Lane Assignments

Chapter Twelve

"I guess if I say 'it wasn't my fault' enough times, I might actually believe it." I give Kate a small smile, but she's lost in thought. "So speaking of talks with Ray..." I really want to know exactly how she and Raymond Steele ended up talking about butt plugs.

She blushes.

Okay, so it's a little bit of a relief that at least she feels awkward about it.

"So I went into Bulldog Brew to grab a coffee when I was home over Christmas?"

I nod. Bulldog Brew is Ray's favorite place for breakfast. He always orders the same thing - eggs over easy with corned beef hash and black coffee. The thought of those runny eggs turns my stomach, and I quickly return my attention to Kate.

"And Ray was there, so I went to sit with him for a minute -" She takes a sip of her latte, and her eyes are apologetic. "Ana, I was so worried about you. We both were. Your emails that you sent... just didn't sound like you."

"And so you told him what you suspected... about - you know."

"Yeah, but by then... I was really afraid that it was more than that. That it had spiraled into something else - something really bad. I mean, you were supposed to be gone for the summer... and then we found out that you had gotten married... and that things were going so well for him, and that you loved it there..."

I swallow, practically forcing down my last sip of tea, and push the cup aside. All of what she's saying is true. I got in too deep, and then I lied to the people who loved me most. "I know," is all I can choke out. And then, "I'm sorry."

"And he really wasn't a Dominant anymore, was he." It's not really a question.

"No. He was an abuser," I say, repeating the affirmation that I've been working on in therapy.

She sighs. "I was so relieved when Ray called to say that you were coming home. And I just have one question. So what made you finally leave? How did you get away from him anyway?"

"Kate, that's two questions..." I joke. "And both of them have long answers."

"This Starbucks is open 'til midnight," she smirks. "I'm going to get your another tea."

=/=/=/=

- Flashback - two months earlier - January 2017 -

I can't see. I can't move. My hands are bound to the banco de azotes - the whipping bench - and I am blindfolded. I feel the end of el látigo - the whip - as it skates across my back.

We were at the market this afternoon, and the portly fish vendor was being his usual friendly self. Taking Jose's advice to use the little Spanish I had, to embrace our new home, I engaged in a little banter with the man.

He told me that I looked lovely.

I told him thank you, but it was the day that was truly beautiful.

He told me that my Spanish was coming along.

I thanked him and said good afternoon.

Then I accepted the paper-wrapped fish, slipped it into my basket, and turned to leave with Jose.

Jose's hand tightened on my elbow and he steered me in the opposite direction than I had planned on, urging me toward home.

"I thought we were going to the produce stand, por vegetales?" For vegetables? I say, wincing as he tightens his grip on my elbow.

"How dare you flirt with that man, you're mine...no alguna puta," Not some slut.

"Jose," I almost laugh at the absurdity of it, and it would be almost funny if it weren't for the pain in my elbow and the growing panic in my gut. "You're always telling me to practice mi Español..." my Spanish. Telling me to embrace my new culture."

And so that innocent little conversation with the fish vendor has earned me a trip to the whipping bench. I mentally chalk it up as another thing not to do.

"How many times should I whip you, mi amor?" Once for every word that you uttered with your filthy mouth to that man?

"Es el día que es hermoso," he says in a high-pitched, mocking tone. "Gracias, señor, buenas tardes, he sneers. "Diez." Ten. "Count with me, mi amor. Let me hear you."

I feel the tip of the látigo leave my skin, and then a biting sting across my lower back. "Ah!" I cry out. He has never hit me this hard before.

"Count, mi amor. ¡En español!" In Spanish.

"Uno!" I cry out.

I am rewarded by another strike of the whip, this time slightly higher up. "¡Dos!" Then "¡Tres!... ¡Quatro!... ¡Cinco!..." The fifth lash must cross one of the first four, because all of a sudden my knees give out. "¡Red!" I cry out before I can even think about it, before my mind can catch up with my body's reaction.

And he hits me again... and again. "Rojo!" I scream, trying in Spanish this time. Whatever it takes to get him to stop. And he hits me again... and again... and again... "Stop!"... and again... and again... and again. Even though it's dark beneath the blindfold, I know that I am drifting into a fog. My mind keeps counting, and I think I get to twenty-six before I black out.

=/=/=/=

I've been in bed for two days, sulking and letting Jose's apologies wash over me. I've only gotten up to pee or get a cup of water from the bathroom sink. On the morning of the third day, I finally get up to shower and inspect the damage. I peel off Jose's t-shirt that he must have put me in after I blacked out, wincing as it pulls away from my broken skin. I take a deep breath and twist around so I can see my back in the mirror. It's crisscrossed with red lines. Some are light and barely visible, while others are dark with crusted blood.

After showering, I rummage through my toiletries for some antibiotic cream. But I forget about the cream when my hand finds my pack of birth control pills. Shit. I open the package and swallow one of the missed pills, and then the other.

=/=/=/=

Two weeks later...

The calendar that we keep next to the refrigerator advertises local businesses in bright, garish colors. Altabar Panamà... Rino's Restaurante... The words and colors seem to pulse and swim under my gaze as I count the days again and again.

Twenty-eight... twenty-nine... thirty... thirty-one... thirty-two... We went to the beach on Friday, January 13th. And I was pissed that I had started my period that morning, mad because I wanted to wear my new white bikini. Lucky number thirteen.

And this time it's definitely mala suerte. Bad luck.

- End Flashback -

Kate's blue eyes are wide with shock, her latte forgotten as she reaches across the table and grabs my hand.

"Oh my God. So then what happened?"

A/N: I thought I'd post this little bonus chapter for all of you. Cuz it's my story and I felt like it!