Enter The Black Oak: Chapter 25

A SHRILL WIND HOWLS LIKE A BANSHEE as Cameron and I dart around the massive back garden at Redwood, picking up sticks and twigs that we throw into a fire pit near the edge of the woods encircling the garden. The fresh early-evening air is cool and invigorating and I pull the band out of my hair, letting it fall loose around me as I inhale the scent of lilies, honeysuckle, the pristine woods and the salty ocean breeze that drifts over to the garden from the other side of the house.

“I could really do with some s’mores right now,” I sigh.

“S’mores?” He raises an eyebrow. “Do you think I’ve forgotten that Caledonia trip, Miss Avery?”

I burst out laughing before he even finishes his sentence, covering my face with embarrassment as I think back to accidentally flicking a flaming marshmallow-adorned stick at Cameron’s tent, burning a nice hole into it that we had to patch up with Band-Aids. “Oh God, how did I forget that?”

He flashes me a broad grin, narrowing his eyes and licking his bottom lip.

“I think I must have blocked out a large percentage of the moments I made a complete ass of myself,” I giggle.

“It’s just as well,” he teases, eyes bright with sardonic amusement. “There’s a lot to block out.”

“Oh, we can go there if you want, O’Neill,” I challenge affectionately.

He raises his hands in surrender and starts tending to the fire pit.

I can’t stop my gaze from wandering over his strong hands as he snaps thick, rough branches into pieces as easily as if they were toothpicks. He looks so much like a man now compared to the thoughtful boy I knew. From his strong, mature jawline, to his controlled demeanor and muscular frame to the confident way he sometimes stares at me which unnerves me until I have to look away, it’s a totally different energy—the energy of a man who is confident about his body, his mind and his place in the world and is not afraid to go after what he wants.

“Need me to get a lighter?” I offer as the blustering ocean wind blows out each match he lights over the kindling.

“Yeah, if you don’t mind. Get the stove lighter. It’s in the cupboard above the stove.”

I jog over to the house and into the kitchen where I stand on a footstool and reach into the cupboard to grab the lighter. As I step back down, a sting shoots through my foot, stabbing my ankle.

“Shit.”

I wish my mutilated leg would give me one hour of respite. I have no idea why it’s playing up all of a sudden. It had almost completely healed before we came to the Hamptons. Ever since I fell on my leg while changing the tire, piercing twinges have been biting my ankle with renewed gusto. I’m praying it’s some temporary blip that will resolve itself once the stress of the separation from Jack dissolves somewhat.

I grab a couple of cans of coconut water from the fridge, put some oranges and nuts in a wooden bowl and try to hide my limp as I trudge back towards Cameron who is watching me intently.

“You’re limping,” he says as I place the snacks, drinks and lighter on the block of mottled granite next to the fire pit.

“It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? You’d be on death’s door and still say there was nothing wrong.”

“I had some pins out a few months ago from that skiing accident a couple of years ago. It’s still a bit sore. It’s not a big deal, honestly.”

As an unconvinced-looking Cameron arranges the kindling, I sit on a chair next to the fire and discreetly lift the hem of my jeans to inspect my ankle, hoping not to see bruising or swelling or any of the other things the doctor told me to look out for. As I run my fingers over the scar, I’m happy to see it looking slightly paler—more pinkish in color than the shocking crimson line that was branded there before. I instinctively pull the leg of my jeans down as Cameron approaches me. I really don’t want to share my scar with anyone else—and especially not him.

“Show me,” he says firmly.

“No, I don’t want—”

He ignores my protest, kneels down and gently lifts the hem of my jeans, observing the scar intently. My skin tingles as his powerful fingers touch the peachy flesh of my leg, slowly running up and down the pink scar. I have no idea where that damn crackle of electrifying energy came from. I never used to get it before when I was near Cameron. I feel hyperaware of him, as if I have to be on guard for at any moment, his skin could brush against mine and that spark could thunder through me like a bolt of lightning. I keep hoping it will go away.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“It’s much better than before.” I push the hem down past his hands. “It’s just that it reminds me of a time I’d rather not think about too much.”

