Page 8 of Cohen's Control

I bite my lip as I spread myself apart, dipping the tips of my fingers inside. “I wish it were you,” I repeat, keeping my eyes closed to sell the fantasy, to deliver the dream.

Aug calls cut. Maintaining my body position for angle integrity, I only lift my head enough to meet his gaze. With his head, he motions to the caddy sitting on the edge of the set. “Alexa, get that tangle out of her hair and bring her some of the lube.”

That’s the thing about faking. I can’t force myself to get wet. At least here I’m not shamed for it. Not called adick eater with a desert cunt.

Alexa appears with a tiny brush, passing me the lube before she detangles me quickly. I squirt some onto my fingers and pass the bottle back.

“Get comfortable before we roll,” Aug advises, which meansfuck that lube into yourself so it looks like you’re wet. I get the subtext, and I’m grateful he cloaks the orders in respect.

I nod and as my gaze wanders around the set while plunging my fingers inside myself, I find Cohen and he’s looking at me.

And not where my hand fucks myself, not how my tits sway with the movement, not at all the long hair spilling down my back. That’s what they usually look at first. All of those other things.

But quiet Cohen holds my eyes and before I can fully process it, he looks away, and disappears into the off-set fray.

“I’m good to go,” I say softly to Aug, my gaze wandering over the lightless spot where Cohen just stood. I don’t know why he grabs my interest. I have no business being interested in… anything… or anyone. I don’t evenwantto be interested in anyone.

Still, my mind wanders. Where did he go? And when is he coming back?

four

cohen

I’m ready to be underwater.

It pierces your soul when it happens. That nighttime ring. No one ever calls with happy news at night. No one. Not ever. The sound of an incoming call is something that normally piques interest, but at night, it’s something completely different. It’s a monster, waking you up clutching your throat in an icy grip, a sharp cry in your ear, a punch to your gut.

Ring, ring. Hello, it’s me, life-changing news. Something so vile and rotten I had to grab you by the throat and tear you from dreams to destroy you.

Tonight, I’m trapped in that singular moment from that night. I’m in bed, the bed I slept in back in Michigan. I haven’t seen it in years but it’s always as clear as glass in my dreams. What I can escape in daylight always finds a way back in at night.

The ring drones, running on loop, my anxiety clawing higher and higher each time. I reach for my phone but as dreams go, I can never quite answer it.

And that’s it. That’s the dream currently assaulting me, jolting me from sleep. I sit up covered in sweat, my shirt drenched, overcome with anguish and dread.

I run a hand through my hair and take a moment to breathe. I bring my hand in front of my face, exhaling to feel my breath, to remind myself it was a dream and I am awake, no longer there.

The part that keeps me jittery, that has my stomach tight in acidic knots is the truth of the dream. That familiar ring yanked from my memories, from the worst night of my life.

I breathe in and out, calming when I remind myself that this dream isgoodcompared to what I know is hiding in my brain. There arereallybad dreams, ones that take place further into the timeline of that night. Ones that bear sounds more painful than a fucking phone ringing.

I blink into the darkness until the pattern on my comforter is visible, then brave a look at the clock on my bedside table. Red numbers taunt me; 3:43 am.

Goddamn it. It’s too early for anything meaningful except sleep, but now that I’ve woken from that nightmare, I can’t go back to sleep.

Unsurprisingly, I don’t sleep much.

Swinging my legs out of the warm comfort of the bed, I suck in a deep breath through my nose as my body adjusts to the cool air stinging my bare skin. They don’t use the heater and while it’s not winter, San Francisco gets pretty cool at night in the early Spring.

I like it. I like the shocking reminder. The instant pain of discomfort. It helps me remember. It keepsherfresh in my mind.

On light feet, I move across the room to my closet, and collect my bag. I grab my things and layer them in; my trunks, a towel, and my carefully folded work clothes. I always leave my boots in my car. After dressing in sweatpants and a hoodie, I slip my feet into sneakers, draw the hood over my head, hook my bag over my chest and go.

The old house is already humming, despite the early hour. The aged appliances and single-pane windows create a symphony of white noise at all hours. It’s something I like about this place. It’s never quite quiet.

I close and lock the back door behind me, walking between cars until I get to mine. Then I drive to the gym, thankful they open at three for the early risers. I’m ready to be underwater.

The little boy and his father aren’t here today, then again, it’s only ten after four by the time I’m lowering myself into the chilly water. I swim mindlessly, unable to track time when I’m beneath the surface. I go back and forth, holding myself under for as long as I can every few laps. Finally, when fiery strain seizes my lungs, and when my fingers are so pruned they split against the cement wall, I drag myself to the edge and clamber out. My knees slip along the wet bullnose edge of the pool, and I fall against the concrete, bracing myself with my palms.

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