was developed.”

  “What is the Program?” Shawnie asks.

  “The Program was simple. Starting with the adherents, believers in Meyers's theories would intentionally breed with ‘the best of the best’. Members of the Program were instructed to search out the so-called best and brightest. Growing up, I never knew who my parents were. Bloodlines were expanded by having breeding trips between communities. Children were no longer members of their parents' family, but rather community assets, taken from their mothers and given to a wet nurse soon after birth in order to prevent any sort of maternal bond forming. They were raised in a group home with every other child in the community. They were called the cadre.”

  “And you were born to this group?” Shawnie asks. At least she seems to be believing this crazy tale that is my life.

  I nod. “When the members of the group isolated themselves in the thirties and forties, there was another theory that added to Meyers's ideas. The world was becoming so fucked up that they had to up the pressure to find the leader who could solve the world’s problems. It was calculated that it would take four more generations—and I'm in generation three—to achieve this so-called ubermensch. The basic crux of the new idea was that diamonds are only created under intense heat and pressure, so they would do the same thing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  I take a deep breath, trying to figure out how best to describe the pain, the horror, and the daily pressure I felt. “Let me give you an example. I was seven years old. I woke up at five thirty in the morning to go on a three- to five-mile run through the freezing cold with our cadre group leader, a seventeen-year-old girl named Rachel, seven minute per mile pace. After that, at six thirty, I had breakfast, a blended drink that was scientifically engineered to provide all the nutrients, vitamins, minerals and calories that I was expected to need. From seven until noon, I had classes that were far beyond anyone my age should be doing. At noon, I took fifteen minutes for lunch to fuel me for my strength conditioning, which for kids my age was non-traditional strength work like gymnastics and such. To drive us, our groups were divided up into teams, and the losing team was beaten by the instructors.”

  “This sounds like one of those cult stories you can’t believe existed,” Shawnie whispers.

  “Trust me, it exists,” I assure her. “Fail an academic test, go without food for two days. Drop out of a run, you wouldn't get breakfast. Lose a game, get beaten by the instructors. But our day wasn’t done there. We still had three more hours of classes and then some kind of social or cultural lesson. They knew that we might have to go out into the world at some point.”

  “And this continued for how long?” Shawnie asks, and I shrug.

  “From the earliest time I can remember until I was twelve,” I tell her.

  “But how did you get away?” Shawnie asks, and I shake my head. “You didn't? What happened?”

  “In the Program, when a child was ready to move on, there were four options possible. The bottom group was deemed too stupid or weak to contribute to the improvement of the human condition. They were allowed to remain with the rest of the community as workers, more or less, but they were sterilized. The top group was the very, very few like me. The rest fell somewhere in between. We were so small we didn't even have a group name. We were given the opportunity to go out into the regular world, supposedly to measure ourselves. The reality was that we were supposed to attract and bring in converts. We brought fresh blood into the fold of the Program if we could. Believers in this stupid program would consider it the ultimate honor to breed with one of us.”

  “Well, thank you,” Shawnie says with a smirk. “How utterly romantic. I just got fucked by Superman.”

  I laugh, nodding. “It’s kind of funny now, but it was a living nightmare. I was actually given total freedom to try and excel, to see if we were ready to lead the world into the future that they thought we were destined to bring. I was the best of the best. They were hopeful I was the one, just a bit early. And when I left, I was certain I could do it. But they forgot so many things.”

  “Like what?”

  “The psychological conditioning . . . they were so good at it. I never had friends, just compatriots and rivals, often the same people. But they made two mistakes with me.”

  “What's that?” Shawnie asks, and I look up with a smile.

  “They underestimated me. I learned how to game them, how to be at the top without showing too much. They measured me as totally compliant and easy to mold, so they went easy on me. I’m still not over all the mental bullshit, but I don’t have the suicide urge like I’m supposed to feel if you stray off the path. The other reason is that, despite their intelligence, they forgot the whole reason that we're put on this planet.”

