Trust Me (Rough Love 3)

The more my schedule blew up, the more his control tightened, and I tolerated it as best I could. Most days I felt happy, even in the dungeon. Even in the chastity belt. The harder he held me, the better I felt about myself and about my life, because he was worth every sacrifice. His smiles, his poetry, the way he touched me after he hurt me, like there was no one else besides me in the world. I felt surrounded and protected in a very powerful love, whatever he chose to call it. Slavery, ownership, our “dynamic.” It was all the same thing: my love for this complicated and deeply protective man.

I was existing in this calm and surrendered bliss, working in my studio on a cold day in early January, when an unexpected visitor came to my door. The visitor pushed it open slowly, which meant it wasn’t Price, because he always threw the door wide and strode in to greet me with an owner’s confidence. No, the door opened by increments, like this visitor wasn’t sure he’d be welcome to enter.

When he finally came in, I wished he hadn’t entered.

Simon Baldwin, tall and dark and frighteningly familiar, stared at me from across my studio.

I stared back, alarm bells going off in my brain. It wasn’t only that we had a traumatic past together, and that our most recent interaction had involved a trip to jail for Price. No, it was that I wasn’t allowed to have anything to do with him, and he was standing here in my studio, and oh, shit, Price’s head would fucking explode.

“Hi, Chere,” he said. “Nice studio.”

“What…what are you doing here? How did you get in the building?”

He shrugged. “My accountant’s office is on the eighth floor. So you’re in the jewelry business now, huh? How’ve you been?”

I blinked at him. He looked the same, perhaps a little heavier since he’d stopped the drugs. All I could think was that Price might show up anytime, and all hell would break loose.

“You have to go,” I blurted out, not even taking the time to return his greeting. “You have to leave right now.”

“Why?”

I was having a panic response. My breath literally felt tight in my chest. What had Price done to me, that I was so afraid to speak to men? But it wasn’t just any man. It was this man, the one who’d brought so much devastation to my life.

“You just… You have to go, Simon. I’m not supposed to talk to you.”

“Well, that sucks, because I was hoping to talk to you.” He sat in the chair by my desk, making himself comfortable.

“I’m not supposed to…” I began, but then I stopped, because I was a grown woman and it was weird that I wasn’t allowed to talk to people. With a brutal flash of lucidity, I realized that I was just as controlled by Price as I’d been controlled by Simon and his addictions. You use me for sex the same way Simon used me for money, I had screamed at Price once. To get your fix.

I thought I was finished questioning the validity of Price’s love for me, but within three minutes of seeing Simon and experiencing the feelings he evoked in me, I felt riddled with doubt.

“No,” I said, putting my head in my hands. I didn’t even know who I was talking to. “No, I can’t deal with this right now.”

“I know you’re busy,” Simon said. “I’ve been following your success in the design mags. Vinod Sushil, huh? Not bad.”

“Yeah, I’ve been really busy. That’s why I can’t talk to you. I’m sorry.”

“Chere—”

“You have to leave.”

“Look, I know I hurt you,” he said, speaking over me. “I know I’ve been an asshole to you hundreds of times. Thousands. But give me a chance to say what I need to say. I’ve changed, I promise. Every day is a battle to stay clean, but I’m trying.”

So he was still sober. There was that, at least, that he’d turned into a better person. Some quiet desperation in his features made me sit back in my chair and push Price’s glowering expression out of my mind for the moment.

“What do you want to talk about?” I asked. “I don’t have a lot of time. Please, make it quick.”

“Can we start by talking about you?” He looked around my studio with a dazzled expression. “I mean, wow, Chere. It’s like you’ve reinvented yourself. You must be really proud. Are you proud?”

“Yes,” I said through my teeth. “I’m really proud.”

My curt tone registered, but the essence of Simon hadn’t really changed. Fucked up or sober, he was still incredibly self-centered. Despite the fact that I clearly wanted him to state his business and get out, he lounged back in the chair, crossing one leg over the other.