Torment Me (Rough Love Part One) (12 page)

“Are we okay?” he asked. “Are you okay?”

I nodded and took the paper. “Poetry?”

“Yes. Maybe a little bit of an apology.”

I thought back to the previous poems, quickly scrawled, or written on my back. He wasn’t copying this shit from his phone, or from a book. He was writing it from memory.

“How many poems are in your head?” I asked.

He didn’t answer. He just placed a hand on either side of my head, kissed me on the forehead, and walked out the door.

I stayed at the Empire that night, because I had too much crap to work through in my mind. I couldn’t risk going home and finding Simon in one of his moods. I couldn’t deal with his shit on top of mine.

I lay instead with W’s poetry on the pillow beside me.

I’d rather have the dream of you

With faint stars glowing

I’d rather have the want of you

The rich, elusive taunt of you

God, he never gave me enough. His snippets never made sense, never explained anything. What did this mean, that he didn’t want me? That he only wanted the “dream” of me? I didn’t know whether to be flattered or insulted. His poems never made me feel good, only confused.

Speaking of confused, why had I decided to stay here at the Empire, and sleep on this bed where W had done such horrible things to me?

But he hadn’t done them, not really. The Texas stranger had done them. Somehow the two of them had become separate in my head, which was fucked up, because they were the same person, and I should have been furious with that person. I should have stayed angry longer. The first time Simon hit me, I stayed angry for days, and then the rationalization started. Was I doing the same thing here? Rationalizing W’s behavior because I didn’t want to let him go?

But unlike Simon, W was in control that whole scene. He didn’t attack me with true intent, with malice to cause harm, so it didn’t count. When Simon attacked me, he did it to hurt me. When W attacked me, he used a condom and didn’t leave bruises. It wasn’t the same.

Was it? Fuck me. I didn’t know.

I was sore the next morning, my heart from emotion and my body from too much orgasming. Light streamed through the hotel curtains, and housekeeping tapped at the door. I got up and dragged home, and let myself into the loft. I heard voices from Simon’s studio, his voice and another girl’s. Someone was smoking.

Rachel.

Rachel was an old friend of Simon’s from Florida. She had a sultry voice and a model’s body, and rainbow-colored highlights on the tips of her dark hair. She chain-smoked in our loft and hung all over Simon at every opportunity because they were
friends
.

The door to the studio was half open. I peeked in, saw Simon with his brush and canvas, looking animated for once. Rachel was on the couch, sprawled on her back with a cigarette dangling from her fingers. She wasn’t wearing a shirt or bra, but that wasn’t unusual for Rachel, who thought the rules of decency didn’t apply to her. Her father was some Miami billionaire so Rachel didn’t work, didn’t do anything that didn’t feel good to her.

Simon and I had argued many times about Rachel. I knew she was the one who had gotten him into drugs, and I hated her for it. He went to a few rich, artsy, hippie festivals with her, and all of a sudden, he was getting high because it made the art “better,” like it was some noble sacrifice he was making. Rachel told me to relax, that Simon wasn’t half as bad as some of the people she knew.

Was that supposed to make everything okay? Ugh, I hated her. During one of our arguments, I accused Simon of sleeping with her behind my back. He sneered at me. “One, you sleep with tons of guys. Two, there’s more to life than sex. I know that’s hard for you to understand, considering what you do for a living. And three, we grew up together. I mean, ugh. Incest. She’s like my fucking sister.”

But he wasn’t looking at her like a sister right now.

That smile of his used to be for me. That intent gaze, that expression of inspiration. I pushed the door open and stalked in. “Hey, Simon. Hey, Rachel.”

“Chere!” Simon exclaimed, like he was happy to see me. He was always happy with Rachel around. Rachel gave me a bitch look, and waved at me like that somehow erased the bitchiness.

“Look.” Simon gestured to the rainbow colored canvas before him. It reminded me of her hair. “What do you think? Rachel finally agreed to model for me.”

I used to model for you. I used to inspire you. Not to be nasty, but the pieces you painted of me sold for a lot of money.
This one looked like a piece of carnival art. I supposed it was for his upcoming show, if it even happened. I had my doubts.