  “What reason is that?” Shawnie asks, and I reach over, taking her hand.

  “To love. I saw it my first semester at college. I saw a man, a basketball player. I saw him screw up his knee and gut it out, playing on what turned out to be a torn MCL and meniscus. He wanted to ask his girlfriend to marry him, and he wanted to do that after playing his heart out. Not for glory—Caltech's basketball team sucks. Not for money, either. But for a type of relationship that doesn't exist in the Program. After seeing love, real love, I knew the Program was doomed.”

  “What did you do?” Shawnie asks, and I laugh.

  “I took advantage of the chaotic nature of sports. You read a little bit about it. I notified the Program that I was going to enter Muay Thai boxing, prove my genetic superiority. There were three members of the Program in the crowd that night when I let myself be beaten. I threw the fight on purpose, taking a knockout loss as soon as he hit me with something believable. It ruined my standing in the Program since I obviously wasn't physically good enough if I lost to someone they deemed inferior. They invested too much into me to have me ‘put down’, so they let me go as a failure. They thought that I might still be able to act as a recruiter, to find recruits to use for the fourth generation.”

  “And do I meet this stupid genetic screening process?” Shawnie asks, and I laugh again. It feels good to laugh with someone about something so horrific.

  “We were trained to recognize the traits we’re missing. I can see it in your eyes, in your skin, in your bones and in everything you do. You’re so perfect for me it has scared the hell out of me for months. It was one of the reasons that I've kept this secret for so long, and why I have to be careful. I still can't be sure that the side of me that wants you for me isn't some remnant of left behind psychological torture that they put me through. I don't know if I'll ever be sure. But I don't want to think that my desire for you is just the conditioning.”

  “Jesus,” Shawnie says, putting on her bra and pulling on her t-shirt. “You really know how to lay it on a girl.” She puts her head on my chest, hugging me. “But like I said, as out there as this is, it changes nothing. If you're a monster, then that's what I need. You’re a geek too, so I have a feeling you know where this is from. Normally, evil would be fought with good. But in times like these, it should be fought by another kind of evil. So if you're a monster . . . you're my kind of monster.”

  I smile, knowing what she’s talking about. I haven’t missed many Vin Diesel movies. “There's something else you have to see.”

  “What do you mean?” Shawnie asks, and I stroke her face.

  “I need to show you . . . Friday night. You'll need to wear your Club wear.”

  “You want to take me to The Club?” Shawnie asks, confused.

  I nod. “There's something I have to teach you there . . . about both of us.”


  Chapter 16

  Shawnie

  I'm still in shock and surprised Friday evening when Rafe knocks on the door of my apartment, and I feel strange opening the door for him in my club wear. I hope this isn’t a mistake.

  The thought flees my mind when I see him standing on the walkway outside. He’s wearing a black tuxedo with a velvet jacket and a wine-red shirt and pocket square. He looks like the next Bond, and my heart skips a beat. “Oh, my.”

  I can't resist wrapping my arms around him, kissing him before he even makes it through the doorway. It feels so right, but at the same time . . . The Club? “You seem ready,” he says. “And the skirt looks even sexier when you’re wearing it than not wearing it.”

  I nod, but when he steps back, I don't follow, and he gives me a questioning look. I swallow before I can find my voice. “Rafe . . . are you sure about this?”

  Rafe's eyes crinkle as he smiles an enigmatic smile, and he reaches out, taking my hand. “Trust me, Shawnie.”

  The way he says it gives me the courage to step out of my apartment and lock it, taking his hand again as we walk down the stairs. “Nice place, by the way.”

  His joke helps cut the tension some more, and I laugh, wrapping my arm through his. “Yeah, well, if you had to wait much longer, your Jag probably wouldn’t have wheels.”

  Rafe laughs. It's not that bad of a neighborhood. It doesn't matter, though, as we drive toward San Francisco, winding our way down toward The Club. As we get closer, my nerves get more and more jangly, and twice, I have to stop myself from asking Rafe to turn around, from saying that I was just starting to feel like I didn’t need to go there.

