Page 71 of Pierced

I wanted to keep parts of her. Wanted to dress like her at work. Tight pencil skirts. Crisp, white button-down shirts with one too many buttons unbuttoned. Red lipstick on my full, pouty lips. Dark hair done up tight and severe, but in a way that had every man who looked at me wondering what it would look like down. And real silk stockings held up with a garter belt and ending in four-inch heels.

“Talk to me. What’s happening here?”

I realize he’s still holding my hand. He squeezes it.

“Is this about today? I’m sorry, OK? I don’t know what came over me. If I scared you, then I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t scare me,” I say, my words very low and soft. “Not the way you think.”

“What? Then… how? What’s happening?”

“I want to apologize,” I start again. “For talking you into this when I knew this isn’t who you are. And I know better, Pierce. I shouldn’t have asked you to sign that contract, and I shouldn’t have been drinking down in the dungeon yesterday, and I should not have let my emotions cloud what should’ve been a serious, serious decision.”

“Hey,” he says, taking my other hand now too. “We’re having fun, right? I am. I mean, yeah”—he laughs—“it was… a little bit intimidating yesterday, but I’m prepared now. I’m up for anything, Myrtle. Let’s do it.”

“No,” I say, pulling my hands from his and folding my arms across my chest. It is cold out tonight and that cold came in with him. It’s lingering in the foyer. “No,” I say again. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”

“Sure I do,” he quips. “You get to boss me around. I’ve made my peace with it. I’m fine, I promise. If this is all you need to stay at Le Man, well, I’m getting off easy. I want you there. I do. And I am sorry for this summer. I made a mistake and I’m willing to do my penance.”

“This isn’t penance!” I say, too loudly. “It’s not a punishment! I’m doing this all wrong! I’m using you, Pierce. Can’t you see that?”

“Hey,” he says, taking a step towards me. “It’s OK.”

“No. Nothing about what we’re doing is OK. None of it. I’m doing this out of revenge. I’ve turned you into my submissive and that’s not how it’s done! Don’t you get it? I can’t make you be a sub, Pierce. No one can just become submissive. Either she is one, or she isn’t!”

“She?” he says.

“He. You,” I say, wanting to stab myself in the eye for that little slip-up.

“Uh… what are we talking about?”

“You,” I say. “Me.” And then it’s out. And I regret that immediately. So I turn away and say, “You need to leave. Now. This is over.”

“No,” he says. “This isn’t over. And I’m not leaving until I understand what just happened.”

“I just told you. I’m doing this for all the wrong reasons. This… lifestyle. It’s not a joke, Pierce.”

“I didn’t mean to treat it that way, Myrtle. I swear. I’m just… I was just trying to make you happy.”

“It’s not you, don’t you see? It’s me.”

“It’s not you, it’s me?” He chuckles. “Uh, well, I’ve heard that plenty of times in my life but it’s never rung true before and it’s not ringing true now either. So just what the hell is going on?”

I shake my head and turn away from him. “Just go. Please.”

I don’t know what he does then. He doesn’t leave. Just stands behind me, quiet. Seconds tick off in silence and then he brushes past me and walks over to a picture hanging in the hallway. “Who’s this? Your father?”

I stare at the picture. It’s old. Very old. The years have changed the black and white to a dull sepia color. “No, my grandfather.”

“Rangy Ron, Wild Beast Whisperer,” Pierce says, chuckling as he reads the sign over my grandfather in the picture. He’s a tall, thin man surrounded by lions, wearing the classic lion-tamer circus costume, whip in one hand, outstretched chair in the other. “Nice. He looks… formidable.”

“He was,” I say, some of the tension I’ve built up in this room leveling off.

“And this one?” Pierce asks, pointing to the next picture on the wall. “This is your dad?”

I smile as I step closer to look at the photo. Because I walk past it every day on my way out of the house but I can’t remember the last time I actually stopped to look at it. “Yeah,” I say. “He was about seven, I guess. That’s when he started working with the cats.”

“How old were you?”