Born, Darkly: Chapter 8

There are laws which can be broken, and then there are laws we must obey. How does one person decide the fate of another human being based on these laws?

With that question in mind, a sort of internal countdown has begun within me, a ticking hand on Grayson’s trial clock. With less than a month to form my analysis, the problem of rules presents itself:

Which rules do we obey? Those of man, or those of the universe?

On a long enough timeline, the rules of man change, and they change quite often. What was once considered a sin punishable by death is now a simple social media update, an expression of sexual preference, politics, religious belief. A hundred years from now, sin in its current state might be a laughable pastime, the way we look back on our ancestors who once believed the world was flat. Or the way we resent the ignorance of the Salem Witch Trials.

Our justice system and our beliefs are a direct reflection of our politics, based on what we’re willing to accept—what society as a whole can accept. But then there are rules to which we can’t argue, like those governing our existence.

There’s a natural phenomenon, a force, that attracts anything with mass toward each other. The gravitational pull we take for granted every day is a law obeyed without question.

Gravity.

Two objects colliding together, unable to stop the crash from happening, because the rule is unbreakable.

Relatively, Grayson’s actions, his sins, have created a black hole in the justice system. He’s careening toward his fate at supersonic speed, and there’s no outside force strong enough to stop it.

Not even me.

“London?”

Lacy’s concerned voice jars me out of my thoughts, and I look up from my phone at my receptionist.

“Warden Marks is already en route from the facility,” she says, sounding as tired as I feel. She lowers the desk phone to the cradle. “I’m sorry.”

I drop my cell into my purse with a sigh. “You’ll have to tell him in person, then. You can handle him.” I give her a tight smile. “Just relay there’s an emergency with a patient that I have to attend to.”

I look away from her doubtful expression. I’m not the avoiding type. In spite of my breakthrough with Sadie, I feel continuing Grayson’s sessions is the wrong course of action.

Sadie wants me to delve deeper. I don’t want to drown.

And I’m drowning in him.

Until recently, I’ve been able to bury my past without any fear of it creeping into my professional life, and I know Grayson is the catalyst for why that’s happening now. I don’t want to confront my fears; I want them to go back to their dark corner and rot.

I can complete his analysis for trial by reviewing our recorded sessions. I’ll prepare my conclusion, then I’ll move on from this case and patient, locking it all away in that same dark corner of my mind where it belongs.

Once I’ve made a decision, I’m firm in my resolve.

“Is that all?” I ask her, turning to leave. I need to be out of here before they arrive.

She holds a finger up. “One more thing. A Detective Foster has left numerous messages. Do you want to return his call?”

I don’t recognize the name. “No. At least not now. If he calls again, tell him to contact me through email.” I receive many solicitations from investigators and law officials, and I simply can’t respond to them all.

“Will do,” Lacy says. “Try to enjoy your day off, London.”

“Thanks. I’ll be in touch.” I square my shoulders as I head toward the elevator, determination and conviction gaining momentum with each sure step in my new direction. I hit the Down button, a relieved feeling settling over me as the silver doors slide open.

My eyes meet his.

It’s only a second, a single lapse in time, but the moment our gaze connects, all resolve and surety slithers away like the spineless invertebrate I’ve become. I’m fleeing. I’m running. Grayson’s knowing blue eyes see right through me, calling me out.

Warden Marks is talking, but I hear nothing. My gaze is trapped by the man who refuses to let me go. As I become aware of my surroundings, I notice Grayson’s thermal is missing.

His arms are bare, displaying black and gray designs inking his skin. The tattoos are a shield. You have to look closer to see what’s beneath. The shiny scars the ink can’t completely conceal. I carry the same mask.

When gravity makes itself known, we’re powerless to stop the collision. Knowing you’re being drawn into a black hole does little to prevent the inevitable. Just like Grayson once said: we’re an inevitability.

“London, are you leaving?”

I blink, giving myself a few seconds to focus on the man to my left. I pivot to face Marks. “Not today.”

The confused draw of his eyebrows is his only response as I turn toward my office. Not today. As if Grayson purposely intended to thwart my escape, he dropped the barrier to reel me back in.

I should heed the alarm going off in my head. But the simple truth is, I can’t. He makes me reckless.

I disappear into my office bathroom while the corrections officers shackle Grayson in the middle of the therapy room. Standing at the sink, hands gripped to the pristine marble basin, I wait for the sounds of chains and locks to cease.

I give myself enough time to pull my guard into place, then I lift my chin as I enter the room and nod to the lingering officer. He exits. The hollow click of the office door latching closed tenses my back, the sound loud and final, as if I’m being sealed inside.

Foregoing the recorder, I walk to the edge of my desk and lean against the solid wood. A farther distance from him than when seated in my chair, and the strength I need to support my weight.

“No camera,” Grayson comments.

