Trust Me (Rough Love 3)

I waited a moment and then I added, I left him.

The phone rang a second later. Andrew’s concerned voice poured into my ear in a stream of frantic syllables. “Where are you, babes? I worried when I didn’t see you at Simon’s funeral. What did Price do to you? Are you safe? Where are you?”

“It’s okay. I’m okay. Calm down.”

“What happened?”

God, how to even explain it? I stuck to the simpler facts. “He wouldn’t let me go to Simon’s funeral. I went ballistic, we got in a huge argument, and he kicked me out.”

“He kicked you out?” Andrew sounded incredulous. This was the man who’d clung to me for months with iron control.

“He told me to get the fuck out of his apartment,” I said. “But I was ready to go. I couldn’t wait to go. I’d reached the point where I’d freaking had enough.”

“You have no idea how relieved I am to hear you say that. I’ve told you before…so many red flags.”

“I know.”

I didn’t tell Andrew about the cage, and the way I’d begged to be let out. I didn’t tell him about the fury and terror of being truly powerless, not in a cute, fun, BDSM way but in a real, I’m-trapped-in-an-indestructible-cage kind of way.

“So…I’m at the Gramercy Park Hotel for now,” I said. “I didn’t want to come there because—”

“Because he’ll come here. It’s okay. We’ll deal with him. Asshole. Why wouldn’t he let you go to the funeral? Why is he literally jealous of a guy who’s been dead for a week now? Sorry, babes,” he said a moment later.

“No, you’re right. Simon’s dead. I don’t know. I was just trying to figure out how I felt about everything. I was hoping for some closure, and when he said I couldn’t go, I was kind of like…”

“Kind of like, I fucking hate you?”

“Yeah. Kind of.”

“It was an okay funeral,” Andrew said. “Although I’m not sure how much closure you would have felt. The guy they were mourning wasn’t the guy I knew, the guy who was so shitty to you.”

“Were there a lot of people?”

“Tons of people. Mostly art world bigwigs. A few gawkers. Some emo kids and a few reporters. There were a lot of flowers. People got up and talked about Simon’s legacy and what he meant to them, and I kept thinking, what a fucking bunch of bull. Craig told me to be quiet, because I snorted at one point. So I don’t know if being there would have made you feel any better.”

My friend was describing exactly what Price had told me would happen. I knew he’d been right, even if I didn’t want him to be right. It still didn’t excuse incarcerating me so I couldn’t go.

“I mean, the funeral was fucked up on so many levels, just like Simon’s artwork, and everything in his life,” Andrew went on. “All the art farts were carrying on like the Messiah had died. Craig says the value of Simon’s work has tripled since last weekend. I guess everyone thought Simon was going to be the next Renoir or Picasso. People were sobbing, Chere. I mean, over Simon.”

“A lot of people idolized him. You used to idolize him.”

“That was before I understood what an ass he was. Chere…” He was silent a moment. “You know his overdose wasn’t your fault, right? Nothing Simon ever did was your fault, honey. I know you’ve had a lot to process the last few days. I imagine it’s been a hard week for you.”

I laughed at that understatement. “I know it’s not my fault, but I can’t help feeling bad about everything. And Price… He wouldn’t even let me talk about Simon or my feelings. He hated Simon so much. That made things so much harder.”

“Well, you know why Price hated Simon. He felt guilty. He couldn’t stand that the money he paid you went to Simon. He thought he should have done something about the way Simon abused you.”

“He did do something. He eventually got me away from him.”

And you kept trying to go back.

I hadn’t really gone back, but I’d cried over Heart-Lust in Paris, and listened to Simon’s pleas when he came to my studio. I’d lost my shit over his death, even though Simon and I hadn’t been together in years, even though we never should have been together. I had a weak spot for my ex, a codependent failing. I always had.

I sighed, too softly for Andrew to hear. Price’s perspective hit me like a brick to the stomach. He’d bought me a multi-million dollar apartment to get me away from Simon. He’d paid for me to go to design school. He’d left me alone for two years, against his will, so I’d learn to stand on my own two feet. After all that, I’d stubbornly persisted in allowing Simon and his problems back into my life. It must have seemed ungrateful. No, it must have felt like a betrayal.