  We park, and at the door, the doorman gives me a mysterious look while stopping Rafe. “Excuse me, Mr. Museveni. My records show that your membership is currently listed as out of date.”

  Rafe nods, turning to me. “This isn't a problem. Go on in. I'll be there in a minute.”

  The doorman lets me in, and I head to the bar, trying my best to ignore everything that's going on. It's a Friday night though, and as soon as I walk in, the smell of sex hits me in the face like a pheromone boxing glove. My demon howls in eagerness to get out. Even the music is dirty and nasty. Exactly what I don’t need. I go to the bar, and the bartender gives me a nod of recognition. “Scotch and soda?”

  “Yeah, could you make it a double?” I ask, and the bartender nods. He's just putting the drink in front of me when I feel a man's presence next to me, and I turn my head to see Mr. Robinson standing there, his face a stony mask. “What's up?”

  “You declined my invitation,” he says, his voice cutting through the music and the sounds of sex. “Why?”

  “Why do you think?” I ask, not wanting to be put off. “I'm no whore. I won’t be someone’s sugar baby. By the way, so not cool calling me by my real name on the phone. Calling me at all was bad enough.”

  Mr. Robinson's expression goes stormy, dark and threatening, and he raises his voice. “Could’ve fooled me. I extended a special invitation to you—”

  “Which I politely turned down,” I counter. “Why do you care so much?”

  “Why do I . . .?” Mr. Robinson asks, his voice quaking with anger. “You made me look like a damn fool with the . . . it doesn’t matter who. I try to help you, and you start acting like a stuck up bitch.”

  Mr. Robinson's hand clenches, his eyes blazing, when Rafe finally shows up. “Is there a problem here?”

  Mr. Robinson turns, relaxing his hand a little but still looking pissed. “No. I was just about to teach Miss Eagle here some manners in the way she likes it here in The Club.”

  “Not tonight,” Rafe says, stepping between us and staring Mr. Robinson down. “Tonight, she's with me.”

  Mr. Robinson looks like he's about to start something, but then he stops himself. “You haven’t been here in a while.”

  Rafe ignores any attempts at conversation, his eyes and face stone cold. “And I’m here tonight. By the way, I've reserved the Black Room for the evening. So if you'll excuse us.”

  Mr. Robinson glares but nods slightly. He doesn't want to cause an issue in front of the patrons, and he walks away without saying anything else. Rafe watches him go, then turns to me. “Sorry, took a little longer than I thought.”

  “What is the Black Room?” I ask, having never heard of it before. “Don't you mean the Blue Room?”

  Rafe shakes his head, taking me by the hand. “No. The Black Room. What did Mr. Robinson want with you?”

  I tell him what Mr. Robinson wants with me, and Rafe's face clouds but he dismisses it with a nod, as if he’s storing it away for later. “Come with me. Let me show you the Black Room.”

  We go around the bar and down a short hallway. I've never been this way before. I thought this was just a service area. We go around a curve and up a flight of stairs to a door that's locked with a magnetic card lock. Rafe takes out a card from his inner jacket pocket and swipes it. The lock goes from red to green and he leads me inside. As soon as the door closes, the lights flicker on, and I feel like my breath is taken away.

  “This room . . .” I start, looking around. If I thought the Blue Room was luxurious, the Black Room makes it look like a Motel 6. The toys that line the shelves on the wall are each nestled in their own black velvet-lined case like precious jewels. The floor is light panels, a dim silvery light that doesn't glare but looks almost like moonlight as I step across it, seeing the familiar spots for the attachment of devices. Spreader bar, suspension rig, a sex swing, all of it can be set up here, and all of it looks like it was designed for the space. “It's like BDSM heaven. Or hell, if that's your thing.”

  I turn, realizing I may have just been triggered, but I still can’t stop myself. “So you wanna tie me up and fuck me, huh? Maybe a little nipple clamp fun?”

  “No,” Rafe says, his voice slightly rough and powerful. “That isn't why I brought you here. Fight, Shawnie.”

