Being Me

Twenty-six

Mark and I don’t speak during the twenty-minute drive. He seems to understand that the tiniest thing might send me into an eruption of tears again. I rest my head on the soft leather seat of his Jaguar, watching the lights and stars flicker by the window. I dig deep inside myself to reopen the black pit I’d buried my emotions in before finding the journals, before finding Chris. I need that place I’d hoped to never go to again, to survive this, and I wonder now if I should have ever left it behind.

Slowly, I harness a thin veil of composure that is momentarily threatened when I spot the gates of the massive mansion that is Mark’s club deep in the elite Cow Hollow neighborhood. Will I find Chris with another woman? I can handle a lot but these two things, I don’t know if I can.

We park in front of the long stairwell and a suited security guard wearing an earpiece opens my door. I don’t move. I can’t move.

“Ms. McMillan.”

Mark commands me to look at him. This time his Master routine doesn’t work. I stare straight ahead. I am clear-minded enough to wonder about his motives behind bringing me here, despite being grateful he’s given me the chance to face this thing with Chris regardless of the outcome. But Mark’s motive could be an effort to tear me and Chris apart—or a true worry about an ex-friend he still feels some connection with. I’m not sure it matters. The outcome of this night will be determined by me and Chris and no one else.

“I’m not going to like what I find, am I?” I finally ask.

“No.”

The hard, cold honesty of that one word sets me in motion. Whatever awaits me inside, I just want to know. I step out of the car, and despite leaving my jacket at the gallery, I welcome the cold night air that lets me feel anything but the ache burning through me. I slide my purse over my shoulder. My cash and credit cards give me an exit route if I need one, and I’m shocked I have this clarity of mind. I’ve found that deep hole, or at least the edge of the void that I know too well.

Mark rounds the car and cups my elbow, murmuring something to the guard I don’t even try to hear, before he leads me up the stairs toward the double red doors I’d entered only once before. They open as we approach and another suited man greets Mark.

Cotton seems to gather in my mouth as we step inside the mansion, onto the expensive Oriental rug. My gaze sweeps the towering ceilings and expensive art and décor surrounding me, and I almost laugh at the façade of proper decorum.

Mark motions to the winding staircase covered in red carpet rather than to the hallway to the right I’d once traveled with Chris. There’s a second set I didn’t notice going down, and they become our path to wherever we are headed. We travel downward and the winding path is tortuous and eternal. My heart is pounding in my ears, behind my eyes, pounding and pounding. I cling to the rail, and somehow I’ve wrapped my arm through Mark’s to cling to him as well. I don’t remember how we get to another red door. We are suddenly just there. It’s wooden and arched, with a huge metal bolt. My stomach knots. Oh, God. A dungeon. Pain. Torture.

Mark pulls me around to face him, holding my arm. “Accept him or walk away.”

“Why are you doing this?”

“Because he’s dangerously on the edge and I think you can pull him back.”

I search his face, looking for the truth in his answer, and I find it. I don’t care why he cares what happens to Chris. I just know he does. I straighten. “Take me to him.”

He studies me for a long moment, assessing my state of mind, and apparently he approves. Without another word, he shoves the heavy bolt aside and opens the door. The scent of something spicy like incense touches my nose, burning through me like acid fear. I hold my breath as I step forward, blocking it out, and I find myself inside what looks like a concrete holding room, not more than twenty by twenty feet. At least half a dozen lanterns pulse from the depths of massive steel encasements high on the walls.

I draw a calming breath and stare at the huge blank monitor spanning the wall directly in front of me, much like the one Chris had used to show me a woman being flogged in another part of the mansion. Cold seeps into my bones and I shiver; the sensation of being underground and trapped is almost unbearable.

“Where is he?” I ask.

Mark motions to the wooden door on my left. “In the next room, but I need to be clear. To allow you to intrude on play breaks every code of honor I have for this club. I interfere only if I judge that someone’s well-being is at risk.”

“What are you saying?”

“He goes too far when he’s like this. The report I received upon arriving is that tonight is only different from the past in that he’s beyond even his worst extreme.”

My nails dig into my palms. “Take me to him.”

He walks to the monitor and retrieves a remote control mounted to the wall. “I need to know you can handle what you’re going to find before I let you inside.”

“Then show me now,” I demand, balling one of my fists on my chest, as if that might keep my heart from exploding where it beats furiously.

“The reasons people enjoy our play here vary. Most of us simply find it an adrenaline rush and a pleasurable escape. Chris isn’t about pleasure. He’s about punishing himself.”

“Damn it, Mark, show me.”

His lips tighten and he punches the button on the remote. The screen comes to life. I hear Chris before I see him, his raspy, harsh breathing. I try to process what I’m seeing. Chris is inside a round concrete cell, shirtless, wearing only his jeans. His arms are outstretched and tied to some kind of poles. He isn’t wearing a mask, but the woman standing behind him from a small boxed window at the top of the monitor is. She’s in some kind of leather barely-there outfit with high boots, and oh, God. I cover my mouth and jump as she lays a harrowing strike of a whip against Chris’s back. His body jerks with the impact.

“Harder!” Chris snarls, sweat gathering on his forehead. “Fucking hit me like you mean it, or send someone in who can do the job.”

She hits him again. He bucks under the lash and then laughs bitterly. “Are you the pussy or am I?”

