by W Winters
“I wanted to let it go,” I lie, hating myself for every word that comes out of me.
“How could she even owe so much? What did she use the money for?” she continues, not finding my answer satisfying enough.
Every question is another cut in the deepening gouge.
“You already got a question. Mine first.” It’s the only thing I can think of to hold her off for a moment. She quiets, watching me and waiting. Willing to give me whatever answer I need.
“How did you know about The Red Room? Why is that where you went to find answers?”
I already know the truth, so all while she speaks, I grasp for what answer I can give her in return.
“Jenny; she used to talk about it. The back room of The Red Room. All the time. I heard her on the phone.”
“Who was she talking with?”
“I don’t know.” She’s quick to add, “That’s another question.”
“Semantics.”
“Answer my question!” Bethany pushes her hands into my chest. Not to hit me, not to push me, but to get my attention, to demand it. My blood simmers simply from her touch. “Why did she owe you so much money?”
“She owed it to Carter,” I answer her, unable to deny her at this point. Blaming the debt on someone else like a coward. “He didn’t want to let the debt go and be made to look like a fool.”
“I don’t understand what she did with all that money,” she nearly whispers, looking past me as she searches through her memories for answers. Answers she’ll never find.
“Debt adds up fast.” I try to keep my tone gentle as I speak. “I can tell you I met her once,” I add, and my confession brings her gaze to mine. “She was looking to buy that drug you just had.”
“Sleeping pills?” She looks confused.
“Sweets is what they call it. Sweet Lullabies. We mostly use it for addicts to wean them off, put them out during their withdrawal.” Bethany stares up at me, hanging on every word as I speak. I only wish this story had a better ending for her.
“She was strung out on coke; every telltale sign was there. And she was buying too much of the sweets. It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t for her. When we questioned her, she said it was for her brother. She left and never came around again.”
“We don’t have a brother.”
“I know. We could tell she was lying to us, so we sent her away.”
“That’s what you know of my sister?” Shame and sadness lace her words.
“That’s the only time I met her,” I answer her and her gaze narrows, as if she can see through my truth to the lies I just told her moments ago. But this is the truth.
“I don’t know who she was buying it for, or if it has anything to do with why she was killed.”
I’ve lost a piece of her in this moment. I don’t know how, but I did.
“Don’t judge me, Beth. I’m the one who will pay for this.”
She stares up at me, but she doesn’t say a word. Still assessing everything I said, or maybe trying to see her sister as she was in her last days.
“You’ve got to calm down.”
“I don’t just calm down,” she says, wrapping her arms around herself and I think she’s done, but she tells me a story. “I was a preemie when I was born, and I almost died. My mother told me she thought it was God punishing her. She hadn’t wanted my sister; she almost gave her up. Not that she was a bad person,” she adds, quick to defend her mother. “She didn’t think she’d be a good mom to her, and had broken up with my father just before she found out she was pregnant. She came very close to giving her up, but my father came back around and wanted to try to make things work. And then a few years later, they wanted to have me. And she told me she’d thought God was going to take me away. My lungs didn’t work and the hospital couldn’t do anything, so they put me in a helicopter and sent me away to a hospital that could save me. My mom couldn’t come at first, because she lost a lot of blood.
“My grandfather used to say I came into this world fighting and I never stopped. He told me once, ‘You’ll leave this world fighting, Bethy. And I’ll still be so proud of you.’” Tears cloud her eyes, but she doesn’t shed them. Not my fiery girl; she holds on to every bit of her pain.
“It’s okay,” I tell her, rubbing her arm and then holding her when she falls into my chest.
“I’m sorry I’m a bitch,” she tells me, sniffing away the last evidence that she may have been on the verge of crying. “I don’t know why I’m always ready to fight. I just am.”
“It’s okay, I already told you that.”
“Why is it that when you say that, it feels like it really is?” The way she looks up at me in this moment is like I’m her hero. It’s nothing but another lie.
“Because I’ll do everything I can to make sure it is okay, maybe that’s why?”
She sniffs once more and takes a step back to the counter as she says, “I should leave.”
“I want you here. I don’t want you to leave tonight.”
“Why?” she asks. “Why do you want me to stay?”
“Do you really want to go to bed alone?”
“No,” she whispers.
A moment passes between us. The look she gave me a moment ago is coming back.
“Jase, promise me one thing.”
“What?”
“Don’t hurt me.”
I lie to her again, knowing that I hurt everyone I touch. Knowing I’ve already hurt her, although the truth of that hasn’t revealed itself yet. “I won’t hurt you,” I tell her. I would have told her anything. Just to get her to stay.
Bethany
One thing the kids at the hospital do all the time is lie. They lie about taking their medication. They lie about their symptoms. They lie for all sorts of reasons all the time.
It’s my job to know when they’re lying. I can’t save them if I don’t know the truth.
When Jase looked me in the eyes hours ago, he lied to me.
I don’t know what piece of the conversation contained the lie. I don’t know how much was a lie. I don’t know why.
