Ricochet (6 page)

“Here,
let me. Taking them off is going to hurt, the blood is going to come rushing
back. Are you ready?” he explained. I nodded yes, and he unclipped them both at
once. It stung. I winced. Cash pushed my hair out of my eyes. My hands were
still shaking as I started to peel wax off of my chest. He took both my hands
in his and pressed them to his lips.

“Are
you okay?” he asked. I don’t know if I like how often I have to be asked this.

“Yeah,
I just… I just need a minute,” I replied. I felt like I was in a fugue. My
thoughts were muddy and incoherent. I was rattled to my core. I felt like I’d
been on a weeklong bender and the coke finally
ran
out.

“What
can I do?” he asked, with a furrowed brow. This is probably precisely why he
said he didn’t want to deal with inexperience. I felt like crying. I’m not sure
why. I don’t know why I was so shaken. In the moment, I was lost in the
experience, and I enjoyed myself, thoroughly. I came with a fury. Now that it
was over, I feel like someone pulled a hood off my head and left me standing in
blinding daylight.

“I
just feel really weird. I think I need to go home. I’m sorry,” I said, blankly,
not moving.

“You’re
coming down out of subspace. Everybody comes down differently, needs different
things. If you need some time alone, it won’t hurt my feelings. Just know I’m
here for whatever you need,” he reassured me. I don’t know what I need. I
reached down and grabbed the comforter, pulling it over me.

“Can
I just lie here for a little bit?” I requested.

“Definitely,
do you need me to give you some space?” he asked.

“No,
lie with me,” I replied. He pulled down the comforter and scooted in next to
me. I laid my head on his arm and nuzzled into his chest. We laid like that, in
silence, until I drifted to sleep. Cash never stopped stroking my hair.

I woke up before Cash and managed to
slide out of bed without disturbing him. I wasn’t feeling up to squeezing back
into last night’s dress, so I quietly opened dresser drawers searching for
clothes to steal. I found a t-shirt and pajama pants. I was pretty sure my
panties were in the bed with him somewhere, so I pulled his clothes over my
bare skin. I’d come back and get my clothes later. I grabbed my clutch from
where I left it on the counter the night before, and crept barefoot back to my
apartment. At least my walk of shame was a short one. I have to call off work
again. I’m going to get my ass chewed, but there is no way I can get my shit
together this morning. I shoot my department head an email, letting her know I
have no voice so I can’t call, and that I’m taking the day off. That wasn’t
exactly a lie. I’d made myself pretty hoarse last night.

I
went directly to the bathroom and started the shower. As the mirror fogged with
steam, I examined my body. This time, there were marks. Red lines were scattered
across my torso and back. My face looked like some kind of sad, slutty clown
from where Cash had intentionally smeared my make up. I scrubbed off as much as
I could at the sink and stepped into the scalding shower. Residual wax flaked
away and collected in the drain. I stepped out of the shower and pulled Cash’s
clothes back on. They stuck to my wet skin.
 
I’m dizzy. I need to eat, hydrate. I
drag myself to the kitchen.

My
fridge is bare, nothing but 40 different condiments and rancid leftovers. Damn.
Adulting is hard. I can’t even remember the last time I went to the grocery
store. I pull my hair in a bun and shove on some moccasins. I head out the door
in Cash’s oversize t-shirt and red plaid pajama pants. I feel apprehension
creep up as I wait for the elevator to arrive. When I step in, the walls start
to spin around me. I try to turn and step back out, but I’m moving in slow
motion and the doors shut before I can reach them. I can’t breathe. I sink to
the floor in the corner, and my vision starts to go black. It’s been weeks
since I’ve had a panic attack, I don’t know where this is coming from, and that
panics me even more. When the doors open, I take off running, and don’t stop
until I reach the parking lot. I sit in my driver’s seat and sob.

What
in the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I losing my shit? Cash didn’t do anything
to me that I didn’t ask him to do. I don’t feel any differently about him. I
shouldn’t be this out of sorts. It was like my mind was trying to sabotage me,
some kind of involuntary self-slut shaming. It goes against my entire moral
code to enjoy being treated that way by a man. The internal conflict was
breaking me down. I need to get it together. I turned the engine over and
pulled out of the parking lot.

