The Goddess Ch. 02

Becca

I felt like a complete asshole.

Benny had called me "ma'am," and I'd corrected him purely on instinct. I'd opened my mouth to take it back and apologize, but the words were out of his mouth before I had the chance. "Yes, miss."

There was so much reverence in his voice that it left me stunned for a moment.

And then I'd realized I was short a bill, because Jeff had asked me to leave him some money for the delivery courier, and I barely had enough cash for the poor boy's tip. I'd dug through my purse and left every penny I could find, vowing to return as soon as possible and leave him a much better one to make up for it.

After lunch, I sat in my car outside The Weston House, staring at the three-story mansion with a sense of awe and respect that still hadn't faded. We were only a few years into running the nonprofit, but so far, over a hundred women had found refuge from human trafficking within these walls. I knew no matter where my life led me, I would always come back here. It was my calling, and the thing I cared most about.

I was back in my office with just enough time to get on the conference call. Logging on to the meeting and straightening in my chair, I tried to look more put together than I felt.

Reuben was already deep in conversation with Chandra, one of our therapists in South Carolina. "We can't force her to talk," he was saying. "Everything we do is about giving them back the power that was stolen from them. If she's refusing therapy, the best thing we can do for her is to accept that. Communicate with her caregiver and meet with him instead. Maybe over time she'll agree to see you again... Hello, Becca. You look well..."

There was something in his voice that said, I can tell something just happened.

"I am well. Thank you, Mr. Weston." I gave him a smile that said, don't push me on a conference call, please.

He acknowledged my unspoken request, and we got down to business.

We tried to have a call like this once a month. The therapists we worked with around the country kept us updated on the status of the girls no longer living at the center. Sonja was speaking again. Eliza's caregiver had gotten her a puppy, and she was doing much better. Francis was studying for her GED.

When the others got off the call, and Reuben and I were the only ones left. "Are you busy?" he asked.

"I have a meeting with Louise in thirty minutes."

"I won't take long."

Reluctantly, I said, "Come on over, then."

He logged off, and a moment later, my office door opened. Shutting my laptop, I gave my boss my full attention. I knew he was about to give me so much shit. He had that curious, evil glint in his eye that told me he wanted information, and was willing to do literally anything to get it.

"You met someone."

"I did not." I lifted my chin, shuffling papers on my desk, trying not to look flustered. "I just... went out to lunch."

"What did you do," he asked, leaning against the closed doorframe and crossing his arms.

I pursed my lips and stared back. How does he always know?

"Did you find a new toy?" There was a hint of condescension in his tone, but it was playful.

I attempted to keep his gaze, but he did that evil eyebrow-raise-thing and I blinked. He laughed as I looked away.

"Becca. You have, like, twelve pets."

"I do not," I snapped back. Then I let my forehead fall into my hand. "I have a few clients, a few playmates, a couple tops... And now I have a cute waiter who calls me 'miss,' apparently."

Reuben laughed and shook his head, then sat down in the chair in the corner. "Tell me everything."

He was smirking as I finished my explanation. "Are you going to pursue him?"

"No," I said, waving my hand to dismiss the idea. "I've already made a fool of myself. But I am going to go back to that restaurant and leave the poor boy a decent tip."

Reuben leaned forward and raised an eyebrow. "You'll be torturing that poor boy by this time next month, Bec." He put his hands on his knees and stood up. "Try not to be too mean to him. Or do. Maybe he'll like it."

I chose not to answer, because Reuben wasn't someone you could argue with. But I'd already made up my mind. I was far too cruel for someone like Benny.

No, I needed to keep my distance from him. The absolute last thing that young, pretty boy needed was someone like me coming into his life.

Louise came into my office looking like she wanted to cry. Her hair was knotted in a messy bun on the top of her head, her golden curls knotted and matted. Her t-shirt was too big, her jeans too loose, and she wore tennis shoes. I could see the bulge of something in her back pocket, but I wasn't sure what it was. She threw herself onto the couch, legs spread, back hunched, and glared at the floorboards, eyes red and bloodshot.

