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I can't burn it or throw it out, so it just sat there. My phone is also in there. It's kind of amazing how you can get away without having a cell phone in a big city when you don't really have anyone to call anyway. The penthouse has a landline, so it isn't as though I'm totally without communication to the outside world. And I have a laptop now and the internet. I kind of really missed the internet during those weeks of unreality, playing their game.
I've been trying to think of it that way, that I somehow chose to play. I've been trying to convince myself that the contract I signed is somehow the real story of what went down. Just some kinky games and fun. Just a fantasy that went for a few weeks and now it's over. I've been compensated handsomely for my participation. And now I can move on into a wonderful new life. But can I really?
I pick myself up off the ground and cross to the chair and my bag. I open the sleek black handbag to find my wallet with a small bit of cash untouched and my credit cards. I should probably pay them off now that I can afford to. There's also a nude lipstick, a mirror, and my phone.
I pull out the phone. I don't know why I expected after a month to be able to just turn it on. Of course the battery is dead. I sigh. I need to get out anyway.
I go by the closest cell phone store. I was on auto-pay, and I’m comforted to find out that the most recent payment charge went through. I get a new charger and stop by a small corner Chinese buffet for some lo mein, sweet and sour chicken, and egg rolls.
Even with money, the issues in my life haven't gone away. I didn't realize how lonely I was. And maybe that’s why I think of them so much, why I still crave them so much. I return home and charge the phone, determined that I'm going to find a way to reconnect with people.
While the numbers in my contact list weren't close enough to go to when destitute, I can certainly get together with someone for drinks, especially if I'm buying. It's a start.
When the phone is charged, I'm unsurprised to find I have messages and voice mails. All from Andrew. There are about ten text messages and fifteen voicemails.
The texts are basically: “Where are you?” “I can't find you.” “Did you give me the right address?” “Did you mean this restaurant or that one on the corner of Fifth and Main with a similar name?” “Are you fucking with me?” “Why won't you text me back?” “Hello?” “Hello?” “Bitch.”
The voice mails are far more abusive. The words “lying whore” and “worthless piece of trash” are colorfully interspersed with “fuck you” and “bitch”.
As I listen to this unrelenting stream of man-child screaming, it occurs to me that my captors never screamed at me or called me names. I mean, yes, Declan called me a whore, but it didn't feel like this. Somehow, even though I knew he was the bad guy, it felt almost like an endearment from his lips.
I delete all the messages and texts and block Andrew's number. I don't see a reason to respond to him or ever contact him again. I scroll through the contact list to find someone for those theoretical “on me” drinks, when I find there's a new contact that I didn't put in there. The names Seven and Declan are listed as a single contact in my list.
I want to push the delete button, but I can't bring myself to do it. The strongest feeling I have when I see their number is relief. I have access. It's as though the card from the flowers reassembled and flew back to me from the trash. This time I have to keep it safe.
But I won't call. I will not call them. It's just nice to know I can.
That’s the most disturbing thought I've had in a long time. It's nice to know I can? What the fuck have they done to me?
I try to make myself delete it again, but this time, insanely, I press the call button. It rings twice, and I end the call before anyone answers. I spend five minutes staring at the screen, waiting for it to light up and ring, for them to call me back. But they don't.
Maybe they're doing this with someone else now. I waited too long, and now they’re playing the game with somebody new. I shudder at that thought and the actual bit of jealousy it inspires. I should feel sorry for the poor girl, whoever she is, horrified by her situation, not jealous that it isn't me.
I call a girl named Julie from my contacts. When she answers, she says she wondered what happened with me, and she hated to see me leave the agency. Says it was nice to have a little less testosterone there. We agree to meet for drinks on Friday.
TEN
Friday night and three drinks too many sees me flopping face down onto a gray leather sofa in the penthouse at two in the morning. I get a text. Julie making sure I got home okay. I let her know I did, make sure she did, too, then flop back against the leather.
She's nice enough, but there isn't really a strong friend connection there. I scroll through the contact list, landing once again on Seven and Declan. Alcohol and cell phones are really bad combinations for me. I know this. It's how that sad clown phone call to Andrew happened.
I'm not calling them. Yes, let's call two psychos who spent three weeks fucking me in every way one can be fucked both physically and mentally, in the middle of the night. What could possibly go wrong?
But drunk Kate is not strong enough to stop herself from pushing the call button.
Seven answers on the third ring. “Hello, Kate.”
I have visions of Hannibal Lector at this smooth greeting at two o'clock in the morning. Suddenly I feel stone-cold sober. I bolt upright on the sofa, gripping the phone like a lifeline. I should hang up, but I don't. I just want to hear his voice.
“Hey, Seven,” I say, trying to sound casual as though we once had a few nice dates and I'm just calling to catch up.
“I'm sorry, that's not my name, and you know it.”
“Master,” I correct. I can't help that this word goes straight to my pussy. They've trained me so well. And they knew I would call and beg to come back to my cage. Though I haven't sunk quite so low yet.
“Better,” he says. “Now what can I do for you?” His voice is so calm and in control, and I crave everything that voice is right now. I crave their calm control even as I know how messed up it is.
“I'm sorry, I shouldn't have called. It's late. I had some drinks. I'm... I'm sorry.”