He’s not asking, but I can hear the question in his voice. I clear my throat. “When I conduct a psychoanalytical examination, I prefer not to record it. I find that when practicing free association, patients respond better when they’re not being monitored as closely.”

Grayson watches me intently, his gaze tracking my movements. He’s waiting for my reaction to his exposed arms. I didn’t give him enough of a response before, when I was too engrossed in my own emotional pull. I know he felt that connection, too.

I could wait for him to open up the discussion, to discover his reasoning as to why he chose today to reveal his scars to me, or I can start the session right in the middle of the deep end.

I’m drowning.

“Why the sudden shift in method?” he asks, forcing me to meet his cool gaze. “Was I not cooperating, doc?”

I wet my lips. Take a steadying breath. “Free association is just another tool we can use to uncover any repressed emotions or memories. Its purpose isn’t meant to treat, but rather to learn.”

His head tilts. “What’s left to learn? Unless this learning technique works both ways. There’s so much I’d love to learn about you, London. I want to learn how you feel beneath me. I want to learn how your hair feels tangled in my hand—”

“Stop.”

He does. He presses his shoulders against the chair, his arms on full display. I was wrong—and I’m rarely wrong—to think he hid his scars in shame. Grayson’s intelligence has always been my biggest obstacle. I was vain to believe I could simply outwit him. He’s offered me nothing of his past or himself.

He’s been the one gathering and collecting intel. On me.

That ends now.

“You’re going to learn about me during this session, also,” I say. “This method works both ways, between patient and psychologist.”

He sits forward. “We don’t need these evasive methods. Anything you want to know, just ask. I’ll tell you.”

“Fine.” I push off the desk and pull my seat up past the yellow line. “This takes trust, Grayson. Trust between patient and doctor, and I’m trusting you not to harm me with your actions or your words, and you can trust me not to do the same.”

He goes still, not a muscle twitch or facial tic to indicate that my proximity provokes him. But it’s in his stillness that I read his anxiety. Then there’s the slightest curl of his hand into a fist as he rests it on the chair.

“I can smell your body lotion,” he says. His eyes close as he inhales. “Lilacs.” A grin tips the corner of his mouth up. “I had one of my fans send me some fresh blooms to put in my cell.”

Ignoring the baiting comment, I remain calm. “You seem defensive today.”

His smile drops. “That’s not a question.”

“We’re practicing free association. I’m able to voice my thoughts just as you are, without having to guard them.”

He glances at the camera again. “Are you worried about what you might reveal?”

I look down at my crossed ankles. “Actually, I am.” When I glance up, his demeanor is markedly different. More intense. More serious. As if he doesn’t feel the need to perform.

“We can start with a simple word association,” I begin. “I’ll say a word, and you’ll say the first thing that comes to mind. The point is not to take too long or to think about your response. Can I trust that you’ll do that?”

“You can trust that I’ll do anything you ask of me.”

I swallow forcefully, keeping my gaze fixed on him. Unaffected. “Let’s start simple. Animal.”

“Pig.”

“Salt.”

He peeks at the fish. “Tank.”

“Flowers.”

“Lilacs.”

“Finger.”

“String.”

“Back.”

“Pain.”

I pause. “You’re associating every word with me.”

He cranes an eyebrow. “Am I doing it wrong?”

“No. Not if it’s your natural response. Our goal is for you to transfer your emotions and desires onto me. It’s called transference. Unless you’re purposely selecting words to which you think make me uncomfortable…”

“You asked for honesty. Don’t doubt that I’m giving you anything less.”

I press my lips together. “Okay. Money.”

“Career.”

“Hunger.”

“Ravenous.”

I cross my legs, noting the way his gaze follows my action. “Wrong.”

“Right.”

“Death.”

“Penalty.”

“Love.”

“Sickness.”

“Woman.”

He pauses here. “You.”

“Sex.”

His nostrils flare. “Fuck.”

“Sin.”

“Salvation.”

“Happiness.”

He lunges forward. I don’t have time to react. I’m paralyzed, awaiting what happens next. He doesn’t touch me, but he’s close—close enough for me to smell his aftershave. “There’s no such thing,” he says. “Stop asking the questions of a psychologist and get your answers.”

I hold my place, not backing down. I’m trembling, but it’s not out of fear. Every molecule in my body is fighting to get closer.

Touch him.

I release the breath I’ve been holding, and Grayson’s sharp intake, as if he’s stealing it for himself, sparks a primal thrill within me.

“An answer for an answer,” I finally say.

This pulls a smile from him. “Okay.” He settles back into his chair without having touched me. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed. Both reactions are disconcerting.

I fold my hands together, gathering my bearings. “Where are you from?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Delaware.”

I arch an eyebrow.

His dimple makes an appearance. “Originally, Kells. Northern Ireland.”

