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Zeb’s grip on my hands tightens reassuringly, and he lets out a deep sigh.
“You don’t have to go through this alone.” His tone is gentle, but firm. “Do you want to contact the authorities?”
My heart stops. If I do that, I’ll have to admit I let Scott do this to me. I can’t.
I just can’t.
Zeb should be angry that I went back to Scott. He should hate that I allowed this to happen. Instead, he asks how he can help?
I don’t understand him—his motives, or what drives him—but I admit I need help.
Can I talk about what’s happening without feeling ashamed or guilty?
Zeb’s steady gaze gives me the courage I need to trust he won’t hurt me too.
“I can’t go to the cops.”
“Will you tell me why not?” Zeb’s compassion is what will ruin me.
He remains firm, asking for an explanation, without demanding one. His tone, the way he delivers his words, speaks volumes. He wants me to trust him, but I don’t know if I can. I don’t know if I’ve fallen too far over the cliff. There may be no way back for me.
The only thing I know is, I don’t deserve Zeb’s friendship. I know he wanted more.
Past tense; wanted rather than wants. How could he want me after I dismissed him? But he’s here and he wants to help. My problem is I don’t know how to ask for help.
What Scott does isn’t okay. I don’t disagree with that statement. He’s sadistic and cruel, escalating day by day. He’s dangerous and revels in my pain and the control he exerts when I cave into his demands. But that’s the price I pay to keep my friends safe.
Zeb doesn’t know what Scott said he’d do if I didn’t go back to him. What he’ll do if I don’t let him do what he wants with me.
No one does.
“Kaye…” Zeb’s voice breaks my trance. “No matter what’s going on between you and Scott—what you may or may not have agreed to—it’s not okay for him to do this without your consent,” Zeb speaks softly. “This is against your consent, isn’t it?” He pulls back, brow arched in question.
Again, without judgment.
We’re both aware of how some couples enjoy consensual power exchange, bondage, discipline, and sadomasochism. He steps lightly around the issue. Again, without judgment. Without shame. But he remains firm.
He knows none of this is with my consent.
But isn’t it? Isn’t this the price I agreed to pay in order to appease Scott and keep him from hurting my friends?
That’s not consent!My inner voice—the one that’s been screaming at me for weeks—chimes in, agreeing with the assumptions Zeb makes.
He squeezes my hands, with reassurance, before continuing. “I can’t help unless you let me. We can get help from the authorities. We can report this to the dean at UCSF. Or, we can take care of things off the books, but I need you to tell me what you want me to do.” He leans in, placing his forehead against my own. “I need you to let me in.”
My breath hitches. It’s one thing to endure this abuse myself, but quite another knowing others will be made aware of it too.
“P-pl-please, don’t tell the others.” I don’t have the courage to face my friends.
My fear is too deep, but what if Zeb can help?
I don’t want to involve him in a situation of my making. I don’t want to endanger him like I endangered Barbi, Carmen, and Rosalie. But I need help. He’s right. Scott’s taken things too far. He almost killed me.
“You can’t keep this from them. They’re going to find out.” Zeb looks earnestly into my eyes. “And I don’t know if I can step aside and do nothing. It goes against who I am at my core. I respect you, and I’ll respect your decisions, but I’m struggling not to march over there and make this right.”
“Please.” I grip his shirt and beg. “Don’t do that.”
“What hold does he have over you?”
