Torment Me (Rough Love Part One) (9 page)

It was a warning.

“I won’t,” I said. “I swear I won’t.”

*** *** ***

I returned home to find Simon in a tempestuous mood. He was painting, which was good. He didn’t like what he was painting, which was bad. He was on some kind of stimulating drug, which was worse.

“Where were you?” he asked as he stabbed at the canvas with his brush.

“Meeting with Henry.”

“You weren’t with one of your men?” He flipped some of his hair over his shoulder, getting paint on his shirt with the jerky movement. “Tell me about your last one. Was he any good?”

We used to do this. I used to tell him about my clients to amuse him. I didn’t do it anymore because he was rarely amused. More often, he used it as an excuse to lose his shit and fight with me.

“My last client was very boring,” I lied.

“Oh, yeah? You didn’t come home that night.”

“You don’t come home every night either.”

He smiled like that was funny, but it wasn’t a nice smile. I felt the warning systems go off.
Tread carefully, Chere.

“But hey,” I said to soothe him, “here’s some good news. Henry’s giving me a raise, so I can see less clients and still make the same money.”

I wasn’t going to tell Simon I was going exclusive with one person, not in his current, edgy mood. But he’d wonder why I wasn’t going on as many dates, so I lied. I lied to Simon all the time these days. The lies felt more comfortable than telling him the truth.

“Less dates for the same money?” Simon said.
Stab, stab, stab
, still stabbing at his canvas. “Why don’t you keep seeing the same number of guys and just make more?”

Why don’t you make more?
I thought to myself.
Why does your art suck? Why are you blowing our savings on drugs? Why can’t things be the way they used to be?

“Or are you losing clients?” he said, turning to me with an accusatory stare.

He was worried about the money. He knew his comfortable drug-addict existence was dependent on my career. If I stopped escorting, he wouldn’t have the money he needed for narcotics and partying with his lemming-artist friends.

“My work is going fine,” I said coolly. I wondered if he read my tone, the tone that said
Unlike yours
.

Apparently he did, because he came at me, stalked across the studio, his dripping brush pointed at me like a weapon. He jabbed the brush toward my face, his features screwed into a furious mask. I was terrified he’d try to take out my eyes. I told him to fuck off, and pushed him away. The brush flew across the room and then he was attacking me, slapping me, pushing me down on the floor. I rolled away from him and ran, but he caught me before I got to the door. I hit, I punched, I kicked, but he was stronger, and whatever he was on made him stronger still.

“What’s wrong with you?” I shrieked, although I knew what was wrong with him. “Let go of me. Let go!”

“You cunt. You bitch. You think you’re so much better than me.”

“No, I don’t!”

“I talked to Boris White. Boris White, you fucking cunt. I’m going to do a show next month, so fuck you.”

“Let go of me.”

I screamed
no
and
stop
, and pushed at him, but when he wigged out like this, there wasn’t any way to calm him.
You asked for this
, I thought.
You set him off.
As quickly as he’d attacked me, he was gone and I was gone, running out the door, not looking behind me. I ran into the guest room and slammed the door and threw the lock. This was my safe room. It had a dead bolt, because Simon had these druggie freak outs now and again.

A moment later he was back, banging on the door like a maniac.

“Don’t lock me out!” he yelled.

“Go away!”

He started kicking the door so hard I was afraid the frame would give way. I stood with my back against it and prayed for it to hold.

He finally stopped kicking, and I slept and cried, and slept and cried some more, and waited for whatever he’d ingested to wear off. Whatever he’d taken, it had made him into
that
person. Not Simon, but that monster who was erratic, heartless, terrifying.

I had to leave him.

I knew I had to leave Simon, but after a decade together and so much history, how did that leaving start? How did you forget all the memories and cut those ties? And what would happen to him when I was gone?

I stroked my face where he’d slapped it, and wondered if there’d be bruises. My mother had always had bruises. Her partners always slapped her around, and I had always thought to myself,
not me. I’ll never put up with that when I’m in a relationship.

But I did put up with it, and I hated myself for it. In some sick, twisted way, I believed that I deserved his abuse, and I probably looked just like my mother had looked when her men were hitting her. She used to cry for me to help her, but I always ran away because I didn’t want to be hurt too.

