Trust Me (Rough Love 3)

“And you told him to leave?” I asked, making her uncross her arms. No hiding. I wanted her naked as shit right now.

She watched me a moment before she answered. “Yes, of course I did. That was the first thing I said to him, that he had to go.”

“And did he go?”

“Yes.”

I stared at her. She glanced away, and then back.

“He did go, eventually,” she said in a tight voice.

“What did you talk about?” I was very proud of how level and calm I sounded. I didn’t feel that way inside.

“We didn’t talk about anything.”

“He was there a long time to be talking about nothing.”

“How do you know that?” She went from defensive to belligerent. Typical old-school Chere tactic. It wasn’t going to save her now.

“Tell me what you talked about,” I prompted, tugging her collar’s ring to focus her. “I’m angry enough that you met with him. Tell me what I want to know.”

She slid back on the couch, away from me. “No, you tell me how you know all this. Were you spying on me? Jesus fuck, do you watch me? Is there a camera in my studio?”

“Of course there is. You think I don’t like to look at you throughout the day?”

She was heading full speed into outrage. “You seriously installed a secret camera in my studio? You didn’t think that was something I might want to know?”

“It’s something you should have assumed, considering our past together. The cameras aren’t the issue here.”

“The cameras?” she said, getting to her feet. “Plural? How many cameras are there?”

“Sit down. Sit the fuck down or the ass beating will commence immediately. We need to talk.”

“Yes, we need to talk.” She sounded snarky, but she obeyed me and sat her ass back on the couch. “I can’t believe you’ve been spying on me all this time. What am I, your personal zoo animal? A fish in your fishtank?”

“Yes, you’re a very beautiful fish I can watch whenever I like.”

“Where are they? Where are the cameras?” She sat up straighter and looked around the living room. “Do you have them here in the house? In the guest room?” She paled. “In the dungeon? Have you been taping all the shit you do to me?”

“The shit I do to you?” I repeated with a warning note in my voice. “Is that what it is? Shit? You agreed to be mine, Chere. We have a relationship, a dynamic that is all encompassing, to include”—I marked off each word on my fingers—“surveillance, obedience, control, exposure, and whatever the fuck else I want. You live here in my house, by my rules. What’s the rule about Simon?”

“That I can’t see him,” she said. “But I had no control over what happened. He came to see me!”

“You didn’t work that hard to throw him out.”

“Because he was upset. He was stressed out.”

“About what?”

She rubbed her forehead. “About his sobriety. About these steps he’s working through, and our past, and trying to find some kind of peace between us.”

I let out a breath. The emotion, then, made sense.

“I mean, I couldn’t just throw him out,” she said. “He was begging for my help. I kept telling him I couldn’t help him, but he seemed so desperate.”

I frowned at her. “That’s exactly the shit he pulled on you before, acting pathetic and desperate so you would ‘help’ him. I forbade you to see him for a reason. He’s a user, Chere.”

“He’s sober now.”

“That’s not the kind of user I meant. He’s a user,” I said, with frustrated emphasis. “He’ll use you for the rest of your life if you let him. Did he ask about you at all? How you’re doing? How your work is going?”

“Yes! He said he was proud of me. And he asked if I needed help when I told him about this, about you. About how you wouldn’t let me interact with him, even as friends.”

“As friends. Perfect.” I gave a nasty laugh. “Because he has so many qualities you want in a friend.”

“I almost let him die once!”

Jesus Christ. Tears. She was crying over him again. I couldn’t take it.

“I almost let him die last time because I didn’t engage with him,” she said. “Am I supposed to do that again?”

“Yes.” My voice sounded too loud, too harsh. “Yes, you’re supposed to have nothing to do with him. Why is that so hard to understand? We’ve been over this, Chere. We’ve fucking been over it.”

I thought of Paris, of the brutal punishment I’d given her for merely going to look at one of his paintings. This was so much worse. She wanted to help him. She still cared about him. She was crying for him…again.

“If you don’t stop crying, I swear to God I’ll fuck you up. I’m not even kidding.”

She swiped tears off her cheeks, but she only cried harder and made more. So many tears. Some of them were probably for me, for fear of me, and worry about what I was going to do to her. She’d been a very bad girl, not just to see him, but to hide it from me. To feel so much for him, to allow him this pity and concern…