He looks down for a few moments before speaking. “Well, I think I read somewhere that scars are in, miss.”

“Oh, sure. I bet next season every woman will want one.”

“Well, it would be indecent if there wasn’t at least one physical imperfection on you. And in my experience, perfect is very, very boring.” He stands up. “Um, Miss Avery,” he says, cocking an eyebrow at my fireside snacks.

“There was nothing to make s’mores with!”

“Oranges and nuts? I’m having a flashback to those raw birdseed fests you used to drag me to.”

I giggle at the mischievous curving of his lips. “Listen, man. Just because you’re building a fire, doesn’t mean you need to go all caveman on me. I’m all cavemaned out.”

“You sure about that? I’ve been told that my caveman side can be quite the experience.” His eyes are predatory but teasing and yet I can’t help blushing.

“Here, take your lighter,” I shoot back playfully as I hand it over to him while trying to avoid touching his fingers with mine. “I’m surprised you’re not whittling some flint-based fire-making tool and skinning a boar.”

“The night’s still young, Avery.” His eyes narrow and my insides suddenly feel like jelly. In my defense, I’ve seen women turn into drooling invertebrates at the mere sight of him.

I furtively study his face—a picture of wild, gorgeous concentration—as he leans down and lights the kindling before blowing on the smoke until a decent fire starts burning. We sit in pensive silence punctuated only by the staccato crackling and wheezing of burning twigs and the occasional howl of wind. The scent of embers and burning wood clings to us as we start to talk… and talk… and talk. We talk so easily, just like we used to do. It’s not hard to remember how and why we became such close friends. I think back to a time of endless discussions, laughter and annoying debates about everything from food to sports to politics. Cameron has a way with words that few men have; his voice is smooth and rich, his sentences deliberate and captivating and without stumbles or filler words, as if every utterance is meant to be there. His eyes linger on mine as he speaks, as if studying my reaction to his words, analyzing me…

We fill an hour talking about his job, his family and his father’s death last year after which he tells me some O’Neill family stories involving marriages, births and divorces. I love listening to him talk. Despite the enigmatic poise ingrained in the graceful O’Neill line which can leave him so often looking inscrutable, when he’s with someone he trusts, his face seems so expressive, even when he tries to hide his feelings behind measured diction. I know him so well; shifts in thought cause his features to transform, gentle smiles replace a thousand words, and the slightest of frowns betray eons of pain. He is different from Jack with his dangerous eyes who can smile to your face while planning how to end your world that very second.

As the sun dips behind Redwood, there are tales of his daredevil aunt’s latest death-wish adventure and of the time he turned up to a board meeting in his gym gear a couple of years ago, just to see the look on the resentful board members’ faces. I mock him mercilessly for some of his exploits, knowing that with Cameron’s self-deprecating sense of humor, he will take my ribbing on the chin.

“I like seeing you laugh,” he beams as he studies my smiling mouth.

His words are kind, but hit me hard as the reality of my crumbling marriage knocks the wind out of me again like a violent, ill-timed ocean wave. Jack’s stunning face flashes into my mind and my skin goes clammy as I think about everything I’ve seen in the last couple of days, the divorce I’m about to go through and the gut-wrenching agony of not seeing, holding or kissing the man I love so much again. I try to smile, but some ghost of anguish must be haunting my face, betraying the mask concealing my emotions.

“Jess, I don’t want to push you, but the only way I can help you is if you tell me the whole story.”

A week ago, Cameron O’Neill would have been the last person in the world I would ever have wanted to share my marriage woes with. Now, something deep inside me wants him to know everything.

Twenty minutes later, I sit before him, tears rolling down my face as I finish telling him—with much difficulty—how I found out about Jack’s infidelity a few months ago, about the months of therapy we went through, and about what I saw him doing last night. I’m almost ashamed to look into Cam’s eyes in light of all the things he said to me to warn me against marrying Jack—things which now seem to have been right on the money.

