This is a sick joke.
This is the sickest fucking joke that I have ever heard. And yet, no one is laughing. Miss Steele is staring steadily at me and Matthew doesn't look like he's laughed since Kindergarten. But it's a joke. It must be. Or one hell of an unethical legal move. Elena couldn't have done to Matthew what she did to me. It isn't possible. There's no way in hell that it's possible.
It's not possible because she always said I was special.
She said she was teaching me, and only me, because I was so very special. That was the thing that made me smile back then. The fact that she saw such potential in me. The things she told me I would do and be. How different I was to all the other boys my age. How mature and intelligent I was, how developed and discerning I was. She'd never met anyone like me. She told me that all the time. I loved it. Back then, I really did. I felt like she was the only one who really saw me. Our secret sustained me through my teenage years because I reveled in how fucking special I was.
Matthew is, therefore, full of shit.
Elena's interest in me was sick, perverse and calculated.
But I was the only one that she had that sick, perverse and calculated interest in.
Period.
The urge to lay Matthew out on the ground is all-consuming.
My fists twitch against the leash of my societal graces.
"Miss Steele, I hate to burst your bubble," I snap, glaring at the green-eyed imposter. "But this strategy, although creative, is never going to work. Elena's predilections were a singular beast. I was the only object of her distasteful desires. Perhaps Mr Delaney here is looking for a quick pay-day or his fifteen minutes of fame, but I'd rather he didn't procure either of the back of my past. I don't think the matters which we have discussed are a bargaining chip for an opportunist. The answer is no. To all of it. The answer is a resounding no."
It takes everything I have not to slam my knuckles into his porcelain face. The bottom-feeding prick. There are some lows to which I can understand my fellow man sinking to. I've sunk a fair depth in my time to get GEH up and off the ground. I've done things I'm not proud of to get what I want. But this? This is something else. This is veering into psychotown and I don't need another crazy sub-human in my life.
I need to get out of here.
Double fucking time.
Out of courtesy and for the sheer admiration I still grudgingly have for her, I mutter a polite goodbye to the currently silent Miss Steele. She's about to say something or think of something else, but I'm not going to give her the opportunity. She's far too convincing for her own good. I get to the door, hand on handle, inches from freedom before his voice rings out behind me.
"Did she start you off with the cane or the flogger?"
I stiffen.
My spine snaps into a deformed line of crunching uniformity.
"The first time she would've been nicer than nice. She would've made you feel grown, gave you a beer or a glass of wine. Made sure your parents weren't home. She would've spoken to you like you were the most interesting person she'd ever met. Asked about your future. Laughed at your jokes. Put her hand on your shoulder. Then your leg. Then your thigh. Whatever alcohol she gave you would be making you feel ten feet tall. Brave. You wouldn't have felt like a kid anymore. Or a fuck-up. By the time you were on your third glass of wine or beer, her lips were on yours and that was it. Once she got you that far, she had you."
His voice lowers slightly and there's a burning anger in his register.
"She fucking had you."
My chest is constricting.
There's an invisible restraint searing into my skin. It's splintering through my rib cage and strangling my lungs. I cannot draw air. There are spots on my vision. My hand on the door is slippery with my own clammy sweat. Vomit rushes to my mouth. His words lacerate me. Like shrapnel of rusted nails and shards of aged glass. There is no way he could know these things. There is no way he could speak of these things… without having experienced these things.
He's just repeated, verbatim, my first time.
There's truth splattered across his face when I twist slowly to face him. There is no deception in his eyes. This isn't a guy after a quick buck. This isn't some prick looking to schmooze in front of the cameras and play the victim. As my mouth runs dry and the truth threatens to engulf me, I realize I was only a notch on Elena's illegal bedpost. A mere number on a chart. There were others before me. Of course there were others before me. There were others after me. Of course there were others after me.
There is probably someone serving her right now.
Another teenaged boy.
Another child.
My voice is so low I barely recognize it as my own.
"Were you a fuck-up? Back then. With her. Were you out of control as a teenager?"
Matthew's eyes shine with understanding.