But I know he lied to me. And I can’t let it go. The nagging thought won’t let me sleep. He fucking lied to me. I put it all out there, allowed myself to be raw and vulnerable. My imperfect, broken, bitchy self. And he lied to my face. The worst part is that I’m sure it had to do with my sister.
That’s what hurts the most.
Every minute that passed after seeing that look on his face when he lied, every minute I thought of how I could get it out of him. How I needed to get it out of him. How I was failing Jenny by letting it happen. How I was failing myself.
I’m careful as I slip off the sheet. I haven’t slept at all, but he has. His breathing is even, and I listen to it as I gently climb out of the bed. My body is motionless when I stand up, listening to his inhales and exhales.
I already have my excuse ready in case he wakes. I never got that Advil, after all.
Every footstep is gentle as I move to the dresser, opening a drawer as silently as I can. The first drawer proves useless and as I shut it, Jase breathes in deeper, the pace of his breathing changing. I stand as still as I can, holding my own breath and praying he falls back asleep.
And he does. That steady, even breathing comes back.
With the rush of adrenaline fueling me, I move to his nightstand quietly, slowly, wondering if I’ve lost my fucking mind. I’m so close to him that he could reach out and grab me if he woke up. I watch his chest rise and fall as I open the drawer. The sound of it opening is soft, but noticeable. All the while, Jase sleeps.
I watch his chest for a steady rhythm; I watch his eyes for any movement. He’s knocked the hell out.
The faint light from the room is enough to reflect off the metal of the set of cuffs. I only have two, but if I can get one wrapped around his wrist and linked to the bed, I’ll have him where I need him.
Trapped, until he tells me the fucking truth.
I almost shut the
drawer, almost, but then I realize he would be able to reach it, and nestled inside are both a gun and a knife.
The metal gleams in the night and I carefully pick up both weapons and move them to the top of the dresser on the other side of the room, away from his reach.
Thump. Thump. The heat of uneasiness creeps along my skin. My own breathing intensifies, my hands shake slightly and the metal of the handcuffs clinks in the quiet night.
Freezing where I am on the other side of the bed, I wait. And wait. Watching him carefully. If he woke up right now, I don’t even know what he’d do to me.
But it’s better to suffer that consequence than to accept him lying straight to my face, all the while, I fall for him … him and his lies.
It’s what my mother did. She accepted my father’s lies. And it left her a lonely woman. I won’t be with a liar. I don’t care about any debt or any other bullshit reason. I can’t trust a liar.
I don’t realize how angry I’ve become, not until Jase rolls over slightly in bed and my heart leaps up my throat.
The thought runs through my mind not to do it. That I’m out of my element and this world is more dangerous than I can handle. This isn’t the person I am.
But he lied to me. …About Jenny.
Biting down on my bottom lip, I creep back up onto the bed and close one of the cuffs around an iron post of Jase’s bed. There are four metal posts that surround his bed. The soft clink of the locks goes by slowly, clink, clink, clink and I swear he’ll hear it, but his chest rises and falls evenly while he shows no signs of waking.
As I lean closer to him, closer to the other side, and ready to slip the other cuff through the post on that side of him, I gaze down at his face. In his sleep, he’s still a man of power. But even with his strong stubbled jaw, there’s a peacefulness I haven’t seen.
He’s only a man.
It fucking hurts to look at him. When someone can hurt you, it means you care. I have lived my life making sure not to care, so that I won’t be hurt. And yet, Jase Cross pushed his way in, only to lie to me.
It solidifies my decision. I’ll be damned either way.
Clink, clink, clink. With both handcuffs in place, I know securing the one on the left to his wrist will be easy. His wrist is close to the first cuff already. I’m sure he’ll wake and then I’ll be fucked, but I have to try. I’ll have him where I want him.
With that thought, I go through with it, not second-guessing a thing.
I grab his wrist and it’s by sheer dumb luck that he wakes up and grabs my throat with that hand. His dark eyes open wide and he stares daggers at me. Pinning me with a fierce look, the fear I knew I held for him deep down makes me still.
The look he shows is of startle and shock, and I don’t let it distract me, even if I do scream out of instinct.
I drop my head down, shoving my face into the headboard, feeling the burn rising over my head from hitting my nose, and slip the metal around his wrist, scraping it against his skin as he screams at me, locking it into place.
“What the fuck are you doing?” his voice bellows in the room. His grip tightens for a moment, right before releasing me altogether.
I can still feel the imprint of his hand on my throat, the power he has to hurt me. I can feel it as I kick away from him, fighting with the sheets to get far enough away.
Scrambling backward, I fall hard off the bed onto my back, gasping for breath as my heart attempts to climb out of my throat.
Jase rips his arm back, yelling in vain as the metal digs into his wrist and the bed shakes, but he remains attached to it. Cuffed to the bed. He does it again and again and each time I lie on my back like a coward, my elbows propping me up on the floor as I wait with bated breath to see if I have trapped the beast.
“What the fuck did you do?” he jeers. “Where’s the key?” he asks in a snarl.
Silence. Did I really do it? Thump.
