Killian falls asleep before I even have a chance to climb off the bed. I do it now, careful not to wake him. I feel like I’m trapped inside a lion’s den, desperate to break free. I think of Tristian, who’s waiting for me somewhere. I think of Rath, who’s probably still upset with me. Mostly, I think of anything but the semen running down my thigh.
There’s a spot on the bed where I was laying, stained with blood and Killian’s come. I stare at it for a long, tense moment, wishing I could rip the sheets from underneath his sleeping body, and just throw them away.
I settle for pulling on my clothes instead, pausing when he lets out a muffled snore. I wait, not wanting to face him again, staring at the computer screen, and bide my time. As the playlist cycles through, I think of the last time I opened it, recalling the neat little folders. There was one for the other Lady Applicants. For LDZ. For the South Side. But that’s not what rings in my head like a faint bell.
That night after Killian punished me in front of the frat, when he and the guys were fighting on the basketball court, he’d said something about this being a game. He was angry. I was traumatized, but now, with my mind numb, I remember where I’d seen it—here, on Killian’s laptop.
Cutting my eyes to the figure on the bed, I slowly approach the computer, still unlocked. Finding the folder again is easy, GAME POINTS is in all caps.
It’s a spreadsheet.
A spreadsheet with scores.
Oral (give) – 5pts
Oral (rec’v) – 10pts
Exhibition (public) – x5
Exhibition (home) – x2
Fingering – 4
Handjob – 7
Spoken Consent – x2
Spoken Request – x3
The list goes on and on. It looks like some kind of twisted sex game. It’s finely detailed to the point of categorization. There are nine variations of hand use, and almost twenty variations of oral.
On the next tab, I find a score sheet.
Beside each score is a date, a description, and a link.
T – 8/30 – 25pts – Fingered Lady in Library
R – 9/6 – 76pts – Lady asked to blow me
K – 9/3 – 36pts – Fucked the Lady’s tits
My heartbeat feels like a jet engine in my ears. I click a link without thinking, not knowing what to expect. What appears is a video of Rath’s bedroom. He’s lounging out on the bed and that’s me on the couch, looking uncomfortable.
I press my palms to my cheeks, shakily offering, “I could…suck you.”
He raises a slow eyebrow. “You expect me to believe you want to give me head?”
Grimacing, I look away, embarrassed. “I don’t…not want to. You’re cute and everything, and who knows. If I’m not being forced to do it, maybe it’ll be different. Maybe I’ll like it.”
There’s a smirk on his face, but it’s gone in a flash when I look his way. “You want to suck my dick?”
I give a single, uncertain nod.
He doesn’t look impressed. “Begrudging nods aren’t really the vibe my dick’s going for. Thanks anyway.”
“Dimitri. I want to…suck you off.” At his blank stare, I elaborate, “I don’t know if I’ll be very good at it, so you might have to be patient. But I mean it. I do. Want to. Especially if you think it will help and technically, I am the one that put that no-sex rule in the contract.”
He drags his bottom lip between his teeth, eyes straying back down to my chest. “Alright,” he decides. “If you want to.”
The whole thing is there, and I don’t even care that the audio is coming over the speakers in the room. I watch, eyes glued to the screen as I take Dimitri into my mouth. Minutes later, his head tips back, eyes meeting the camera.
And he fucking smiles.
I hastily click out of it, frantically clicking through the others. There are three more with Dimitri, even if the mornings I woke up in his bed aren’t included.
Not yet.
There’s some with Tristian, and then the time with Killian in the hallway. The one that stabs into my chest the most isn’t even attached to any points on the spreadsheet. It’s just labeled ‘Den – Talking Some Sense Into Killer’.
“I’m seven points behind. I could dust your ass in a single lunch.” Tristian rolls his eyes, but adds in a begrudging tone, “That said, the tutoring mindfuck was genius. You and I,” he points to Killian, “are going to have to up our game.”
“How? How the fuck do you get so many points? I spend ten minutes with her and I want to put my fist through a wall, but you expect me to believe the two of you—”
Rath holds up a hand, eyebrows climbing his forehead. “Are you doubting us?”
“Every point can be backed up,” Tristian agrees, sipping from his own tumbler. “I watched Rath’s video myself. She wanted to suck his dick. She swallowed. She didn’t run away after.” He’s ticking off point modifiers on his fingers. “Look, I know you don’t think much of the long game, but Story isn’t like you think, Killer. The path of least resistance works with her. She’s, like…just a normal girl.”
Rath leans forward to pry his glass back. “She’s putty, dude. The punishments don’t pay off, but you know what does? Being nice!” He chuckles at this. “Tristian bought her one of those paper flowers after the game. You know, the ones they sell to fundraise? You should have seen the look on her face.”
“She was blushing and tripping all over herself,” Tristian explains. “It doesn’t even take much.”
“Prince tactics,” Killian sneers, but Tristian shakes his head.
“Not at all. You see, you’re so fucking terrible to her that she latches onto the smallest gesture of kindness like Velcro. So hey, I guess here’s to you.” He raises his glass toward Killian before tipping it back.
Killian seethes, “This is fucking bullshit. Kindness? Niceness? Since when do you fuckers play the game like that?”
“Since I’m going to be breaking in that pussy with my fat cock in a few months.” Rath laughs, grabbing his crotch. “Sorry, bro. All’s fair.”
This.
This is the game.
My trust.
My feelings.
My virginity and who takes it.
Me.
I don’t feel the tears rolling down my cheeks until one lands on my hand, trembling over the trackpad. It was all a lie. Every moment of comfort I felt with Dimitri—with Rath—was just a joke. Something I was manipulated into feeling. Here I’ve been, thinking Rath was above all that, but it’s a lie. Those times in his bedroom, on my knees for him, was no better than what Tristian and Killian did to me, after all.
Fake.
It was all fucking fake.
Tristian’s kindness, probably even the apology. Maybe it even runs deeper. Maybe they were secretly on board with that night in the basement.
“You’re so fucking terrible to her that she latches onto the smallest gesture of kindness like Velcro.”
It all makes a terrible sense now. They weren’t changing. They weren’t growing to care for me. They were playing me the whole time.
And I ate it up, like a stupid, naïve, moronic little victim.
The hurt—the grief and humiliation—is so much less then. I gather it up and tuck it away, refusing to feel it. I embrace the fire instead of the cold, letting it heat me from within. I realize now that this is how everything works. There is no comfort, no compassion, no safety. The only warmth in this world comes from blood or fire.
I swat away my useless tears, sniffle back my pathetic snot, and look to the bed once again. My phone slides easily from my pocket, and when I approach the bed, Killian doesn’t stir.
Not even when I take a picture of the stain in the middle of it.
I access that ancient email of mine—the one meant for spam. The one Ted had sent me messages to. I compose a message with the title, “It’s gone.”
Attaching the photo, I type only a single sentence in the body of the email:
What are you going to do about it?
They have my blood, and now they’re about to meet my fire.
Because I’m going to burn this motherfucker down.