"Unequivocally. I was habitually angry. Fighting. Kicked out of school, bad relationship with my parents. The works."
Miss Steele's voice, slightly softer than the norm, is heard.
"Christian, do you see the pattern? Elena Lincoln is a clever and patient predator. She sought out boys that she knew had troubled relations with their parents. That had well known anger problems. That were spiraling out of control. That was her ticket in. You, Matthew, all the others that are out there. You were vulnerable to her. Not because you were weak or anything of the sort, but because she used your problems as her way in."
The air is boiling hot. It's scalding my lungs.
All her talk. All her concern. All her empathetic monologues about how I needed to turn my life around, were all lines from a script. She was just playing a role. From the play she had written, produced and directed. I was just her in-the-moment prop. To be used until my worth had run out and then cast aside for a, cliché upon cliché, younger model. This day is rapidly becoming the most unendurable of my adult life.
I barely register that Matthew's mouth is moving.
"Mr Grey, I'm not here to make things even harder for you to deal with. Trust me, I know how hard things already are. They're unbearable. All I want to do is to bring that bitch to justice. She ruined our lives. Granted, you're big-time in the business sphere and that's great. But I'm willing to bet that you let no one in, at any time, with no exceptions. I know I don't. I'm barely thirty years old and I'm resigned to living and dying alone. I can't trust anyone. I literally don't know how. And that's due to her. I missed the window to bring my own case and yours is closing, too. Don't make the same mistake I did. Don't let the bitch get away with it."
I stare at him. And I see. I see the blindingly fucking obvious. There's a pattern. A criterion to be filled. A casting procedure to be executed. He's handsome. Like me. He's tall. Like me. He's young. Like me. He's intelligent. Like me. He's articulate. Like me. He's destined to a life of misery at the behest of Elena fucking Lincoln.
Like me.
She has a preference.
She's a preferential offender, not an opportunistic one.
Of course she is.
She sought us out. Watched us from afar. Befriended our parents and families. Learned our weaknesses. Used them to get close. Exploited them to hook us in and strengthened them to keep us under control. How could I have ever thought it was just me? How could I have been so mind-numbingly stupid?
"You're willing to do this? These interviews?"
It is only through my years of carving out a persona that keeps everything I'm feeling clear from my voice. It's smooth and controlled, as it always is. My face is impassive, as it always has been. It may be a façade, but after today, it is literally the only thing I have left. Matthew doesn't hesitate as he nods shortly.
"I'm willing, Mr Grey. More than willing, as a matter of fact."
"Christian," I correct quietly.
"Christian," he smiles, and I feel a grudging admiration and respect for him. He has nothing to gain. He cannot be vindicated in a court of law for the years of abuse he suffered. But he's willing to waive his anonymity to help me seek my own brand of justice. That takes a special pair of balls that I can't say I would grow in his position.
Miss Steele clears her throat.
"I know this is a lot for you to take in, Christian. I know that this isn't what you were expecting, and I don't want to rush you. But I do need an answer. To get you both in front of the camera before Elena can drop the hammer, I need to call my contacts now. As in, right now."
There are few moments in life that are path altering.
This is one such a moment.
I know it.
And I'm either going to seize it or run from it.
"Call them. Call your contacts. I'll do the interview."
She nods brusquely and slips her cell from her pocket. Leaving the room, she informs us that she'll be back in a moment. As the door quietly closes behind her, awkwardness fills her void. I glance at Matthew and he glances at me. We both look away. I feel filthy. Contaminated. He is the only person, Elena aside, that knows exactly what I've done and what I've had done to me. A narrative can only go so far to describe The Classroom. Matthew was educated in it. He knows the true depth of depravity that I carry with me. He carries it, too.
I don't know if that makes me like or loathe him.
But I know his help makes me indebted to him.
"Thank you for doing this," I say quietly, not used to saying thank you to anyone, for anything. "Forgive my asking, but there's nothing in this for you. Your window under the statute of limitations has expired. So why do it?"
Matthew smiles a small, sad smile.
