Revenge Bound

by Heidi Joy Tretheway

  “Sister!” I sing. “How much trouble are you in, and how long are you grounded?”

  Katie laughs. “Just because I call you to complain whenever I get caught breaking curfew doesn’t mean I did it last night. Or, at least I didn’t get caught.”

  “You’re going to give Dad a heart attack, Katie.”

  “Not if he’s drooling in an armchair when I sneak in.”

  Katie’s so bad. If I’d pulled stunts like that, I’d have been grounded for a month.

  “Seriously, Katie. He’s working hard on the campaign stuff. Give him a break.” I don’t know why I’m sticking up for my father, considering the rift between us since he asked me to reconcile with Brady. Call it growing up. “Anyway, this will all be over in November.”

  “It better be. I don’t want to do my senior year with a million rules when my friends can get away with pretty much anything.”

  She has a point. My folks have always been strict.

  “So, the real reason I’m calling is not that I’m in trouble. But you are.”

  My heart plummets. “What did you see?”

  “Did you see People? New issue just came out.”

  Of course I didn’t see the magazine. The last thing I want to read is garbage about people who are unlucky enough to be sucked into the spotlight. They could have been me.

  “Hang on a sec. I’m sending you a picture.” I hear Katie rustling in the background and then my phone chimes with a text. The photo in the text is a picture of a page from the magazine, and that page features a large picture of Kiki Kennedy, boobs thrust out, hand on her hip, with Abraham Swift’s arm snaking around her waist.

  “So?” I ask. I don’t want to admit I know Kiki, much less that I was at her party. Katie would ask me an avalanche of questions.

  “Look in the corner, over Kiki’s right shoulder. That’s you, Vi.”

  I toggle my screen back to the text and holy cats, that is me. It’s a grainy shot, probably taken with a cell phone by one of the party guests. I’m in the background, my arms locked around Jayce’s neck as we dance.

  My sister knows what’s up. She reads People the way my parents read the bible, so I shouldn’t be surprised that she spotted me with Jayce.

  “That wig is so wild,” Katie gushes, not waiting for my confirmation. “I wouldn’t have even believed it was you, but I’ve been looking at you for seventeen years. Is he really your boyfriend?”

  “I’m not sure,” I confessed. “He might be. We’re—close.”

  “I thought you said you liked a guy named Justin?”

  “That’s his name. He just goes by Jayce, like, short for JC.”

  “A nickname for a nickname. Weird.” Katie shrugs it off. “So can I come visit? I want to meet him! I’m lifeguarding but I’m off Mondays and Tuesdays, so I could take the bus down Sunday night and stay with you.”

  “No!” I choke out, then try to moderate my voice so she won’t hear the fear in it. I can’t let her come to the city until the police catch that stalker. Until then, Jayce has commanded me to stay at his place. “I mean, not yet. Give me a couple of weeks to figure stuff out, then we’ll plan it.”

  “OK.” Katie’s tone is wary. “What are you not telling me, Vi?”

  “What?”

  “Something’s up. Why are you so afraid of people knowing you’re dating a rock star? If it were me, I’d tell everyone I know. Especially that Tierney bitch who stole my prom date.”

  “I can’t talk about it right now,” I say, putting an officious note in my voice. “I’m sorry, I’m just on the way out the door. But I’ll tell you everything once things calm down.”

  “Promise?” Katie’s sweet request makes it hard to lie to her. Of course I can’t tell her the whole truth about Brady’s pictures.

  “Yeah, I promise.”

  “Don’t leave out the juicy parts. He’s gorgeous!”

  “Katie,” I scold. “Can you promise me something? Promise you won’t tell anyone about this, OK? I’m just not—I mean, Jayce is a really private guy.”

  Katie snorts. “Not buying that. He’s in People like every other month with some new bimbo.” She halts, realizing what she’s said. “Wait. Not you, Violet. I didn’t mean that you were one of his bimbos. Sorry.”

  “You’re forgiven if you promise not to tell anyone. Maybe Jayce isn’t all that quiet about his dating life, but I’m not ready for my life to be public yet, OK?” There. That gets as close to the truth as I’m ready to tell her right now.

