He didn't pick up the phone, though, and she hung up rather than leave that particular message. If she was going to cancel on him, he deserved an explanation. And a chance, maybe, to change her mind.
* * *
Stephen knew as soon as he heard her on the phone that evening that whatever had been bothering Viola all week was not releasing its grip on her mind and heart. She sounded worried and distant. He tried ignoring this and being cheerful, but she didn't respond with her usual enthusiasm. He finally stopped trying to coax her out of her mood and asked, "Viola? What's wrong?"
"Oh, nothing. I have a cold and I might be going crazy, but other than that, I'm doing fine."
"Your voice does sound a little hoarse."
"Yeah, and I'm skulking in my own bedroom with the lights off."
"Skulking?"
"No, not really. Just feeling sorry for myself. My teaching sucked today. It's probably because of this damn cold."
"Well, bundle yourself up in bed and wait for me. I'll come up and take care of you until you feel better."
"No, don't. I mean, thank you so much for offering, but I don't want you to catch whatever I have."
"I never get sick. And even if I did, so what? We'll feel sorry for ourselves together. Just let me make sure the dog sitter can take care of Rusty for the weekend, and I'll drive up."
Another silence. He was getting a bad feeling about this.
"I need some time, Stephen," she said.
Fuck. That was the last thing he wanted to hear. "Some time for what?" He could hear the way his own voice had hardened. Everybody knew what it meant when a woman "needed some time."
"It's not just my cold. I've got some issues I need to work on."
"Issues you need to work on?" He couldn't believe he was hearing these clichés from his bright, laughing Viola.
"I know it sounds trite, even ridiculous, but please don't give up on me. I just need to figure some stuff out."
"Viola, there is no way I'm giving up on you, or on what we've begun to discover again with each other. If you need time, I will give you time. But maybe there are ways I can help you. I'm a helpful guy. If you're worried, I'm a good listener."
"The thing is," she said slowly, "I'm trying to get more competent solving my own problems. Both my father and my—my husband," her voice shook slightly as she said that word, "exerted a lot of control over me. I allowed them to do it. It was so much easier that way. I can't let that happen again."
That's what she said. But what he heard was, "First my father dominated and controlled me, and then my husband did. Now you come along, acting just as dark and controlling as they were. They hurt me. You might too. You
want
to hurt me. You get off on it."
"If it's the sex, Viola, that's—" he strove for the right word and came up with "Negotiable."
"It's not that."
No? He suspected the sex was a lot of it. He really ought to have taken things more slowly.
"And it's not you," she insisted, making him groan. "You were so comforting last weekend. You took such good care of me when I freaked out. I really appreciate that."
"I'll always take care of you. That's what dominants do."
"I guess I'm afraid I can't give you what you want. You're a very attractive guy and a successful author. There must be legions of women yearning to be invited into your playroom. You could probably sell tickets!"
He shouldn't have shown her the dungeon. He'd known that, dammit, and he'd done it anyway. "Babe. Don't worry about the damn playroom. We needn't go anywhere near the place."
She'd sighed. "I'm trying to figure out why I'm all anxious and neurotic."
"You had a flashback, a panic attack and sub-drop. It happens sometimes. But we can work it through together."
"I know the age difference between us is small now, but maybe it's still a factor," she went on, introducing yet another issue. "You seem to have everything together. You know what you want to do with your life. Your career is thriving. You know what you want in bed, and you're not afraid to ask for it. You own your own home. You're, like, established.”
“I’m just a bit older than you, Viola. That’s all it is. I’ve had more time.”
“Whereas my life is such a mess. I don't even know if I really want to continue teaching. I mean, sometimes I really hate teaching. I don't feel sure or confident about anything. Plus, I'm still afraid of Derek. What he did to me is still messing with my head. I'm a wreck compared to you."
"What do you mean, you're still afraid of Derek? Isn't he in Australia?"
"I guess so. But his shadow has stayed behind. The memory of him still frightens me, and I have to get over that. I have to convince myself that I will never be a victim again."
"And you think," said Stephen in a much colder tone than he had been using just a moment ago, "that because I write books about a character who is violent, and because, let's face it, I enjoy dominating and hurting my lovers in bed, that I might make a victim of you someday?"
"I just need to figure some things out. I wish I had a better way of explaining it, but I don't."
"I thought you were coming here for the weekend. If you want to stay home because of your cold, that's fine, but I'd like to be there with you. Are you telling me you don't want to see me?"
"I do want to see you. I just need some time alone first."
Some instinct warned him not to argue. This wasn't a problem that arguing could solve.
“Okay. Take some time. If you want to talk to me, I'm here. I'm not going to be seeing anyone else. I want you, babe, and I know you want me. But I'm not going to push you and I'm not going to control you. When you feel comfortable being with me, let me know."
Without another word, he closed the connection.
"Slayton."
"Jeff. It’s Stephen."
"Dude. What’s up."
Stephen hesitated, then blurted, "I fucked up. I need advice."
"Does this have something to do with Viola?"
"I really like her. I was under the impression that she reciprocated."
"But?"
"But now I'm not so sure. She's kind of avoiding me."
"Because you fucked up?"
"Looks like."
"Is this the sort of thing we need to discuss over a couple beers?"
"Yeah. Or something stronger. "
"Your place or mine?"
"I’m already on the road. Unless you’ve got something going tonight."
"Sadly, no. The Love Doctor bar is open."
"I’ll be there in an hour or so."
