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24
ALIX
* * *
I’m sitting on the bed in Trap’s bedroom—mybedroom now—trying to figure out which makes me feel more guilty: the fact that I lied to the police or the fact that they may have bought it.
Of course, nothing’s guaranteed. They walked me through my story three separate times—from the moment I met Trap at Debasement to the night we spent in Orlando. They pushed hard for places I might have left a record—employers, friends, freaking loyalty cards at the local Food Lion. They asked a lot about my job as a sex worker.
Lucky for me, I know how to use an anonymous browser to search the internet. I found out my fees were reduced because I didn’t work through a service or have a “manager” to protect me.
I could charge two hundred bucks an hour to give a guy a girlfriend experience. Four hundred if he wanted me to act like a porn star. Before I answered the first question at the police station, I’d figured out what I’d do for four hundred—deep-throating, doggy-style, let him come on my face or breasts. If I knew the guy, he could tie me up. Spank me. I told the cops I’d do anal, but that was a lie. I said there wasn’t enough money in the world to make me go bareback, but that was a lie too. At least with Trap.
I believe my story. I’m pretty sure I could pass a lie-detector test. My body doesn’t remember the truth anymore. I’ve become the lies.
But nothing changes one basic fact: I killed Herzog.
And my murdering him in Trap’s dining room threatens to destroy the freeport. Threatens to bring down the man I love.
And when I think about that, I hate myself.
Trap’s still outside, in the back yard. I think about packing a suitcase for myself. About taking the keys to the Porsche and fleeing. About giving the police all the leverage they need to place the blame for Herzog’s death on me. I’ll run for as long as I can, then take my punishment.
Because that’s what I deserve—punishment. For lying to the police. For killing Herzog. For letting Herzog do all those things to me in the first place.
And there’s something else too, more weight on my conscience. Sawyer Best sent men into Jonas and Ansel’s compound to execute them, to save Trap and me. Eight men died and three are hospitalized in critical condition. I’m responsible for ruining eleven more lives.
But I can’t leave. Two weeks ago, I promised Trap wouldn’t run away, not without talking to him first. I can’t abandon him again.
Nevertheless, my need for discipline remains.
Still wearing the bathrobe I pulled on after my shower, I cross to Trap’s dresser and kneel beside the bottom drawer. I’ve never gone through it myself. I’ve only retrieved items that Trap commanded me to bring to him.
The drawer is divided into compartments. I find the massive dildo he’s used on me. The butt plug I’ll never take. The vibrator that taught my body an entirely new way to dissolve into pleasure.
There’s the riding crop.
And beneath it, so slender I almost miss it against the edge of the drawer—a cane. I slide it out of the drawer and flex it between my palms.
Trap has never used a cane on me. But Herzog did.
I know how it will sound, whipping through the air. I know how it will feel, slicing into my flesh. I know how the stripe will last for a week. Maybe two.
The cane is brutal. It’s efficient. It’s exactly what I deserve.
But there’s something else I need to make this work. I dig deeper in the drawer, pushing aside boxes that are too small, ones that are too large. And there, in the back right corner is the one I’m looking for.
I open the flat box and stare at the deep blue velvet inside. The handcuffs sparkle, shining like they’re made of polished silver instead of steel. A key is nestled deep in the lock.
I lift the cuffs out of their bed, surprised by their weight. Turning the key springs open the first hard band. I fasten the cuff around my right wrist.
My breath is coming fast now, like I ran all the way from the police station. The sun is setting in the backyard. Trap should be coming inside soon. We should be talking about ordinary things—what we’ll eat for dinner, new clients at the freeport, some ridiculous email he got from the Chamber of Commerce and last-minute changes for the company picnic on Labor Day.
Dangling the cuffs by my side, I cross the hall to the guest room. I slip out of my robe and drape it over the foot of the bed I no longer sleep in. I head to the closet and find my highest heels, black ones with deep red soles, nearly five inches.
My hips sway as I head back to Trap’s room. I pick up the cane from where I left it on the floor and carry it over to the bed.
It takes a moment to fit the key into the lock on the second handcuff. The mechanism springs open like a gaping metal jaw.