"It doesn't really matter to me whether Elena goes to prison for what she did to me, or you, or anyone else. That's the small picture. The big picture is that she does go to prison. For as long as conceivably possible. The big picture is that she can never be in a position where she can ruin another boy's life. Ever again. That's a massive incentive. That's what is in this for me."
I can feel my eyes widen.
Is he some sort of fucking saint?
"And you're happy to waive your right to a private life to do that? You're perfectly willing to have every man and dog on the street know what went on in The Classroom? You're ok with people judging you for the rest of your life?"
Another small and sad smile.
"People don't judge the victim of child abuse by the standards of their abuser, Christian. Nobody is going to look at you in scorn or lose any and all respect for you. Nobody is going to sit down and think to themself that you're disgusting or contaminated. Nobody is going to avoid shaking hands with you because they think you're dirty or diseased. Anonymity doesn't have to be the shield that you cling to. We have nothing to be ashamed of. We have nothing to be embarrassed of and we have nothing to hide. We were children, Christian, we were children."
I cannot speak for a moment.
I can only stare.
In downright fucking awe.
Before I have to think of something profound to say, I am spared by Miss Steele. Slipping back into the room, she glances between the two of us and senses she's walked in on something. To her mounting credit, she doesn't ask questions or allow the moment to stagnate. I am beginning to respect this woman in a way I do very, very few people.
"That was my contact at WWN. She can give us a sit-down in half an hour. Here. She'll come to us. I've received permission from my boss to do so and he's of the same viewpoint as I. That this is an unorthodox option, but our only option. My contact at the Washington Mirror is also more than happy to give you both a priority slot in tomorrow's edition. He can be here in an hour. We'll do one right after the other. The televised interview will air tonight. Between the two exposures, any attempt by Elena to give a cock-and-bull story will appear contrived and ridiculous. She'll kill her own defense in the court of public opinion if she tries it and Frank McCallum knows it. He will not permit it."
She raises a brow at the pair of us.
I'm stricken by her continuously calm composure.
She's like a sixty-something in a twenty-something's body.
She is incredible.
"Are you both ok with this? Last chance to say if you are not."
Matthew and I turn to each other in tandem.
He's resolved and determined, there is no apprehension or fear on his face. I am shitting myself and close to hyperventilation. But I allow no fear or apprehension on my face, either. Perhaps his façade is as good as mine. Or perhaps he has balls of molten steel. He nods with conviction. His eyes do not leave mine. He's waiting, she's waiting, and my heart is waiting. For a fucking break from Arrhythmia Town.
"I'm ok with it."
I'm not.
I'm really fucking not.
But I have to be.
Matthew and Miss Steele smile simultaneously. But in my head, I'm burying GEH. I'm mourning it. I cannot buy what Matthew is selling. Though he is an excellent salesman. He is not in the public eye. He doesn't appreciate the feckless nature of the corporate realm. You can be a God one day and a pariah the next. But this is happening. It's happening, and I need to let the pieces fall where they may.
I can only hope that the largest of those pieces doesn't land on my head and crush my skull.
The next half-hour seems to pass by in a blur.
Denise, Miss Steele's contact at WWN arrives and she's a hurricane of efficiency. She directs a team of three young camera and lighting guys with gusto. Matthew and I are poked and prodded mercilessly. To my disgust and to his ease. Lighting stands are erected and shunted this way and that. Miss Steele scribbles furiously and I find myself wondering how many tree deaths per year she's solely responsible for.
It's in the middle of my deforestation concerns that it happens.
The door crashes open with a calamitous crunch.
The force is such that it rebounds with a wail from the wall.
All eyes, including my own, swivel violently to the invasion. Denise and Company jump and blink furiously, before melting into the walls, silently staring. Matthew gazes in plain and prolonged confusion. Miss Steele glares in angry bewilderment. A lack of recognition is seared into every one of their faces.
But not mine.
Disbelief gives way to heart stopping belief.
Air turns to ash in my mouth.
My blood thickens with fear before trickling to a standstill in my veins.
Dry drowning is milliseconds away from consuming my being.
Years have passed. Years and years.
But some faces you never, ever forget. Ever.
It's him.
It's the Crack Whore's Pimp.