by Sansa Rayne
“I don’t know,” I said.
“No obligation, Abigail. If at the end of the meal you still hate me, then that’s that.”
Like he read my mind. “It’s a nice place, right? Not some hot dog cart on a street corner?”
“Do you like seafood?”
Maybe? I haven’t had much. The closest we came to seafood at the farm was canned tuna. “I don’t know, but I’d like to try.”
“There’s a place at 54th and Madison. I’ll text you, all right? See you at six. Show up hungry.”
The command in his voice tickled me inside irresistibly. “Fine.” I hung up before he could say anything more.
—
I searched for clothing shops nearby and found a fashion consignment store a few blocks away. When I walked in, the women running the store saw my plain dress and started checking the other customers for hidden cameras.
Scanning racks of outfits that spanned the entire depth of the shop, I couldn’t imagine searching all of them in the time I had. Then I noticed one of the employees approaching me very tentatively, like I was an animal in the wilderness that might startle at a snapped twig.
“You’re that girl from the c-” She caught the word in her throat and swallowed it back down. “The farm.”
Nice recovery.
She appeared to be in her early fifties and wore a sharp teal blazer over a pair of pleated, black pants. “I like your dress, honey, but if you don’t want to be recognized everywhere you go, I can help you with that. I’m Florence.”
I liked her. “Abbi,” I responded. “I need a nice dress. I’m going to… I’m meeting a… I have a date.”
“Wonderful. Has someone nice asked you to dinner?”
I wanted to say, “He fucked me and left me handcuffed to the bed. So he’s trying to make up for it.” I settled for, “Sort of.”
“Okay. I think we’ve got something you could wear. Is it a fancy restaurant?” She waved for me to follow her down the store’s aisles of clothes.
“It better be.”
Florence snorted. She pulled out a high-cut, full-length, red taffeta dress. “How’s this?”
After so many years afraid of demons, I wasn’t feeling red quite yet. More importantly, what I wanted was… how to describe it?
“It covers up too much.”
She didn’t expect me to say that. “Are you really whatshername? Lamb?” She acted like she still expected the camera crew to emerge from the clothing racks like gophers.
“Do you have something else or not?”
Florence grinned. “You want to show a little more skin, right?”
“Yes. That’s what I meant.”
She slid down the aisle a little further and pulled out what at first I thought was a long, black shirt, but it was indeed a dress.
“This a bit closer?”
Maybe a bit past the mark, actually. Judging from the length, it wouldn’t come within a mile of reaching my knees. I imagined how the bust would look; I’d worn less revealing swimsuits.
“Can I try it on?”
“Sure, babe! This way,”
She gave me a plastic card with a big, blue “1” on it and winked. “Call me whenever you’re ready.”
In the dressing room I put it on and checked myself out in the mirror.
Yeah, this will do. I didn’t recognize myself. Mason wouldn’t either. And judging by how hot I felt, he’d be digging deep into his heart to find the words he needed. I wasn’t going to take anything less.
—
The dress didn’t set me back as much as it would have at a really chic store, but it didn’t come cheap either. I felt bad spending donated money on fancy clothing instead of living expenses, but I hoped the donors would understand this was important. I doubted they just wanted me to survive: they wanted me to be happy, didn’t they? And right then, nothing would make me happier than seeing Mason’s jaw drop to the floor.
I took a cab to the restaurant and purposefully left so I’d arrive fifteen minutes late. I wanted him to sweat at least a little; if he thought I stood him up, he might get a taste of what I went through a week ago.
Yet, when I passed the hostess and he spotted me, I was the one left stunned. I thought he looked good back at the club, rocking a tight tank top and jeans; seeing him wear a custom-fitted suit and a wry grin, I nearly passed out. My panties could have melted right off from the heat burning in my core.
I could imagine the demon shaking his head in pity at my distraction. That’s right, Abigail. One taste of carnal delight, and now a sniff puts you on your knees. It was exactly what Brady warned me about.