  “Fine. But remember, you’re already kind of public. I mean, with all the campaigning you’ve done for Dad and Butthead—don’t you think that’s a better name than Brady?—you’ve got to have a pretty decent presence online.”

  I gasp, afraid that this thought will send Katie’s fingers to Google. The only thing I have going for me right now is that my name’s not in the picture caption in People. They don’t know who I am, and the black wig makes it unlikely anyone else will recognize me.

  “I really have to go, Katie,” I say, hating the words. “But we’ll talk soon, K?”

  “We’d better. Miss you, big sister.”

  “Miss you too, little sis.”

  ***

  I call Neil and beg him to bring me some more stuff from our apartment. I buzz him in when he hauls it over on his lunch break, grumpy as usual.

  “More shit from your secret admirer.” He flips a bag on Jayce’s kitchen counter with several envelopes inside. None are stamped, but all are addressed to me. “He’s not going to stop until he gets to you, Violet.”

  I press my fingers to my temples, my head pounding as blood rushes to my brain. “I’m trying. Jayce found me a lawyer who’s trying to work something out with the porn sites.”

  “That’s not going to make any difference with this guy,” Neil says. “And you can’t just hide here forever.”

  I nod miserably, feeling every bit like Rapunzel in her tower. I need more than just a prince to climb my hair—I need him to slay dragons: the stalker, the revenge porn sites, and the media vultures.

  It’s too much to ask of anyone.

  “I’m all out of options,” I tell him. “The police still haven’t called with news and I can’t go out without risking being seen and linked to Jayce. And then everything will blow up.”

  “So they’ve won,” Neil says. “Brady. The stalker. They’ve backed you into a corner and it’s like you’re building your own prison.”

  “What can I do? There’s no magic formula that will get me out of this.”

  “It’s true. You can’t un-ring this bell.” Neil steps up to me, toe to toe, our eyes at the same height. “But you can live your life. Starting now. I was closeted for five years from the time I admitted to myself I was gay, and the time I was willing to tell anyone. The only thing worse than the shit that’ll rain down on you from going out and being yourself is the shit that suffocates you when you’re in hiding. There is nothing worse than that.”

  I open and close my mouth, at a loss for what to say.

  “Those pictures aren’t the end of the world, Violet.” Neil takes my hand and his tone softens. “You didn’t do anything wrong, but he did. Brady took a private moment and threw it out there for the world to see. So go get your suit of armor, find a sword, and quit waiting for someone to rescue you. The only way you’re going to win is if you fight this yourself.”

  ***

  Neil planted a seed and as I shower, an idea takes root. I might not be able to fight the revenge porn sites, but I can fight the man who caused this hell.

  Brady.

  I blow dry my hair and dress, mentally rewinding the ten months we were together. He was careful, but not careful enough. In the weeks after he tied me up and took those pictures—in the time it took me to gather the courage to break up with him—he let things slip through the cracks.

  I flip open my laptop and log in to my email. I dig through dozens of messages between us, messages I should have deleted long ago,
until I find the clue I need: the picture he sent me of his dream car. I couldn’t remember the name of the Lotus Evora, but I know he types it daily.

  And then I commit my own cybercrime. I log out of my email account and attempt to log into his. I try LotusEvora, lotusevora, and finally break through with L0tusEv0ra.

  I search for the words Sexy Bitches and find nothing. But when I search the word “upload” I find dozens of messages. And after combing through one dull political message after another, I finally hit pay dirt.

  In his sent messages folder, there’s an upload to a site identified only by ISP numbers. Attached to the message are three photos—mine. Fire floods my veins as I hit “forward” and send the message to my own email. Even though Brady all but confirmed his crime in the foyer of my parents’ house, this is proof.

  He did this.

  With this first taste of blood, ratting him out isn’t enough. I want to ruin him, so I poke through other folders, searching for something worse, tastes I know he has for girls far younger than me.