My stern-faced friend runs his hand through his wavy hair, his gaze softening as he watches another tear fall onto my cheek as the sun slides low causing swirls of fuchsia to appear in the cerulean sky and shadows to dance around us.

“Who were the women, Jess?” His voice is calm, but his eyes a tempest of anguish.

I pull a wisp of hair out of my mouth with unsteady fingers as I ready myself to say the names of Jack’s mistresses.

“There were two of them… that I know of. The woman I saw in most of the pictures was… Lydia. Lydia Bulgova,” I manage, in a voice so choked I barely recognize it.

His shakes his head as I say her name. “What about the woman on the balcony?”

I don’t speak, unable to bring myself to utter her name.

“Was it… Alexandra Frost?” he asks coldly.

Hearing her name come out of his mouth stuns me to my core, knocking me off balance. I scour his eyes for an indication as to how he knew who it was and see that his breathing has visibly quickened and a shadow has hit his face, sucking all the life out of it.

“How did you know?” I ask, an ache gripping my stomach.

He gets up in a burst and paces around the fire, bristling and restless.

“How did you know about her and Jack?” I repeat, my nerves giving way to a frustrated need to not be dicked around anymore.

“Alexandra Frost is bad news,” he finally responds as he meets my eyes again.

“So are lots of people,” I retort firmly. “Why did you say her name specifically?”

“It’s a long story… and one I’m not sure you should hear right now.”

“I want to know, God damn it.”

“It’s not a good—”

“You can’t do this again, Cameron! I told you before we got married to give me all the reasons you hated Jack so much, and you refused to tell me anything. I’ll never be able to trust you or have any kind of friendship with you if you keep hiding things from me!”

Silence fills the air for long minutes before he begins to speak, the words seeping out as if against his will.

“I’m not sure if you really knew how close Jack and I were when we were younger. We were… like brothers, for many years. I knew him when he was a very different person to the man he is today.”

“I know that you were close.”

“Jack and I spent a lot of time with Alex when we were younger. She and Steven were friends of my parents. She took a shine to Jack—to both of us—when we were teenagers. Jack worshipped her back then.”

Nausea.

“Keep going,” I prompt when he stops.

“Alex first seduced Jack when he was fifteen years old.”

Cameron’s unexpected words hit me so hard I feel like I’m going down for the count. “It’s not possible,” I whisper, clasping my hands to either side of my face.

“They were lovers on and off for most of his teenage years.”

“No.” I stare into his eyes imploringly, willing him to take back what he’s just said. “Fifteen years old?”

“Yes.”

“How could she do that? She should be in prison!”

“She prefers to inject her poison when her victims are young. Jessynia, there are some things I’ve wanted to tell you for so long…”

“What things?”

He sits down opposite me, taking deep, dark breaths and I try to suppress my frustration and stay quiet, not wanting to push him so much that he shuts down like I saw him do so many times at college.

His voice is low and restrained as he continues to talk. “Alex is a monster. Her and that psychopath she hangs around with, Markov, they’re like a cancer in Manhattan that needs to be cut out. You couldn’t begin to imagine the amount of pain they’ve caused around them. Most of their victims keep quiet so everything is swept under the rug.”

“Fifteen years old?”

“Yes.”

“It’s been thirteen years. He kept seeing her after we got married. Why? I know she’s beautiful, but she’s just such a shitty human being by any standards. I don’t know how he could want someone like her so much that he would risk something so… special. Jack and I didn’t exactly have a boring—” I stop as I see my friend’s grimace, not wanting to inflict the more intimate details on him.

“It’s not about that with Jack. It has nothing to do with love. Or sex. He doesn’t love Alex. I doubt he desires her that much, certainly not compared to you. The reality is that she got into his mind when he was not much more than a child. The bond they have is something he may never be able to break. Back then it was Alex who had all the power, but as he got older, he began to dominate even her. Or at least he thought he did. I don’t think he fully grasps how strong the hold she has over him is.”

