Broken Falcon, page 13
I want someone who can love me and accept what I do for a living. Not just a living, for security.
I need security more than anything, and money is security.
But I can’t imagine ever finding such a man. Would Chase be repulsed? Horrified? Would he reject me?
It’s impossible to guess. And I would feel devastated at seeing the heat in his eyes fade, or worse, turn to revulsion.
So for now, I can only get my emotional needs met by Falcon. He can’t possibly judge, given our relationship. Yet I know many of my clients would judge me in real life.
People are strange.
And judgmental.
But I’m not ashamed and never will be. I’m a survivor, and I help others. It’s a good life, even if it is lonely in the day-to-day.
“What’s going on, Desiree?” Falcon’s voice is deep and warm. Maybe a little sleepy. I look at the clock, and it’s only eight p.m. his time.
“Sounds like I wore you out,” I say with a chuckle. “Going to sleep already?”
“Not at all. In fact, I was thinking I could do that again with a little encouragement. You turn me on endlessly, Des.”
From what he shared last time, I know this is a big deal for him. “I’m glad. You make me hot too. No one has ever fucked me against a wall before.”
“Never?”
“Nope.”
“It was a first for me too. I think.”
“You don’t really know?” I pause, then add, “Were you drugged?”
“Sort of. My memories are all muddled. I don’t remember much from before…the abuse. But I wasn’t super sexually experienced, that I do know. And anything that happened under the influence of…well, it doesn’t count. I didn’t want or consent to it, even if I did orgasm.”
There is a load of guilt and shame that comes with receiving unwanted sexual pleasure. I could write a dissertation on that topic alone. My heart aches for him. “I’m glad you want this pleasure with me and that you can take the pleasure you need. You make me feel amazing too.”
“I didn’t think I would ever want sex again until I found you.”
I don’t want him to see the heartache on my face—not when I can’t hold him. I don’t want him to think what I’m feeling is pity. It’s not. It is a combination of rage on his behalf, empathy, respect for the work he’s doing, and simple affection. “I care about you, Falcon. I’m always here to listen if you want to talk.”
“Will you tell me something about you?”
In therapy, it’s never about the therapist. The focus must remain on the client. But this isn’t therapy, not really, and we’ve already established that a relationship requires some back and forth. My job, in its very nature, is me giving and my faceless client receiving. But he, more than anyone, always gives back to me, and he’s made himself vulnerable in telling me of the abuse he suffered. I want to give him something in return.
I clear my throat and make my confession. “I was a child bride, forced by my parents to marry a forty-three-year-old man when I was fifteen.”
My words hang in the air, and I find myself holding my breath. How will he react?
I haven’t told anyone this story since I turned eighteen and didn’t have to anymore.
Finally, Falcon says, “I’m so sorry.”
I know he wants to ask questions. He wants to know the hows and whys and probably even if I’m still married.
But I don’t want to talk about me. This isn’t about what I went through to bring me to this place with him. This is about him and what he needs to heal.
“Do you want to date?” I ask. “I mean in real life, a real person and not someone four time zones away?”
“I didn’t for a long time. Didn’t think I was capable. Not only that I couldn’t perform, but that I wouldn’t feel. But I met someone recently, and…this time with you is making me think maybe I’m not a lost cause. Not too broken for love.”
The jab of jealousy that stirs at hearing he’s met someone—a ridiculous thought, given that he’s my stand-in for Chase—is eclipsed by the last thing he said. “No one is a lost cause, and you’re not too broken to love. You’re worthy of love. You’re lovable.”
“You wouldn’t say that if you knew what goes on in my head. The rage overwhelms me sometimes.”
“It’s normal to have rage against those who hurt you. I’m enraged on your behalf.”
“This goes deeper. There’s a violence inside me, and I don’t know if it’s me or what they put there. You said your parents forced you to marry when you were fifteen. Just hearing those words stirs all the rage. I want to find your parents and punish them. I want to go after the man who would force a child to marry him and break both his arms.”
“Sometimes I want that too,” I whisper. I clear my throat. “I’ve spent a lot of years claiming my autonomy. And I want you to know the woman you see before you”—I look down, waving my hand in front of my naked torso—“and I do mean everything you see, is being presented to you with full autonomy. I even started my own website so no one else would share in the profits of selling my sexuality. I can give as much as I want and take as much as I want. I am happy and not ashamed, and I want to share that with others who can benefit. Like you.”
“So you don’t feel the violence anymore?”
I cock my head, thinking. I want to be honest. Finally, I say, “I suppose sometimes, late at night, I’ll dream of my parents and wake up with the unsettled part of my anger. But there can be no justice there. No one believes they did anything wrong or illegal, so I try not to think about them at all.”
As I say the words, I can feel the rage building inside me, telling me that I have work to do in this area. This is a revelation to me. A reminder that I have some emotions that are still buried, waiting for me to deal with them when I’m in the right place.
