Rio and Polly

Chapter 4: The Police Arrived

Why in the ever-loving fuck was I looking at my girlfriend wearing ropes around her body? She'd captioned the picture, "Fisherman's harness -- who knew being restrained could be so freeing?"

Through other IG posts she'd made over the last two days, I'd figured out she was the motherfuckinging model for some man she referred to as a rigger who was teaching others the ancient Japanese art of shibari at a weekend seminar. My Polly was attending a BDSM conference. My shy girl was attending a fucking BDSM conference. At first I'd thought she was naked in the million or so pictures she put up, but when I looked closer at the pictures, she was just wearing a flesh-colored, skin-tight leotard. In way too many pictures, the man's hands were way too close to parts of her that only I should be touching.

"A whole new world has been opened up to me! Thank you, Sir, for using my body to display your beautiful art! Imagine a man who constantly checks in with you to make sure you're doing well and he's not hurting you in any way! <heart eyes emoji>"

For three fucking weeks, three long fucking weeks, I hadn't been able to get in touch with Polly. She blocked my texts and calls, but I could still leave voicemails and I could leave her DMs on IG. I was totally locked out of communication with her except for the jabs she was sending me through her IG. And there was no doubt in my mind that every single motherfucking post she made was aimed right between my eyes...or at my heart.

Because I hadn't protected hers.

I wanted to blame it on the night of the record label party celebrating my number one album, but that would be a lie and I wasn't going to do that any more, pretend that things were OK when they weren't. I was done lying to the world about who I was with, I was done hiding Polly, even if she hated the limelight.

The first and only time she'd attended a red-carpet event with me had ended up with Polly throwing up on the red carpet right in front of the cameras after the flashing lights and the questions about who she was became too much for her. She'd immediately run away, into the venue, and I'd followed her. I'd followed right after her into the women's bathroom, locking us in a stall while she cried her eyes out, apologizing to me and hiccupping while I soothed her and wiped her tears with toilet paper.

Looking back, the evening had been a disaster, start to finish. Polly had been reluctant to go, saying she wanted to start with a smaller event. I'd told her how important the night was to me; it was a Nashville event recognizing up and coming country music artists, and I was in the running to receive an award for top song of the year. The exposure would help further my career and my agent had been thrilled with the nomination.

"Polly, you've been with me from the start," I'd said to her one night in bed, "I want you beside me for this because if I win, I want to share the moment with you. It's only possible because of you."

And she'd caved, even though she was uncomfortable and this was about five hundred miles outside her comfort zone. My agent had said she needed to be able to handle the limelight and this event would make a good first step toward that, so I'd listened to him instead of Polly.

With the help of her sisters and cousins, Polly had picked out a pretty, sparkly dress, some lower heels and she'd gotten her hair and makeup done professionally. My girl looked beautiful, but she also was a naturally gorgeous girl in jeans and a T-shirt and a messy bun and no makeup. 

So she'd felt confident and beautiful...right up until the limo had stopped to drop us off and she saw the reporters circling like sharks.

"I...I don't think I can do this, Rio," she'd stammered.

Knowing we had limited time to get out of the limo before we'd be holding up the limos behind us, I praised her and urged her on, assuring her it would be OK. Then two minutes later, she was sick on the red carpet, while I stood by helplessly.