I
returned from the store with an armful of bags, and lingered in the lobby of
the building. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get back up to my apartment. I sat
down on the bench near the office and pulled out my phone. I had two missed
calls from Cash.
I texted him.

Hey. Did you leave for work already?

I tried to take deep breaths, but they
kept catching in the back of my throat.

No, I called off. I was worried about
you. Where are you?

I instantly feel bad that I didn’t
leave him a note or something. I didn’t mean to make him miss a day of work.
But I guess it would have kind of made him an asshole if he shrugged off my
disappearance and went about his day.
 

Can you come down and meet me in the
lobby?

I hung my head in my hands and tried to
collect myself. This was easier said than done. I’m a damn mess. Cash snuck up
on me.

“Are
those my pajama’s?” he asked with a chuckle. I looked up. His smile turned into
concern.

“Maybe,”
I replied, “sorry.”

“No,
no, it’s ok. Have you been crying?” he asked.

“A
little. I had to grab some things from the store, and I kind of lost my shit on
the elevator on the way down. I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I admitted.
Cash dropped to his knees in front of me and took my hands in his.

“Jeez,
babe. I’m so sorry. You should have just let me go to the store for you. There’s
nothing wrong with you. You’re just… you’re… I don’t know. You are kind of
vulnerable right now. I should have discussed what it might be like after. I
didn’t know how you’d come off it; I figured we could play it by ear. We don’t
have to do this ever again,” he assured me. It was unexpected, but welcome to
hear him call me babe. It made me smile and chipped a crack in my numbness.

“So
it would be like this every time? It wasn’t like this the first time,” I said,
blankly.

“I
don’t know. I don’t know how it will be until it happens. It might get better
over time, but if you don’t want to find out, we don’t have to. It wasn’t like
this the first time because you still had
autonomy,
last night I took you over and didn’t give the reigns back until I was
finished. It’s different,” he explained. This lit a tiny spark inside of me,
melting away a little more of my numb, clearing a little of the fog out of my
brain. I feel ridiculous and pathetic. I’m not some damsel in distress, needing
to be saved. Yet here I sit, helpless and drowning in anxiety, desperate for
his help; his help to get back to my apartment, his help to get back to myself.
I really, really need to get my shit together.

“This is normal though? I’m not having
some kind of psychological break?” I asked. I felt like I was having a
breakdown. Some kind of dissociative something; It had been a long time since
my college Psych courses.

“I think you’re gonna be ok. It’s
fairly normal, I think. We just need to figure out what kind of after-care you
need. But we can talk about that later. Let’s get upstairs,” Cash said,
gathering my grocery bags. He sat them on the floor of the elevator on the ride
up to free his arms to wrap around me, while whispering that everything was
okay. I’m a fucking train wreck.

He carried the bags into my apartment
and started putting the groceries away. I walked into my bedroom and curled up
into my blanket. I stared at the black TV screen on my dresser. It was late
morning, but it felt like midnight. When he finished in the kitchen, Cash
walked to the doorway of my room and knocked on the frame.

“Can I come in?” he asked. I rolled my
eyes and waved my hand to motion him into the room.

“Can you stay?” I asked meekly. I
probably needed space. I probably needed to process. But I didn’t want him to
leave my side.

“Yeah, scoot over,” he said, hopping
under the blanket with me. I moved to accommodate him on the bed. He slid his
arm under my head, and I rested it on his shoulder, wrapping my arm around him,
throwing my leg over his and pulling myself close to him. He gently pulled out my
ponytail to run his fingers through my hair. It was comforting. I breathed him
in.
 
I felt like I could fade right
into him and melt to nothing. As he held me, the rest of my numbness cracked
and flowed away. Emotion came running back through my veins. This man is going
to break my heart.

Cash finally broke our silence. “Do you
want to talk about how you’re feeling,” he asked, “or do you need more time? We
don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to talk about it. But it might
help.”

“You’re really wonderful, Cash,” I
remarked.

“I’m sensing there’s a ‘but’ coming.
I’m wonderful, but…” he trailed off, dispirited.