The woman pulls the whip back, and I shout, “No! No more!” I dart for the door and yank it open and Mark doesn’t stop me. I enter the dungeon’s circle from behind Chris and the sight of Chris’s welts, bleeding down his back, is almost too much to bear.

“Finally,” Chris growls at the sound of my entry, unaware it’s me. “A replacement. I hope you’re better than she is.”

“Cut him loose,” I hiss at the masked woman even as I’m rounding the poles to stand in front of Chris. Tears streak his face, torment spiraling in the depths of his bloodshot eyes.

“Sara.” My name falls from Chris’s lips before he throws his head back and growls in complete, utter anguish.

“Chris.” His name is a pained whisper wrenched deep from my soul. I start to cry, trembling as I touch his face, forcing him to look me. He lowers his lashes, refusing to look at me. “Cut him loose!” I shout, because the woman hasn’t moved.

I hear Mark speak through some kind of intercom. “Do it.”

I wrap my arms around Chris. My broken, beautiful man. “Why didn’t you come to me? Why?”

His chest heaves against mine, his words heavy, pained. “You were never supposed to see me like this.”

One of his arms goes slack and then the next and we sink together to the ground, where Chris buries his face in my neck and whispers, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I belong with you.”

“No, Sara. You don’t. I was wrong. We were wrong.”

His words are like a hand plunging into my chest and ripping out my heart. This is the moment I’ve feared. The moment when his secrets destroy us if I let them. I press my lips to his. “I love you, damn it. We can get through this!”

He cups my head and his breath is hot on my skin. “No. We can’t.” He pushes to his feet and takes me with him. “Come with me.” He leads me to a doorway to our left, directly into a private room. Chris immediately releases me. Reeling, I barely process the hotel-like bedroom, much like the one we’d visited on my prior trip to the club.

He grabs his shirt from I don’t know where and yanks it over his head, and I hear the hiss of pain he tries to suppress. He turns away from me, spiking his fingers into his hair and just holding them there.

I walk to him and reach out to touch him but pull back, afraid of hurting him. “Chris—”

He turns to stare down at me, his eyes bloodshot, haunted. “I tried to warn you away,” he whispers. “Over and over, I tried.”

“I’m still here, Chris.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

I flinch at the venomous tone he’s used, but I remind myself this is the pain speaking. “Yes, I should. I love you.”

His jaw clenches and unclenches and his reply is agonizingly slow. “I’m going to fly out and help Dylan’s family.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“No.” The word is as sharp as the whip that is tearing us apart. “I need to do this alone.”

“Don’t shut me out.” My voice quakes.

“I’m protecting you.”

“By shoving me away? By using everything but me to get through this?”

“I’m going to destroy you, Sara, and I can’t live with that.”

I can almost hear a locked door closing between us. “Shutting me out will destroy me.”

“You’ll thank me later for this, I promise you. I’m going to have Jacob and Blake look out for you and get you through this Rebecca thing.”

Like he has some obligation to protect me. “I don’t need anyone to get me through anything. Just like you, right, Chris? If we’re over, we’re over. I’ll get a mover to take my things back to my apartment.”

“No.” He grabs my arm and pulls me to him. “Don’t make me fucking worry about you on top of dealing with Dylan. You’re staying in the apartment and you’re accepting protection until Blake says you are safe, or I swear to God, Sara, I’ll lock you in a room and keep you there.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, and try to find some cold comfort in the fact that he doesn’t want me to leave. That maybe, just maybe, he’s clinging to me and us, and this tonight is all his pain talking. “Just go do what you have to do.”

“You’re staying at the apartment.”

“Fine. Yes. I’ll stay.”

Slowly, his grip on my arm eases and he lets me go. “I’ll have a driver take you to the apartment. I’m going straight to the airport.”

I fight the pain that makes me want to turn and dart away. He’s hurting. He’s not himself. “I’ll fly up for the funeral.”

“No. That’s not necessary, and it won’t be in L.A. anyway.”

“I’m coming to the funeral,” I insist, and walk up to him and press a kiss to his mouth. “I love you, Chris. Nothing about tonight changes that.” Slowly, I pull back, but he won’t look at me. With extreme effort, I turn and blindly walk to the door. I reach for the knob and hesitate, waiting for him to stop me, but he doesn’t.

He lets me leave.

I have no memory of how I make it to the front of the mansion. Suddenly I am walking down the steps, and a guy in a suit is watching me expectantly. I don’t stop at the bottom. I don’t stop for him. I keep walking, and I reach for my cell phone as I tell him, “Open the gate.” I dial information. “Connect me to a cab company.”

“What address do you need?” the woman on the other line asks.

I grimace as I realize I have no clue and I’m halfway down the winding path approaching the exit. Not knowing where I am is yet again another brilliant move on my part. “I’ll call back when I get to a street sign,” I say and hang up, noting the closed gate before me.

It doesn’t open when I finally reach it and I wrap my hands around the steel bars and drop my forehead to the metal. It’s icy cold beneath my palms. How appropriate, since I’m freezing to death in every possible way.

The sound of a car behind me gives me hope the gates will open and I step aside to find the Jaguar beside me. The window slides down. “Get in,” Mark orders.

I consider declining but I just want out of here. I just want out. I climb into the car.