“Yet you live mostly as a man. Why?”
Again he doesn’t reply. I resume pondering my position on the asshole and how to get off it.
“Fuck me,” he says softly.
I stare at him through the dim light as instant lust eclipses anger, will, time, place. My knees weaken in anticipation of ceasing their function, ready to drop me back on the floor so I can wrap my legs around Barrons when he spreads his big hard body over me. Master to slave: when he says “Fuck me,” my body softens and I get wet. It’s visceral. Inescapable. I love the way he says “Fuck me,” as if his body will explode if I don’t touch him, slam down on him and take him inside me, meld our flesh together in that place we both find the only peace we ever know. Out of bed, we’re a storm. In bed, we find the eye. The detritus of our world, of our complex and difficult personalities, gets swept up into the various supercells eternally raging around us and vanishes.
I want to. Especially after what I just saw. But that he suffers doesn’t absolve him for an action he shouldn’t have taken. “Why?” I say pissily. “So you can erase my memory again?”
“And there it is. Go ahead, Ms. Lane. Air your grievances. Tell me what a big bad bastard I am that I tucked away a truth you couldn’t face and gave you time to come to terms with it. But reflect on this: it wasn’t the only time. You did the same when you were Pri-ya. Twice I got under your skin, and both times you couldn’t shut me out fast enough.”
“Bullshit. You don’t get to cast it in some sunny, kind light when there’s nothing sunny and kind about it.” I don’t acknowledge his second comment because he has a somewhat valid point and this is about my irritation, not his.
“I didn’t say it was sunny and kind. It was self-serving, as is all I do. One would think by now you know who I am.”
“You had no right.”
“Ah, the morally outraged cry of the weak: You’re not ‘allowed’ to do that. One is allowed to do anything one can get away with. Only when you understand that will you know your place in this world. And your power. Might is right.”
“Ah,” I mock, “the morally bankrupt howl of the predator.”
“Guilty as charged. I’m not the only one that howled that night.”
“You don’t know for certain that I wouldn’t have—”
“Bullshit,” he cuts me off impatiently. “You don’t get to pretend you would have done anything but despise me. It was already there in your eyes. You were young, so bloody young. Untouched by tragedy until your sister’s death. You came to Dublin, avenging angel, and what’s the first thing you did? Fucked the devil. Oops, shit, eh? You felt more alive with me that night than you’ve ever felt in your life. You were fucking born in that run-down rented room with me. I watched it happen, saw the woman you really are tear her constrictive, circumscribing skin right down the middle and strip it off. And I’m not talking about fucking. I’m talking about a way of existence. That night. You. Me. No fear. No holds barred. No rules. Watching you change was an epiphany. How did it feel to come alive in the city that killed your sister? Like the biggest fucking betrayal in the world?”
I snarl like an enraged animal. Yes, yes, and yes. It abso-fucking-lutely did. Alina was cold in a grave and I was on fire. I was glad I’d come to Dublin, glad I’d gotten lost and stumbled into his bookstore, because something in me that had slumbered all my life was waking up. How can you be glad you came to the city that killed your sister? How can you feel exhilarated to be alive when she’s dead? How could I let anything ever make me feel good again?
“You couldn’t deal with it, and you couldn’t despise yourself any more than you already did, so you turned it on me. You want to hate me for taking that memory and stashing it away for a while, go ahead.”
I snap, “I don’t want to hate you for it. I want to find a way to forgive you for it. And that’s what scares me. You took my memory, my choice to deal with or refuse to deal with what happened. You took a slice of my reality.”
“I’ll say this one more fucking time: I couldn’t have taken it if you hadn’t been so willing to throw it away. The brain is a complex thing. It inscribes, it etches, it’s bloody well sticky. The memory was always there, that’s how you found it. I merely kicked it beneath a rock. You put the entire force of your will behind my kicking it. You helped me hide it. I relieved you of what you considered a despicable stain in your mind. Best fucking night of my existence.” He laughs and shakes his head. “And you couldn’t get rid of it fast enough. I didn’t want to hide the memory from you. I wanted to cram it down your goddamn throat. I wanted to force you to face it, to want it, to want me, to be willing to fight for what was possible between us with the same single-minded devotion as you fucked. Well, Ms. Lane, you’ve got your precious memory back. Will you throw me away now?”
I’m horrified to realize that’s the choice. Keep him or don’t. Stay or go. How do you trust a man who took one of your memories from you? How do you convince yourself he won’t do it again? And if I did convince myself of it, wouldn’t I pretty much be that lamb in a city of wolves he’d accused me of being that night? Believing what I wanted to believe, over the far more likely truth: recidivism is human nature.
We are what we are. Actions speak.
He intuits my thoughts without even being able to see my face. “Yes. Actions speak. Analyze mine. Not long after I used Voice on you to tuck away your memory of that night, I began teaching you Voice, knowing you would be immune to me ever using it on you again. I leveled the playing field. In a court of justice, one might consider that atonement for a—” He breaks off and laughs softly. “—crime of passion. And that, my dear complicated fucking Ms. Lane, is the closest thing to an apology you will ever get from a man who apologizes to no one. Take it or leave it.”