She asked for this
, I would tell myself, but the sounds were awful, and I’d hide under my pillows, pressing them to my ears. In the darkness, her image would be burned in my mind, her cowering, her pained expressions. She always looked resigned and guilty, just waiting for it to end.

I arrived at the Empire Hotel lobby a few minutes early. No eye mask today, which was great, but I was still a wreck. At some point, W was going to come strolling through those doors, and I was supposed to recognize him and follow him to the elevators. He seemed to think it would be easy. I wasn’t so sure.

I found a place with a good view of the entrance, and sat in my call-girl skirt and blouse with my legs pressed together. Ice blue linen today, with an ivory top and pearls. Designer bag and shoes, and freshly blown out hair. I’d worked so hard to look nice, to reward him for trusting me. If I didn’t recognize him, it would all be for nothing. I’d just sit in the lobby and wait, and eventually have to go home.

For some reason, I imagined him with dark hair, and olive skin. The machismo thing, I guess. I figured he’d be older, old enough to know what he wanted, and old enough to be really good in bed. When I closed my eyes, I saw someone tall, muscular but not too built, with glossy black hair and dark eyes. But at two minutes after seven, someone walked through the door, 40ish, tallish, with blond-burnished hair and a natural tan, and I thought,
that’s him
. I can’t say how I knew. The way he walked, the way he carried himself, the way he wore that crisp white shirt and dark red tie. The way he didn’t look around the lobby. He headed toward the elevators and I surged to my feet.

But then I paused. Was it him? He didn’t look the way I’d expected him to look, and he didn’t seem like he was waiting for someone. He seemed like he was in a hurry to go upstairs. If he was W, wouldn’t he turn to see if I was following him?

I glanced back at the lobby, frozen. No one else could be him. Maybe he wasn’t here yet. But Jesus, the elevator was there and he was getting on it. I ran in my tight pencil skirt and heels. There were six other people on the elevator. I caught the man’s eyes. Nothing, only the same detached appreciation I was getting from the guy next to me, and the other guy who asked me what floor.

What floor?
I didn’t know what floor.

“You already got it,” I said, because six different floor buttons were lit up.

If the blond man was W, he would have said so by now, wouldn’t he? No. He’d make me sweat all the way up. He’d punish me for pausing in the lobby, for not being sure. I straightened my shoulders as the elevator rose. Passengers got out one after the other. By the end, it was just me and the blond man. I didn’t look at him. My cheeks flamed hot with embarrassment and fear. I felt attracted to him, even though I wasn’t sure it was him. He definitely wasn’t dark and Mediterranean. No. Blond, a
natural
blond, unlike me.

The elevator stopped at the final floor. He looked at me and gestured for me to go before him. I got nothing from that look. No recognition, no approval. Nothing. Shit. I’d fucked up. It wasn’t him. I got out and lingered, feeling stupid as he headed down the hallway. I followed forlornly behind him, hoping he’d turn and laugh, and give me a thumbs up, and say, “You did it, you found me.”

But he didn’t do that. He keyed open a hotel room door, and turned to look at me. “Can I help you with somethin’, darlin’?”

The accent was pure Texas. He looked like a Texan, like a cowboy, with sky blue eyes, and that rugged, solid body, that gold, shining hair and that real, natural tan, the kind you only got from being outside. Damn it. Was it W? Was he fucking with me? I couldn’t shake the feeling that it was him. By this time, I’d been standing and staring way too long.

He tilted his head, studying me. “Would you like to come in? Have a drink?”

Still the Texas accent, but it was exactly the way W would say it. And he wouldn’t invite me into the room if it wasn’t him. A complete stranger wouldn’t invite some random woman into his hotel room.

I decided it had to be him, and that he was just fucking with me. I believed it was him, up until the point the door shut, and he clapped a broad hand over my mouth and nose. He spun me around and thunked my head against the wall at the same time the lock clicked into place. This man, this polite Texas cowboy, stared at me with murder in his eyes.

“Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to talk to strangers?” he said.

I stared back at him, disordered thoughts tumbling through my head as he worked to suffocate the life out of me. His accent made me sick, because it wasn’t W’s accent and I should have known it wasn’t him, and W was in this hotel somewhere right now thinking what an idiot I was. And I was an idiot. An idiot who was about to get murdered. Blood rushed in my ears as I clawed at him, struggling to break away.