“But why keep seeing her for so long? I mean, he’s twenty-eight now. Why can’t he break away from her?”

“Jack feels comfortable around people like her—dangerous, ruthless, cruel people. He understands them. Those are his kind of people. There is something very, very dark in Jack. Something he hides from many people.”

“What do you mean?”

“You have to remember, Jack isn’t from the same place as us. While we don’t give a shit about that, it affects him a lot. The first half of his childhood was spent in a dirt-poor neighborhood. The men in his family were in and out of prison all the time. He spent the other half of his childhood on the Upper East Side, but he always felt different to the boys he went to school with in Manhattan. It was as though he was seeing the world through some filter, I’m guessing the way Alex did when she started hanging out with women raised on Park Avenue after the upbringing she had. I think the culture shock caused him to seek out people who saw the world differently too. When he was a young kid, he was softer, more caring, but he’s spent too much time around people he shouldn’t have—people like Alex and Markov and Gravier. Jack believes that he belongs with people like them. Being with someone as pure and beautiful as you—the person that you are, I mean—is challenging for him.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You’re different to any woman he’s ever been with before. I met a few of his exes. He didn’t give a shit about any of them. But you, he loves you to the point of madness. It’s something he can’t control. Something he probably thought he would never experience in his life. You allow him to break free of the darkness that Alex and that group have exposed him to. I think he tried very hard to break things off with her when he got together with you, but once she managed to get her claws into him again, I’m sure that knowing that he was destroying the most precious thing in his life would have sent him into a downward spiral where cheating was the only way he could cope with knowing that he was going to end up losing you. Total self-destruction.”

Cameron’s words line up so closely with what Jack himself has said in moments of honesty that I wonder how he can be so insightful.

“I know what Jack is,” I say. “I always have. I never asked him to be someone that he wasn’t.”

“No, I don’t think you really know who he is, or how dangerous he is. Jack is a man who will do whatever it takes to get what he wants. I’ve seen him destroy people’s lives without flinching—blackmail, threats, intimidation. I’m fairly sure he would’ve gone to great lengths for you to never know what he is actually capable of.” Warm flames from the fire dance off Cameron’s sharp cheekbones in the failing light. “You really fell for him, didn’t you?” he asks.

I nod.

A deep crease appears between his eyes which glide over my features as if trying to understand something incomprehensible. It reminds me of our evenings together at college when he would examine my face as though it were the strangest, most fascinating thing in the world.

“I remember you telling me that he’d asked you out a few times,” he continues, “and that you’d shot him down each time. What happened?”

“I’d turned him down for over a year before we ended up together,” I respond, taking a gulp of coconut water to quench my sudden thirst. “The summer after I finished my degree, I went to London for that internship and I walked into a meeting and Jack was there.”

“He went there to meet some European investors.”

“I had absolutely no interest in dating him. I mean, not at all. Somehow, we ended up spending a lot of time together—you know, two Americans abroad kind of thing. I saw a side to him that I’d never seen before—soft, smart, protective, funny. He made it clear that he wanted to be with me but was never a dick about it like other men who’d pursued me. It sounds strange, but I felt safer with him than any man I’d ever dated. I never expected to fall in love with a man like him—to fall so hard.”

“But why get married? Why didn’t you just keep dating?”

Frustration has me frowning. If Cameron and I hadn’t stopped talking by November of that year, he would have known the full story himself.

“A few months after we got back, I had that skiing accident over Christmas. I ended up… very sick. It wasn’t just the fractures in my leg. I really messed my whole body up in the fall. I was in constant pain—my back, my head, my ankle. I had muscle dysfunction. I started losing my balance. I had awful vertigo, nausea. My neck was just a disaster. I was a mess, for months. There were days I couldn’t get up, couldn’t go out. Some days I could barely turn my head without throwing up. I was given a cocktail of drugs that messed my system up even more—made me feel like my brain was on fire. There were times I honestly felt like I was dying.”