  In an email folder labeled “Term Papers - Grad School” I find the sickening truth. Emails exchanged with a handful of people bearing photos of girls in bondage. They’re bent and bound, humiliated, stripped bare, contorted and covered in God knows what.

  There’s no way these girls are eighteen. I wouldn’t just card them for cigarettes. I’d card them for a PG-13 movie.

  My stomach rumbles with revulsion. Cringing, I forward three of these emails to myself as well.

  CHAPTER 41: JAYCE

  I ask her every day, and every day she says no.

  Finally, I’ve found the girl I really want to be with, and she doesn’t want to be seen with me. No dates. No dinners out. Nothing but hiding in my apartment.

  I’m sick of it, but I can hardly blame her. I can’t risk what we have right now simply because I want more.

  I pumped weights hard tonight after practice, working out the anxiety of being stuck hiding her but unable to help.

  Gus has made some headway on takedown orders, but it’s still less than half the sites he dug up with her pictures splayed across them. In a roundabout way, he even suggested hiring a hacker to try to take down the sites, but I wouldn’t know where to start to find someone who could do that, and of course Gus has to cover his own ass and avoid anything illegal.

  I swing by a market and pick up stuff for dinner—fresh pasta, herb salad, and chicken breasts that I’ll pound flat and turn into a wicked parmigiana. At least I can cook for my girl.

  When I swing open my door, Violet’s at the kitchen bar tapping on her laptop with a glass of wine beside her.

  But oh, holy hell, she looks good. She’s wearing a clingy black dress with sleeves that sit below her shoulders, displaying every inch of that freckled collarbone I love to taste. Her hair is fresh and curled, falling softly over her shoulders, and her makeup makes her green eyes pop.

  I dump the groceries on the counter and circle her waist, pulling her off the barstool and against my chest. “You look amazing,” I manage, before taking her lips with mine, exploring that soft crease in her lower lip, tasting apricots and sweet white wine.

  She takes my tongue between her teeth and I feel myself go hard immediately. It’s a shame she looks so good, because I want that dress off her in three, two, one…

  “Go get ready to go out,” Violet says, and pushes me away slightly, but with a smile.

  I look down at my chest, T-shirt still damp with sweat and my shorts looking pretty ratty next to her polish. I didn’t know she had this dress with her.

  Wait.

  “Did you go to your apartment?” My voice is harsher than I intend, but fear for her safety puts me on edge.

  “No.” She scowls. “I had Neil bring me some stuff. And then he talked sense into me, said I can’t hide here forever. So we’re going out.”

  “Even if you—even if we’re seen?”

  “I figured out a place where that shouldn’t be a problem,” Violet said, one of her brows arched. “Get ready. We’ve got a reservation at eight.”

  I dive for the shower, wishing I could coax her to follow me, but knowing we’d probably be here another hour if she has to re-do all the girly shit like hair and makeup if I get her wet.

  Wet. God, my cock throbs at the promise of it. Since we’ve been back, I haven’t tried anything as kinky as tying her up again, but even normal sex always carries this charge with us, this give-and-take power exchange.

  I’ve had her in every room, in every position, and on practically every surface in my apartment. But there’s one thing we haven’t done since we’ve been back from LA.

  “Are you curling your hair, or what?” Violet’s in a sassy mood as she comes into the bedroom, watching me as I dress. I practically fall over pulling on nice jeans when she deliberately crosses her legs and I see a flash of creamy flesh above her stockings.

  Stockings. Damn. The last time she wore stockings, I almost pushed her too far. But maybe these are an invitation for more.

  I call a car and she gives the driver an address in the East Village I don’t recognize. We pull up outside a place called Crif Dogs with a low ceiling and brick walls. Violet’s way overdressed for this place. Past the arcade games, vinyl barstools sit beneath a skinny ledge. At the back, an oversized sign advertises the weirdest hot dog toppings imaginable.

  She tugs me into a phone booth, and there’s barely enough room for one person, much less two. Not that I’m complaining as I mold her body into mine, her back to my front.