“You don’t want to leave yet, do you?” he drawled. “We’re just gettin’ started.”

The edges of my world started to go black. I didn’t think about W, or Simon, or anyone as darkness overtook me. I just thought,
really? This is how my life is going to end?

When I woke again, I was lying face down on the floor. My skirt was pulled up around my waist and my panties were gone. I tried to swallow and choked on a mouthful of fabric, and realized my panties were in my mouth. I scrabbled at my lips but he was tightening a rope around my head so I couldn’t spit them out. I pulled at the makeshift gag, screaming, but all that came out was a hacking, muffled sound.

I turned onto my side and then flopped onto my back, gasping for air. He stood over me with a bright, maniacal smile.
Oh shit, oh shit, he’s going to fucking kill me.
His tie was off, his shirt undone. Had I ripped open all the buttons when I fought him? I kicked at him, losing my stilettos, but he just laughed and hauled me off the floor, and threw me on the bed.

Shit, shit, shit.
Now that I was this close to him, I realized he didn’t smell right. I couldn’t smell W’s cologne. It wasn’t him, and I was locked in a hotel room with a sociopathic stranger. I shoved at him as I sent a frantic look around the room, seeking some weapon,
any
weapon, within reach. Nothing. There was nothing.

I tried to scurry off the bed, only to be dragged back where he’d originally thrown me. As he held me down by the neck, I noticed the ends of his red tie fall on the covers beside me, and realized that was what he’d used to gag me. Red for emergency. Red for blood. Red, red, red.
It’s not him. It’s not fucking him.

“Let me go. Let me go!” I flailed at him, to no avail. My words were garbled nonsense behind the gag he’d improvised. I wanted to fight, but I was helpless and held down, with my own panties impeding my breath. My lips hurt, and my throat hurt from useless, muffled screaming. My whole body was one big, terrified heartbeat, throbbing
help me, help me, help me, help me.
But no one was going to help me.

“Listen, sweetheart,” he growled in his country twang. He knelt over me, pressing me into the bed while I tossed beneath his body weight. “Listen to me.” When I didn’t listen, he pinched my nose shut so I couldn’t breathe. I whipped my head from side to side, punching, whacking at him. He grabbed my wrists and yanked them over my head.

“Fight all you want,” he said. “This only ends one way.”

One way? What way? Rape? Dismemberment? Death?

Maybe he’d be satisfied with rape. Maybe I’d get lucky, but probably not. I’d seen too much of him by this point. I’d stared into his cold smiling face long enough now to work up a pretty accurate description for the police. He’d never let me go.

When I left stripping to start escorting, one of the other girls had told me I’d get myself killed, that half the johns in New York were murderers. I could still remember her shrill voice, and the way I’d laughed at her warnings. Now I wish I’d listened.

I screwed my eyes shut, unable to look at him anymore. I didn’t want to see the man who was going to snuff out my life. I tried to keep fighting him, but I was running out of energy. He was so much bigger and so much stronger, and when he covered my nose, I felt so close to death. If I was some superhero woman I might have come up with a brilliant plan to save myself, but I wasn’t a superhero, so I just lay there choking and shaking in terror, trying to block out what was happening to me.

He knelt on my thighs. I could hear him undoing his pants. “Don’t move. Don’t fucking move,” he growled. I obeyed, because I didn’t want him to choke me again. I turned my thoughts inward, away from the hands and hips and cock shoving between my legs. The rape part barely registered. Of course it hurt, and it was terrifying and awful, but not as terrifying and awful as knowing he was probably going to suffocate me when he finished. I started to weep, moaning against the panties in my mouth.

He made a disgusted sound. “Crying like a fucking baby. Shut the fuck up.”

He ripped my blouse open, yanked down my bra and grasped my breasts as he thrust into me. It hurt so bad. My skirt was still up around my waist, a bundle of fabric between his hips and mine. In the midst of a hard thrust, he jerked the string of costume pearls and broke it. Pearls scattered everywhere. Cheap jewelry. I was going to die wearing cheap jewelry with my skirt up to my waist and my panties in my mouth.
No. You can’t die. You have to fight him.
I scratched frantically at his arms as he tugged off my blouse and bra and tossed them across the room. I screamed through the gag, praying someone passing by in the hall might hear me.