Page 41 of Make Me Scream

Both the salad and lasagna are delicious. I only eat a little, since my stomach won’t stop twisting. I get the sense I’ll be ready for the leftovers after what he has planned.

“You know, I told you all about my past last night. I don’t know much about yours.”

I’ve always wondered what kind of person Alistair Rat would be. Did he call himself Rat because he was small and ugly, hiding in the shadows? Apparently not. Sometimes a name is just a name. But then what made Lane the artist he is?

“What do you want to know?” he asks.

“I told you about my fucked up family. What’s yours like?”

He sighs.

“Fucked up, but not in the same way. They weren’t physically abusive, and they supported me financially, so I’m not complaining. There’s no bad blood. We’re not close, though.”

“Why not?”

He shrugs.

“We went our separate ways a while back, and I think we all feel it was for the best. Have you heard of the Harris Porter Supply Corporation?”

I shake my head. It doesn’t ring a bell.

“They’re one of the top five medical supply companies in the country, but outside of a hospital, doctor’s office or nursing home, they’re not famous. My parents always hoped I’d be interested in taking it over someday, or at least pursue a career in business. I never wanted to. I’ve been an artist since I was a kid, and my folks learned early on nothing was going to change that. So, they reluctantly got out of my way and let me do what I want, as long as I didn’t embarrass them.”

Sighing, I say, “That must have been nice.”

“I guess. In a way I almost wish they’d fought harder for me to join the business, just to show they cared. They’ve shown no interest in my career or art, outside of praising me for teaching at a prestigious art academy. As long as I’m excelling in my field, they can consider me a success.”

“I take it they don’t care for Alistair Rat.”

Lane laughs.

“They’ve never heard of him. They could not give less of a shit about art or pop culture. You think your family has seen your Enmity Jane videos?”

“No, I don’t. They’d be blowing up my e-mail.”

Dad would have a fucking coronary. Mom would call me a whore. Dennis would show his scumbag friends, as if my videos somehow made him cooler.

“I guess they wouldn’t appreciate your work,” Lane says.

I chuckle.

“Nope.”

When we finish eating, he clears the dishes and puts everything away. I text Joel to say things are going okay. Then we head back into the studio, to the stage where the chains and cuffs hang down. A black, cushioned mat covers the floor. White and gray soundproofing tiles line the walls. Lighting and recording equipment have been set up on three sides of the studio; at the center, there’s an easel and a table of paints, brushes, pencils, canvases, sketch pads and a professional-grade camera. The room isn’t as cold as it looks, and an earthy scent lingers in the air. There are no windows, and only the one entrance.

“Ready to begin?” Lane says.

“Yes.”

“Take off your clothes.”

Even though I knew he would ask me to pose nude, the command still catches me off-guard. I do this with Joel all the time, but this is obviously completely different. It feels dangerous — like being Enmity Jane, out on the street — only I won’t be in control. I won’t be able to run. Should I take comfort knowing that this won’t be the first time Lane Porter has chained up some girl in his basement?

My instinct tells me to do it, and that I always know, deep down, what I want. In the end, what gets me to start pulling off my shirt is one inescapable truth: I want to see what he draws. If it’s like his first painting of me, then I need to see it.

Lane watches as I undress, not taking his eyes off me for a second. I try not to go too fast or too slow — this isn’t a striptease, but I don’t want to act like this isn’t an important moment.

“You’re beyond beautiful,” he says when I finish.

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