SECRET Revealed (20 page)

As he lifted the hem of the nightie, I writhed against the restraints. My breathing quickened. I felt his hair tickle my shoulder, his lips barely touching me as he made his way softly, achingly, lower and lower, his thumbs pressing my skin. I felt his tongue now circling my belly button, the tip dipping in, traveling lower still, his mouth following his firm fingers, which were now pressing back my folds, testing my wetness, at first tentatively, and then driving into me. He began the delicious task of firmly thrusting into me with his thick finger, while kissing along my inner thigh seam, blowing cool air against the incredible wetness he was creating. My knees bowed in, pushing against the restraints, my full weight on the one around my waist, my wrists pulling in.

This was
crazy
. I couldn’t help him, I couldn’t guide him, I couldn’t press against him or wriggle away. I could only take it in, accept it, the sensation of his mouth on my clitoris. It was all I could do not to explode on contact. But I wanted to hold something back. His mouth was humming
and moaning, while his fingers continued their exploration of my tender insides, finding the perfect friction, the perfect rhythm, the perfect combination of pain and pleasure, all the action focused on that one damn spot, while the rest of my body was pinned and spread.

“Oh!” I felt a shot of pleasure. Arching, I pressed against the restraints, seeking more, and he gave it, his tongue dipping into me, while his fingers worked their magic.

“Solange,” he murmured, purring my name, his finger fucking me, his tongue working me into a frenzy, and I couldn’t hold back anymore. With every thrust and lash of his tongue, he brought me closer and closer. He pulled the orgasm out of my very core, my cries beginning as whimpers, building to moans, until I was pressing against all the restraints yelling, “Oh yes, yesss!” And I came with full explosive release—so fast I felt like a teenager.

I came so intensely into the dark, black room that pleasure seemed to pour out of my very bones. He had turned me into a wall of wet ecstasy, taking away all my knowledge of where he began and I ended. While I was barely coming down off that blind precipice, a small motor whirred alive and I had the lovely sensation of falling gently backwards.

“Relax, Solange, I’m reclining you.”

Inch by inch, the blood flooded back into my fists as the momentum of the cross brought me from standing to lying back. I was not fully prone but it relieved my wrists nonetheless.

“Are your hands okay?”

I whispered, “Yes.”

“Good, because I’m going to fuck you now—is that all right with you?”

I muttered another “yes,” my head lolling against my upper arm for support. He split my legs open wider and maneuvered his body between them. He released my ankles, bending my knees and spreading them wide. I felt the restraints weighing them open, this time secured around my bent knees, as though I was now trussed open for his pleasure. I heard a belt, a buckle, the thud of shoes, the swish of discarded pants, the crinkle of foil, the sweet prodding and then the luscious fullness as he entered me, tentatively at first, until he sensed how wet I was, how well he had prepared me for this. His thrusts were agonizing at first, long and slow, in and out, and then he set about fucking me faster, hard and steady, his fingers clutching the restraints. This was intense, the angle of the table, the way he pulled my thighs wide, how he thrust so deep he was hitting me in places that I had thought unreachable. I was all sensation, from the center of myself out. I felt another orgasm spiraling, coming from god knows where, but it felt deep and visceral and I cried out again, screaming, “Oh, oh, it’s happening, oh god, yes …” and I came again, feeling him shudder too, his fingers digging into the flesh of my thighs as he released into me, the intensity of his thrusts softening as his own orgasm ebbed.

Then, with a few deft clicks he released my wrists, my thighs and me, leaving me panting in the dark, my arms and
legs still starfished out, barely able to believe the sensations cascading through my limbs. That rush of relief when the restraints were loosened—it made me laugh,
laugh
, the way you laugh when you see mountains or the ocean for the first time. The way you can laugh at something you were once afraid of when you realize it can’t hurt you, when you realize it never could.

The first thing I did, after securing my Step Five charm—
Fearlessness
—to my increasingly crowded little bracelet, was to take a bottle of water from the little fridge in the limo. I was parched, sore, spent and glowing. Checking my phone was the
second
thing I did.

That was progress.

A text from Julius popped up on the screen, and during the seconds before I read it, a cascade of awful scenarios crossed my mind. This time I stopped them and just read the damn text. And guess what? Nothing horrible had happened! Nobody was at the hospital. Nobody was hurt. Quite the opposite! Julius had actually scheduled Gus’s yearly checkup with the pediatrician, something I usually did. The appointment was for the following Thursday afternoon. Julius wanted to know if I could make it.

For sure. And thanks for organizing that
, I replied.

The second text was from Denise at the news desk.

Pierre Castille’s office called. He declined the request for an interview. Sry
.

Damn.

Thanks for letting me know, Denise
, I wrote back.

I wanted to add:
Would it kill you to type out
sorry
instead of
sry? Seriously. Or as Denise would write:
srsly
. Then I laughed out loud. No sooner had the restraints come off than I reverted to my strident self. Damn.

Seconds later, my phone dinged.

No worries
, the text read.

I thought it was from Denise, but it was Julius.
Julius?
I noted the time: 12:30 a.m. Uh-oh. My heart skipped.

What are you still doing up? Everything ok with Gus?