           
“No.
There’s no ‘but,’ you’re just wonderful. You asked how I’m feeling, that’s how
I’m feeling,” I replied lazily.

“So you’re okay?” he inquired.

“Yeah, I’m okay. I’ll be okay. I think
that was just new, and different, and it shook me up a little on a level I
couldn’t control. But I want to do it again. I want to do more. Now that I know
what to expect,” I responded.

“Well, you get into this headspace, all
these chemicals and endorphins you’re not used to swim around your brain, from
the pain and the pleasure… it’s kind of like a drug. Coming down can feel like
crashing. What snapped you out of it you think?” he asked.

“Just you. Being you,” I told him as I
smiled.

“Well, that shouldn’t be too hard to
replicate,” he stammered, blushing. He tucked his fingers under my chin and
turned my face to look at him. “Are you sure you’re alright?” I kissed him
through my affirmations.

We stayed in bed the rest of the day.
We ordered Chinese and laughed at bad reality TV. He kissed every mark he left
on me the night before, and touched me like I was made out of glass. He brought
me to a sweet, shuddering orgasm with his mouth and fucked me slow and
deliberate. I felt detached from reality. Like we were spinning through space and
nothing existed outside of ourselves. This was really, really dangerous. I
couldn’t stop now. Every touch made me spiral faster, sink deeper. He already
felt like a vital part of me, like I couldn’t remember what my life was like
before him. There was no turning back.

Over the next few weeks, Cash became an
almost daily fixture in my life. We took turns hosting each other for dinner,
and spent the majority of our nights together. We waited a while to try
anything outside the box in the bedroom, and by the time we tried it again, I
was begging for it. He tied me face down to my coffee table with bungee cords
and furniture moving straps, snapping the cords to my skin and striking me with
his leather belt. When he finished and untied me, I rode him on the couch.
Whatever I had experienced the first time had melted away, revealing a
deep-rooted desire. It was a hunger that I needed him to feed.

On
one of the rare nights that Cash and I didn’t spend together, I decided I was
going to work on the painting I had started the night I heard the screams. I
think I was finally over that weirdness, too. I hadn’t painted in months. I
settled in with my cup of coffee, with music playing softly in the background
and soft light illuminating the space. I’m in the zone, splashing paint across
the canvas. I’m going to actually finish something I start, and it isn’t going
to be a fucking bird. I rinse my brush, and behind the splashing of the water,
I hear a woman moan. I stop. I turn off the music, and listen. A woman cries
out. What. The. Fuck. Cash has a woman in that bedroom. I storm out of the
room, and out of my apartment.

I
lingered in the hall outside of Cash’s door, but it only
lets
my anger build. I knock like the police. Moments pass with no answer. I knock
again, harder. He finally answers the door. Wearing nothing but boxers.

“Hey!
Is everything okay? What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Oh,
ha, yeah, everything is fucking wonderful. Uh, are you busy right now? In the
middle of something? No?” I spit angrily.

“Yeah,
kind of, actually now isn’t the best time, is something wrong?” he asked again.
I felt like I had steam shooting from my ears like a cartoon character.

“What’s
wrong? Seriously? You have a girl in your apartment, Cash! What do you mean,
what’s wrong?” I exclaimed.

“Jesus
Christ, Lilly. It’s one of my subs.
Don’t
act like
this is a surprise to you,” he said, exasperated.

“It
is a surprise. I didn’t realize that you were
still doing it.
You told me you were busy tonight. You didn’t
mention you were busy
fucking
someone
else,” I said with venom.

“You
need to settle down and quit acting like I betrayed you. You’ve known about
this since the very beginning. You’ve never asked me to stop,” he offered.

“Asked
you to stop? No, maybe I haven’t come right out and been like, ‘hey dude, so
those girls you fuck, could you maybe not fuck them anymore,’ I figured you
would have some God damned decency and stop on your own. I thought it was
understood that if we moved forward, this would stop,” I proclaimed angrily.

“Stop
right there, and let me ask you something, Lilly. If we were to run into one of
your friends on the street, would you introduce me as your boyfriend?” he asked
callously.

