Trust Me (Rough Love 3)

We left the cafe shortly afterward and walked aimlessly toward the red light district, taking in life in all its raw and ugly glory. We slipped into a half-empty club and drank licorice-tasting cocktails as a pair of dark eyed women belly danced onstage. Their fingers jangled noisy hand cymbals, and golden tassels flew as they tossed their hips.

Chere watched like she was drinking it in and didn’t want to miss a drop. I did nothing to distract her, only held her hand as the alcohol seeped into my veins and the flashing clang of the cymbals resonated through my brain. I love you, I thought. I love being here with you. I love watching you take it all in.

I’ve been here before, but it feels less wistful when you’re with me.

“Gold is beautiful. I should use more gold,” she said. “It’s so vital. Silver is cool and elegant, but gold is…”

She lost words and started gesturing to the gold painted walls and ceilings, and the gold-edged veils swishing from the dancers’ hips. I could see the lights from the stage reflected in her eyes like miniature stars.

“What do you like better?” she asked me. “Gold or silver?”

I shrugged. “I like them both. I like them in combination. They change one another when they’re together.”

I understood about gold. Some of my buildings had gold trim or burnished bronze fittings, but all my bridges were silver or light metal. Silver was for streamlined strength. Gold was for crazy, gaudy shit.

“I wonder if I could do that,” she said, turning back to the stage. “Belly dance like those women?”

“I’m sure you could. Maybe I’ll order you to do it for my pleasure,” I said, sliding a hand up her thigh. “I’ve seen your hips move like that when I fuck you. I’ve seen them jerk like that when you’re under duress.”

I gave her a look, and she shivered and pressed closer to me. I took her chin hard and kissed her, tasting licorice and sweetness. I wanted to make her hips move. I wanted to make her gasp and struggle for air. I wanted to give her something to remember this by.

When the belly dancers finished their set of frenetic shimmying, and our small cordial glasses were drained, I pulled her up and out into the street. It was getting late now, and I hurried, making pathways for her amidst the burgeoning tourist crowds. I found a shop we’d passed earlier, its windows full of gold necklaces and chain link chokers, earrings and baubles. It was cheap stuff, metal shit. While she tried on some bracelets, I spoke in French to the man behind the counter.

“Do you have gold?” I asked. This was the Goutte d’Or, after all. “I need a gold and crimson ring.”

He studied me and gave a nod. All these vendors had merchandise they didn’t put out where anyone could see it. He produced a gaudy, ruby-encrusted ring from behind the counter, but I shook my head.

“No. Delicate. For her.”

I nodded over my shoulder to Chere, who was trying on beaded chokers and peering at herself in a mirror.

“Ah,” he said. “Attendez. Wait, if you please.” He spoke to his partner and disappeared behind a beaded curtain into the back.

“Look,” said Chere, returning to my side. She wore a sleek, ebony bead choker that came closer to her aesthetic than anything else in the shop. “It’s like a collar,” she whispered. “Isn’t it?”

I shook my head. “It’s not strong enough. It’d break into pieces the first time I squeezed your neck.”

I thought of the summer we’d met, of our date at the Empire Hotel. I’d basically raped her that evening, and snapped a pearl necklace off her neck. Broke it, destroyed it. Pearls had flown everywhere. I wondered if she was thinking about that too.

She left me to try on a few more chokers, but none of them was half as lovely as her solid, honest, plain, brown collar. They were jewelry. Her collar was the real deal, a symbol of submission that bound her to me. You’re mine. I own you.

“Monsieur?” The man returned from the back, holding a small gold circle pinched between his fingers. “How about this? Delicate. Crimson and gold.”

He put it in my palm, and I felt lingering warmth, like he’d just taken it off a mandrel. It wasn’t what I’d imagined in my mind’s eye—it was better, more vital, as Chere had said. I’d pictured a small red ruby in a gold band. This ring had striated garnets, two of them in a line that was both jagged and pleasing to the eye. The band was thin and lightly hammered. Delicate, but vital. We haggled briefly over price, and then Chere drifted back to me.

“Give me your hand,” I said.

She blinked and let me slide the gold and garnet ring onto her finger. I realized too late that it was her left hand, the hand for engagement rings and wedding rings. It was merely the hand closest to me. “It’s a collar for your finger,” I said, so she wouldn’t misunderstand. “And a memory of tonight.”