All good. Doing payroll. What are YOU still doing up?

I’m in the back of a limo, with sore wrists and ankles from the restraints used to tie me up against a wall, where an unseen stranger fucked me silly … Ha!

I typed,
Can’t sleep
.

Me neither
.

The joys of parenthood
.

Truth
.

Try counting sheep
.

That doesn’t work
.

Read a book? Maybe one of Gus’s?

One with sheep in it?

Exactly
.

Stop! I shoved the phone into my purse. Too weird—texting my ex-husband after a sex fantasy. Especially
that
sex fantasy. I had submitted to an unseen stranger simply because he was confident and persistent.

I thought of Pierre Castille. The word
no
was anathema to me; I hated being rejected. It suddenly felt paramount to get that man to submit to me. And there was only one other person who could help. I took my phone back out and texted Matilda, requesting a coffee and a catch-up. Soon.

W
ill had forgotten he even had the sleeping pills. In fact, they’d expired, but they were nonetheless potent enough to put Claire into a brief coma. And though she didn’t take all of them and admitted later it was just a cry for help, it was a cry we all heard loud and clear.

After she left the hospital, Claire was away from school and work for the rest of the month of February. The first week she spent with her folks back in Slidell, during which she permitted Will and me to log in to her social media accounts to see what she’d been dealing with, and to gather evidence, for what, we didn’t know yet.

“Holy shit,” Will muttered, scrolling down her pages, the light from the computer illuminating both our faces.

The comments came from several young women who flung words like “ho,” “hoebag,” “whore,” “bitch,” “cunt” (even “cum rag,” which I thought was “scumbag” spelled wrong, until I really read it). Up and down her wall, the abuse poured, under her pictures, and in reply to every post.

“Look at all this hate,” I said. “Poor kid.”

Some of the posts listed ways in which the people posting were going to hurt and dismember her if she didn’t “leave Ben alone,” as though Ben had had no say in their relationship. They described how they would also run her out of the school if she didn’t “fucking off yerself.” Claire the joiner, the artist, the hard worker, the friend and niece, that girl was lost amid all these ugly, vile insults and threats. But the label that seemed most prominent, the one hurled most often, the one that seemed to stick, was the word “slut,” usually pasted beneath a certain photograph posted over and over again, of Claire holding up her shirt to bare a breast, just one. If that was the notorious photo, I thought, it wasn’t even a sexy one. It looked insouciant, more like the product of a dare between her and the photographer, presumably Ben. But posted over and over again with horrible slogans and tags attached, it took on darker tones.

Claire missed New Orleans and when she begged her folks to let her come back to her uncle Will’s, they were too afraid to say no, worried they’d set off more self-destructive behavior. When she returned to Will’s, a home with disconnected Wi-Fi, we all spelled one another off to spend time with her, Dell filling in for the both of us when necessary. Of all of us, Dell was the most perplexed, her face dropping when I told her how Claire had coped with this abuse.

“Well, once she’s all better, please don’t mind me if after I hug her, I slap her a little,” she said, fighting back tears.

The staff at Cassie’s was incredible, picking up shifts at the Café Rose so Maureen wouldn’t be overwhelmed or on her own, especially during Mardi Gras.

Will demanded the addresses of her tormentors. Over the course of that month, he made personal visits to each kid’s home, requesting meetings with parents, asking the girls to delete the posts, to write apologies and to give assurances that they understood the scope of their damage.

“I only wanted them to consider what it would feel like to be Claire,” he told me, while we shopped for new floor runners and plastic cutting boards for the restaurant. He looked as lost as I’d ever seen him, wandering the aisles of Home Depot. “Why did this happen? What did she do to deserve all this shit?”

“Nothing. She did nothing.”

Later, in the checkout line, I said, “I admire her.”

“Why?” Will asked.

“Because even after all of this, she never apologized for having sex with a boy she wanted to have sex with. I could learn a thing or two from a seventeen-year-old girl.”

That was a sincere comment; I wasn’t trying to make a point about Will’s behavior at Latrobe’s, but it was out of my mouth before I realized the implications.

Will averted his eyes when he said, “We could all learn from her.”

Eventually, Olivia, the main bully in Claire’s group, was booted out of the school, but Will wanted a more serious charge against her, something akin to criminal harassment.
But the school stuck to its “girls will be girls” policy, hoping Olivia’s expulsion would be enough to start the healing. I stopped Will more than once from going over to Olivia’s house to yell through a locked door, which would only have come across as a different kind of bullying.

Meanwhile, Claire gradually got better and returned to work after March Break as if from a war, shell-shocked and tender. On her first day back, she took Dell aside.

“I swear I’m okay now. I won’t do anything stupid like that again,” she said.

“Hard going through something like that all alone,” Dell said, patting her dreads. “Next time, open your mouth. Tell somebody. Tell me.”

It was surprising to see Dell act so caring, until I remembered that she’d launched four kids, including a set of twins, and two grandkids into the world, quite successfully, and mostly alone.

The kitchen was a crazy hive of activity when Will breathlessly barreled in, tossing a small paper bag on the prep table in front of me.

“Cassie, I tried to reach you but there was no answer. No black truffles, only white. That okay?”