“Jesus. Jess, I had no idea it was that bad.”

“My family and Stella, Kevin, Mads, they were amazing, but the way Jack looked after me was just— I can’t describe it. The doctors he arranged, the physios… He took me to this house on the coast of Virginia, stayed with me day and night, paid for rehabilitation. He went to every specialist appointment, did things no other man would have done. If it wasn’t for him, I don’t know what state I’d be in today. He saved my life. It took me over a year to feel anywhere close to normal again. While I was still sick, he started asking me to marry him. He asked me every day for months, even when I couldn’t sit up without my head hurting. I thought he was just doing it to give me something to look forward to, but once I finally got over the worst of it, he kept asking. I never imagined ever getting married, never mind at the age of twenty-two, but after the year I’d had, it just felt right. I loved him, so much.”

“Jess, other men would have done the same for you. And you would have done the same thing for him.”

“Yes, I would. But I’m not sure how many men would’ve agreed to take on someone so sick. We’d only been dating for six months at that point. He could have easily just walked away. I begged him to, many times.” I inhale deeply and get ready to ask Cameron a question that I’ve wanted to ask him for almost three years. “Cameron, why didn’t you try to get in touch with me… when I was sick? I’ve been so angry with you for so long because of that.”

He stands up in a shudder of frustrated energy. “Jessa, I must have called you two dozen times. I called your house phone, your parents. I went round to your old place every day for weeks. I tried calling your cell. When it didn’t go to voicemail, it was always Jack who answered and told me not to call you again. I talked to your parents several times and they said Jack wanted me to stay away from you because of what had happened between us—our falling-out and everything. He didn’t want you stressed anymore. Your parents agreed. They asked me not to try to get in touch with you anymore until you were better.”

“They didn’t tell me,” I mutter softly.

“Stella gave me updates, but Jess, I wanted to see you… so badly,” he utters in desperation, sitting back down and leaning his muscular torso towards me. “I sent half a dozen letters to your parents’ place. I thought they would have passed them onto you.”

“I didn’t get them.”

“I’m sorry. I wanted to be there for you.”

I know he’s telling the truth. He’s one of the most forthright people I’ve ever known, and his sense of the truth is acute in every situation. Relief softens some of the ire stored unwillingly in my body as I realize that he did care after all. For a second, I feel like I could cry from the release of that weight I’ve carried around.

“It’s okay.”

We watch each other, unspeaking, as if caught in some trance witnessed by only the snapping twigs of the fire and the shadowy crepuscular sky. Upon hearing the sudden wheeze of a burning branch, my thoughts veer in a different direction…

“Cam, I need to ask you about something else. It’s something I saw when I was with Alex the other night at Richard’s place.”

He nods, indicating for me to continue.

“I saw something in her purse—a small golden broach. It was some kind of abstract interpretation of a tree. There were two twisting lines that made up the trunk and the leaves were like squished ovals, all surrounded by a square frame. I saw it in Jack’s bag as well, the day I found his second phone. Do you know what it is?”

His energy is instantly volatile, his voice a thundering growl. “Jesus Christ! Jessynia, when will you stop?! You need to stay away from these people, not keep delving further into their world!”

“Cam—”

“These monsters will fuck up your life if you let them. Do you comprehend that? The only thing that matters now is staying away from them, for good.”

“I need you to help me stay away! Telling me the truth helps me!”

“These people are dangerous! Do you not get that? You need to stop asking questions, Jessynia.” He runs his hand through his thick locks, his stormy glare bearing down on me. “You need to move on from—”

“I want to move on! That’s why I don’t want to be in the dark anymore. Being in the dark is one of the reasons I ended up getting back together with Jack in the first place. I’m still weak around him, even after everything. I’m afraid of the power he still has over me. That’s why I need to know the whole truth. It’ll help me.”

“Do you seriously think that shining a light on these messed-up people will help you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it won’t. There are things you don’t want to know. About Alex. And Jack. Other people. Me. Things that happen in New York. Things that no one like you should be involved in.”