“What
kind of question is that? What does that have to do with this situation?” I
asked.

“Just
answer the question,” he demanded, “would you introduce me as your boyfriend?”

“Probably
not yet. I really don’t see the relevance-“

“Good,
you said it yourself so I don’t have to,” he interrupted.

“I
said what?” I asked, throwing my hands in the air.

“That
I’m not your fucking boyfriend. Go home. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.” He slammed
the door in my face.

I’m
frozen where I stand. My hands start to tremble as I feel my eyes well up with
tears. He’s right; he’s
not
my
fucking
boyfriend. His words still stung
as I repeated them in my head. I didn’t understand how he could go from such
tenderness and intimacy to
this
. I
sulk back to my apartment, and can no longer hold back the tears pooling in my
eyes. I’m boarding up that bedroom. Nothing good has ever came out of that
bedroom. I scroll through my phone contacts. I could call Hunter; I don’t know
that he can turn down an offer of sex. We could probably put on a pretty good
show, maybe knock the headboard into the wall a little, and he did always like
it when I got vocal. I could go to the bar and pick up a rando, bring him home.
Laugh and carry on loudly in the hall. I tossed down my phone and went back to
crying. None of these sound appealing. Maybe I’m not the bad bitch that I think
I am. Instead of going and finding someone else who isn’t my fucking boyfriend
to spend the evening with, I’m going to sit here and cry because a boy said
something mean to me. I need a fucking drink.

I
uncork some Pinot and chug it straight from the bottle. Not my fucking
boyfriend. Motherfucker. I choked down a third of the bottle by the time my
phone buzzed on the coffee table. It was Cash texting me. Sorry, I don’t have
to read your text; you’re not my boyfriend. It feels better to be angry than
hurt. Half the bottle is gone. My phone buzzes again. Sorry, you’re still not
my boyfriend. I finish the bottle. There’s a knock at the door. I weave my way
to the entry way and crack the door. To no one’s surprise, it’s not my
boyfriend.

“Can
I help you?” I slur.

“Are
you drunk?” Cash asks.

“Maybe
a little. That’s not really any of your business. You’re not my fucking
boyfriend. What do you want?” I bark.

“Can
I come in? Can we talk?” he pleads. I sashay away from the door, leaving it
open behind me. I sit on the sofa and cross my arms. Cash follows me in and
eases the door shut.

“Listen.
I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that,” he said.

“Why
are you sorry? You’re absolutely right. I was out of line. But hey, the good
news, about you not being my boyfriend, is that
this,”
I gestured around us with my hands, “this doesn’t need to
happen. We don’t need to break up. You can just go back to whatever you’re doing,
you don’t need to explain yourself.”

“It’s
not like that, Lilly,” he exclaimed.

“No,
I’m sorry, but it’s exactly like that. I’m not doing this. I understand that
we’re not like, fucking married, but you could have the courtesy to not let
your
other plans
blast through my
walls. I can’t do this. The last guy I was with did this shit to me, and I’m
done feeling insufficient. I am enough, I’m pretty fucking awesome, and it’s
your loss but I’m not going to play second fiddle to a bunch of whores,” I
condemned.

“Baby,
come on. It’s not-“

           
“Don’t
fucking ‘baby’ me. And actually, while I think about it, since you are so
awesome at pretending to care about me, if you could like, I don’t know, shoot
me a text next time like ‘hey I’m about to get freaky, you might want to put
some headphones on,’ I would really appreciate it. It would be so awesome if
you could extend me that small courtesy,” I interrupted.

“That’s
enough. I’m sorry,” he urged.

“You
don’t get to tell me what is or isn’t ‘enough.’ Just go, please. I really can’t
do this,” I sighed. I was about to start crying again. I didn’t want him to see
me cry.

“I
never pretended to care about you. None of that was fake. I do care about you.
A lot,” he maintained, “I don’t want this to be over. I shouldn’t have said
what I said. I just don’t deal well with being screamed at in the hallway. That
was a little fucked up.”