  His words pierce straight through to me, and I snap my head up, straining against the demon. “Rafe . . . what are we doing?” I ask finally, shakily. “Why did you bring me here?”

  “To help you fight what's inside you,” he says, his voice commanding but tender. “Shawnie, I want you to take off your clothes and lie down on the bed.”

  I turn, looking at the huge bed, and gulp. “Rafe . . . I'm scared.”

  He comes up behind me, wrapping his arms around my waist and whispering in my ear. “I know you are, Shawnie. That's why we're here. Trust me, I won't hurt you.”

  I swallow and nod, relaxing into his arms, and he pulls me tighter, his hand coming up to cup my breast through my bustier top. “Mmm . . . thought it was my choice tonight?”

  “It is,” Rafe murmurs in my ear, his breath warm, tickling, and electric. “So tell me, are you choosing to lie down on the bed naked for me?”

  I turn and kiss him, his lips electric, and I nod, going over to the side of the room and stripping. The whole time, Rafe watches me, shrugging off his jacket and shoes at the end when I crawl onto the bed and lie down, my legs and arms splayed, ready for restraint. Rafe shakes his head though, and I lift an eyebrow. “What then?”

  “Turn over and close your eyes,” Rafe says.

  I obey, biting my lip as I hear him walk almost silently over to the wall of toys. What's he doing? The crop? The cat o' nine tails? I've been whipped a lot, but it's been a while, and the skin on my back isn't ready for a hard whipping. Still, the demon waits eagerly, creeping out again to taunt me, to tell me that even this literally nearly perfect man knows I'm good for nothing more than humiliation and being—

  The crack of the plastic is so loud in the soundproof silence that I jump like I've just been hit with a whip, but Rafe's right there, chuckling. “Sorry. Cap got caught a little.”

  “What are you doing?” I ask, forcing my eyes to stay closed. “Please, Rafe, tell me.”

  “Helping you put an end to this,” Rafe says, and I feel him slide onto the bed. He puts a hand on my back,
and his hand is slick, oily, and I realize what he opened.

  “Oil. That was massage oil.”

  “Only the best,” Rafe agrees, straddling my legs and putting his other hand on my back as the heavenly scent reaches my nostrils, luxury in a single sniff. His fingers start kneading, easing away my tension, and my demon screams in frustration. I should be getting abused, not massaged with fragrant oils! I’m a tramp, not a princess! “Let's talk, Shawnie. When I brought you in here, what did you expect?”

  “I didn’t expect this,” I say softly, my body relishing his touch. “The last time I was here at The Club, it got . . . nasty.”

  “I understand. Let's skip the nasty part. Shawnie, you know what's in my garage, a play room. You know what's in here. So tell me . . . does any of that actually excite you?” Rafe asks as he goes to work on the right side of my back, digging the heels of his hands into the muscles around my shoulder blade. “Do you want to be submissive?”

  “Mmmhmm,” I groan, lavishing in his attention, and between my legs, I can feel a warmth start to build as I feel something large and firm start to brush against the bottom curve of my ass. “I . . . I sometimes fantasized about it. Before . . . before Chris Lake.”

  “And why didn't you?” Rafe asks, shifting to my other side. His hands are strong, the oil letting them slide at just the right pressure that my skin's electric from his touch, warm and tingling as he kneads and works my body. He shifts, making me hum in disappointment as the feel of his hard-on leaves me, but then he takes my right foot between his fingers and starts the sensual, amazing massage again. I bring my left foot down, finding between his legs by touch, and I trace his cock through his pants with my foot. “You won't distract me, Shawnie.”

  “Why would I want to? I just want to feel you,” I answer happily. “As for your question . . . it never felt right. Or I should say, no man made me want to obey back then.”

  “And how do you feel now? If I said I wanted to bind you, would you let me?” Rafe asks, and a fresh wave of heat sweeps through me before centering between my legs. I let them part a little. I know Rafe can see my pussy, but I feel good about it.