Turning to me, I hear the smile in the darkness. “You just got fucked. Properly fucked.”
A bubble of hysterical laughter climbs my throat. I can’t hold it down. I chuckle. I feel the bed shake as he silently laughs with me. My throat thickens and my eyes sting. My body shakes for a different reason as I begin to sob.
I don’t like myself right now.
Twitch pulls me into him and cradles my head, placing kisses on my eyes and cheeks. He doesn’t say anything. He knows me enough to know I just need him to hold me right now.
My mind wanders.
This is probably a bad time to mention I haven’t taken the pill in two weeks.
Walking into my unit with a huge smile on my face, I think back on my impromptu sharing session this morning.
Having made an appointment with the office psychologist, Emeline, I squared myself for the fact that I was about to be told that I just wasn’t right. I had been thinking that very same thought all night, so it wasn’t exactly unexpected. I couldn’t sleep. It was eating away at me. So when I walked into her office and sat with her, I expected to be interrogated. I soon realized I was wrong.
Really wrong.
Emmy had made us both a cappuccino on her fancy machine, and we both took a seat on the sofa in her office. The meeting I had dreaded somehow turned into a coffee meet between friends.
She asked, “So, I have to say I’m a little surprised to see you here, Lexi. Is everything okay?”
Well, I begged my drug dealer boyfriend to force fuck me last night. Oh, and I liked it. So, no. Not really.
Wringing my hands together, I looked down at my feet and started, “Well, it’s not really about me. It’s about a friend. I’m worried about her and wanted a professional opinion before I tried to help in a situation that is completely alien to me.”
Lies. All lies.
Nodding, she looked sympathetic when she explained, “Sure. I know it can be hard watching your friends go through things. Humans do not like to feel helpless. It’s a very admirable thing you’re doing.”
Blinking, I swallowed hard and clarified, “She’s a close friend. I know her well, and she’s been through a lot in her life. More recently, she was close to being raped and was saved before her attacker could penetrate her.” Shaking my head, I exhaled, “Sorry. I’m not making much sense here.” Clearing my throat, I tried again, “A few nights ago, she called me devastated. She and her boyfriend had been having sex and things turned a little rough.”
Emmy’s brows furrowed, but she nodded for me to continue my story about my friend. So I did. “And…and…she liked it. Soon the sex turned rougher and rougher, and before she knew it, they were acting out a rape fantasy. And she enjoyed it. Immensely.” Allowing that to sink in a moment, I got to the point, “Now she thinks there’s something wrong with her, and I had no idea what to say to her.”
I looked up at my friend who watched me through worried eyes. I looked back at her with a pleading look. I needed help. Emmy, being the professional she is, leaned back on the sofa and sighed, “Well, you can tell your friend that there’s nothing wrong with her. Nothing at all. In fact, this isn’t unheard of in people who have been sexually assaulted. The thing is, the reaction can go from one extreme to the other. On one hand, you have people who can’t cope, and the thought of another person touching them can make them ill; on the other hand, you have people like your friend, itching to take control of a situation that they originally had no control over.”
What the what what?
Not hiding my confusion, I edged, “So, what you’re saying is…?”
Sipping her coffee, she explained, “Your friend is fine. There’s nothing wrong with role-play in the bedroom. It’s quite healthy as long as its legal and both parties consent; I don’t see an issue here. Your friend was almost raped, you say. Perhaps that sparked something inside of her, something primal and fierce. The thought of being attacked is horrifying. However, your friend’s primal instinct has kicked in and her mind – which is trying to make sense of what happened – has decided to try to turn the memory from something terrifying and frightening, into something…” Lifting her head in thought, she searched for a word. “…let’s say, something pleasurable. Enjoyable. Your friend is stronger than she thinks.” She ended this with a sad smile and I knew, I just knew, that she knew.
She confirmed my thoughts when she uttered, “You know, your friend is welcome to talk to me anytime. Anytime at all.”
Reaching over and squeezing her hand, I whispered, “Thank you. It’ll mean so much to her to hear that.”
And so I left with a new, informed way of thinking, and the day got brighter from there. Which brings us to now. Walking down the hall, I look right to see a tall form standing in the open fridge door. A tall form in black sweat pants and nothing else.
