ears.
“What do you want to know?” he says at last.
I get the impression that any question would be unwelcome, but I’m full of courage.
“What really happened with Rosemary?”
His face remains hidden in the reflection, so I turn to watch his profile. His nose has a small bump along the bridge, as though it’s been broken—possibly more than once.
He turns to face me. A muscle in his jaw twitches.
“That’s thirty minutes. Time for your next dare.”
“That’s not even close to thirty minutes. And what if I want truth?”
“Forget it. Come with me.”
“No, I’m comfortable.”
Jack gets up and stands for a moment looking down at me. I begin to feel self-conscious; I press my thighs together and pull his shirt across my breasts.
“Get up, Alice.”
But he doesn’t wait for me to move. He bends over and scoops me off the couch. I watch us leave the room through the scattered reflection in the window, and turn the corner to his bedroom.
He tosses me on the bed and goes to his chest of drawers. When he turns back, I see what’s in his hand.
“No no no.” I’m scrambling up.
But Jack is right there, blocking my path. He won’t let me get to my feet.
“Shh,” he says. “You’ll be fine.”
“Jack—”
“Don’t you trust me? Look where you are.”
I blink and try to clear my head. I’m drunk, annihilated on weed. I have been alone with Jack for hours now. He’s been all over me. Inside me. It’s too late to worry about shifting the balance of power, too late to parse degrees of control.
He begins to slide the sleeves of his shirt down my arms.
“You don’t want to do this for me?”
I try to improvise.
“No, it’s just that I read that Stephen King story, you know the one, where the guy dies and the wife is handcuffed to the bed, and—”
Jack smiles.
“I’m thirty-two. Swear to God, I won’t die on you.”
My heart races, and fear begins to burn through the weed and the wine. “Please, Jack, let’s do something else.”
“This is a dare, baby, you don’t negotiate a dare.”
“I didn’t ask—”
He reclaims his shirt. I shiver and cross my arms over my chest.
“I don’t need you to ask. Give me your wrist.”
He stares down at me. I felt so in control just minutes ago. Ordered him to look away, teased him and made him wait, enjoyed the power of my body over his. But now the tables are turned and I realize it was only a trick of the mind. He’s been in control all along.
He dangles the handcuffs by one thumb.
“Don’t make me say it again.”
Something in his expression silences me.
I hold out my wrist. The handcuff closes around it with an ominous click, like the bars on a prison cell clanging shut. The steel feels hard and uncomfortably heavy against my bones. My cheeks burn and a treacherous prickle creeps into my eyes and nose.
Jack gives me a gentle backward push. He fastens the other cuff around the bedpost and snaps it closed around my left wrist. I press my face to my arm and fight back the rising claustrophobic panic. He drapes a scarf over my eyes and ties it behind my head.
Just like that, I think wildly. Just like that, and I’m helpless.
I twist my arms, feel the weight of the steel. The metal clatters against the bedpost. When I pull harder, the cuffs bite into my skin. I squeeze my hand together and try to free myself.
“Shh,” he whispers against my ear. “Don’t fight it.”
He lays his hand over my heart.
“Are you afraid?”
A screw tightens in my throat. My voice is a choked whisper.
“Yes. Please—”
“I know, baby, shh.”
He sits up and I feel him look me over. His presence seems to grow in my mind. The things I worried about—being left here, being exposed or hurt—seem both amplified and unimportant. My mind is swollen with Jack. Why does he need to see me this way? What does he want that I can’t do with my hands and eyes and mouth?
I press my knees together.
“Jack,” I whisper.
“I just
“What do you want to know?” he says at last.
I get the impression that any question would be unwelcome, but I’m full of courage.
“What really happened with Rosemary?”
His face remains hidden in the reflection, so I turn to watch his profile. His nose has a small bump along the bridge, as though it’s been broken—possibly more than once.
He turns to face me. A muscle in his jaw twitches.
“That’s thirty minutes. Time for your next dare.”
“That’s not even close to thirty minutes. And what if I want truth?”
“Forget it. Come with me.”
“No, I’m comfortable.”
Jack gets up and stands for a moment looking down at me. I begin to feel self-conscious; I press my thighs together and pull his shirt across my breasts.
“Get up, Alice.”
But he doesn’t wait for me to move. He bends over and scoops me off the couch. I watch us leave the room through the scattered reflection in the window, and turn the corner to his bedroom.
He tosses me on the bed and goes to his chest of drawers. When he turns back, I see what’s in his hand.
“No no no.” I’m scrambling up.
But Jack is right there, blocking my path. He won’t let me get to my feet.
“Shh,” he says. “You’ll be fine.”
“Jack—”
“Don’t you trust me? Look where you are.”
I blink and try to clear my head. I’m drunk, annihilated on weed. I have been alone with Jack for hours now. He’s been all over me. Inside me. It’s too late to worry about shifting the balance of power, too late to parse degrees of control.
He begins to slide the sleeves of his shirt down my arms.
“You don’t want to do this for me?”
I try to improvise.
“No, it’s just that I read that Stephen King story, you know the one, where the guy dies and the wife is handcuffed to the bed, and—”
Jack smiles.
“I’m thirty-two. Swear to God, I won’t die on you.”
My heart races, and fear begins to burn through the weed and the wine. “Please, Jack, let’s do something else.”
“This is a dare, baby, you don’t negotiate a dare.”
“I didn’t ask—”
He reclaims his shirt. I shiver and cross my arms over my chest.
“I don’t need you to ask. Give me your wrist.”
He stares down at me. I felt so in control just minutes ago. Ordered him to look away, teased him and made him wait, enjoyed the power of my body over his. But now the tables are turned and I realize it was only a trick of the mind. He’s been in control all along.
He dangles the handcuffs by one thumb.
“Don’t make me say it again.”
Something in his expression silences me.
I hold out my wrist. The handcuff closes around it with an ominous click, like the bars on a prison cell clanging shut. The steel feels hard and uncomfortably heavy against my bones. My cheeks burn and a treacherous prickle creeps into my eyes and nose.
Jack gives me a gentle backward push. He fastens the other cuff around the bedpost and snaps it closed around my left wrist. I press my face to my arm and fight back the rising claustrophobic panic. He drapes a scarf over my eyes and ties it behind my head.
Just like that, I think wildly. Just like that, and I’m helpless.
I twist my arms, feel the weight of the steel. The metal clatters against the bedpost. When I pull harder, the cuffs bite into my skin. I squeeze my hand together and try to free myself.
“Shh,” he whispers against my ear. “Don’t fight it.”
He lays his hand over my heart.
“Are you afraid?”
A screw tightens in my throat. My voice is a choked whisper.
“Yes. Please—”
“I know, baby, shh.”
He sits up and I feel him look me over. His presence seems to grow in my mind. The things I worried about—being left here, being exposed or hurt—seem both amplified and unimportant. My mind is swollen with Jack. Why does he need to see me this way? What does he want that I can’t do with my hands and eyes and mouth?
I press my knees together.
“Jack,” I whisper.
“I just
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