Boundaries

Somewhere within all the deceptions, somewhere so far back, I couldn't pinpoint it, I had lost myself. I was no longer that girl who'd been stripped naked and poisoned in a strange bed. I was another girl entirely, one with power, who could make anyone do what she wanted. And like some kind of ghastly avenging angel, I'd sought recompense for what had been done to me. I took control of boys the way he'd taken control of me. I made them powerless. But I couldn't have done any of that.

It was someone else, some temptress hiding in my mind. I was Lia, Lia who loved only music, Lia who was quiet and shy and virginal, Lia who had always felt awkward and gawky. She was Lia, Lia who was desirable and seductive, Lia who loved nothing, Lia who had the courage to take whatever she needed, by any means necessary.

She would surface when it was inconvenient, and abandon me when I needed her wits and savvy most, without fail.

When Zack Richardson showed up at our concert, I knew exactly what would happen, and somehow I didn't even care. I could tell by the way his eyes flicked over my body, never once looking me in the eyes. I could tell by the way he said "You look nice," as if the compliment were a coin put in a machine that dispensed sex. I could tell by how he winked at my managers, and grabbed me by one arm as if I couldn't stand for myself, and towed me past the rest of the band. I waved wanly at August and Gale and Sawyer as I followed the insistent pull all the way back to his car. He drove, fast to shake off the paparazzi, and I shook my head to clear it.

Again, as was always my lamentable cry, what was I doing? I was going off, God-knows-where, with a boy three years older than me, who I didn't even like. Why, why did I listen to them? Was I so unoriginal that I couldn't think what to do with myself, beyond what they told me? Would that be it, all my life, acting out a play, with the lines set out ahead of time?

Act 2, Scene 2. Alone in a car, except for a lascivious, handsome boy with a little alcohol on his breath.

Zack Richardson parked the car. I didn't know where we were, I didn't know the city. But I hoped both that everyone would find us and that no one would find us. I was afraid, and I was confident. I knew my lines. Even sitting there, even before he turned his beautiful, glorious profile towards me in the gloom, I could think of several ways out, easily. I was surprised to learn I didn't know whether to use them or not.

He kissed me, and in the darkness, I sensed everything like it mattered. Did it matter that I could taste the beers on his tongue, in his mouth? Did it matter that I could feel his hands on me, that they were rough and foreign? Did it matter, did any of it matter?

No, she said, the siren inside me. No. Live, be. Don't think about it.

Who would care, who would notice, right here and right now, if boundaries were crossed? Who would care if he climbed from the comfortable platonic driver's seat and into my side? Or worse, if he opened the door to the backseat?

My heart did not accelerate. There was no rush to get away. I convinced myself that this was fine, that it was normal to not care for someone and kiss them. Ever since what had happened, I had known better than to think sex and love were intertwined.

I didn't help him. His drunken fingers fumbled with my clothes, getting them half askew, but not off. He didn't seem to care about the fact that his clothes were still on, and I felt a powerful wave of disgust rise up inside of me.

What was wrong with me, lying in the passenger seat with this pig on top of me? Did I want this? Did I want to wake up and face myself in the morning, when a border had been crossed, and with this drunk piece of shit?

I balked at the thought.

"Get off me," I muttered.

He smothered me with his weight again, in the cold foggy darkness.

"Ugh," I groaned, and I squirmed and writhed out from under him, fastening my clothes. He tried to force me back under him, but as he was drunk and I was not, I could manage to dodge. I slammed the door and stomped away from the car, only to realize I had no idea where I was.

It was the fog-strewn end of a cul-de-sac. It didn't even look vaguely familiar, and judging by how very unsavory his intentions were, I was sure it was very far out of the way. Cursing womanizing Zack Richardson, I hitched my coat tighter and started walking. The fog made me damp and cold, but I was not about to walk back. It was late at night, and he was probably passed out already.

I cried the whole way, fat, hot tears that melted my frozen face. There was something wrong with me. Didn't I value myself more than that? Would I sink to a level like that, sleep with some drunk pig just because he was there and I was desperate?

I already had my answer. I would have done it. I wanted to feel normal again, to be with someone closer to my age, to actually have something happen to me when I wanted it and how I wanted it. But I had listened to what I wanted this time, and acted on that, and so maybe there was hope for me yet. Although not so much when it came to directions. The city was huge, and I was hopelessly lost.

I yanked out my cell phone and scrolled through my phonebook. My friends back home were no good, Jay, yeah right, but what about the rest of the band? Gale, probably asleep, August... probably. I was just about to dial him when I spotted the number below.

Sawyer.

Sawyer would come. He would do it. That girl with my face, the one who was not me, the siren born from the rape, she had teased and seduced and tormented him enough that he would do anything for her.

I called, and he answered on the third ring. "Hello?"