“Where’s the fucking key!” he screams until his face turns red. The anger seeps into the air around us as I slowly stand.
“I have the key,” I manage to say somehow calmly, still in disbelief. He blinks the sleep from his eyes, breathing from his nostrils and slowly coming to the realization of what’s happened. The way he looks down at me, like I betrayed him—I’d be a liar if I said it didn’t kill something inside of me.
I ruin what I touch. I should have known this would end with him hating me.
“Give it to me,” he requests with an eerily calm tone, one that chills me to my bones.
“No,” I say, and the word falls from me easily. More easily than I could have imagined as I stand up straighter, walking slowly around the edge of the bed. Not unlike the way he does to me when I undress for him.
His dark eyes narrow on me. “Don’t do this. I won’t be mad. Just give me the key.”
Thump. Thump. Fear burns inside of me. The fear of both repenting, and the fear of going through with it.
I keep walking, slowly making my way to the dresser and Jase’s eyes move to it before looking back at me. “What are you doing?” he asks me, and then I hear him swallow. I hear the hint of fear creeping into his voice. “Give me the key.”
I ignore his demand and pick up the gun. I don’t aim it at him, I merely hold it and tell him, “Put the open cuff around your other wrist.” Although I lack true confidence, the gun slipping slightly in my sweaty palms.
“And how would you like me to do that?” Jase questions, a lack of patience and irritation are the only things I can hear in his voice. Like I’m a child asking for something ridiculous.
“You’re a big boy,” I bite back, “I’m sure you can figure it out.”
All the while I watch him and he watches me, my heart does this pitter-patter in my chest making me think it’s giving up on me as it stalls every time Jase looks back. Using the pillow and occasionally leaning down to hold the cuff between his teeth, he struggles to lock it. I don’t trust him enough to do it myself though. There’s no way he wouldn’t grab me.
My heart beats faster with each passing second as he attempts to close the cuff himself.
Every moment his gaze touches mine, questioning why I’d do this, I question it myself.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whisper when I hear the cuff finally pushed into place. He rests his wrists against the iron rod, pushing it tighter and securing it.
“Then put the gun down,” he urges me and I listen. I set it down on the dresser where it sat only minutes ago and hesitantly turn to him, each wrist cuffed to his bed.
“You can still uncuff me,” he suggests with more dominance than he should have. Especially because I lift the knife at the end of his sentence.
“More cuffs.” I speak the words and fight back the bile rising in my stomach from knowing my own intentions.
Jase’s eyes stay on the knife as he answers me, “In the top drawer of the dresser. To the right side… with the ropes.” His voice is dull and flat. “You’re going to cuff my ankles?” he guesses correctly and I nod without looking at him, simply because I can’t.
Thump. Thump. My heart feels like it’s lagging behind as I pick up the cuffs from the drawer, right where he said they were.
“Why are you doing this?” he asks me; any hint of arrogance or even anger is gone.
I can barely swallow as I move toward him. With the sheet barely covering him but laid haphazardly over his groin still, the rest of him is fully exposed. He is Adonis. Trapped and furious, but ultimately mortal.
“I want answers,” I say, and I don’t know how I’m able to speak. “You lied to me. I know you did.”
His only response is to stretch out his legs, not fighting, not resisting. Putting his ankles close to the rods.
He’s helping me. Or it’s a trick. I decide on the latter, moving closer, but hesitantly.
“Go on,” he tells me, staring down at me.
I stand back far enough away from the footboard, cautious as I click the first cuff into place.
“Go ahead, cailín tine,” he tells me, staring into my eyes. His nickname for me breaks my heart. Even as I look away, feeling shame and guilt consume me even though I know I have a good reason to do this. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
With the last cuff in place, and Jase half sitting up in bed, leaning against the headboard and staring at me, I observe him from where I stand.
“What are you going to do now?” I ask him.
“Wait.”
“You lied to me.” I whisper the ragged words and turn the handle of the knife over in my hand.
“When?” he questions, and the muscles in his neck tighten.
A sad laugh leaves me and I’m only vaguely conscious of it when I hear it.
“So you did lie?” I ask weakly, feeling the weight against my chest. “And here I was hoping I was just crazy.”
“I’d be hard-pressed in this moment to call you sane,” Jase comments, and my eyes move to his. “Yes, I lied to you.”
“What was a lie?” I ask him and take a step closer to the bed. The floorboard creaks under my step and I halt where I am, taking it as a warning.
“I don’t want to tell you. It doesn’t matter.” He speaks a contradiction.
Wiping my forehead with the back of my hand, still holding the knife, I walk closer to him, gauging his ability to move, even though he’s still as can be.
“I don’t think you could do anything,” I start to tell him as I stand right in front of the nightstand, “if I stand right here.” Holding out my arm, I gently place the blade of the knife on his chest, not pushing at all, but letting him see how far away I can be while still capable of hurting him. “What do you think?” I ask him, wondering if I truly am crazy at this point.
“What do you want to know?” he asks, not answering my question.
“What did you lie about?”
“It’s irrelevant.”