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“Spread your legs for me,” James whispers and the camera rocks as James continues to fuck Ella, her sweet moans heard in between sounds of them kissing. It’s all audio for the last minute when it finally ends with the camera falling off the bed and hitting the floor.
I watch them again and again. This video. The one from the bar. Every other video in the set. They span a seven-year period with nearly half of them from the first two years. Then only a video a year, some with two. The bar scene is the last one. Not all of them feature her ex, but he’s there in some capacity for most of them. The night turns to a deep black, black as my soul must be from watching this and confirming my suspicions. The autumn fire of dawn catches in slow increments as I watch and watch and watch.
Once it’s over, I click back to the cameras, flicking through the videos of nothing. Not a damn thing has changed, yet it feels like everything has.
“Hey.”
Damon’s voice scares the living shit out of me, but I control it. I control the startle reflex and the wild hum of my pulse and nod at his silhouette from across the room in the morning light. Rubbing my hands over my face, I play it off as exhaustion. I close the laptop gently as if I’ve been doing the kind of research that involves files and records and interviews. “Hey.” If I were a better man, I’d feel any sort of shame, but at the moment, I don’t.
“She still sleeping?” he asks.
“I haven’t heard any movement.”
He nods. “You’re good to go.”
I don’t wait a second to get the hell out of that room. I want to stay too badly to wait. More than anything, I want to take the steps up to Ella’s bedroom two at a time and show her I understand, at least a little more. I understand the part of her who could use attention that I could give her. At least for a little while. Not forever, because nobody wants a fucked-up prick like me forever. But I could satisfy a part of her that shares reciprocal needs and give us both a much-needed distraction.
Ella
A partner of The Firm will immediately respond to a client’s distress signals by providing one-on-one support. This may include a counseling session, medical attention, or an otherwise agreed-upon mediation.
Today is not a good day. There are good days and there are bad days. “Bad” isn’t a strong enough word for how fucking awful they are, but I suppose it’s the appropriate counter to good.
The moment I woke up, I knew every minute was going to be harder than the last. The moment my eyes opened and I forgot, then remembered … that was my warning. It’s an emptiness that takes over initially. It seeps slowly within me throughout the day, making the tips of my fingers cold at first and then it spreads. My mouth turns dry, my stomach empty but I don’t wish to fill it. I don’t want to be warm, I don’t want my thirst quenched. The only desire is to sit in it, to feel that desolation so as to ensure I won’t forget again. Because how could I have possibly forgotten? How could I not wake up every day and feel that loss?
Tears prick at the back of my already tired eyes and like always, I ignore them. I don’t allow anything to fall. I’ve never been a fan of crying. Not since I was a little girl and the videos of me mourning my mother being taken from me, her subsequent suicide, and my father’s treatment toward me … it all led to useless tears and each video I’d made was played back until I realized how much I truly hated the act of crying. So if I can, I withhold it; I acknowledge the urge, but I don’t like to see the tears fall.
Instead, I blow across the steam of the fifth cup of tea I’ve made today. I thought Damon may have been able to smell the whiskey remnants in the last cup. I thought when he left after he offered to pick up for me and refill it, that he would go check the surveillance feed and discover I’d spiked the drink.
I’ve never held my breath over the judgment of a man I’m not sleeping with, but I’d be damned if I said I didn’t then. All day, he’s given me space, allowed me to simply lie here, the television screen on, yet with only a logo blinking across it since I haven’t pressed play for hours.
Kam slipped me an apology package a couple days ago after our blowup, six little glass bottles of amber warmth. It’s an expensive variety and they fit neatly in the small pocket of my robe. I’ve gone through three so far today. Well, two and a half. The rest of the previous bottle is tucked away beneath the throw pillow under my arm. I hid it there just in case Damon came back with accusations rather than a fresh cup.
