Chapter 13: You Asked for This

“Who are you texting?” she asked. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for work?”

“They canceled my shift,” I said.

“Business isn’t exactly great at the store,” I told her with a shrug. “You’ve seen how it is—everyone just buys stuff online now. Even we do it. Free shipping and all. Hard to compete with that.”

Susan nodded. “I think Bambi was going by there tonight.”

“I texted her,” I replied. “Told her to come by tomorrow instead.”

She smiled, but didn’t say anything.

I glanced out the window. “More rain,” I sighed.

“If we leave right now, we’ll get to Andrew’s before it really starts coming down,” I said.

“I thought you were just going to pick that stuff up,” she asked.

“I was, but he texted and said you should try everything on. That way, if there’s any issues, he can get measurements right then and there and he can fix them.”

“Okay,” she said, raising her hands toward me, pulling at the waist chain. “Then take these cuffs off.”

“You’re fine in those,” I told her. “It’s just down the street.”

She pointed at her stomach. “At least take the belt off,” she said.

I shook my head. “That means taking off the leg cuffs, pulling off your jeans, listening to you scream...”

“Yeah, sis,” she interrupted with a smirk. “Pulling out a metal dildo and a butt plug hurts.”

She looked at me more closely. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.”

“Obviously something’s wrong,” she said. “You’ve been bitchy all afternoon.”

I didn’t answer, but she was right.

The truth was, I was looking forward to seeing Bambi. I knew there wasn’t anything there, but still ... I wanted to see her. To have her come by the shop, play dress-up, try on some dresses. And, if I’m honest, maybe one of the fitted business suits. One of those fitted, tailored shirts we can’t sell.

But I wasn’t about to admit that to Susan.

I grabbed my purse and headed for the door.

“Let’s go,” I said. “It’s going to rain. And I’m not driving you—I’m not circling for a parking space just to go a few blocks.”

“Fine,” she muttered.

I grabbed the connecting chain and gave it a tug. She jerked forward.

“I’m in five-inch heels,” she said, annoyed.

“I know,” I replied. “You walk fine in them. Remember? My kid sister—who’d never worn heels in her life—can handle six-inch ones better than I can in fours.”

I pulled her outside and locked the door behind us.

“You walking on your own, or am I dragging you?” I asked, reaching again for the chain.

“You’re definitely in a mood today,” she said. “I’ll walk.”

We made it about a block before the rain started—not a full drizzle, just those light, random drops you see on your windshield. The kind that warn you their violent cousins are close behind.

“Can you walk any faster?” I asked, picking up my pace. “I know you can run in those heels.”

She gave me a look. “Run in these heels? Yes.”

“Run in these cuffs?” she added, still staring at me. “No.”

“If you wanted that, you should’ve put me in my longer ones,” she said. “Not Bambi’s.”

“They’re not Bambi’s,” I snapped back. “They’re yours—an extra set. I got them because they were cheap.”

“You know that,” I added. “And you know you need to get used to walking in them. That’s why I’ve had you in them.”

As we hurried down the sidewalk, I noticed a mom up ahead gently pulling her kids close. She steered them toward the curb before crossing the street giving us space, but not subtly.

Just before they stepped off the curb, the boy—maybe eleven—asked loudly, “Is that the crazy lady?”

The mom smiled, soft but tight, and leaned down to him.

“Shhh,” she murmured. “She’s not crazy. She has something called a mental illness. That means her brain works a little differently, and sometimes she needs extra help to stay safe—like wearing those. It’s not because she’s bad or scary, it just helps keep her and everyone around her safe.”

The boy looked up, curious. “So, she can’t hurt anyone if she’s all chained up?”

The mom didn’t answer right away but gave a small nod, acknowledging what he said without making a big deal of it.

Before she could say more, the little girl spoke up.

“Like the lady at the museum?” she asked. “The one we saw with that other lady? The one who held the lady’s chain so she wouldn’t hurt us?”

“No,” the mom replied quickly. Then she continued speaking, but her voice faded as the family moved further away and out of hearing range. We only caught part of what she said about the other lady doing something bad and the police.

I didn’t look at Susan. But out of the corner of my eye, I saw her react. She wasn’t hurt—not exactly. But it had landed. I could tell.

I knocked on the shop door and saw Andrew inside.

He was closing up, but leather shops don’t usually stay open late. Foot traffic drops off after hours anyway—and when it does come, it’s usually not the kind you want.

“Hey,” I said as he opened the door and let us in.

“Hi,” he replied, but his attention was on Susan—not the restraints, but her.

Andrew was quiet, reserved. Always had been. So, he didn’t say much—just what was necessary. Mostly he smiled and nodded.

“Thanks for letting us come by. I know you’re closed,” I said.

“It’s fine,” he said with a shrug. “I’d probably just be upstairs playing video games or something.”

He added, “It’s not like anyone’s going to come in now. Mostly locals, some other shop owners who buy stuff. Most people just order online these days.”

He hugged Susan briefly, then stepped back and nodded.

“The stuff’s in the back,” he told us, motioning for us to follow.

The store smelled like leather—not unpleasant, unless you really hate the scent of tanned hide. It was a small shop, about the same size as the bookstore. But most of it was the shop area itself, unavailable to customers. The apartment where he and his dad lived was upstairs.

His mom had left them years ago. She wanted a better life—more than what a leather artisan could give her, I guess. It wasn’t a secret, especially how she did it. And I think it really hurt Andrew.

He must have been around eight at the time. I was ten, and he’s the same age as Susan, so yeah—eight. His dad was only in his early thirties then.

Anyway, it became the kind of gossip that never quite dies. People talked. It was hard for Andrew, with the other kids mocking him, being cruel. I think that’s why he gravitated toward us—we understood what cruelty felt like.

He pointed to a leather straitjacket hanging nearby.

“It’s going to smell like leather for a while,” he said. “If you put it outside or near an open window, fresh air will help the smell fade faster.”

“But don’t leave it out in the rain or let it get soaked—that can damage the leather. It’ll crack.”

“You’ll have to treat the leather every year or so,” he said, looking at us. “Lexol is good. That’s what we use. It just works.”