  Shit. Not a good idea if I don’t want to walk without a tent pole in my pants. Violet picks up the phone and says a few words, then the wall at the back of the phone booth swings open, revealing a hidden room.

  It’s dark, the kind of place where mob bosses would make deals under smoke-clouded air. A hostess leads us to a booth beneath some freaky taxidermy and I slide in next to her.

  The menu is hot dogs and high-end cocktails. Violet winks at me. “Your night’s about to get a lot more interesting,” she says, and her hand snakes up my thigh to my crotch, ensuring I might never get up from this table with all the blood rushing to my dick.

  “You’re trying to kill me, woman.”

  “No, I’m just feeling a lot more brave,” she says, and strokes me through my jeans. Holy shit. If she gets any braver, I’m going to come undone.

  Violet keeps up the tease through our meal, and true to her promise, the hot dogs are fantastic. I pick something called the Lil’ Ma, which is pretty much everything a pregnant lady could wish for—pickles, peanut butter and crushed potato chips on a hot dog wrapped in bacon. All that’s missing is the ice cream.

  I’m flying by the time we finish our date, pawing Violet in the town car, grinning like an idiot as I hold her hand and walk her through my apartment lobby.

  I grab her boobs in the elevator, slam the apartment door behind us, and bend her over the back of my couch because the bedroom is too damn far away.

  Violet’s hair tumbles around her and I slide up her skirt to get a look at her ass bracketed by the garter belt’s ribbons. My mouth has been watering for her taste all night.

  I drop my pants and let my fingers explore her, coaxing her into the position I’ve imagined all night: legs spread, ass up high, chest draped down over the couch, hair spilling across the cushions. The tip of my cock nudges her ass and she shivers.

  I snap the garter’s elastic against the tender flesh of her thighs and she whimpers, but when I pause to be sure that I’m not pushing her too far, she tilts her ass and grinds harder against me.

  I pull away from her and she whimpers again with need. I go to the kitchen and fill a glass with ice and whisky, savoring its rich aroma as it slides down my throat. I walk back to the couch where she’s still bent and waiting for me, the rise of her rib cage and quiver of her legs telling me exactly how much she’s anticipating my next touch.

  I pluck an ice cube from my glass and hold it above her ass, letting
droplets fall on her milky skin. Each drop makes her quake and I stoop to follow them with my tongue.

  “Is this a test?” Her voice is breathy.

  “It can be. What are you willing to give me?” I hold my breath, waiting, watching, wanting.

  “Everything.”

  The word electrifies me. I’ve been afraid to go back to that dark place that almost tore us apart, when I bound her and it was too much for her to take. And since then, I’ve never taken the full measure of what I wanted.

  But tonight, Violet gives me control. She gives and I take, but I’m not just taking pleasure for myself. I’m taking her to the place she wants to be.

  I peel off her stockings, my lips and tongue and teeth caressing her flesh as thoroughly as my fingers. I bind her wrists again, holding her dark green eyes captive as I anchor the stocking to the leg of the coffee table.

  I take her mouth greedily, my hands pulling at her dress to strip her bare as we kiss, as our tongues writhe and dance.

  And then I take the rest of her body—with my tongue first, and then my sheathed cock slides into her. I feel the rippling of her body as she clenches me inside her, the vibration of her chest as she moans with my strokes, the twitches of pleasure as I torture her clit, flicking it faster as I increase our pace.

  I push her harder and higher. Her wrists strain against the stocking bindings, her legs tremble from this position and each time I slam into her. Our bodies slap together and I can feel the energy gathering, the fuse lit inside me.

  I grit my teeth to hold it back, bearing down on her clit with one finger and circling her ass with another. Three more seconds, two, one, and I know the exact fucking moment when Violet’s world explodes.

  Her scream rips through my ears as my climax rips through my cock. The surge shatters my vision and in my moment of blindness, I don’t see stars, or God.

  All I see is Violet. Perfectly.

  ***

  Pounding on my door wrenches me out of deep sleep, and I extract myself from Violet, whose body is tucked into the curve of mine. I grab boxers and a T-shirt and hustle to the front door. Chief’s on the other side.