I forced myself to adopt a disinterested expression, but it was too late. Mason saw my reaction; at least he, too, acted shocked by my appearance, though he hid it better.
“You look stunning,” he said, getting up to greet me.
“I didn’t think you owned a suit. You didn’t seem like the type.”
“Yeah? And you’ve owned that dress for how many hours?”
I glared at him, though the corners of my lips pulled up in a smile. “Fair enough.”
This changes nothing. You’re still mad. Don’t lose sight of that.
Mason pulled the chair out for me, and waited for me to sit before returning to his. I scanned the restaurant, amazed by the other patrons’ breathtaking couture. My cheeks burned, realizing that they were dressed considerably more conservatively. They also wore brilliant jewelry. It didn’t even occur to me. I didn’t own any, and wasn’t going to buy any with charity money. Without any sort of jewelry, I felt even more naked, as if the dress hadn’t been enough.
Then I noticed the waiters, who wore suits nicer than Mason’s. Did he feel under-dressed as well? Did he care? We stuck out pretty sorely individually, but worse as a pair; like we were imitators crashing the party.
Somewhere nearby a live violinist performed, and crystal chandeliers hung over our heads. I felt oppressed by the opulence, as if it aimed to distract the unlucky patrons forced to cope with our intrusion.
What was I thinking? I wondered. This was what people aspired to in the real world? This was the height of society? The food had better be good.
“I figured it’s your first experience with elegant dining. May as well make it one of the best.”
“Thank you, Mason.” At least his heart was in the right place. How could he have known this was a bad idea? I didn’t.
I recalled a question Dr. Davis had: what does he do? Judging by his suit, he probably doesn’t frequent places like this. That didn’t take away from what he did to me, but clearly he wanted his gesture noticed, and it worked. Still, I had to know his occupation. I filed that away for later. I wanted to get something else out of the way first. “Why’d you do it, Mason?”
He sighed. “It isn’t enough to admit it was awful and beg your forgiveness?”
“No.” I never questioned Brady’s word, and what did that get me? How was it that after six years at Good Souls I hadn’t received ascension, but the new girls usually left the farm in less than a year?
Maybe you should be thankful. None of us knew what happened to the girls who “ascended.” All we knew was they were gone. Following the raid, police scoured the cornfields, searching for buried bodies, but no remains were recovered. Of course, there were acres of ground to cover, and if they had been burned, or fed to the livestock… I shivered and pushed the thought out of my mind.
“I’m sorry, Mason. I need to know.”
“It’s going to sound bad.”
“I know.”
He nodded, and sipped his ice water. “I left because I was disgusted with myself, and I didn’t know what to do.”
“Disgusted. Why?”
Mason paused as a waiter came by and offered a wine menu. He ordered a cab franc. Was that expensive? I didn’t know. He seemed like he might not know either.
“Abigail, what we did that night was perfect. It was beautiful. But then I remembered who you were… and
that I’d taken advantage of a confused, vulnerable young woman. There has to be so much confusion and pain in your life; I had no idea what this would do. I had the worst possible reaction to this, I know. I didn’t want to set you back years in your recovery; I had no idea what kind of damage I might have caused.”
“And that would be worse than the damage you did cause?”
Mason stared right at me, eyes sorrowful and glistening. “I wish I’d thought about that at the time, but I didn’t.”
I wondered what Dr. Davis would think about his answer, or what she’d want to ask him. Mason’s answer didn’t sound rehearsed — it sounded honest, but incomplete.
“Mason, don’t play with me. I spent six years listening to a very convincing liar. I know there’s more. I knew it last week.”
His expression darkened. “Six years, and not once did you doubt him. You think if I were lying you’d really know it?”
I scowled, but was he wrong? I wanted to think that I could tell when somebody was lying, and Brady was my blind spot. What if that was wishful thinking? What if six years of brainwashing left me bereft of common sense?