“What brought you to the States?”

He shakes his head. “My turn. Where are you from?”

My shoulders deflate. He asks this like he already knows the answer. “Hollows, Mississippi.”

“That’s not a real place.”

“It’s as real as it gets,” I counter.

“Farming community?” he presses. “Or is it known for something…other.”

I dig my elbows into my thighs, grounding myself. “Tell me about the scars, Grayson.”

My question does what I want. His focus shifts from my past to his. “Which ones?”

On reflex, I glance at his arms.

His fingers trail over his inked forearm. He watches me, the way I follow his movement. “Some were a gift, and some were a punishment. My stepdad had a particular way of distinguishing both.”

This is the first time he’s made me aware of a stepparent. “Your stepfather was abusive, then.”

An amused smile lights his face. “You don’t like following your own rules.”

“Touché. Ask away.”

He bites down on his bottom lip as he thinks. My breathing becomes measured, too loud, too revealing. “The pain in your back. Tell me what happened.”

I flick my bangs from my forehead with a sharp head shake. Then I present the practiced answer I crafted years ago. “I was in a car wreck when I was a teen. Fractured my back in several places. My lumbar suffered the most damage. I never fully recovered.”

Disappointment creases his eyes. “That’s not all.”

“That’s all, Grayson. That’s all there is.”

“Why do you cover up the tattoo on your hand? Tell me about it. Why you got it in the first—?”

“You’re out of line,” I interrupt. “My turn.”

“No. You didn’t give me an honest answer before. I want to know this.”

I suck in a quick breath. My agitation growing. “I got it when I was young—”

“Around the time of your accident?”

I hesitate. “Yes. And like any teen, I did so compulsively. I conceal it now out of professionalism.”

“Why not just get it removed, then?”

My heart beats erratically, the pulse at my temples firing a sharp web of pain through my head. I rub the back of my neck. “I don’t know why,” I say, having no other answer to offer him.

This seems to sate his curiosity for now. He doesn’t press.

“Are all your scars from your stepfather?” I ask. “What about your mother?”

“No. Not all of them.”

When I tap my fingers on the armrest, he sighs. It’s only fair that he divulge more if he expects more from me in return.

“My mother liked to watch. But we’re not talking about that. You’re not ready.”

“The very definition of my job is being prepared to talk you through this exact thing, Grayson.”

“But not today.” He touches an extensive scar along his forearm, a hard expression masking his face. “There are a number I’ve carved myself,” he confesses. “The pain I inflict on myself serves as punishment for when I become aroused while watching their suffering.”

Their suffering. His victims. If there was ever any doubt as to whether or not my patient is a sadist, Grayson has just eliminated all uncertainty.

“You look…surprised.”

I open my mouth, but can’t summon the words to convey what I’m feeling. Revulsion. Fury. Sickened. These are acceptable responses, and yet I don’t feel any of them. Alarmed. Curious. Enthralled—the dark corner of my mind beckons me closer. I can feel the draw.

I touch my forehead, giving myself a moment to bury my head and disconnect from him. “Not surprised, just processing. I rarely encounter this level of candidness.” I look up at him. “And with no shame.”

The atmosphere thickens with his intense stare. “What am I supposed to feel ashamed of? I could be weak like Bundy or BTK, and inflict my sickness on the innocent. Instead, I’ve learned how to control my impulses and direct them toward the wicked. I’ve even learned how to manage my desires, choosing to self mutilate rather than losing myself in the liberation of taking from others. And let me tell you, Bundy and the lot of them suffered for that liberation. They feasted and then purged. Indulge and regret, over and over. Which is a far more vicious cycle than the one I’ve developed.”

I feel the force of his words, the lure reeling me in—and I’m powerless against it. I want more. I want to shut the blinds and block out the judgmental world and only exist in this one hour where shame doesn’t live.

When encountering the gravity of a black hole, a force so powerful not even light can escape its vortex, you don’t stand a chance against the darkness. Whatever light I’ve been able to muster in this dark world, he will surely devour if I continue on this collision course.

“So now, tell me,” he says, stretching his arms along the armrests, “how did you get your name? London is very unusual, especially for a small town in Mississippi.”

“I’m told my mother named me after…” I trail off. Smile. “She named me after her favorite soap opera.”

His brow creases. “You’re told,” he repeats, stressing my blunder.

He doesn’t miss anything. Paying attention to every slip of the tongue and inflection. My turn to deflect. I glance at the clock.

“So we’re agreed,” he says, gaining my attention. “No discussion of mothers today, doc.”

I straighten my back. “That can be a topic for another day.” One that I won’t compound on, as I have no memory of mine. Just a few blurry pictures my father saved and her garden in the backyard. “Most of my patients spend years on that subject. We don’t have that much time.”