"Hey, Sawyer, it's Lia."

"Lia... where are you?"

"Um." I glanced up to the street sign and read it off to him.

"When are you coming back?"

"I have no clue."

"Want me to come and get you?"

"Yeah," I said pathetically, and I started crying again. Furious with myself, I held my breath to repress my sobs.

"Lia, what happened?"

"Nothing," I gasped

"Did he hurt you?" Sawyer snapped, with an edge to his voice.

"No," I murmured. "No, it's not him, it's me. I'm going crazy."

"No, you're not," Sawyer said firmly. "It's fine. It'll be just fine. I'm coming right now."

He was there in the next half hour. I talked to him the whole way, or rather, he talked to me, reassuring me that I was fine and that Zack Richardson was a horrible person, and I shouldn't lose any sleep over this whole thing.

Finally, the taxi pulled up to the curb, and Sawyer jumped out of the cab and peeled me off of the sidewalk. "It's okay," he reassured me, pulling my sodden jacket off my shoulders.

I leaned on his shoulder the whole way back, and he kept his arms around me. I didn't care how weird it was for him to unlock the door to my room, or to come in with me and help me take off my dress, which was impossibly wet, or to run hot water into the bathtub for me. He sent me into the bathroom and had my clothes ready for me when I came out.

"Sawyer?" I called, when I was tucked into the covers of my bed and he was lying on the couch with some extra blankets.

He was instantly alert. "Yeah?"

"You can come here, you know. If you want."

Silence. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and gravelly. "That's not why I did it."

"I know."

He came, then, his feet almost silent in the plush carpet. I turned over to face him as he slid into the bed beside me, staring at him in the moonlight. He laid down beside me, unmoving under my stare. I leaned down over him, pausing millimeters from his lips, closing my eyes against his warm, even breaths. Then, before I could reconsider it, I pressed my lips to his.

His eyes were wondering when I finally pulled back. "How did you know?" he asked.

I did not know what he meant. "Me too," I said softly, and I drew his hands up to my breasts. He stiffened and groaned.

"Lia..."

"Shh," I told him, and I slipped off the shirt he had so kindly provided me. "Touch me. It's all I want."

He was a boy, or maybe a man, there was no way he would not respond to my request, brazen as it was. His fingers trembled as they met my bare skin, the thumbs stroking over the nipples so gently that I exhaled with a dizzy delight.

"Oh, God, again," I breathed, and he obliged me, soft as a shadow.

She wasn't there, she wasn't. It was me, wanting this, me asking and receiving. I mattered this time, and she would have nothing to do with me, anymore. I didn't need her, I didn't want her. She'd gotten me into enough trouble already, and now I could let her go and find my own way.

His hands slipped down from my breasts to my stomach, and his mouth found a nipple.

I moaned, desperate, but he had been tortured long enough to wish me some ill will. He pulled back.

"No?" he said, half-teasing.

"God, yes," I gulped, and I pushed his boxers down to draw his penis out. I lowered my face down toward it, but he touched my chin and tipped it up.

"I just want to be inside you," he said simply, and I could not oblige him fast enough. I pushed aside my underwear.

"Do it," I begged. "Please."

Though I had asked for him to do it quickly, he did not oblige me. His fingers slipped under the band of my underwear and tugged lightly so it slipped down. They skated down, gliding over the mound of hair to linger lightly just above where I wanted him to touch me.

I moaned. "Please," I pleaded again.

He touched me, light as a dream, and desperate, needing more, I arched, moving so his hand slipped inside me and I cried out.

"You're so wet," he said wonderingly.

"Don't wait a minute more then," I panted, and I took his penis in my hand and guided him inside me. My head rocked back as his penis slid into me, filling me with heat and building pleasure. He thrust up into me, experimentally, and I moaned, sinking down to meet him.

From that moment on, he showed me no mercy. Even as he drove hard into me, he found each and every sensitive place, with fingers and mouth alike. It was as if he was revenging himself on me for the times she had tempted him, making me scream as she had made him want to.

"I want you to make me come," I gasped.

He didn't say anything, but he obeyed. He dropped his hand down, the ball of his thumb idly tracing around my clitoris as he slowed the tempo of his thrusts.

"I don't want to make you do anything," he said. His jaw was clenched tight with a strain I didn't understand. "But I want to do what you want."

His thumb glided over that hard little nub, and I shattered around him, my entire body stretched beyond breaking by a glorious contraction. It went on and on, for so long that I felt him gasp, stiffen, and empty himself inside me, and still I was curled and stretched by ecstasy.

Finally, I was able to speak. "Thank you," I said, with as much dignity as I could manage.

His eyes were direct. "It isn't a service I've performed," he corrected. "I think it should mean something."

"It does," I told him, and I smiled.