“You?” I ask, my voice faltering slightly.

He nods, finding my eyes again. My stomach sinks as I wonder how much of the iceberg is hidden beneath the waterline.

“Cameron, I’m scared. Scared of Jack. Of the power he has over me. Scared that he’ll try to pull me back in. Scared of how weak I am around him.”

Cameron shakes his head, his demeanor darkening.

“I still love him,” I continue. “I need you to tell me the truth so that I’m never afraid that he’ll say something that will make me unable to leave him again.” Although every word is the truth, part of me hopes that the threat of me succumbing to Jack again will be enough to convince Cameron to open up.

“Jessynia—”

“I need help. Please—”

“There’s a society,” he snaps in an abrupt release of frustration. “A private place. In Manhattan. A place where rich and powerful men and women… get together. The broach you saw is a symbol of that society.”

“What, like a social club?”

He pauses. “It’s a place where people fuck.”

“You mean, like… a swinger’s club?”

“Yes. Though it’s a little bit more sophisticated than that.”

“What is it exactly?”

“Its name is Quercus Velutina.” He speaks slowly and stiffly, as if uttering each word against his will. “The Black Oak Society.”

I immediately think back to that text message from Alex that I saw on Jack’s secret phone in June. “Q.N.? Do people call it that?”

He nods.

“And Jack, he went there?”

“There’s a system of invitation to the club. They only allow people that have something significant to lose by speaking out—people in power, politicians, wealthy or influential people, usually married. It’s an exclusive place. There’s a woman I know who is associated with this club somehow. I have some leverage over her. After you and Jack got married, I asked her to let me know if she ever saw Jack there. It’s not as easy as it may sound. Most people wear masks.”

“Masks?” I gasp, thinking back to the crude setups I’ve heard about from Kevin about his visits to certain select spas in the city where men hang out in the steam room “for a bit of a fumble,” as Kevin puts it.

“I told you, it’s not your average sex club.”

“And Jack?”

“Jack frequented the place a lot before he met you. Alex Frost was a regular companion of his at the time. From what I understand, he stopped going there when you started dating. Then about nine months ago, this contact of mine told me that Jack had been there again—and not just as a spectator.”

Dryness coats my mouth as the scene around me trembles slightly. “Nine months ago?”

He nods as I start to scour my memory for the things we’ve done together in the last nine months: that trip to Salem, the dinners at our favorite raw food place, the sponsored walk I dragged him on, the mini-break to Costa Rica, the nights spent laughing, talking and dissolving into each other, the silken moments of ecstasy, the months and months of his body ravaging mine. How could he be doing that with me and going to a place like that?

“Have you ever been?” I ask quietly, feeling like a cauldron of bubbling chemicals ready to spill over.

He nods, his eyes solemn, as a single tear rolls down my face and my stomach lurches.

“I need to be on my own for a minute,” I mutter breathlessly as I get up swiftly and head towards the woods that border Redwood on one side, barely able to feel the manicured lawn under my feet.

From behind me, a fuzzy noise tries to make itself heard over my hammering heartbeat as my brain tunes out the muffled words ricocheting through my ears.

“Jessynia, stop!”

The lonely, beautiful, treacherous woods wrap around me. Over the crunch of snapping twigs under my feet and the slip of glistening moss, I recognize Cameron’s voice as the surreal bubble I’m in evaporates and I’m snapped back to the grotesque reality in front of me.

“You’re limping. Stop!”

My silent wrath has me stumbling further into the darkness, the ground illuminated only by faint glimmers of a low sun that manage to penetrate the canopy of awe-inspiring tree giants watching over me.

“God damn it. Stop!”

Hands are suddenly upon me, grabbing my shoulders and spinning me round, startling me with the ferocity of their will. A formidable male force pushes me against a great, stoic tree, slowly edging his body towards mine, his breathing heavy, his lips hovering inches from mine. He stays there, unmoving, peering down at me, his face coming into eye-watering focus.

