Exposed (Madame X, #2)(24)

“I can’t remember either. I can’t remember who I used to be, and I’ve lost confidence in who I am now.” I don’t bother wiping away the tears.

“Don’t need to know who you was, or who you is. Only need to know who you wanna be.”

That is a surprisingly helpful statement. I stare at the man, absorbing that last sentence. I only need to know who I want to be. Rachel said much the same, and so did Logan.

The question remains, however: who do I want to be?

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

At some point, the old man totters off, swigging endlessly from the bottle.

I see you approaching, a god striding the earth among mortals. Navy blue suit, bespoke, of course. White button-down. No tie, top two buttons undone, baring a V of flesh. Dark hair swept back, effortless, artful. Eyes like black holes, absorbing all light and matter, absorbing, drawing, seeking, sucking everything in. Sucking me in. Dragging me in. You sit beside me, lean back, elbows on the stair behind you.

“Come home, X.”

“Home?” I speak the word as a question, spit it like the bitterest gall. “Where is that?”

“Oh for f*ck’s sake, X—”

“I sit in your monstrosity of an apartment, waiting. You know what I wait for? You. I sit there waiting for you. Waiting for you to show up, so you can f*ck me and then ignore me.” Eyes around me seek me. I ignore them. You, however, do not look at me. You scan the crowds, watch the passersby, watch the river of cars, yellow and black and white and blue and red, watch anything but me. “I am discontent, Caleb. The status quo has been called into question. Who I am, who I was, who I will be, it’s all up for grabs. Do you even know what that’s like?”

“More than you know.”

“I don’t want to be that person anymore, Caleb.”

“Then who—”

I speak over you. “I don’t know yet. I don’t know anything anymore. I’m not sure I believe Logan, but no more do I believe you. I don’t know what to believe.” I stare at you, and finally you meet my gaze. “You can’t keep me in thrall with your mantra anymore either. Everything has changed.”

“What changed you?”

I shrug. “Logan.” It is the simple truth.

A few hours with him, and everything changed. I am not sure if I am grateful for this or not.

“He’s an ex-con,” you say.

I nod. “I know. He told me.” I lick my lips. “He told me it had something to do with you. Or, that was the implication, at least. He wouldn’t say what. It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

“Just come back with me. I’ll help you figure things out. I’ll give you space.”

“I don’t know if I can be alone with you anymore. Not after what happened with you and Rachel.”

A sigh. A long silence. Another sigh. “Come back.” Your eyes meet mine. I see a glimmer of emotion in them, a tiny, infinitesimal spark. “Please.”

Where else do I go? I have nowhere. No one. Rachel is tainted for me now. I cannot see Rachel without seeing you, f*cking, pounding, spanking, staring at me.

I want to go to Logan. I want to bury my head in the sand. I want his arms around me. I want his eyes on mine, his hands on me, his lips. I want that, so badly. I want his truth. The ease of everything that is him. But what if he’s lying, too? What if I become addicted to him the way I’m addicted to you?

You are a drug. I am hooked on you.

I read a book about drug addicts, about addiction. How even when addicts know the drug is killing them, they cannot stop. They return to it time and again, despite knowing the toll.

I return with you, despite knowing that I cannot trust you. That you are lying, that you are keeping the truth from me. That you are manipulating me into staying. I go with you, because I am addicted.





SEVEN


You pin me up against the door of the elevator, hips hard against mine, and your hands roam my body, one sliding up to grip my hair and the other stripping me of my clothes. Your mouth crushes mine, but this is not a kiss, this is a demonstration of ownership. Your mouth steals my breath. Your hands steal my will.

Your body erases my thoughts. You are hard against me, giving me no chance of arguing, of hesitating, of pulling away. I am imprisoned by your mastery over my body. You know the buttons to push, and you push them. I am rendered helpless.

You are an incubus.

Somehow, you become naked. I do not remember seeing or feeling you remove your clothes, but I feel your skin against mine. You are not gentle, or slow. You ravage my mouth with yours until I must rip my face away and gasp for breath.

And that is when your hands press down on my shoulders and I am forced to my knees. Your hand is tangled in my hair, and you force my head back. My heart hammers, and I stare up at you, lips parted in shock. This is not the Caleb I know, the man who has possessed my body every night, every day for . . . for as long as I can remember.

Your penis is an erect shaft in front of my face, thick and veined and plump-headed and as perfect as the rest of you, although I suppose I have no frame of reference, only the knowledge of your body, thus.

“Open your mouth,” you command.

I open my mouth. My body obeys, although my mind is numb.