The mention of his dwindling time carves his features in hard angles. “What do we have time for, then?”

“Not much more today, I’m afraid.”

As I start to stand, he sits forward. “We’re a lot alike,” he says.

It’s time to end the session—it’s smart to stop it right now—but curiosity forces me to recline and stay. “How so?”

He glances at the camera. “We both like to record our sessions. I use it for reflection.”

I shake my head. “I wouldn’t compare the two, Grayson. It’s not the same.”

“But isn’t it? I’m curious. What do you use all those recordings for? Titillation?”

“We’re done.”

“Do you touch yourself while you watch them?”

I stand.

“Did you watch my videos?”

I push the frame of my glasses up, situating them. “Yes.”

“All of them?”

Shame squirms into our sacred space. Professionally speaking, one or two or even three recordings of Grayson’s torture sessions would’ve sufficed for research into his diagnosis. But just like now, despite the warnings, the draw to experience…to feel this forbidden connection between us was too great.

“Yes,” I answer honestly. I’m a professional. And as a professional, I have every right to conduct extensive research into my patient.

But the dare in his eyes glints, a challenge to unmask those dark desires lurking beneath my surface. “Which one is your favorite?”

The rules of psychoanalysis are simple: there are no rules. In this safe haven, I can confess my excitement, my arousal at watching the woman be bound and racked until her limbs snapped. But I won’t admit that aloud. I refuse to give in to him.

“That’s our session for today,” I announce. I straighten my skirt as I start toward the hallway, forgetting my proximity to the inmate in my office.

Grayson hasn’t forgotten.

My march toward the other side of the room is thwarted as he grabs hold of my skirt. Every muscle in my body tenses, the hairs on my skin stand, all senses captured by him and his clutch on my skirt.

In an instant, I realize he purposely riled me for this exact outcome.

The rattling of chains heightens my anxiety, then I’m yanked backward. Forced to stand before him, I stare down at where he grips the hem of my skirt, bunching the fabric in a tight fist.

“Release me,” I demand, somehow controlling the tremor in my voice.

His gaze roves deliberately up my body to meet my eyes. “You want to touch my scars.”

The heat of his skin touches my bare thigh, his rough knuckles an abrasive and enticing friction. I swallow. “That would be inappropriate.”

“But you still want to.” He releases the fabric one finger at a time, until I’m free of him. But I’m not. The dare in his eyes still holds me captive. “I want you to.”

We should be like two similar poles of a magnet; we should repel each other. But our magnetic fields attract, snapping together forcefully.

As if he fears I’m a creature to be spooked, he gently rests his hands on my hips, and a shiver rocks me. “But if you do, I get to touch you,” he challenges.

This is more than prohibited. It’s dangerous.

I breathe in deeply, inhaling his masculine scent, torturing myself for what I’m about to do. In spite of my heart pounding in clear warning, I place my hand atop his. I let my palm travel over his rough fingers to his wrist, and on to his arm. Where the beveled scars wrap his flesh. Like wiry bands inserted beneath his skin, the scar tissue is smooth and cruel. Some more recent than others, and the thought of him inflicting the wounds while enraptured in erotic deviancy…

My breath catches as his fingers make contact with my inner thigh.

I shut my eyes against the onslaught of emotions—the illicit and erotic way he makes me feel as his coarse palm grazes up my thigh, my skirt bunching against his wrist.

“Look at me.”

The demand races through my blood, scorching my veins. I open my eyes on impulse.

Grayson’s electric blue gaze holds me imprisoned while his hand brands my skin. He inches upward, the abrasive pads of his fingers exploring, mapping me, as he gauges my response.

A whimper escapes, and I have to bite my lip to hold back another. A muscle jumps along his jaw, then he’s roving higher, torturously slow. I tremble under his intimate touch. The stronger his touch becomes, the more I crave to dig my nails into his flesh. My fingers form claws on his arms.

As if he knows what I’m thinking, he licks his lips and says, “Do it.”

The dare slithers over my body, the pulsing heat between my thighs inviting him to touch me, and as I surrender, his fingers skim the seam of my panties. A shock of awareness snatches my breath and I step back, breaking the connection.

I don’t stop walking until I’m safely behind the yellow line. Grayson’s heated stare tracks me, his chest moving up and down with his uneven breaths. His features strained as if he’s feeling the same suffocating pain that burns my lungs. The room pulsates with each of his breaths, in harmony with the pounding of my heart.

I’m losing my mind.

Flustered, I turn my back to him and run my hands over my skirt as I rush to the office. Within minutes, the officers have Grayson shackled and transported. He didn’t speak, didn’t say a word. Giving no hint to the storm brewing between us.

I stand in the center of my office, feeling the weight of what transpired heavy and pressing. The wood floor shifts beneath my feet. Gravity only needs one slight push to send me spiraling down.