Page 28 of Pierced

Also kind of rhetorical.

Because regardless of what people think of me—and to be fair to “people,” they think of me the way they do because I ask them to—I’m not a bad guy.

I’m not a nice guy.

But I’m not a bad guy.

I know what bad guys look like. I’ve been around them my whole life. Rolex-wearing knuckle-draggers. Guys who will do whatever it takes to get ahead and who will fuck over anyone in the process.

I’ve never presumed to be a saint. I’m certainly not as fundamentally decent as someone like Andrew. But I’d like to think I’m a reasonable distance apart from those other nut-sucklers.

Sure, I’ve had a good time in my day, but I’ve never hurt anyone on purpose. I’ve never fucked anyone over intentionally. And I’ve always treated the women I’ve been with with respect. My single mother taught me that and I take it seriously.

The fact that after I went to the Denver Women’s March, I wound up sleeping with two of the women I met there was not my fault. I’d like to think it’s because they just saw me as a thoughtful, progressive, forward-thinking, sensitive dude who looks like he’s good at fucking.

And really, isn’t that the way we all want to be seen?

But that’s beside the point. The point is that I may be a self-absorbed, sometimes clueless, fundamentally flawed owner of a men’s magazine, and possibly afflicted with an Oedipal complex, but who isn’t?

I’m not making any sense.

But none of this makes sense.

Agreeing to some weird dom/sub thing doesn’t make sense. Inviting her to come with me to Vail this weekend doesn’t make sense. Treating this thing like she and I are in a relationship doesn’t make sense.

I was never in a relationship with Myrtle. Well… I mean, I was. Of course I was. Just not a romantic relationship.

It was actually somewhat more than that. It was the longest lasting, most deeply personal, and frankly, most intimate relationship of my life. I came to depend on her. In all ways. She was almost like the other part of me. More than half the time she was able to anticipate the things I’d want before I’d even thought to want them. And now that part of our relationship is over, and…

Hold on. Wait a minute. I’m thinking about this like she and I were a couple or some shit. That is not what this has been. I am her boss and she is my employee. Period. End of story. And I did something shitty, as her boss, and, as her boss, I’m not above making amends.

I mean… I gave her a raise, a promotion, and apologized like a hundred times, but that doesn’t seem to have been enough for her. So here I find myself. And, of equal importance, if she wants to do this thing—play this game, whatever—I’ll go along. But I’m not going to let her shame me. Because no one else can shame you. Shame is something you feel or don’t feel. And I refuse to feel ashamed.

And after this week is over and we’re up in Vail, I’m going to treat her like she’s never been treated before. I’m going to give her the weekend of her life. And she’s going to feel so goddamn guilty for everything—all of it—that the universe will have righted itself and she and I will be balanced in a new normal and everything will make sense again between us.

This all makes sense.

It one million percent does.

I’m sure of it.

I wheel my McLaren to the west as the GPS instructs me to do. It occurs to me, quite suddenly, that I’ve got no idea where Myrtle lives. In all the years she’s worked for me, I’ve never been to her house. I guess I always just kind of assumed she lived in the TDH. If I had stopped to think about it, I would’ve imagined her living in a cute condo around the corner from Le Man—decorated in nouveau goth chic or something—and maybe having a cat. Maybe two. There’s a fine line between sexy cat lady and crazy cat lady, but Myrtle strikes me as the type of person who knows where to draw that distinction.

In any case, as I pull up to a long driveway that ends at what can only be described as an imposing looking wrought-iron fence, I can feel my brows rise and my eyes widen with the very sudden awareness that I may not know Myrtle at all.

As I roll forward, slowly, I look down at the GPS and back up at the house. Down at the GPS and back up at the house. Down at the GPS… I press the brake and sit there.

If this really is Myrtle’s place, then I was right to have thought she didn’t initially come to work for me for the money. And she sure as hell didn’t stay for the promotion and a measly fifty-thousand-dollar raise. Good lord.

After a moment, a door to a guard shack by the main gate opens and a head pops out. A woman’s head. Early thirties, attractive. Then the rest of her body pops out. She’s wearing a guard’s uniform.

I draw the sharply deductive conclusion that she’s a guard.

She makes her way down the driveway to where I’m idling. She’s carrying a clipboard and a well-worn paperback. She reaches the car door and I roll the window down.

“May I help you, sir?” she asks.

“Uh, I’m here to see Myrtle Rothschild? Am I in the right place?”