Page 38 of The Blackmail of Denise Randall

THE FORBIDDEN DESIRES

The next morning, I can’t leave Lumberton fast enough. Mom made me promise before I left that I’d come home for my birthday. Two weekends in a row? Kill me. But her hopeful eyes had me agreeing.

When I enter my apartment, I breathe a little easier and immediately feel all the muscles in my body relax. As I get ready for bed, my phone dings.

R: How are you?

It’s Roland. Maybe he’s texting as a concerned doctor. Or maybe he’s texting as a man interested in a younger woman. But he’s married…. with children.

Me: I’m good. The new stuff has me feeling great! What is it?

R: Good.

He didn’t answer my question. I don’t take it as often as I did the smaller stuff. I have felt wonderful today, but I don’t like taking something blindly. I want to know what he gave me. The logical part of me is screaming at myself not to be so reckless and foolish to take whatever drugs he offers with no explanation. Yet, the other part of me that blindly craves and desires nothing more than to feed my addiction—it doesn’t matter what it is, as long as I get that next high. He’s a doctor, right? It’s not like I’m taking pills from some junkie on the street.

Even in my head that sounds lame. But I won’t listen to logic. Not even from myself. Everyone deserves one guilty pleasure. One thing that makes them imperfect. One thing that they can be selfish about—and this is mine. I’m not bothering or hurting anyone, in fact, this is helping me to do better and make my family proud. As long as nobody knows. As long as I can lie and keep it a secret, everything will be fine. That’s the lie I keep telling myself—everything will be fine. Even when I know it won’t.

I’ll ask him one more time. He has no reason to hide it. It’s just a prescription. I’m going to take it, the high is too good, but I’d still like to know what I’m taking.

Me: What kind of prescription is this?

R: It’s safe. Trust me.

Me: I’d trust you more if you’d just tell me. Now I’m nervous.

Nothing. I don’t hear from him the rest of the night.

I try to not take any more of the pills Roland gave me. I really do try. But my body craves them. I’ve gone two days and I’m starting to have the shakes and sweat. I can’t focus on my studies and everyone is annoying the fuck out of me. I have a class presentation tomorrow, and failure isn’t an option for me.

R: How are you? I’m worried.

Worried? What a joke. Does he honestly expect me to believe him? If he was honest, he’d tell me the name of the drugs he gave me. I pound out a reply.

Me: I’m fine. Leave me alone.

My phone rings. I sit there and stare at the ‘R’ on the screen. He did this to me. I shouldn’t have taken those fucking pills. I hate him. I hate myself even more. Why? Why can’t I just be normal? Why won’t this ache stop? That stupid fucking ‘R’ keeps lighting up my screen. My finger hovers over it, trembling as I’m so tempted to answer. My heart pounds in my chest. The ringing stops and I let out a breath that I didn’t know I was holding.

R: I need to hear that you’re okay. Answer or I’m calling your parents.

Me: Don’t threaten me. Call them.

I’d love to hear what he’d tell them. That he gave me drugs? A few minutes later, my phone rings with Mom’s name. I wait for it to go to voicemail and then swipe.

Denise, sweetheart. Doctor Hall called. Honey, I’m a little concerned. He wanted to check on you. He said someone claimed to have spotted you with a rough group. He just wanted to make sure you’re doing okay because the drugs he prescribed are highly addictive. I told him it couldn’t have been you…but I’m worried. He sounded really concerned.

He’s going to turn this around on me. Motherfucker.

R: We need to talk. I didn’t lie. I am concerned.

R: And were you not there?

Me: You’re not trying to help me.

Tears begin to build from both anger and depression. I can’t believe how low I’ve sunk. If anyone had asked me years ago if I could see myself being harassed by a married doctor who is trying to fuel my drug addiction, while I wallow in the guilt of beating a girl and fleeing the scene of the crime, I would’ve laughed. But that’s my life—one big clusterfuck of a joke. The phone rings.

“Hello.”

“Denise,” he sighs. “You sound irritable.”

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