Torment Me (Rough Love 1)

I couldn’t remember her name, so I searched my memory while she chatted at me about Simon’s work and the show, and what a huge success it was. She asked what I was “up to these days.” I could feel W against my back, leaning over the bar. He was talking to the bartender, asking him for a pen.

I wondered what she would think if I told her I was W’s exclusive prostitute, that he beat me and throat fucked me and tormented me at every one of our sessions until I cried. Instead I muttered something about consulting, sounding as vague as possible. I finally remembered that her name was Shelly and that she worked for a museum.

Maybe I could work for a museum. I wondered what kind of degree that required.

“You must be so proud of him,” she said, and I thought she must be talking about W, because she kept glancing at him with her round, black-lined, fuck-me eyes like she wanted him. She didn’t have a clue. W would leave Shelly-the-assistant-museum-curator in a heap of broken dreams. But then I realized she was talking about Simon.

“I am proud,” I said.

W thrust a napkin into my hand behind my back, and closed my fingers around it. A moment later, he moved away. I knew from Shelly’s gaze which direction he went, and that he was leaving me here, alone, in this bedlam and noise.

“Jaysus, Chere, you wouldn’t believe the guy who was just standing behind you. Oh my God, girl. Sex on a stick. I haven’t seen him around before.”

I made some nonchalant noise and held the napkin tighter. “I wonder who it was.”

“I don’t know, but yum. Blond hair and jawline for days, and his suit! Older guys are so sexy. It’s like they’re old enough to know what they’re doing, you know? They have that aura, like, wow, I’m all rich and successful and I enjoy the finer things.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I agreed. “Will you excuse me? I’m helping Simon with the catering and I have to…you know…check on something.”

“Of course. It was great talking to you. I’ll see you around.”

She gave a fluttery little wave as I clutched the napkin in my palm. I headed into the crowd, toward the back. I pushed around a clutch of socialites and avoided eye contact until I got to the storage room behind the bathrooms. I leaned against the wall and looked down at the napkin, at the handwriting I recognized by heart.

For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,

Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

I thought of Simon’s black hair and his dark eyes, which, I’m sure, was exactly what W intended.

Shakespeare. Jesus Christ. He was bringing out the big guns.

*** *** ***

It was after three when the party wound down. The caterers left and the gallery locked its doors. Some of Simon’s friends lingered, strangely animated. I skulked around the walls, looking at red dots. Those dots should have made me happy because they meant success and more money, but I didn’t feel happy.

As black as hell, as dark as night…

“Chere.” Simon’s voice drew me from my thoughts. “We’re going out to a club. Want to come?”

He said it in a surly tone, like he hoped I wouldn’t. Tough shit. They were all off their faces, and I didn’t want him going out without a chaperone. He was manic and ratcheting up. He’d made a lot of money tonight—and he knew he’d made money. I was afraid he’d do something stupid if I didn’t stay with him.

My feet hurt from the Fendi shoes, it was a hot, sticky night, and I had to chaperone wacked out artists and posers around the Meatpacking District. Love lies. I was so miserable. Love lies. I wanted to go home.

I pushed through his cabal of friends to take Simon’s hand. He smiled down at me, high and happy. “Do you want to dance? Let’s go dancing.”

One of his friends led us to an underground disco, one of those secret-knock, dank-stairwell types of places. It was a cement box with jet-engine level rave music. Simon and his friends surged onto the dance floor while I stared up at the crumbling concrete ceiling and gauged the likelihood of it burying us alive. Wouldn’t that be a fitting end to my life, being buried alive? I already felt buried alive. Your life must be miserable, W had said.

I wish I’d drunk that champagne now. I wish I’d drunk a whole bottle of champagne so this might be more bearable. I looked around for a bar but there was no bar here, nothing so civilized as that. People brought in whatever they needed to get altered. I saw pills exchange hands, clusters of addicts using needles in the corners. I thought I saw someone against the back wall smoking crack. Simon jerked and jumped in the middle of the crowd. Rachel was near him, smiling up at him. He was surrounded by his adoring posse. I was extraneous here.