As insane and indignant with rage as I am, I can no longer pretend not to notice, here in the murky wood, pressed against the rough bark, the magnitude of Cameron’s otherworldly beauty. Narrow shards of light illuminate his mouth-watering features while shadows cut dark lines under his exquisitely sharp cheekbones and smooth, strong jaw. My gaze tracks upwards to find large, captivating almond-shaped eyes that are volatile and dangerous, like swirls of brooding energy that can see deep inside me. Despite my fury, finding myself between the mighty, majestic tree against my back and the breathtaking but dangerous beast in front of me dampens my ire for a moment. I thrust my arms out in front of me to push his chest back only to find that it’s rock hard and immovable. For a split second, the wedding ring I haven’t had the guts to take off yet catches my eye and I see Cameron glance down and look at my hand as if zooming in on the same thing. His eyes narrow coldly in response as they collide with mine again. His height, his strength, his physical superiority and his confident masculinity leave me feeling tiny and vulnerable as he places his right hand next to my left shoulder and leans towards me.

“Cam, stop!” I shout.

In response to my plea, he puts his other hand against the tree, forming a cage around me, and leans forward, gently and carefully using his chest to push my hands back towards me in a slow and deliberate display of power and virility which leaves a breathy gasp escaping from my throat. The scent of his skin arouses me against my will, leaving blood coursing wildly though my veins and whooshing through my ears. A shiver radiates down my spine and a warm ache shoots between my legs as the ease with which he dominates me physically leaves me in no doubt that whatever happens to me when I am with him is his decision, not mine. And yet despite that, I feel almost no fear and know instinctively that he would never hurt me.

He flicks his gaze to my lips which are moving from the slight panting that I can’t control before closing his eyes, his respiration even heavier than mine, and slowly opening them again. Locked into each other’s eyes, heat radiating from us, a suspended minute passes until he takes his hands off the tree, taking two steps backwards. We peer at each other breathlessly as the words he uttered by the fire start to whirl around my mind like shards of glass in a tornado.

How many times did Jack come home and hold me or make love to me after he’d been to that place? There were so many nights he came back ridiculously late from the “gym” carrying that same bag. How many times did he fuck women at that place and come straight home and make love to me? The thought could drive me to the edge of madness.

In truth, as irrational as it is, I also know that I’m mad because I can’t stomach the idea of Cameron being in a place like that. I close my eyes as I envision my husband, and my old friend, in such a place. As they open again slowly, I find Cameron’s face visibly softer.

“I’m sorry, Jessynia,” he says tenderly. “There’s a lot of things I’ve wanted to tell you for a long—”

“I want you to take me there,” I interrupt.

An incredulous glare greets my suggestion, as though I’ve just suggested a rollerblading tour through Outer Mongolia.

“Say that again,” he orders, his muted ferocity forcing air from my lungs.

“You heard me.”

“There is no way you will ever step foot in that place.”

“I’m serious. I want you to take me.”

“You will not see that place, ever,” he responds in a low grumble. “I’ve seen it and wish I could erase it from my mind. You will never go there. You can get the idea out of your head right now.”

“I’ll ask Stella.”

“Ask Stella?” he scoffs. “Do you think this is a game? There is no way she would ever to be able to get within a hundred feet of that place. It’s not for amateurs or tourists or New Yorkers that fuck everything that moves. People like her are not welcome.”

“She may not have been there, but she knows a lot of people. She can find out.”

“If anyone from the Society even found out she was asking questions, it would put your friend in danger.” He takes a step towards me, his face hardening as he starts to speak, each word he utters more menacing than the next. “Let me make it clear to you what you’re dealing with. You have to be very rich, or very powerful or very influential, or married to someone like that and have a lot to lose. A lot. Your whole life. Your health. Your freedom. Your sanity. You have to be invited by people of a certain status. You are responsible for the people you invite, and if those people cause any risk of exposure to anyone, you can end up getting a premature glimpse into hell. Some people are paid to be there, to provide additional entertainment. Those people become the property of that place. They keep their mouths shut, or quickly live to regret it. Members and their guests don’t speak out, ever, and if there is even the slightest hint that they might, their lives start becoming difficult. You won’t be seeing it.”