“It looks great,” I said with fake enthusiasm. I looked from the canvas to Rachel, and then back at the canvas. I never understood why he needed models, when nothing he created ever looked like any of those models. I never understood why he needed the drugs, when his own talent and imagination used to be enough.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it,” I said.

“Hey, where were you last night?” he called out when I was almost to the door.

I turned. “At the Empire Hotel. The client said I could stay if I wanted, and it had a nice view.”

Rachel tittered, even though I didn’t think I’d said anything amusing. I could have said more, like that I felt more relaxed when I stayed at a hotel. That the lack of clutter and cigarette smoke and color-vomit canvases helped me sleep better.

“I’m tired,” I said. “I’ll see you later.”

I went into our bedroom. The bed was still made. It was very possible that Simon and Rachel had been up all night, partying, club-crawling, dancing, and then coming home to make “art.” Our clothes were piling up in the corner. I needed to do laundry. Later. I’d face that later.

I took out W’s poetry instead, and searched the first couple of lines on my phone.
Choice
, by Angela Morgan, a little known American poet born in the late 19th century.

Her work was wistful, kind of sad. I smoothed out the paper, studying his writing, trying to remember the expression on his face when he put down the pen. Was he insinuating something about me by choosing this poem? Or insinuating something about him? Or neither of us?

Did I want “the want of him”? The “rich elusive taunt of him”? I was afraid I did. Our date was over but he still occupied far too many of my thoughts.

He’d said it was “a little bit of an apology,” but I didn’t see the apology. I pored over commentary about the poem, its theme of obsession and unrequited love, as if that might explain something, or help me understand him. It didn’t.

I wondered if he knew all these poems by heart, or if he only memorized snippets that were meaningful to him. I tried to picture W in love. In unrequited love. I tried to picture him sitting and memorizing poetry.

No. I couldn’t see it at all.

I knew W better now. I knew his face, if not his name, so I felt a little more relaxed as I walked from Times Square to the Gansevoort Hotel on Park Avenue. It had been a week since our last date, a wonderful, relaxing week with no other clients, thanks to our exclusive arrangement. He was literally paying me not to see other men.

It felt nice to be wanted that way.

It felt so nice that I’d dressed up for him. I’d bought my outfit with his tastes in mind: a classy little black dress with a matching garter belt and stockings, and gorgeous black velvet stilettos. I thought it was pretty safe to spend the money, since he hadn’t cut anything off me in a while. We’d had a pretty bad scene last time around, but we managed to salvage things between us. I had looked into his eyes and seen a man there, a man who cared about me, for all his rough edges.

Now that we were exclusive, I imagined a comfortable closeness developing between us. Well, not comfortable. Sex with W would never be
comfortable
, but I imagined us moving to something more...intimate. Or affectionate. I imagined longer, more playful sessions, culminating in even better orgasms, for him, for me, for both of us. Now that we were exclusive, I could focus all my energy and attention on him.

And he deserved it. Thanks to him, I had free time now to nap, to primp, to go shopping, to wander around Central Park and bask in the sun. Thanks to him, I didn’t have to accept dates with men I didn’t like that much.

There was only one date—him—and I actually found myself looking forward to seeing him, because he had
chosen me
. He liked me enough to
want me to himself
. I didn’t even have to put on the simpering, airheaded Miss Kitty act, because W was the first client in ten years who didn’t want to sleep with Miss Kitty. He wanted to sleep with
me
. Chere. He’d yanked my name out of me within the first minute, and he still used it every session.

The fact that I didn’t know his name didn’t deter me in these escalating fantasies. I traipsed into the Gansevoort Hotel fully believing that our exclusive arrangement meant that he cared about me. I should have known better after all my years in the business.

I took the elevator upstairs to the room number Henry texted me. I knew something was off as soon as W opened the door. He didn’t smile at me in welcome, didn’t take me in his arms and kiss my forehead the way I pictured. He frowned down at his phone and pointed me to the bed. I sat on the edge of it and awaited instructions. I’m not sure he even noticed what I was wearing. If he did, he didn’t seem to care.