“What’s
fucked up is that I’m the one that’s wrong for being hurt that you’re still
seeing other people. We’ve gotten really close, and I’m sorry that I thought
there was more here than what there was. But, I see that I was wrong. I don’t
like being wrong. I feel like a fucking idiot for letting myself feel the way I
do about you. I’d really like you to go,” I admitted. Fat tears rolled out of
my eyes. Cash stepped closer and wiped them away with his fingertips.

“If
you want me to stop, I’ll stop. I’m sorry,” he said, sitting next to me.
Ignoring my request that he leave. Twice.

“It’s
kind of too late for that, because I’m already hurt, and I already feel
inadequate, and me pressuring you into to doing something isn’t exactly ideal.
I can’t just get my way and that’s that,” I explained.

“Why
does this make you feel inadequate?” he asked.

“Why
wouldn’t it? How can I trust that I’ll ever be enough for you? I’m doing the
shit you like to do, and you’re still going and doing more with other women.
Why am I not enough?” I choked out, sobbing.

“Honestly,
we’ve been moving kind of fast, and I didn’t want to overwhelm you, or push you
away. It’s kind of hard to maintain a normal timeline when you live right next
door. We’ve been spending a lot of time together. So I thought I’d do my best
to keep things in check, keep them from getting too serious too quickly. Part
of that involves going on with my life as usual and keeping my appointments.
You’re not wrong for being hurt. I told you that when it was no longer
acceptable for this to continue, it wouldn’t continue. I guess that time came
and went without me realizing it. I’m sorry. It’s over, I’ll cancel, I’ll
cancel everything,” he asserted.

“Really?”
I ask. I’m kind of surprised at this answer, and feel like I may have
overreacted. I built him up to be this silver tongued douche bag in my head,
when, really, he was still the same kind and caring person I had gotten to know
over the past couple months.

“Really,”
he replied.

“That
still doesn’t explain
why
you still
need
to see them, when you can do that
stuff with me. I just want to know I’m not like, this huge disappointment for
you,” I added.

“I
don’t
need
to see them. We’ve talked
about this before-“

“Okay
then it doesn’t explain why you
want
to
see them,” I interrupted.

           
“It’s
just… different, Lilly. It’s not better or anything. It’s just a different
experience. But, it’s done. I’m done. I want you. I lo-ike you a lot,” he
stammered.

“Seriously…
you lo-ike me a lot, huh,” I teased.

“Shut
up. Yes. But, shut up. I want to… be…
with
you. Just, all the time. You’re all I think about,” he admitted.

“Does
that mean you want to be my
fucking
boyfriend?
” I tease.

“Yeah.
It does. I want to be your fucking boyfriend. Can we stop saying that now
please, it doesn’t sound like real words anymore,” he laughed.

I climbed into his lap and buried my
face in his neck.

“How
many of them are there?” I asked.

“Currently?
Four,” he replied.

“When
is the next time you’re supposed to meet with one of them?” I ask.

“It
doesn’t matter,” he promises, “I’m just gonna send out a group email, let them
know I’m out. I told you, it’s not very romantic.”

“Yeah,
but when was the next appointment?” I push.

“Saturday,
I’m supposed to meet with Claire. We meet Saturday mornings, and some
weeknights,” he reluctantly answered. That explains where he was the morning he
snuck off and left me asleep in bed. I wonder if she was the reason he
cancelled our date, too.

“Keep
that appointment. Let me come and watch. I want to see why it’s so different.
Maybe I’m being closed minded to think you have to stop to be with me. I won’t
know until I see it. I mean. Probably don’t keep four concubines. But one might
be okay. I don’t know. I need to see,” I said, tripping over my words.

“I
don’t know if Claire is the best session to sit in on. But, I mean, I guess we
can ask her. It’s up to her, really,” he explained.

“I
thought they had to do whatever you tell them,” I stated in confusion.

“They’re
still people, and the entire arrangement is based on respect. They only have to
behave in a scene, she has the right to refuse whatever she wants,” he adds,
“she’s gonna be pissed when she finds out I have a girlfriend again. But, we’ll
see what happens.”

I tried to ignore what this implied
about Claire, and decided to focus instead on the fact that he called me his
girlfriend.