I smile at the camera and say, “My best revenge is I didn’t birth more monsters to run their church.”
“Are they in a cult?”
“Not by the strictest definition—but yeah. Christian extremists who see women only as vessels for creating men. My mother was barely fifteen when I was born. I know she was a victim as much as I was, but she was so deeply brainwashed, she had no care for me. She thought I should be grateful they’d found me a husband who didn’t already have sons, so I could be the lucky girl to give him one.” I think of the mad light in my mother’s eyes as she said this. She always resented my older half brother, especially when she was unable to carry another child to term. Unable to have a son.
“That’s fucked up,” Falcon says simply.
I laugh because it is. I touch my breasts for him and smile. “But this body is mine to do what I want with it now, and nobody tells me otherwise. I like role playing where you boss me around because it feels empowering. I’m choosing to submit. And I can choose not to. My choice. And I will only obey the commands that feel good to me. You always make me feel good, Falcon.”
“I only want to make you feel good. I love watching you come. You’re so open. Giving. You’re what I’ve needed so much as I try to figure out what’s happening in my brain.”
“As much as I want to keep you as a client, if you’ve met someone in real life who feels safe and who turns you on, you should go for it. I understand it means you would probably have to stop seeing me. There aren’t a lot of partners who would be comfortable with this. It’s why I don’t date.”
“I don’t think I’m there yet,” he says. “I still have this rage I need to figure out. What if…what if I lose control of it?”
I wish I could see his face as he says, “They were trying to make me into a monster. I did bad things—most of which I don’t even remember. I’m afraid the monster inside me is just sleeping.”
Chapter Thirteen
Falcon
There. I’ve said the thing. My biggest fear. I wait for Desiree to sever the connection. I mean, this is crazy shit, and I can’t even explain it. I can’t tell her about infrasound and Parks. But this is the first time I’ve talked to anyone about this except Isabel since I left the hospital, because I’ve refused every shrink on the grounds that it was a shrink who did this to me.
Technically, Raptor requires annual mental health checks for all active operatives and trainers. I’m just past a year since my last evaluation, and Keith is letting me slide for the time being because he knows what happened to me, and I’ve performed better as an operative in the last ten months than ever before. But the day will come when I’ll need to talk to a shrink, and I know I can’t do it.
But that’s a problem for another day. I want to know how much I’ve scared Eden with my confession that I might be some sort of rage monster.
No one thinks the Hulk is the hottest Avenger.
“Are you worried you’ll hurt someone you care about?” she asks softly.
I close my eyes as I think about snapping that picture of Sean and Hazel in the forest last year. I hate myself for that almost more than the other stuff I did. “I already have.”
“In the last year? After your abuser was arrested?”
“No,” I say, glad for that truth. “But I have sent a few guys to the hospital. But they had it coming.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you get in trouble for that?”
“No. Like I said, they had it coming.” It’s true. I was lauded as a hero for what happened in Portland. And for saving the restaurant owner’s daughter. Only Mothman knows about Sling Man.
“Do you feel bad for hurting them?”
“Not even a little bit. I’d do it again given the chance.”
“You realize I’m dying to know what you do for a living now, right?”
“Sorry. That’s top secret.”
“Yeah. CIA is at the top of my list.”
I smile. Better to let her think that than connect me to the guy she had dessert with tonight.
I hate lying to her, but I don’t have a choice. “This isn’t the snuggle session you were hoping for tonight, is it?”
“You’re wrong there. This is exactly what I want. I don’t get to share my life with anyone these days. And you’ve made me realize I still have some anger at my parents to process. Is this the kind of stuff other people talk about after sex?”
I laugh softly. “You’re asking me? I have no idea. I’ve never had a girlfriend.”
“I bet you’d make an awesome boyfriend.”
I like to think I would, someday. Right now, my own brain scares me, so I don’t say anything.
It’s strange that I don’t feel vulnerable with all the things I’ve confessed, and it’s not because Eden doesn’t know who I am. It’s just…I feel safe with both Eden and Desiree. There’s a kind, warm heart beating inside her perfect chest.
I imagine telling her who I am. Coming clean. Telling her about the trafficking happening through CamDames. She’d help me. I know she would.
But I keep circling back to the same truth. If I tell Eden who I am, I run the risk of losing the only person who makes me feel alive.
The only person who makes me think life is worth living.
Chapter Fourteen
Eden frowned at her checking account balance on the computer screen. She’d blown all her savings in buying the small townhouse, but it had been the only way to start her own business. She’d needed a private two-bedroom apartment and no roommate. It had been vital to be in control of her clients and be able to block local IP addresses, because she had practicum rounds next semester and couldn’t walk into a situation and find herself face-to-face with someone who knew her as Desiree.
Worse, she could find herself in a position where they recognized her, but she didn’t recognize them. This wasn’t a recipe for establishing herself in the mental health business and could cause problems given the power dynamics of mental health work.
