Page 33 of Exposed

My spit, your seed, it is smeared on your face, on my hand. We are both of us a mess.

“That’s not what I saw with Rachel.” I want badly to wipe my face, but I won’t give you the satisfaction. “And is that supposed to make what you just did any better?”

“You could have stopped me. You had my cock in your mouth. You could have bitten me. You had both hands free. You could have hit me, punched me, grabbed my balls. Any number of things. You didn’t. You just knelt there and took it.” You pause for effect. “Youlikedit.”

“Don’t you dare turn this back on me, Caleb Indigo.”

“Why not... Madame X? Is it not true? Couldn’t you have stopped me?”

He’s right. I could have. I didn’t fight hard enough.

I slam into him, shoving him backward. “Goddamn you, Caleb! Why are you doing this?”

You catch your balance easily, and turn away. Wipe your face with your hand. Dress with your customary precision. “You want me to be the bad guy. So, I’ll be the bad guy.” When you are clothed, and I, again, am naked, you stare down at me. “And you know deep down you liked it. Maybe you didn’t like that I was rougher with you than you would have initially preferred, but you liked it. Same way youlikedwatching me fuck Rachel. You hate me for that, but I think you hate yourself more for liking it.”

I shake my head but cannot find the words to deny it.

You do not quite smile, but there is a ghost of amusement on your icy features. “You don’t deny it.”

I open my mouth to speak, but I have no words.

And then . . .

You kiss me.

It is gentle.

There is sweetness to it.

You pull away, reach into an inside pocket of your suit coat, withdraw a slippery, silky, maroon necktie. You wipe my face with it, and then you kiss me again.

Do you notice that I do not kiss you back?

I am reeling. Your emotional manipulation has left me exhausted, empty.

You reach into the hip pocket of your slacks, withdraw a slim white rectangle. A cell phone. You hand it to me. “It’s yours. I programmed my number into it. Len’s, if you need a driver or anything.” You glance down at the pile of fabric that is my clothing, my dress, my underwear. There is a small square of folded paper. You bend, retrieve it, unfold it, read it. You toss it, let it flutter back down. Take the phone back, tap at it for a moment. “There. Now you’ve gothisnumber too. This is me giving you choices.”

You hand the phone back, and I take it, still and silent. I am so tired now that I can barely stand upright. You just stare at me, your expression characteristically inscrutable.

“You want to be her?” You point at the square of paper. The name written thereon. “Then be her. Be the immigrant girl.”

You turn, open the elevator, step on, insert your key. I am within reach. You palm my hip, tug me to you. Kiss my mouth again, the way you never have before. And then you release me, and I stumble backward.

“You are Isabel, and I am Caleb.” You leave off the rest, and somehow that is worse than if you’d said the rest.

As if by leaving off the rest, you are acknowledging the lie. That there was no bad man. That you did not save me. I suddenly want the lie.

I want the lie.

But you only repeat the new truth: “You are Isabel, and I am Caleb.”

You twist the key, and the doors close, and I see your frame in a narrowing perspective, until there is just a sliver of you, and then you are gone.

And I am alone with your words.

You are Isabel, and I am Caleb.

Oh, you are cruel. Even if I am her, I am still yours.