Page 165 of Deep Cover

I put the bagel down. Whether or not I had a 12 hour fast coming up, my appetite had just fled. "What will it – I mean, what are you going to do?"

And will I allow it? Or is this where I fight you to a standstill? I finished the question in my head.

Cole saw it in my eyes.

Whatever he said about whether this was a game or not, Master/slave or sadomasochism was still a made-up system. It might have people living the lifestyle around the world and it might have conventions and morals and belief systems and entire books written about it. But it was still a game. It was still a complicated system of rules put into place and if those participants refused to follow them, the game dissolved into what pretty much everything everywhere was: The agreement of those involved to treat something as if it existed.

A philosophical thought designed to make me want to crawl back into the safety of fet. It came perilously close to solipsism that states nothing exists outside the mind.

My mind could be pretty fucked up.

Cole's mind was definitely fucked up.

But the game, the one we were agreeing however tacitly about the rules of, was directly impacting my life. I followed the rules for the same reason I applied for a driver's license or followed procedure in my job when I wasn't actively undercover. Because that's how the system was set up to function.

I followed things here in the compound in Southern Nevada because I wanted what he had to offer. The cure. A map back to my own life and forgiveness once I got there.

The rules of the game I had been playing said I arrested people who did the things I had done, I didn't emulate them. I didn't act like that. I didn't hide myself away and deal with the broken in my life with drugs.

So I followed Cole's rules.

What scared me was the deepening darkness I sensed in myself. The way I had waited for him to punish me in the wake of the dinner party. I told myself with every fiber of my stubborn being that I did not want that punishment and he had no right and that if I wanted to put it in such terms, I was the victim in that situation and Jason being beaten for laughing instead of protecting was only one step in putting me back where I deserved to be.

Which was, Annie? Or Lily? Or whoever the fuck you are today? Where you were was under Cole St. Martin's thumb.

And I thought I was starting to like it there.

So when he threatened me with something new – blood draws and an exam? Who said he could do that? I hated physicals that weren't invasive, the old pee in a cup, listen to your heart, why is your blood pressure a million over a million and trying to explain that white coat syndrome is a real thing because while real people believe it, doctors don't.

The fact of being engaged to a resident who was going to be a doctor and looking forward to a life of ignoring him when he said "You should go get that checked out" and I thought "Nuh uh."

So would I permit Cole to do what he was thinking of doing tomorrow? Or was this where I drew the line.

"You're thinking very hard," Cole observed.

"I am."

He closed his eyes slowly. When he opened them he reached over and almost casually grabbed a handful of boob through my shirt and twisted until I slid from my chair onto my knees, teeth sunk into lip and eyes on the floor, rigidly submitting.

"You know," he said conversationally, not relaxing his grip even a tiny bit. "There are some things that are non-negotiable. This drug I've made, it's of the most natural ingredients in the world – quite literally." He gave a little laugh, having amused at least one of us. "But the combination of them and in conjunction with the very work they're doing – combating opioid addiction - I want to be certain they're not causing harm along with the good. I can look at you and see the changes. Not just that you're putting on weight, that you look less sick, that you have the energy to brat back which is just." Squeeze. "Fucking." Squeeze.

I whimpered.

"Stupid."

He let go of my breast and the blood started to flood back in and I gasped and bit down on my lip hard enough to taste blood.

"So this is not a request. Eat your food. Then you fast. I'll see you tomorrow at six a.m."

He got up and left the cell without looking back. A little before six, a guard I didn't know came in and took the tray, caffeine and cheese and bagels and everything. He left a pitcher of water and a glass, and he bolted the door behind him.

I spent the evening pacing in my suite, finding my communication with the outside world had been locked down again. I performed the forms for Taekwon-Do, from white belt through black, doing each three times. I was dripping sweat when I finished. I showered. I dreaded. I tried to read. I tried to study. I worked out again, this time with weights. I showered again.

And finally I gave in to the fear and to the need to self determine. I may want to stay here long enough to complete whatever course of cure was outlined so as to make me safe to return to whatever normal life – Real Life® – I chose. But I wasn't what Cole thought. I wasn't a masochist. I was my own person. I was taking a stand.

I stood on a chair and hung t-shirts over the cameras I could see, the ones mounted in corners. I then quickly dragged the chair over and wedged it under one of the two doors. Then the other chair from the table where Cole and I had eaten went under the other door.

I then walked through my cell, searching for hidden cameras by taking everything off every shelf and stacking it on the floor, investigating every imperfection of flat surface, everything that could be an eye.

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