That was twenty years ago. Back when he was a poor kid from Philly heading south, hoping for pussy and fortune. Willing to do whatever it took to get either. He’d gotten off the bus six hours after taking the girl, the scent of her still on his hands, his feet hitting the dirt of Miami at an hour of night when only trouble walked. He’d had eighty bucks in his pocket and he’d felt unstoppable.
Marcus lets out a breath and closes his eyes, remembering the feeling. Wishing it to return. Now, back in his life, he feels incomplete—he needs that amp. Needs the affirmation that he is in control. That he can bend wills and take what isn’t meant to be given. He needs that high from twenty years ago and can’t get it inside this house. Can’t get it with the police watching his every move. Two more months and some change. Then he’ll be free. Then he’ll find a girl and take the final piece of his life back.
CHAPTER 20
WHILE JEREMY KNOWS the feel of my lips, the curves of my naked body, Dr. Derek knows my soul. He’s seen the black pit of it, knows the things I think, things I can’t imagine confessing to Jeremy. Things that would make teenage boys plug in a night-light. Things that scare me more than anyone, since I hold the keys to their containment.
Derek has never made me feel ashamed of my sickness. He has, out of everyone, judged me the least. He has always been supremely unaffected by the dark confessions that come from my lips, has not flinched. And while, in some ways, he knows me better than anyone… in other ways he is ignorant. He doesn’t know what I spend my days doing. Doesn’t know about the bed, the cameras, the toys. He doesn’t know about the men who whisper through my speakers, about the graphic way I can describe a sexual act. He thinks I design websites, spend all day with plug-ins, shopping carts, and graphic design. I initially lied to control the conversation, to steer our talks away from my daily activities and to focus them on what mattered. Stopping my fantasies, fixing my brain. Making it possible for me to reenter the world.
Now? Now that we have talked my sickness to pieces, looked at it from every possible angle, made little progress in two years of appointments—I could bring my job up. But why? For what purpose? I think, when I turn the psychoanalysis on myself, it is because I am embarrassed. Embarrassed to be both sexual and insane. He knows so much about my brain, yet still—in some crazy way—treats me like I’m innocent. I don’t want to ruin that side of our relationship. And I’m pretty sure stuffy straitlaced Derek will not approve. Of the words I say, the actions I perform. He’ll turn it into something dirty, stack a psychological sentence on top of it, give all sorts of clinical reasons for my motivation. Make me feel guilty for it.
So I haven’t told him. And I most likely won’t.
CHAPTER 21
“HOW’S WORK?”
The question makes me pause, a spoon heaped with mint-chocolate-chip ice cream halfway to my mouth. It’s Edy’s, Jeremy’s beautiful ass bringing me an entire half gallon of it. My fridge, which has never held more than bottled water, is suddenly being used in ways it probably forgot it could. I finish—no use wasting a spoonful of deliciousness—and wonder about the calories as the cool ice slips down my throat. I need to be careful. I’ve lived off diet meals for the past three years. Probably couldn’t have gained weight if I’d tried. Now, with Jeremy showing up with bags full of carbs, calories, and desserts, I might pack on a few. Join the group of girls who mark the “generous proportions” checkbox on their cam profile.
He waits, unhurried, his steady look indicating I’m not going to mint-chocolate-chip-swallow this away. I shrug, the sharp pain in my head announcing with gusto the arrival of a brain freeze. I wince and wait for it to pass. Wow. Have forgotten what that feels like. “Fine. Busy day.”
“Any new clients?”
I glance over, the deliberately casual forming of his words raising a red flag in some part of my brain not concerned with ice cream. “Yep. I have new clients every day.”
“Anything interesting?”
I raise a brow. “I feel like you’re hinting at something.”
He sits back, glances at the framework that covers my bed. “Not really. Just curious what goes on. I know you told me you do cybersex, and I’ve seen your setup, but I guess I don’t really know what that is.”
“Cybersex?” I scrape the spoon along the bottom of the bowl, getting a generous amount of green, and raise a hypothetical middle finger to the risk of brain freeze with one big-ass spoonful. Ouch. Splinters through my skull, ones that dig deep and twist on their painful way down. I recover, making a face that no one would consider sexy, and vow allegiance to some bit of restraint. “It’s not that complicated. Want to watch a couple of chats? Before you leave?” It’s his third visit of this sort. A drop-in. I have a boyfriend, and he has “stopped by” after work. I feel so normal. And the thought of killing him hasn’t even crossed my mind. The previous two visits, we were lazy. Stretched out on my bed, his hand running through my hair. A few times his fingers took the slow and delicate path up my shirt, or under the hem of my shorts. The last visit, I didn’t even get back online. We just kept talking, his hand rolling me over and tugging my body into his, his hand tracing patterns on my skin as he spoke against my neck. About his family. About his childhood. Neither topics that included death or blood.