Exposed (Madame X, #2)(71)

I tread quietly up the stairs and find exactly what I’m looking for: a workout room. The whole upstairs has been opened up, every wall torn down, the load of the ceiling held up by a couple of thick square pillars running the center of the huge room. Every kind of exercise equipment available lines the walls, with free weights in the spaces between the pillars in the middle, and a black punching bag hanging by a thick chain from the ceiling in one corner.

I start with the free weights, doing stretches and lifts in several sets of reps to warm up. I’m not wearing a bra, so my workout will have to be low impact, as my breasts are far too large to run or anything like that without one. I lift free weights for a good thirty minutes, then move to the machines, starting in one corner and working my way around until I’m so weak and tired and sore I can barely move. But it’s a good sore, a good tired. I’m drenched with sweat and smelly, so I limp downstairs and rummage in Logan’s refrigerator until I find a water bottle, and I take it into the bathroom with me, drinking it as I close the door behind me and run the shower.

I peek in on Logan, who is still asleep, curled up on his side now, one hand under the pillow. I want to slide into bed with him, but I need space and time to sort through my feelings. Not to mention, I stink of sweat now.

I take my time in the shower, running it so hot my skin tingles and aches from the heat, letting it beat down on my shoulders. I try not to think of Logan in here, try not to think of his hand stroking his huge, hard member. To no avail. I can’t think of anything else, and I know I’ll think of that scene every single time I take a shower here now.

As I’m drying off, I think of my conversation with you. That story. It smacked of truth. If there are lies being told, it’s not overt lies, but lies of omission, I think. I’m not sure. The story felt real. Felt true. And you seemed affected by the retelling, distraught remembering. Could you be telling the truth? I don’t know. You could be. You very well might be. But there are undeniably elements you are either lying about or leaving out. There was no mugger, of this I’m sure. It was a car crash, as Logan claims. My memories, such as they are, jibe with that story, the car crash. My dreams, too. My dreams do not speak of violence, not the sort perpetrated by a criminal, but the violence of an accident. There is bloodshed, yes, but not drawn by a gun or a knife or a fist.

You lie, but speak truth.

You saved me. Stayed with me. You were there when I woke up. You were there every day after that.

I have to sit down on the closed lid of the toilet, as a memory hits me. Not of precoma, but of my recovery. Of you, on a treadmill beside me. You ran, dressed in a sleeveless black shirt and black shorts, earbuds in your ears. You ran, ran, ran. You didn’t encourage me with words, but with action. I was walking. I wanted to give up. Holding on to the railings for dear life and struggling to merely put one foot in front of the other, to manage a slow walk. I wanted to give up, but then I would look at you and you were still running. As long as I was walking, you were running.

You helped me dress. I remember this, too. When I was released from the hospital, I was still working on coordination, regaining fine motor skills. Dressing myself was a slow, laborious affair, and you were there to help. Never touching inappropriately, never behaving awkwardly at my nudity. But looking back, I do remember you stealing looks, carefully avoiding my eyes and avoiding my skin. Curbing your desire, I now realize.

You helped me eat. Even fed me, in the hospital. And at home, on hard days. On my feet, staying upright, talking, it was all taxing. Just holding a normal conversation was tiring. So at the end of the day, feeding myself seemed like an impossibly hard task. And you would feed me. You never complained. Never showed impatience. You were always there.

You became my world.

The daily exercises to help me regain my mobility became a daily regimen of exercise to build my strength and shape my figure. I lived—not with you, but near you, and you provided everything for me. Food, clothing, entertainment; life. I never questioned it, because I had no idea what I’d do without you, where I’d go. I was so dependent on you. Utterly and completely helpless. I remembered nothing. I was no one. Knew nothing. You never claimed to be a boyfriend or family member. You never explained who you were to me, you were just . . . there. Stocking my refrigerator and cabinets with food, my closet with clothes. Showing me exercise routines and techniques, bringing me books, by ones and twos at first, and then by the armful, and then by the box load as my voracity for books grew.

And then one day, seemingly out of nowhere, apropos of nothing, you crept up behind me and I felt your not-quite touch like electricity. And that began a sexual exploration that didn’t really qualify as a “relationship.” You retained all the control. I was . . . not quite a slave, but nearly. And, if I am being honest with myself . . . a willing one. You would use one finger and stroke me to near orgasm, and you would keep me there for . . . so long. Tickle my clit until I was thrashing, begging, and you would tell me to wait, order me to not come until you told me I could. And if I came before you said I could, the next time you would bring me to the edge and not let me go over it for even longer. You would pin my hands over my head and torture me with near-orgasm for long minutes, what felt like hours. Until I swore I would do better next time.

I never got to touch you. I never watched you come, face-to-face. You were always behind me. I was always facing away. Face down, stomach to the bed. Knees spread apart. Or on my hands and knees, a pillow under my stomach. Pressed up against the window.