She’d done what she needed to do, but the fact remained, her savings were dwindling. Falcon’s generosity these last two weeks had saved her butt, but she still wasn’t close to being able to do more than pay the mortgage and put a little away for next semester’s tuition. Fewer of the big spenders she’d cultivated at CamDames had followed her to her own platform.
There was no help for it. She was going to have to up her hours. Six a night instead of only four, and no more letting Falcon have her undivided attention for three hours. She needed to return to the group chat and convince other men to go private every single shift if she was ever going to pay off the townhouse and tuition.
All she wanted was security. To know she couldn’t be sold again to a man because she wasn’t earning her keep.
That had been what her mother had said that last day. A girl’s job in this world was to make babies, and if she didn’t get started, she wasn’t worth the upkeep. And Cooper had paid a thousand dollars as if Eden was some sort of broodmare.
She would pity her mother if the rage didn’t inhibit that feeling.
She rubbed her temples, thinking of Falcon and his rage. Did his rage come with the same feeling of helplessness? The same lack of outlet? Or did he find ways to let it out like steam from a boiling kettle?
He said he hurt people who deserved it. Was he a cop?
The idea that he took his rage out on suspects didn’t sit well. Just because he said they deserved it didn’t mean it was true.
There were plenty of innocent people in custody. Like when she’d been arrested for being a runaway two weeks before her parents married her off.
How was running away from parents—who had sold her, no less—a crime?
But even if Falcon was a cop, he wouldn’t take out his aggression on a teen runaway. That much she knew about him.
She paused. But did she really? He could be anyone. He could be playing a role as much as she was.
No. She didn’t buy it. His stark honesty when he shared what had happened to him had been real. He was a strong man who had suffered at the hands of someone, and he was trying to figure himself out.
She respected that. And it horrified her to know that his abuser had reached out to him from prison.
Cooper had never come near her again, but he had written to her. She’d never read the letters. She’d burned them and mailed back the ashes.
After the third time, the letters finally stopped coming.
She logged out of the bank website and pulled out her calendar. Her coffee shop hours were the usual this week. She worked eleven to four, Monday through Thursday, so she wouldn’t have a problem starting the night shift two hours earlier. She even had an hour for makeup. She really should have made this change as soon as she decided not to take classes this semester, but she’d resisted because she’d hoped to use those hours to study ahead—get a jump on her coursework for next semester so the hours spent doing practicum work wouldn’t cut into study time.
She worked twenty hours a week at the coffee shop, twenty hours in front of the camera, four hours at the lab, and next semester would have a full class load and ten hours of practicum per week. It would feel like she had two-and-a-half full-time jobs. But she’d do it.
She had to.
Her cam job paid the bills, the coffee shop provided health insurance and more money for bills, and the other one and a half jobs—school, lab, practicums—were the path to her dreams.
She would get her degree. She would help girls like her find a new life and healthy outlook. She would help trans teens become the person they were meant to be—the one they’d been all along.
There was so much she wanted to do, but not enough hours in the day or money in the bank.
Should she consider picking up shifts again at CamDames? Her mind instantly rebelled at that idea. No.
She’d invested so much in going solo, she needed to do the work so it would pay off.
She glanced at the clock. It was 5:00. She had just enough time to eat a quick dinner before she needed to apply the makeup.
If she was going to up her hours, no time like the present to get started. If she pulled in a thousand dollars a night for the next few weeks, she’d be back on track.
Her shift started slow—no surprise because her regulars knew she didn’t usually log on this early—but she sent out some invitations to a few men who’d visited the room once but weren’t subscribers, sending them a coupon for an “early bird snack,” and two men took her up on it. While she was at it, she posted her updated hours and shared it with subscribers along with a photo she’d taken last week in the metal bikini with a survey question about which fantasies they’d like to see her perform.
She was deep in her regular shift when a new subscriber replied to the survey: “Jasmine. Because she is ours and you owe us.”
Chase had logged into Desiree’s room under a new ID. He shouldn’t have done it, he knew, but he couldn’t be Falcon with her again so soon, not after last night, but he’d had the need to check on her.
The coffee shop had been bombed yesterday, and they had no answers as to who or why. If it had to do with her or CamDames, whoever was behind it could know who she was and be watching her site.
So there he was, monitoring her chat room, writing down the login names of her clients. Searching for others who were new while remaining fully aware that one of the others could be doing the same to search for him.
Because she would be on longer tonight, she was putting more effort into the chat room, earning small tips from each of them as no one appeared to be ready to engage in a private session. He didn’t know how much the others were tipping, but his guess was nothing big. Much as he wanted to give her more, he kept his tips to twenty-five each, for a total of one hundred. He wouldn’t do a private chat with her as anyone other than Falcon.
He was about to log out when Thor indicated he wanted to go private, but at the same time, her expression changed from sweet and bubbly siren to confused to scared.
She’d been reading aloud answers to a survey question she’d asked earlier, and now she was upset.