The harshness in his voice shoots a tremor through me and I hesitate for a moment, wondering if I should let it go. “I’m not interested in exposing the place. I couldn’t care less if these people want to screw each other’s brains out. I want to see with my own eyes what—”

“I said no.”

“Why not? Do you think I can’t handle it? That I’m some naïve simpleton who’ll faint or freak out or something?”

“Jessynia, the Society would take you to a dark place that may take years to pull yourself out of. I don’t want you seeing it, imagining Jack there. It will torment you. It’s not designed for a woman like you. The people that go there become empty. They either switch off their emotions or are chasing the thrill so much that they have to go further and further into depravity to feel anything. The place would haunt you. I can’t allow that.”

“I already feel haunted. If you won’t take me there, I’ll find someone who will.”

“Why the—?”

“Why? Can you imagine how it feels to find out that everybody knew that your marriage was a farce before you did? Can you imagine how it feels to not be able to walk away from someone dangerous because you don’t fully understand the truth about them? I want to know everything, whatever it takes.”

“You still don’t get—”

“Cameron, I need you to help me! I’m serious. I don’t even recognize myself anymore, this self-absorbed mess of a person. I hate being this person! I hate feeling out of control, weak, humiliated. A few months ago, I woke up with some purpose to my life. I was useful to society. I did useful shit. I had control of my emotions, my behavior. I worked, I volunteered, I organized stuff. I helped people, my friends, family. Now look at me! I’m a mess, hiding from a cheating husband, relying on other people—you—just to survive the night. I hate you seeing me like this. I’m ashamed of who I’ve become. I’ve never felt so stupid or naïve in my life. I feel like my soul has been fractured or something. I hate being in the dark. I hate not seeing what’s going on around me. I need to know enough so I can get out of this dysfunctional mess once and for all and become myself again. I hate who I’ve become since—”

Cameron moves a wisp of hair out of my face, stroking the side of my cheek with his strong fingers. “You need to stop being so hard on yourself, Avery. What are you going to do? Plaster on some smile like some battery-operated Stepford wife? Do you think I don’t know who you are? You are the same person you’ve always been—one of the warmest, smartest, most caring human beings I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing. No one on the planet is composed and together when faced with infidelity. And everyone is self-absorbed when they’ve had the rug pulled out from under them and are trying to get back on their feet. You’ve been through a lot. No one comes out of a breakup unscathed, especially when betrayal is involved. It takes time to recover.”

“It’s not just that. I’m scared of Jack, of his power over me. As pathetic as it makes me sound, I’m weak around him. Even after seeing that bitch blow him with my own eyes, I’m afraid.”

He shakes his head, his features roughened by exasperation. “What are you afraid of?”

“I’m afraid that when I see his pain, I won’t be able to stay strong enough to keep him away from me. I’m afraid that he’ll know what to say to fill me with enough doubt that I can’t go through with the divorce. I’m afraid of never again being with one of the only people I’ve ever felt truly safe and protected with. I need to know enough, however ugly it is, so that that fear disappears forever.”

Cameron’s eyes soften as he soaks in my words and a curse escapes him as he runs his fingers through his wavy tresses.

“Please,” I implore.

“I’ll take you,” he utters solemnly.

I want to put my arms around him and hug him for doing something that I know he doesn’t want to, but I sense from his demeanor that he doesn’t share my enthusiasm about the concession he’s making.

“When can we go?” I ask.

He peers into me in the ethereal glow of the woods for what feels like an age.

“They have a gathering every Saturday night. In Manhattan. We can go there tonight… if you wish?” His eyes are daring me, testing me to see whether I actually have the guts to go through with going there. He glances at his watch. “If you really want to see it, I can take you now.”

I try to swallow past the stone in my throat. “Okay. Let’s go.”