Thorne Princess(39)
“What got you into…uh…these fantasies?” I didn’t think I’d actually get a straight answer, but it was worth trying.
Ransom began making his way out of the alley, certain I would follow him. I did. He shoved his hands into his front pockets.
“Initially, just the sensation of it all. You don’t have to suffer trauma or abuse to enjoy kink, as long as you’re owning your and your consenting partner’s way.”
“And still?” I asked, knowing there was more.
He shrugged. “Childhood trauma, mainly. The idea of using violence freely, unabashedly. There’s safeness in this scenario. It requires trust and a level of protection. In a way, acting out a date-gone-horribly wrong is much safer than engaging in a real, random, Tinder hookup. It’s about the safety of the expectation. Here, we have rules. We have dos and don’ts. We have limits we do not cross. I find it much more respectful than screwing a random person without knowing what they’re into. What their boundaries are, their background.”
Without meaning to, he was kind of selling the idea for me. The prospect of telling someone in advance what I wanted and didn’t want, what I would and wouldn’t do… what they could and couldn’t do… I liked it. I liked it a lot. It didn’t seem so crazy when he explained it to me.
“Were you hurting her?” I gulped.
We were strolling toward the Nissan. It went without saying that he was my ride home. We would pick up the Prius tomorrow.
“Only the ways she wanted me to, but in terms of actually hurting her? Not really, no. Maybe a few light bruises here and there if she decided to ‘struggle harder’ to make it feel real.”
“Is she your…?”
“I do not have a BDSM partner. I prefer more casual hookups.”
“How often do you…?” I trailed off.
“That depends.” He scratched his chin. “But not often. You need to choose your partners carefully for this kind of thing. Mutual friends, people you know and trust.”
“Do you ever have like, just, regular…?”
I couldn’t believe he was answering all these questions. I had a hunch it had more to do with the fact that he didn’t want me to tell my parents and less about wanting to be open with me.
Or maybe it was because he could see my heart beating in my throat and he (thankfully) mistakenly thought I was still scared instead of sort of terrifyingly exhilarated.
“No,” he said flatly. “This is the only form of sexual relationship I’m seeking. I trust this stays between us.”
“Yeah,” I said finally. “Don’t worry about it.”
He unlocked the car automatically, jerking his chin forward for me to get into the passenger seat. “Good, because this discussion is over, and I’m about to rip Max a new one.”
The next couple days were spent in Los Angeles, preparing for the Dallas trip. I touched base with my contacts, while trailing after Brat. Even though she did not have her phone—not only because I was the one who ended up eradicating the wormed meat, but also because that phone was a bad influence—I allowed her to attend some social engagements, as long as they were indoors and I was around.
What could I say? Now that she knew about the darkest side of my life, she had some leverage on me.
She kept her old patterns, desperately clinging on to a reality that was no longer a part of her life. Goodie bags. Designer dresses. Cameras flashing. Brat didn’t even look like she was having fun. I wasn’t sure why she was doing this to herself. What I was sure of was that I didn’t care enough to ask. The lines between employee and employer had been blurred enough after her little snooping stint.
Generally speaking, I’d done my best to talk to her as little as humanly possible after she caught me mid-act. I’d watched as she squirmed, trying to make ends meet with her flimsy daily budget, which I’d cut in half from the original sum Anthony Thorne had named. Last night, Brat had to resort to making her own acai bowl, because she didn’t have enough to DoorDash and leave a twenty-five percent tip.
“Subhuman,” she had complained to the vast, ugly space she called home as she sliced a banana into thin pieces. “That’s what I’ve become.”
To Brat’s credit, she, too, seemed wildly uninterested in me. That was refreshing. Usually, straight, unmarried women I worked for wanted to climb me like a tree. But she seemed so disoriented, so uneasy in her doodled skin, sex didn’t seem high on her agenda.
A week after the note from Kozlov had arrived, Brat and I boarded a plane to Dallas. First class. Not as good as flying private, but I was relieved to leave Los Angeles behind.
We settled into our respective reclinable pods, which faced each other. I didn’t need to look at her more than absolutely necessary. Brat made a show of snapping open a glossy magazine and crossing her legs in her head-to-toe pink Juicy Couture sweats. She frowned in concentration during takeoff, but her eyes were not moving along the text.
I answered emails and reveled in the fact that in a few short hours, I would get to meet a former president. Anthony Thorne hadn’t exactly left a lasting impression on me during his administration—I wasn’t even in middle school during that time—but he was well-loved enough.
After takeoff came an endless stream of snacks and alcohol. I refused everything the flight attendant offered. Something about eating during flights unnerved me. Brat said yes and even asked for seconds. She loved snacks, and the little pillows they gave you, and chitchatting with the staff. In fact, I was pretty sure the only extraneous object she didn’t like in her vicinity was yours truly.