“If that’s the case,” I growled. “Why should I trust you now?”
“Because you have to trust somebody, even though there’s no real good way to know who. Not without living a little and seeing for yourself.”
I nodded, taking a sip of the wine that had been poured for us, tasting alcohol for the first time. I tried not to choke, but it was so tart and dry. People pay hundreds of dollars for this?
All things considered, I liked what Mason said. It echoed a lesson Dr. Davis imparted: embrace uncertainty. Make mistakes and learn from them.
After all, what was Mason after that he couldn’t have already taken from me? I was handcuffed to a bed and naked; he could have killed me, if he’d wanted to. He could have maimed me, or raped me. What could he possibly be after that was worse? Why was earning my forgiveness so important to him, if not for the reasons he’d given?
Did one thoughtless act render him untrustworthy, or merely imperfect?
I could give him another chance. If he hurts me like that again, then I’d know.
The more I rationalized, the more I realized I wanted to forgive him. Was he manipulating me? I wouldn’t know if I turned him down, and knowing when someone is lying is a skill I needed to hone.
“All right, Mason. I accept your apology.”
“Thanks, Abigail. I promise I’ll never pull something like that again.”
We’ll see, won’t we? I nodded. “Now, what’s good here?”
Mason grinned. “I’m getting oysters.”
Abigail left to use the bathroom after we finished eating. She barely touched her wine. I didn’t blame her. I didn’t care for it either. I thought I’d ordered a good one, but what the fuck do I know about wine?
Figuring I had a minute or two, I took out my phone and hit my only speed dial.
“Yeah?”
“I’m in,” I said.
Frank didn’t reply at first. “How?” he asked.
“I told her the truth.”
He snorted. “Bullshit.”
“I told her enough.”
I couldn’t actually hear Frank rubbing his forehead, but I knew he was.
“You sure you know what you’re doing?”
I laughed. “No, not really. But I don’t see this working any other way.”
“Fuck. I’d tell you not to fuck this up, but…”
“Yeah, I know. I hope I don’t.”
He sighed. “You like her? For real, Mason? I mean, it’s been a long time. You sure you’re not just lonely?”
Valid concern. I’d wondered that myself, especially when I saw her in that fucking dress. It was a miracle I managed to get through dinner.
“I think it’s real, Frank.” Maybe he was right, and I was fooling myself. It didn’t matter. Foot stayed on the gas pedal.
“Is that going to be a problem? We’ve got a job to do.”
Abigail emerged from the bathroom. “Job comes first, Frank. That hasn’t changed.” I hung up and slipped the phone into my pocket. I slipped a wad of twenties into the server book and hoped they didn’t mind cash.
“Ready to go?” I asked.
Abigail nodded. “Where to?”
“My place.”
As Mason opened the door to his apartment, I held my breath, waiting to find my worst fears confirmed. I half expected to find pentagrams painted in blood or candle-lit shrines of some sort. I laughed a little in relief as the lights came on to reveal a fairly ordinary, if messy, home.
“What?” said Mason.
“Nothing. It’s just not what I expected.”
He nodded. “I hoped I’d have company tonight, so I cleared out all the empty pizza boxes and beer cans. I barely recognize the place without them.”
Clothing lay scattered in clumps, as if the articles attracted each other magnetically. Mail piled up on a counter by the entrance. The scent of his musk lingered faintly; not overpowering, but strong enough to remind me that a man lived here.
I set my purse down on a small wooden table beside the door. My shoes tapped loudly on the hardwood floors, and the sound bounced around the bare walls. Across from the entrance was a small stairwell down to a lower floor, and in front of me was a cozy kitchen. I walked inside further to see a den that offered a single, modest couch and a sizable flat-screen. A table had been set up at the far end of the room, on which I noticed a laptop and several stacks of manila folders.
“What’s all that?” I asked.
“Case files,” he answered quickly.