Whatever, Chere. Don’t be vain. Don’t worry about it.

The brightly colored, modern room decor made my head hurt. I studied him instead, trying to figure out his mood. In a way I still felt blindfolded. I mean, I recognized his golden blond hair, his piercing blue eyes, his fine body and sculpted features, but that was all I understood about him. I looked out the window, at the view of the Empire State Building.

“I’ve never been at this Gansevoort before,” I said. “Only the one in the Meatpacking District.”

He didn’t answer, just threw his phone down beside the room key and went to the table to pick up a drink. He wasn’t drunk—he seemed too sharp and irate to be drunk—but he was still drinking, and he didn’t offer any to me. When he turned around, I crossed my legs and did my best to look enticing.

“I was glad you finally called Henry,” I said. “Have you had a busy week?”

“Yes. Not that it’s any of your business.”

His gaze traveled up my legs. No smile. No kisses. I would have put on the blindfold again, if he would have kissed me. Maybe he was already getting bored with me. Maybe we already knew too much about each other to suit his tastes.

He finally came over and stood in front of me. I smiled, even if he didn’t.

“Now that you have me to yourself, I thought you’d take advantage of me more often,” I flirted.

His scowl deepened. “Stop talking and open your fucking mouth.”

He unzipped with one hand and held my head with the other. As for me, I kept my lips clamped shut. He was supposed to wear a condom.

“Fucking bitch. I said open your mouth.”

He pushed me back on the bed. My arms flew up, but he wasn’t coming at me. He was taking off his clothes and ripping open a condom.

“With what I pay you, you should at least suck me off without a condom,” he said. “What the fuck kind of diseases do you think I have?”

“I don’t know. It’s company policy—”

“Shut the fuck up about company policy. Take off that fucking piece-of-shit dress and open your fucking legs.”

I didn’t know if this was more kinky games, or if he hated me, or if he was only acting like he hated me. I didn’t dare get up off the bed. I just twisted where I lay to unzip the dress I’d bought for him, which he’d so coldly dismissed as a
piece of shit
. I didn’t expect to get a better reception for the garter belt and stockings.

“Do you want me to take these off too?” I asked.

He climbed onto the bed between my legs and shoved my hands away from my body, and forced them over my head. He stuck his cock in me like he was sticking it in some inanimate hole. That was the level of warmth I received from my “exclusive” client. I blinked my eyes, determined not to look upset. It was really hard. He wasn’t raping me this time—he had my consent—but somehow it felt worse than being raped.

While he drilled me with absolute detachment, he fumbled at the garter belt clasps, and the tops of my stockings.

“You don’t have to wear all this shit,” he said. “All I care about is what’s between your legs.”

I tried to help him, only to have my hands pushed away.

“What the fuck did I tell you?” Two smacks on the cheek, hard enough to hurt me. I put my hands back over my head and let him struggle with the clasps. Asshole.

When he couldn’t get them open, he tore the stockings free instead, then unhooked the belt from my waist and flung it across the room. The pushup bra was next, unhooked and discarded like it was something disgusting. I guess I should have been grateful he didn’t use the scissors in his current mood.

“Are you acting like this because I wouldn’t blow you without a condom?” I said. “You’re being a dick.”

Some mayhem flashed in his gaze, to complement his cruel expression. “At least I’m not a whore.”

I didn’t know what kind of sick scene this was supposed to be, if I was supposed to go all meek and limp while he abused me. It wasn’t happening. I slapped him way harder than he’d slapped me, and it felt good to hurt him. I drew back my hand to slap him again but he arrested it midswing.

“Don’t fucking dare,” he said, taking me with steady thrusts. “You’re not in charge here. I dish it out, you take it.”

“I never agreed to that.”

“You take my money, I take your body. That’s our contract.” His fingers dug into my wrists, and the more I fought him, the harder he fucked me. “You’re so wet,” he mocked. “If you didn’t like this, you wouldn’t be here. You’ve had ample chances to say goodbye to me.”

“Chances I should have taken.”

“Simmer the fuck down or you’ll be sorry.”