Mmmm. Shirtless Twitch. Yum.
Eyeing his lean, muscular, ink-decorated torso, my eyes drift down where his sweat pants ride low on his hips, and the very tips of the V indented just below his hips stand out. Barely stopping myself from humping his leg, I call out, “Hungry?”
Still looking into the fridge with disappointment, he absently scratches his toned belly and replies, “Yeah, but I’m not having any luck in here. Don’t you ever shop?”
Chuckling, I tell him, “Not really. I’m more a buy as I need it type of girl.”
His face bunches in disappointment. “That blows. I’m hungry now.”
Unable to contain the smile, he spots it and almost smirks before he stops himself. Pointing up at my lips, he says, “Explain this to me? What is this smile about? You were cryin’ last night, and now I see this smile and it makes me wonder why.”
Leaning my hip on the counter, I tell him, “Nothing’s wrong. Nothing at all. I don’t even know why I worried. I had an appointment with our psychologist this morning, Emmy, and explained to her what happened…” His hooded brown eyes narrow and I quickly add, “…But I said it happened to my friend.” I wink at him. “And she said it was perfectly normal to role-play, and that someone who is in my situation where I was almost raped, it was as if I was taking control in a situation that I normally wouldn’t have control in! How great is that? I’m normal! High five!”
Bouncing on the spot, I hold up my hand for him to show me some up high love, and smile as big as I can. Watching Twitch’s face brings an abrupt end to my excitement. His brow bunches and he places his hands on his hips repeating on a whisper, “She’s normal. Fucking normal.”
Not quite sure what the problem is, I ask quietly, “Why are you angry?”
Blinking at me, he extends an arm out my way and booms, “Again with the labels! Always with the fucking labels! Is it that important to you, Lex? Being labelled as something everyone else sees as normal?”
I want to say no. I want to defend myself. I want to go to sleep, pretend I never said a thing, and wake up when this argument is over.
Not sure how to answer, I remain silent, but one look at my face and Twitch smirks darkly. “Of course it is.” Stalking towards me, he asks along the way, “Let me ask you this? How would you label me?” My heart begins to race and I swallow hard. His eyes flash, “Psychotic? Hmm? I don’t know, maybe insane? Mad? You tell me, Lexi. What the fuck wou
ld you label me as?”
Terrifying. Disturbed. And frightening.
Gritting his teeth, he catches my chin in his hand. “You label yourself all you want, Alexa.” Dropping his hand, he looks at me a moment, and what I see displayed on his face makes me want to throw up.
Disappointment. He’s disappointed in me.
Turning, he picks up his tee from the sofa and opens the front door. Pausing a moment and keeping his back to me, he says lividly, “Do not fucking label me.” His fists ball by his sides as he extends his parting words. “Think on this, girl.” Spinning around, his eyes – full of fury – meet mine. “Who were you before people started telling you who you should be?”
And then he’s gone.
My office door opens, and Michael strolls in. Making himself comfortable in the guest chair, he puts his feet on the desk. I snap my fingers in warning. The feet come down.
That’s better.
He sighs, “Give me something to do, boss. I’m bored.”
I sniff, “Bored? Here? Get Happy to give you something to do. Or Li—” on second thought, “Not Ling.”
After working with me for over a month now, Michael’s fear of me has dimmed to almost nothing at all.
Almost.
I think he sees me more of a big brother now. Which is cool by me. I always wanted a brother. And if I had a brother in this life, I’d want him to be like Michael. It became clear to me weeks ago that Michael was smarter than even I’d given him credit for. When he approached my office one morning and asked straight out, “Are you a drug dealer?”
I stared him down. Much to my surprise, he didn’t shrink back. Not even an inch. I was impressed. I answered, “Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
He scoffed, “So that’s a fancy way of saying yes.” When I didn’t respond, he said, “I could do drops, you know? I’ve done ‘em before when I worked for Hamid. I know the ins and outs, so I wouldn’t get busted. I wouldn’t disappoint you.”
“You never do, Mickey, but no. That’s not happening. I don’t need any more runners. You’re here because you’re working legit.”