Just One Night, Part 2_ Exposed(5)

“I want the woman I fell in love with. She’s still in there; I know it. You know it, too, don’t you?”

Another nod, another tear.

“Good, good. Because if we’re going to get her back, you have to acknowledge the problem. You have to acknowledge what you’ve become.”

I squeezed my eyes closed. I thought of Robert Dade. I thought of his smile, of his warm hands and kind words.

“I need you to say it, Kasie. I need to know that you realize the full extent of your debasement. I need you to acknowledge where you’re at so we can start to get you back to where I . . . where everyone needs you to be.”

“Dave,” I whispered. His name is acidic against my tongue. “Please don’t—”

“Say it, Kasie. Say it so I don’t have to expose all this. Say it so we can get back to where we were.”

I opened my eyes. I wanted to come out of myself again. I wanted to be the bystander.

But I’m in this now and I can’t see a way out.

“Say it.” The look on his face was as cold as it was expectant.

Pain, hate, totally futile anger, memories of Robert Dade’s kisses, memories of peace . . . But that’s gone now. I did this; I gave away all my power, my freedom, my moral compass. With so much already lost, how can I expect to hold on to my pride?

“Dave . . .” I choked the word out again, “Dave . . . I’m a whore.”

And he smiled as I crumbled.





CHAPTER 2





DAVE DIDN’T TOUCH ME that night. That’s good, because if he had, I might have killed him. I would have wanted to stop myself, but I don’t always get what I want.

For instance, I hadn’t wanted to stay at Dave’s but he had insisted. I know why. He didn’t want me to go to Robert. He wanted to watch me, control me, keep me in line.

It’s odd because only a few days ago I had wanted to be controlled; I didn’t really care how much of that control came from within and how much came from without. As long as I was able to stay on the predetermined path, I was good. I had so many goals: success in my career, respect from those in my industry and from those I love . . . but mostly, my goal was not to be Melody. My sister had rejected all the paths available to her. She had sprinted through the trees, pushing aside branches, ignoring the thorns that scratched her skin, oblivious to the living things she crushed under her feet.

Robert had told me that if I chose Dave over him, I would be choosing prison over the unknown. I had countered that we all live in some kind of prison. At least the cage with Dave is gilded.

But as I stand over his bed, watching this man I once loved sleep, nothing in this room seems to shine.

Again I think of violence. I think of putting a pillow over his head and not letting go. Would he be able to fight me off? What if he couldn’t? Could I cover up the crime?

I blanch, shocked at the darkness of my thoughts. It’s not even 6 a.m. I have to get out of here. Because if Dave is right, if I can’t be trusted to resist temptation, then we both have a problem.

I sneak over to his dresser. I haven’t spent the night here for so long. We always stay at my place. I live closer to my office, and to his, too, for that matter. But there’s another reason I prefer my place. My home . . . it breathes. Even when things were good, I had found Dave’s house to be a little stifling. Nothing’s ever out of place. Books and CDs are alphabetized and the corners of every sheet are pulled and tucked with military precision.

But once in a while he would convince me to stay over and for those rare occasions I had some things, including some gym clothes, tucked away in the one drawer Dave has allocated for me. In the closet I find my tennis shoes and I shove them onto my feet as Dave continues to snore.

* * *

ONCE OUTSIDE, I start running at a criminal’s speed. My form reeks of panic, not athleticism.

But as I get farther away, I slow to a more rhythmic pace. My heart races though my breathing is measured and I find my stride. The air is crisp and fresh; the pounding of my feet drums up a slew of new ideas.

For the first time I wonder if there is a third way. A different path, one that may have a few bumps but no chasms. If I tread carefully, I can avoid most, if not all, of the thorns. Dry leaves crunch under my rubber soles as I pass the pale yellow and cream homes of Woodland Hills. Every front lawn is perfectly maintained, every door protected by its own security system.

There are thorns and there are thorns. I don’t think I can survive humiliation or the pain my affair would cause my parents. I know I can’t survive the public destruction of my career.

They should know that you got down on your knees and sucked his dick to get the account.