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“Yes…” I whisper. My heart is beating so loudly I barely hear his voice. Even though I'm terrified he's angry at me, I'm also still sweating and trembling from touching myself in the storeroom not five minutes ago. August may not realize it, but he was just telling me to touch myself, and I was doing everything he asked. I'm so confused, I barely know what to say.
“I think it's better if we do this in person,” he says in clipped, restrained syllables. “Can you please meet me at my home office?”
“Home office?” I repeat, realizing that I'm not going to be even in a public space. I will be trapped with him, alone, unable to conceal anything from his piercing, steely eyes.
“I'll text you the address,” he says, and then the line goes dead. Three seconds later, the address pops up on my screen.
My hands tremble as I try to go back to work, typing the same phone number into the data entry field three times before I get it right. My fingers are shaking so hard they're not even obeying simple commands to type the right keys. After ten minutes or so I realize how useless I am, how distracted. Just hearing his voice — so raw, so direct — is almost too much for me. Though I'm terrified to go, I know I will. I have to. I don't have a choice.
The ride to his house is only a few minutes and passes like a dream. I'm just being drawn in, doing as I'm told, unable to resist. When I press the security button on the panel to the front door, he doesn't even answer. I only hear the click of the bolt as he remotely allows me in.
Tentatively I push open the security door and cross the foyer, wondering what to do next. The stairway door opens at the end of the hall, swinging inward and he steps out. His gaze is fiery and crystal-clear all the way from the end of the hallway as he jerks his chin toward me, crossing his arms over his broad chest. His forearm muscles are ropey and knotted, his stance wide as he holds the steel security door open with his back.
Meekly I come forward, following him up the three flights of stairs to another security door. He slides his hand across the biometric panel and it opens silently.
I can't stand it; he's not saying anything. Helplessly I simply follow him through the large, loft-like room. It's a high-ceilinged space with minimal furniture in it. Bare brick walls loom twenty feet up, disappearing into the gloom around the ceiling. Banks of reinforced glass block filter light into the sparsely decorated living spaces. Simple, sturdy pieces are arranged in geometric patterns: a boxy leather sofa, two chrome chairs, a slab of petrified wood among them serving as a coffee table.
I can't help but look around, curious. In comparison with his generic Instagram feed, this is startlingly authentic. This is his real life. This is his home, which I've never seen before.
It's vast, stretching on for what feels like a whole football field. The furniture is laid out to create rooms even though there are no walls. There are voids between the furniture groupings, indicating to any observer that he intended for the living room to exist because there’s a sofa. He intended for the dining room to exist where the table and chairs are. He intended to for the bedroom to exist where the bed is…
Which is right where we are heading.
My footsteps echo on the polished concrete floors, bouncing off the brick walls and coming right back to me. I cross the room swiftly, trying to keep up. Finally, he comes to a table and snaps open a laptop, tapping angrily until a photograph appears on the screen. Then he steps aside.
“This is you?”
I squint at it, trying to make it out. At first I don't understand, but then… Oh my God.
“This is supposed to be what, exactly?”
“That is Kirkman East's penis,” he growls. “What do you know about this?”
I shake my head, wanting to cry but not even understanding exactly why.
“I don't know anything about this. Why are you showing this to me?”
“I need to see your hands.”
He walks toward me with his hands out. I lift my arms, holding my hands in midair, unsure what to do. When he reaches me, he holds my wrists, flipping my hands over. As soon as our skin touches, I feel faint. I want to crumple where I stand.
“You're not wearing any nail polish.”
“No,” I croak.
“When is the last time you wore nail polish?”
I shake my head. “I usually… I mean, I don't? Just my, um, toes?”
He raises an eyebrow at me. I dare to look him right in the eyes, to see what he's really feeling. As our eyes meet, I feel him soften slightly, but he is still on edge, dangerous.
“Your toes?”
“Do you need to see those too?”
Suddenly, a small smile curls the corner of his lips. Relief floods me. I feel like I can finally let my breath out.
“No, I don't need to see your toes,” he sighs, dropping my wrists. My hands fall limply back to my sides, and immediately I miss his touch.
