Mehki Black and I had been friends since we were kids and had been through so much together. I had love for his family, but my ex crossed a line that could never be uncrossed.
“I’ll have something for you soon,” Zephyr said.
“Aight, cool.”
I took the stairs back up to the service entrance and stepped into the daylight. I was drained from the emotional bullshit of the day. I wanted nothing more than to go home and lie in my bed. But I had moved out of the penthouse so that Lyric could stay there, and now I was in a hotel until I got a new spot. And with all the shit I had going on, that was low on my list of priorities.
My phone buzzed as I pulled onto H Street. I glanced at the screen expecting Zephyr with a follow-up.
It was Camille.
Hey Q. I know it’s been a while. I’d love to talk if you’re open to it.
I stared at the screen for a second and then laughed out loud in the car by myself. This woman really had the nerve. After cheating, getting pregnant by another nigga, and trying to pass it off as mine—she wanted to talk. The audacity was almost impressive. Almost.
Lose my number, Camille. I mean that.
I hit send and tossed the phone on the passenger seat. Between Peanut at the cemetery and Camille in my inbox, today was apparently “Women Who Betrayed Quest Banks” reunion day. All I needed was Vivica to call collect from prison and I’d have the trifecta.
I turned the radio up and drove toward the hotel.
14
MEHAR
The last few days had been almost normal, which was suspicious in itself because normal wasn’t something my life did well. I’d been texting Bryce every day, just to make sure we stayed in touch. We were out from underneath our father’s thumbs. He sent me a sonogram photo yesterday and I stared at it for a long time, tracing the outline of the tiny head with my finger. My little brother was about to be somebody’s father. The world was strange.
I’d also gotten an A on my dermaplaning practical, which Mrs. Pak announced in front of the whole class with a rare nod of approval that felt like receiving a medal from a four-star general. I was good at this. I was building something. And some days that felt like enough to keep me steady.
Today was not one of those days, because today was Wednesday, and Wednesday meant Janelle.
Her office was in a brownstone in Dupont Circle on the second floor, with a waiting room and a sound machine outside the door that was supposed to muffle whatever you were crying about from the other patients. I sat on her couch with my legs crossed and my hands in my lap and my walls up the way they always were at the start of these sessions. Janelle sat across fromme in her chair with her notepad and that patient expression she wore like a uniform.
“You mentioned last time that the work you do outside of school gives you a sense of power,” Janelle said, clicking her pen. “I’d like to explore that more today if you’re comfortable.”
I wasn’t comfortable. I was never comfortable on this couch. But that was the point of therapy—being uncomfortable in a safe space until the uncomfortable thing lost its teeth. At least that’s what Janelle told me, and I was paying her two hundred dollars an hour to know what she was talking about.
“I’m a dominatrix,” I said.
I just put it out there. No preamble, no softening, no easing into it. I’d been dancing around this for months and I was tired of the dance. Janelle’s face didn’t change. She didn’t wince, nor reaction. She didn’t shift in her chair, didn’t do any of those subtle therapist tells that let you know they were judging you while pretending not to. She just nodded and wrote something down.
“Tell me about it,” she said.
“I have a space. Clients come to me. Men, mostly. Powerful men; judges, executives, politicians. They pay me to dominate them. Physically, psychologically, sometimes both. I have a whole persona. Dame CoCo.” I paused, waiting for the reaction. There wasn’t one. “You’re not surprised.”
“Should I be?”
“Most people would be.”
“I’m not most people. And I’m not here to judge what you do. I’m here to understand why you do it.” She leaned forward slightly. “When did you start?”
“About seventh months ago. After I had the ectopic pregnancy. After that guy broke my heart and wrecked my body with that cursed pregnancy.” I uncrossed my legs and then crossed them again because I couldn’t find a position that feltright. “I needed money. While I was recovering, I came across femdom. I saw someone post about it in a Facebook group. There was this powerful woman, humiliating men for money. And they loved it. She was in control and they couldn’t touch her. I wanted that feeling.”
“The control.”
“Yes.”
“Mehar, I want you to think about something.” Janelle set her pen down and looked at me directly. “You grew up in a home where you had no control. Your father controlled every aspect of your life—what you wore, what you ate, when you spoke, how you prayed. Then you married Ahmad, and that control transferred to him. He controlled your body, your movement, your sense of self. For most of your life, power has been something that was done TO you, not something you held.”