"Good afternoon, Louise."

"Hi Becca," she mumbled. The muscles in her jaw flexed.

"Cute jeans. I like the rhinestones on the pockets."

She took a long, steady breath, letting it out slowly, and swallowed. "Thanks."

"Do you feel like explaining why you appear so angry?"

"Nope." She popped her lips on the "p."

"Okay. How about you tell me about that movie night you had with the girls the other day?"

Her eyes flashed, and there was venom in her words. "It's just that I'm so pissed at him. And I'm ready, you know? I'm so fucking ready. I want to see the fucker again so I can wear jeans in front of him. I love jeans. I'm never going to wear anything but jeans ever again! I'm going to sleep in jeans!"

The tears finally broke through, and she hiccupped and put a hand over her face. She struggled for a moment before blindly reaching out to the end table and grabbing a tissue, blowing her nose and dabbing at her eyes.

"And all I can hear when I get dressed every morning is, 'if I can't see that brand on your thigh at all times, I'm going to punish you!' It was all, 'short skirts, no panties, be accessible for me.'" She put on a mocking voice as she quoted her former rapist.

"I'm happy to hear you've found some clothing that makes you feel safe."

"It doesn't make me feel safe," she mumbled. "It makes me feel... guilty. Like, I'm just waiting for the ball to drop. Which of those guys who visit the house is going to sneak into my room and fuck me in the ass with a baseball bat as punishment for not being accessible to him at all times? Huh? Which one?"

My stomach turned at her description. "Certainly nobody here."

She shook her head, her voice filled with sick dread. "I know that, Becca, I really do. I know it. But I can't stop thinking it'll happen, and I still feel so sick and guilty whenever I wear anything that isn't a six-inch miniskirt." Wiping her eyes, she looked at me like she was pleading for guidance. "I just want to stop feeling guilty for what I choose to do with my body. I want to stop feeling ashamed of what happened to me. I want to wear whatever I want without hearing his voice in my head."

"Maybe you should start wearing six-inch miniskirts."

She scoffed and rolled her eyes. "How is that going to help?"

"Because you're choosing to wear something because you want to wear it, not because he told you to."

"I don't know. That seems far-fetched."

"You might be surprised. Why don't you try it out sometime this week? On your own time, in your room, somewhere where you have control--"

"That's not going to help."

I hesitated, but quietly said, "It helped me."

I tried hard to be honest with the women who came through the center. I had days where all I did was comfort criers, or make small talk, or help them brush their hair and promise not to pull too hard. But then I had other days where the only thing I could do was share my own story, and try to connect with them as a friend instead of a peer counselor.

"This isn't exactly the same, but... my last owner, he never raped me. He liked to hurt me instead."

Louise's face had gone blank. She swallowed and glared at the floorboards again, taking small, slow breaths. I pushed on.

"He was a sadist... he loved to hurt me. Knives. Sometimes a cane. He very often made me pick the tools he'd use on me. And when he wasn't hurting me, he was kind to me, nursing me back to health, being affectionate and generous with his attention.

"And because of that association... I grew to love the pain. I grew to need it."

"You're a masochist?" she whispered.

"Very much so."

"How did you get over that?"

"That's the point, Louise... I didn't. I still need pain. Regularly and often. I do a session about once a month with a trusted friend who I know will respect my boundaries and stop if I use a safeword. The point is, I choose to receive that, because I want it. Not because someone else decides I should have it.

"The first time I did a pain scene after I was rescued was the single most important moment in my healing so far. I chose the whip, I handed it to him, I asked him... and he stopped when I asked him to stop. It was like I suddenly had my own body back. I could choose exactly how much pain I was willing to receive... and I could decide to refuse it if I wanted to. But I made that decision. Nobody else.

Louise stared at me, her eyes wide, her tears dried. She was mulling over everything I'd said, and I knew she was close to a breakthrough.

"If you want to wear a miniskirt, wear one. If you want to wear jeans, wear jeans. But wear what you want to wear, not because you feel guilty, or because you want to prove a point... but because you can."