"Drive safely. You haven’t been drinking yet, right?"
"Stone cold. Not until I get there."
Two hours later the two men sprawled on the leather sofa in Jeff Slayton’s den. Two sets of boots propped up on the messy coffee table in front of the big screen TV. The NBA game they’d been watching was turning into a boring blow-out.
Lying around them in Jeff's messy house were some items that Stephen thought were almost as amusing as the stuff in his dungeon—wooden and steel swords, claymores, and armor. There were also some costumes, and Jeff was wearing a handmade leather vest that he said had been designed by a craftsman who created medieval clothing.
"I'm organizing for this summer's Renaissance Faire," Jeff had explained. "I'll be giving a workshop on Medieval Battle Techniques."
Stephen had admired the leatherwork, but his heart wasn't in it. When he saw fine leather garments, he envisioned Viola wearing them. And looking sexy as hell.
It was Saturday night and the weekend was half over. He'd resisted calling her, although he'd been tempted to do so every fifteen minutes or so. He had sent her a text asking how her cold was. She'd responded that she was feeling better and thanked him for his concern. Brief. Polite. Distant.
Goddamn.
At half-time Jeff hit the remote to click the TV off. "So. You gonna tell me how you fucked up?"
"I did something stupid."
"I get that. Spill."
"Do you know anything about why Viola split from her husband?"
"Not really. I figured it was the usual—people get married too young, grow apart, separate, all for the best in the end. There were no kids involved, right?"
"Right. So, there are no rumors about what brought about the divorce?"
"None that I’ve heard. It was before she started teaching here. Why?"
"Turns out that the ex—Derek is the creep’s name—was an abuser. The marriage broke when he beat her savagely enough to put her in the hospital."
"Shit."
"Yeah. I didn’t know this when we started seeing each other. She didn’t tell me. If I’d known she had been abused, I would have been more careful."
"What did you do that wasn’t careful?"
"I scared her. Seriously frightened her. Not that she thinks I’m a psycho or anything—at least I hope she doesn’t think that. But I guess she’s not real eager to get naked again with me right now."
"You wanna be a little more specific? I’m getting the gist of this without being sure just how bad it is."
Stephen gave him a rough outline of what had happened last weekend.
"Doesn’t sound that dire to me. You tied her up in that freaky dungeon of yours. She knew you were going to do it, and she consented, right?"
"Right. She was fine with that. That wasn’t what scared her."
"What did scare her?"
"I sort of started channeling Bart."
Jeff frowned. "What the hell does that mean? You beat her? Raped her? Tortured her on your rack?"
"No, no. She’s a novice. We didn't do anything that edgy."
"So, you actually
have
a rack in the dungeon? Because if you’ve been holding out on me…if you've got serious torture devices in that place, I am gonna be pissed about missing out on the spectacle."
Stephen rolled his eyes.
Jeff dropped the teasing and said, "Sorry. I can’t see you harming anyone you’re dating. You're twisted as hell, but you would never do that."
"Thank you, I think. Actually, it was something I said that frightened her. I quoted some dialogue from one of my books."
"Do you usually do that?" Jeff asked dryly. "Quote from your books when you’re fucking?"
"No. It just happened. And the moment it was out of my mouth I knew I'd screwed up. Sure enough, she freaked."
"What did you say?"
Stephen made a face. "I said, ‘scream now for me.’"
"A bit melodramatic, but not a complete mood-killer. Some folks do scream during sex."
Stephen got up, crossed to Jeff’s bookshelves, removed a copy of one of his own novels, and flipped through it. Holding it open to a certain page, he handed the volume to Jeff. "Middle of the page. Read."
Jeff read. After a few moments he looked up. "Okay. Bart is gleefully manipulating his torture devices, I see. Charming conversation, not that the victim is saying much. Ah, I see it—‘Scream now for me.’"
Stephen, still at the bookshelves, tossed him a different volume from the Bartholomew Giles series. "Page 257, at the top."
Jeff read this as well. "Blah blah blah….torture torture torture ‘Scream now for me.’ Repeating yourself, Silkwood?"
"Bart’s in his zone."
"His psycho zone." Jeff read a bit further. "I’d forgotten how nasty this guy was. He loves those screams, doesn’t he? He’s getting off on them."
"He says the same line in several of the novels. It’s a sign that he’s slipping over the edge. His victims suffer pretty badly when Bart goes over that edge."
"And Viola Bennett, who has read your books and criticized you for your indulgence in misogynistic sadism—I note that the torture victim in both these examples is a woman—would be likely to remember Bart’s signature line of dialogue?"
Stephen shrugged again, his face grim. "It would appear so."
"This is the same woman who suggested that an author who could write cruel, violent scenes might actually
be
cruel and violent?"
Stephen nodded.
"The same woman who married an abuser and has personal experience with cruel, violent men?"
"Yes."
Jeff tossed down the book and leaned back in his chair. "I hate to say it, dude, but I think you’re fucked."
Stephen flopped back down on the couch. "I’ve got to fix this."
"What happened when she panicked? Did she use a safeword?"
"Yes, and I stopped right away and freed her. I comforted her. We talked it through. She insisted she was okay. She
seemed
okay. I’ve seen worse freak-outs. Remember Melanie, my ex? She went nuts a coupla times."
"Melanie was crazy," Jeff reminded him. "Drama queen. In comparison, Viola is totally normal."
"She is. At least, she was before her husband got through with her. She has this scar on her throat where the asshole slashed her."