The dungeon.
I sat up and listened. I didn’t hear him, didn’t hear any sound in the apartment. I grabbed my towel from the night before, wrapped up, and tiptoed out into the hall to look for the dungeon door. He’d said it was right next to his room, but there was no entrance on either side. Damn. The doors on the other side of the hall stood open, revealing tasteful guest rooms and a home office. I sighed and retreated back to his bed.
“You’re fucking me up,” I said to no one, in the luxuriant silence of the room. I curled up in the smooth sheets, then leaned down to smell his pillow. It held his scent, just like my aching body held his marks and bruises. I rolled back to my own pillow and noticed a note from him on the side table.
Went for a run. Back soon.
Help yourself to whatever’s in the kitchen.
I picked up the note and found another one underneath, also in his handwriting.
Number of stars in my bowl: 1
Number of shadows in my soul: 1
Holy fucking shit.
Price
First mistake: taking her to my place.
Second mistake: admitting I had a dungeon with her name on it.
I only left her alone in the apartment because I knew she wouldn’t find it. It was hidden, sort of like our feelings toward each other.
Third mistake: quoting D.H. Lawrence right after mind-blowing sex.
I’d named her the star in my bowl, the shadow in my soul. What was that shit? Most of the time I had my emo side under control, but her fucking questions in the shower had tapped a bunch of unwanted memories. My relationship history was a morass of rejection, castigation, and deceit. I didn’t trust love. I didn’t trust any woman on earth, but I was starting to trust her. That morning, looking down at her snuggled in my bed, I’d confessed too much. My bad.
Now she’d take that paper home and put it with the rest of them, and fantasize that I loved her when my love was a toxic, hurtful thing.
I couldn’t really say where I expected us to end up. I just knew my love wasn’t good for her.
I also knew I was getting worse, not better. I wanted all of her, every day.
Price
On a drizzly April afternoon in Lower Manhattan, Chere graduated from the Norton School of Art and Design. She graduated panty-less, for the record. I thought that was important, and no one could tell thanks to the long, black robe she wore over her dress. My grandmother would have been proud to see the first Stephensen scholarship recipient graduate with high honors. To my chagrin, Martin Cantor handed her the diploma. Fucking Martin.
I took her to dinner afterward, to a glitzy, ritzy showplace with no prices on the menu. She always said these kinds of restaurants made her uncomfortable, but I loved making her uncomfortable, so it all worked out. I enjoyed her anxiety almost as much as I enjoyed the gourmet dishes set before us.
“So what happens now?” I asked as our waiter whisked away the final course.
“Dessert?” she said.
“No, I mean, what are you going to do now that you’ve graduated? What’s next for you? Where are you planning to look for a job?”
“Oh.” She rubbed her forehead for a moment. “Tiffany, maybe. Or one of the smaller jewelry firms that recruited at Norton.”
“In other words, you haven’t thought about it.”
She gave me a withering look. “My internship was at an architectural firm, so I’m kind of behind the curve on my job search.”
“What about my investment idea? Using some of my cash to start your own company?”
She looked sideways at me and tugged her hair. “I don’t know.”
“What do you mean, you don’t know? What don’t you like about the idea?”
“I feel like you’ve already given me too much.”
That response sounded distancing. Protective. Maybe she questioned my motives. Hell, I questioned my motives. I didn’t want to help her start a business, so much as I wanted to prevent her from working for someone else. That someone might overwork her or exploit her, or ask her to relocate to a branch in Hong Kong. We’d have to go back to arranged visits, to occasional, fleeting sessions in hotel rooms.
No.
“You should do what you want to do,” I said brusquely. “Like I said on your evaluation, you’re ready for whatever your future holds. Just don’t…”
“Don’t what?” she asked, when I didn’t finish.
“Don’t let some asshole take advantage of you.”
I said this with a straight face, like I wasn’t a huge asshole who took advantage of her at every turn. But she’d had worse assholes in her life, like her ex-boyfriend, Simon, or her ex-pimp, Henry, both of whom had exploited her for their own gain.
“I won’t let anyone take advantage,” she said, rearranging her napkin in her lap. “I know better now.”