Jonathan caught my arm at the door. “Where are you going?”
I didn’t want his hand on my arm. It was the source of all my rawness. That hand. Not his soft eyes or his gentle look of compassion. No, all that was a lie. It was pity. I was beneath him, and he felt sorry for me. Fuck him.
When I glared at him, he lightened his grip, letting his fingers slip down my arm.
I had a split second of clarity.
I could fall into his arms, into his green eyes. I could break down without a beating and a fucking and just tell him how worthless and shitty I felt. I had a classic case of the Freudian Slips. Gabby’s term.
And I got mad at myself again, because I’d also failed to take care of her when she needed me. The clarity went out the window.
“Monica, what is it? Talk to me. Sit down and tell me—”
He let go of me to gesture to the tea table, a comfortable place to sit and dump all my shit on him. I took the opportunity to not talk about anything.
five.
JONATHAN
She just walked out. She even closed the door.
I was torn between the desire to wrestle her down and demand an explanation and the need to just let her walk out so she could cool off. I didn’t know which I wanted and I didn’t know which she needed.
She was in the car before I decided none of that mattered and I had to get her. And it was too late. She screeched out of the driveway and down the hill, and I was left there wondering what the fuck had happened.
All right.
Well.
I knew what had happened.
I’d scared myself.
Sadism is confusing if you’re not a sadist. And if you are, and your personal battle with decency is won or lost in a moment of indulgence, it’s beyond confusing. It’s a war between ten equally-matched nation-states who are willing to fight to the death.
She had been on the bed, naked, on her knees, and ready for me to inflict whatever the fuck I wanted on her. And I was ready. I had a plan or five. I had a boner that was breaking my zipper. I was going to rip her apart until she screamed and cried.
Fuck. She’d been gone ten minutes, I’d paced the floor for nine and a half of them, and the thought of the way she’d looked gave me an erection all over again, because I knew what I had intended to do to her. How I was going to break her.
I had to draw out the pain and tears. I had to bring her to the brink and hurt her as she tipped. The process went from A to B to C, and she’d skipped steps. Crying ahead of cue did two things.
Three things….four…ten—who the fuck even knew how many—factions went to war in my head.
I pulled the chair away from my desk so hard it went across the room, and I snapped up a pencil.
One. You cry when I say, not sooner.
Two. I can hurt you. Your defenses are down. I can go in and really fucking hurt you.
Three. I’m concerned about you. Very concerned.
Four. I want to kill whoever made you cry.
Five. You don’t call the shots.
Six. I wanted to reach into your injured places and destroy you.
Seven. My heart breaks when I see tears on your face.
Eight. What kind of man thinks, “I wonder how far I can take this?”
Nine. Ten. Eleven. They were all the same. She was hurt, and I was concerned and broken, and my dick was the first thing I thought of. I hated myself for it. I wasn’t an emotional sadist, but maybe I was on some level. I pressed my hands to my desk, pencil still woven between my thumb and first finger.
I had to get past the self-loathing. There was nothing there for me. Monica had taught me that I didn’t have to hate myself for what made me happy. My proclivities didn’t keep me from having something real and permanent, unless I let her walk away when she was hurt.
I circled number three. That was where my love was. The rest was fleeting and I’d dealt with it already. I wouldn’t let her go over a little slip.
I slipped the pencil down, and my mind put together four and six.
Four. I want to kill whoever made you cry.
Six. I want to reach into your injured places and destroy you.
Maybe I was the masochist.
six.
MONICA
I was mad. Just steaming mad with little black lines and gritted teeth. I was foot-stomping, fist-clenching, spitting mad.
He always had to call the fucking shots. Safe. Out. Foul. He was umpire, batter, and pitcher. And fuck him. Maybe for once he should take his stinking ego and put it like… over there. Outside the bedroom. Leave it in the driveway or in the trunk of that ridiculously expensive car, because it was getting in the way of my motherfucking needs.
“I’m not mad at him,” I lied to Yvonne. She knew Jonathan was my Dominant, and it made her uncomfortable. I didn’t feel like explaining, yet again, my need to get hurt. “I missed you. Stay out with me. Have the sitter stay a couple of extra hours.”
“Nope,” Yvonne said, her body jerking back and forth with the joystick. Her huge afro moved with her, and her gold mascara glowed in the blue light. She worked three nights a week at a shithole bar on Western Ave that only took cash and gave change in quarters. The walls were lined with eighties video games at fifty cents a pop. Her shift had just ended, and she was getting loose on Galaga.
“It’s on me.”
“Ian’s coming over once I confirm my son’s asleep. And I pay my own sitter.”
“I wasn’t trying to insult you. And who’s Ian?” I felt out of touch. She’d mentioned the name as if I should know, and I didn’t. Too much travel. Too much work.
“He’s the real thing.”
“You didn’t tell me.”
Her spaceship exploded, and she whacked the red ball of the joystick. “I haven’t seen you in three months unless you’re on TMZ or something. So first you tell me what’s eating you, and I’ll tell you who’s eating me.” She waggled her brows.
How was I supposed to explain this? I’m so fucking mad at him because I feel rejected and stupid and fake and Jonathan didn’t hurt me when I asked him to. Breaking me is his responsibility as a husband and he refused and it is not cool.
That wasn’t going to fly.
Her spaceship regenerated, and she was back at the game, her dark skin shining blue from the screen.
“Nothing,” I said. “Maybe hormones.”
“Girl, you got a face from here to Jerusalem, and it’s got Jonathan spray-painted all over it.”
“You’re not even looking at me.”
“I got peripheral vision for this shit.” She held two fingers in a V and pointed them at me with one hand while her other hand worked the joystick.
The fact that she wasn’t looking at me made it easier to broach the subject.
“I have needs,” I said.
“Yeah.” She threaded a needle between bombs, jacking the stick back and forth.
“And he’s responsible for them.”
“Yeah.”
“And I can’t sing. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Star-Spangled-Fucking-Banner, and I can’t find the notes.”
Boom. She lost her spaceship. Game over. She slapped the console and turned to me. “Did you ever hear Whitney Houston’s version? Holy hell, I get tears in my eyes.”
I imagined gold mascara running down her dark-skinned cheeks.
“She eased up on the phrasing,” I said defensively. “I have to do it the hard way.”
She smirked. “Oh, so you’re that good, huh? Hardest song in the world shouldn’t be anything for Mrs. Perfectopants.”