“Cases? Are you a cop?”
Ever since the raid on Good Souls, I’d developed a fear of, but affinity, for the police. The way they’d swarmed my home, busting open doors, pointing guns and shouting shouting shouting, I quickly grew to hate them. But then, after finding me alone and afraid, they had treated me with great care, taking me to the hospital for checkups. However, once I swam through the shock of the raid, they lost their kind exteriors and interrogated me for hours, wanting to know everything they could about the farm. I became defensive, still believing that they’d stolen me from my home, and refused to tell them more than I already had. Maybe that was why they made me see Dr. Davis: so that one day I would forgive them and tell them what they wanted. But, what else could I tell them? What could I answer that one of the other girls couldn’t? Surely Elspeth had been happy to tell the police everything.
“I’m not a cop,” Mason said at last. An intense look passed from his face. “I was one, though.”
“Oh,” I said, stalling for time while I debated pushing him for more. “That explains the handcuffs.”
He grinned. “Walk,” he said, pointing to the stairs.
“Why? What’s down there?”
Mason grabbed my shoulder and bent my back downward, then smacked my bottom with his hand. I yelped, but a flood of adrenaline surged through me. I wanted more.
“Walk,” he repeated, his voice calm and steady. He let go of me, and this time I did as asked, holding the thin, iron banister as I descended. After navigating a short hall, I found a door in front of me.
“Go in,” he said at last.
I twisted the knob and stepped inside. As we were now underground, no natural light came in from any windows, and until Mason came in after me and found the switch, the room was totally dark. When the lights came on, what I saw nearly brought me to my knees.
“Your first dungeon, I assume,” he said.
I scanned the space over and over, taking it all in and trying to keep my legs from buckling. I had never imagined how a modern dungeon would look, but this fit the bill. Hanging from the walls in one corner were manacles on chains; hooked into a pulley system, they connected to a hand-crank that would pull them up or let them down. Near that spot was a large X-shaped cross, with cuffs built into the ends, which I expected were meant to restrain a person fully. At the other end of the roo
m was a large, four-poster bed with dark, red sheets. Dozens of shelves took up another wall and featured a variety of sex toys and other binding implements: more handcuffs, of course, but also bundles of rope and piles of chains.
I had no idea Mason was this twisted, but clearly I was, judging by how my fluids ran. I almost turned away, overwhelmed by the sheer number of possibilities.
Yet, surprisingly, I immediately drew comfort from my surroundings: unlike upstairs, everything in the dungeon looked meticulously curated. Nothing in the dungeon could be found out of place; it instilled the importance of order, unlike the rooms above. The control Mason exhibited during our play clearly extended to how he designed and used this space.
“You like it?”
I nodded, too excited to find the words.
“Then take off your shoes,” he said.
I twisted to face him, but he spun me back around.
“Did I say to turn?”
“No,” I mumbled.
I felt a sharp swat on my backside.
“What was that?”
“No, sir,” I said, speaking more clearly this time. My heart pounded and it required every ounce of will not to smile from ear to ear. Being manhandled and ordered around affected me deeply. It intoxicated me, much like it had when Brady was in charge. Maybe it explains why I stayed at the farm for so long without questioning him. Maybe I just liked being told what to do. Did that make me strange? People usually hated being ordered around, but with Mason and Brady, following their orders gave me a bizarre feeling of satisfaction.
“I want you to promise me something, Abigail. I want you to promise you won’t come without my permission.”
A tremor of longing pulsed through me. “Yes, sir,” I replied, giddy with excitement.
“I’ll be very upset with you if you do,” he added, reaching into my dress to pinch my nipples.
I moaned, my need to obey surging. “I swear, I won’t.”
He squeezed harder now, harder than I thought possible. “You haven’t even begun to taste true punishment yet.”
Considering what he could do to my chest with just a few fingers, I believed him. “I promise, sir,” I said, overwhelmed by fear and curiosity.