“Libby, you’re alive!” she exclaims, laughing. “I called you a couple times already.”
Raising my eyebrows, I check and see that she’s right. “Sorry,” I reply. “I had my phone turned off. Patrick and I had Bible study.”
“Yeah?” she sounds incredulous. “How often do you guys do that, anyway?”
“Twice a week,” I reply immediately. “Wednesdays and Sundays.”
“Sounds like a lot to deal with after a long workday.”
“It’s worth it to get into Heaven,” I quip, and she chuckles. “Besides, quality time with the beau doesn’t hurt either. Can you believe he just went right back out to go get us food? I swear, Dakota, I’m spoiled. If Jack doesn’t treat you like a princess then you’d better high-tail it out of there.” My comment is in jest, of course. Dakota and Jack are madly in love, and they practically emanate passion. That doesn’t mean I can’t still shoot the shit.
“As a matter of fact, he’s giving me the evening off,” Dakota reminds me airily. “He took the kids out for ice cream so I could take a hot bath. This is the only chance I’ll get to gossip tonight, so you’d better make it worth it, Libby.”
“I’m making a collage, if you must know,” I reply in a put-upon voice. “Patrick’s birthday is coming up, and I want to do something special for him.”
“Sounds like things are going well, then,” Dakota giggles.
“Damn right, they are,” I reply with confidence. “I’m lucky. He’s a great guy, even if he can be hard to understand sometimes.”
“Every guy can be hard to understand,” Dakota says with good-natured exasperation.
I laugh. “And they call us the mysterious ones!”
“Libby - and I’m saying this as a friend - there’s nothing mysterious about you.”
I can’t help but laugh. She has a point. My first interaction with Dakota was when I stood up for her against the bitchy Cindy McAllister during our freshman year of high school, and we’ve been fast friends ever since. I’m not the kind of person to mince words, and I’m not afraid to get pissed off either, then or now. Pastor Ed says anger and revenge go against God’s will, but I don’t see anything wrong with standing up for myself. If someone treats me badly, why shouldn’t I do the same to them?
My eyes drift back to the wall clock. “Listen,” I say, “I have to wrap this up. Patrick’s going to be back any minute, and I can’t have him seeing me on his computer. Can I call you later?”
“Sure,” Dakota replies. “Good luck!”
I end the call and close Patrick’s family photo album. I’ve got a decent number of pictures by now, but there are other albums on his computer: College, Work Stuff, Vacation Moments…
And at the bottom is one labeled with a single phrase: At the Club.
Interesting. I never thought of Patrick as much of a nightclub person, but maybe he had a party phase before we met. Strange that he never told me about it, though. Biting my lip, I steal another glance at the time. I really shouldn’t dawdle - it’s bad enough that I’m looking through his stuff already - but a spark of curiosity has already set in.
Screw it, I think. A quick peek never hurt anyone, and besides, there might be more collage material in there. I open the folder, expecting blurry cell phone pictures of late night debauchery from Patrick’s college days: bright lights, crowded dance floors, maybe a giant champagne bottle or two. What I see instead makes my heart stop in my chest.
The first thought that goes through my mind is, That’s not Patrick. It can’t be.
But it is, and no amount of bleach in the world can make me unsee what I’m seeing now. It does look like a club, but instead of hoodie-dressed college kids, everyone in the photo is wearing fetish gear. The whole place is a sea of corsets, whips, chains, and latex. Some of the figures are relatively covered up, but not my boyfriend. Patrick’s dressed in black latex skin-tight pants, with no shirt. He’s totally unrecognizable as the godly man I’ve been dating, especially given the hungry look of pleasure twisting his lips.
Even more, there’s a similarly-dressed woman with him, wearing stilettos and holding a riding crop. She’s jamming something into his ass in one photo, his expression one of agonizing pain as his hands clench on themselves. In another, he’s licking her tall leather boots and honestly, those things don’t look too clean. In a third, she’s sitting on his face, spread-eagled and covering his airway with her splayed pussy as his face turns purple, gasping frantically for oxygen. I stare in horror, but it’s like watching an accident in slow motion. I can’t look away even as bile rises in my throat.
It’s as I’m staring at this last photo, trying to comprehend what I’m seeing, that another realization hits me. I know the girl he’s with. Holy shit, is that Raina Peterson?