Page 116 of Piece Us Together

He doesn’t know the monster that I am.

He doesn’t know what I did to my own brother.

Once he finds out, he’ll probably want me out of his life. On the off chance that he doesn’t, I still don’t think I can give him enough to really satisfy him. I’m a walking case of unresolved trauma. I think him being disappointed in what I could give him would be the worst possible thing that could happen.

“What has you calling tonight?” he asks when I never answer the first question. “What changed?”

“Nothing.”

He snorts. “Fuck off. What changed?”

“I—fuck, I fucking—I fucked up, okay? I got—I don’t know—triggered, or whatever. During a scene. I got in my head and started freaking out. Like, how can I let him do this shit, you know? After everything I’ve seen? After all the work I’ve put into saving people from sex just like what was happening in front of me? I know it’s different, I know that consent makes it different, but in that moment it felt like that difference was bullshit. I panicked.”

“You safeworded?”

“Yeah.”

“Good, Maison. That’s really good. This dom didn’t make you feel like shit for it, did he?”

“No. I—well, I didn’t really give him a chance. But I know he wouldn’t have. He’s good. He’s—he’s a really good dom. He’d never be mad about that.”

He pauses long enough for me to sense his disappointment. I hate it. It feels like an echo of how Hunter must feel about me right now. It feels like knives in my lungs. “You didn’t give him a chance. Meaning you safeworded and then left without debriefing.”

My silence is answer enough.

“Fucking hell, Maison. Is he okay? Is your boy? Are you?”

I close my eyes, guilt washing over me. It’s such a familiar feeling I nearly laugh. “I don’t think so, no. I don’t think any of us are alright. And it’s my fault. I know it is. I told you—I fucked up, okay? I really fucked up.”

“You did. Do you want to fix it?”

Do I?

There’s so much that would have to happen to fix it. I’d have to explain myself, at least to a point. I’d have to open up. I’d have to be honest. With him. With Nolan. With myself.

“Do you know anything about my op?” I find myself asking.

“Wait. One second.” I hear him say something before there’s shuffling and the sound of a door shutting. I wince, having forgotten that we had a listener. I’m glad he was smart enough to get rid of him before we started talking about classified shit. I don’t know if it’s the whiskey in my veins or theHunterof it all, but my head is clearly fucked tonight. “Alright, your op. The long game you were involved in, right?”

“Right.”

“No, I don’t know anything about it. Not officially. I mean, I’ve heard some rumblings. I could make an educated guess that you’re the guy behind a certain recent regional collapse. But I don’t have any solid intel for that. I definitely don’t have the details.”

I kick my foot at the ground, heart in my throat. “I used myself as bait, at the end. Let them catch me.”

He exhales slowly. “Do you want to tell me about that?”

“Not really, no.”

But I do anyway. I spill it all in a mess of stuttered words and shaky breaths, skipping over the worst of it but saying enough for him to draw his own pictures anyway. I lose myself twice, once when describing the fear I felt on the rack, then again when describing the helplessness I felt on the stage. After each, he brings me back with a soft, “Take your time,” and I almost laugh when I realize he sounds like a dom. Sounds just likeHunter.

I tell him about Carter.

I tell him about Nolan.

I tell him about the nightmares.

I tell him about this morning.

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