The Clerk
Copyright© 2026 by R. E. Bounds
Chapter 8: Not a Forever Thing
“How’s she doing?” I asked Sophie, handing her the coffee.
She reached for her purse. “How much was it?”
“It’s fine,” I said, waving her off. “It wasn’t much. People come here for lunch and dinner because the food’s good—and cheap.”
Sophie smiled, taking the cup from me. “Yeah,” she said, nodding. “Small towns.”
She took a sip, then looked up. “Thanks.”
I nodded, then added, “I tried to see her, but the nurse upstairs said she was sleeping. That’s when we ran into each other.”
“Yeah,” Sophie said, giving a small nod. “She’s been doing a lot of that lately. Just ... resting. It’s what she needs right now.”
There was a pause.
“Ben’s not here?” I asked, keeping my voice light.
Sophie shook her head slightly. “We’ve been taking turns,” she said, her eyes flicking away for just a moment.
I waited. I wasn’t sure if I should push, but the question came out anyway.
“So ... what actually happened? Ben just said they were hit.”
Sophie’s face went a little pale, like she was searching for the right words. “Becca and Ben were t-boned by a truck,” she said quietly. She took a slow sip of her coffee, the sound of the lid muffling the words, like they were too heavy to carry on their own.
I felt a knot tighten in my stomach. “Okay,” I murmured, trying to catch up with the shock. “What ... what did the doctors say?”
She looked at me then—really looked at me. Her lips twitched into something like a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. And in them, I saw it. The weight. The fear. The kind of hurt you don’t need to explain.
The kind you only carry when someone you love is in pain.
I’d suspected before. Little things. Glances. The way Sophie seemed to know what Becca needed without her having to say a word.
But now. Seeing her face.
She loved Becca.
I could feel it—even in the silence.
“They said she was bleeding internally. One of her lungs collapsed. They had to put in a chest tube to open it back up.” Sophie’s voice was steady, but there was a tightness behind it. “There’s some scarring. The doctors said it’ll take about a month before she starts feeling better. Lots of rest. No stress. No exercise—just light walking for now.”
She paused, looking down at her coffee. “They also said she might have trouble catching her breath for a while. But she’ll recover. Eventually.”
“I would’ve come sooner,” I said quietly, nodding. “I didn’t even know anything had happened until I called Becca. About returning the heels she let us borrow. Or—well, you did. Ben was the one who picked up. He filled me in.”
“No one really knew,” she said, giving a small shake of her head. “Ben’s parents only found out earlier this week, after I called them.”
She looked up at me then.
“And me,” she added, with a small shrug—like it wasn’t supposed to matter, but I could tell it did.
“How did the event go?” she asked softly. “Did ... did it go okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, nodding. “It went fine.”
“You can just hold on to them, if you want,” she said after a pause. “It’s not like I’ll be wearing them anytime soon. Six-inch sandal stilettos aren’t exactly an everyday thing.”
I gave a small laugh and nodded.
She looked at me then—hesitant. Like she wanted to ask something, or maybe steer the conversation somewhere else, but wasn’t sure how to get there.
“How’s it going?” she asked finally. “I mean ... with Susan. I’ve been hearing things from people at the museum—that she’s always ... you know ... in them?”
She took a slow sip of her coffee, eyes flicking up at me again over the rim.
“People go by the bookstore. Tourists. Some think Susan’s Becca. It’s a thing,” Sophie said, her voice light, but she didn’t explain further.
“It’s going okay,” I replied, a little too quickly.
“She’s ... she’s okay being in them all the time?”
“Uh,” I nodded, a bit uncertain. “Yeah.”
Sophie took another sip of her coffee, then glanced up at me with a half-smile—one of those small, knowing ones.
“You don’t sound convinced.”
I gave a small shrug. “It’s been ... a back and forth.”
“About being in the restraints?”
“Yeah,” I said. “She’s been generally fine, but...” I let the words hang in the air, unfinished. Because that was the truth. There was always a but.
Sophie raised her eyebrows, still wearing that same half-smile—like she was waiting for the rest.
“Susan’s met someone,” I said finally. “Old high school friend. They never dated—he was one of the jock types, you know? All-around athlete. Tall, handsome. The kind who always ended up with the cheerleaders. Susan was the quiet, bookish type. But he talked to her. He was the only one from that crowd who ever really did.”
I took a sip of my coffee, letting the warmth settle for a moment.
“And he came into the bookstore. Just visiting—he’s in town for his mom. They started talking again and ... well, he might’ve noticed her new look.”
I looked up at Sophie, giving her a small smile.
“And ... they went on a date—” I caught myself, raising a hand. “Sorry. Hung out to catch up.”
I leaned in a little, lowering my voice.
“Susan’s words.”
Sophie chuckled. “And?”
I smiled. “They might have another ... whatever-it-is planned when Bobby’s out of school.”
She nodded, then tilted her head. “Okay. And the jewelry? How’d that go?”
I shrugged, making a who-knows kind of face.
“He wasn’t freaked out. Well, maybe a little—but not in a bad way. Susan wore a maxi dress—it covered her up but still showed off her curves. And stilettos. Five-inch, open-toe, with hose,” I said, nodding. “And the cuffs, of course.”
I shrugged again. “He asked her out again, so ... yeah, I guess he was fine with it.”
“So...” Sophie said slowly, raising her eyebrows again, “he’s okay with her wearing them?”
She paused, then added quietly, “Maybe he’s into that kind of thing—you know, liking his girls ... like that.”
I hesitated for a moment. “I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe he is. Or maybe he just likes the whole classic look—dress, hose, heels. The traditional kind of thing. Not so sure about the bondage side of it. But, like I said, it didn’t scare him off.”
“His last girlfriend...” I looked at her. “Not submissive. Not in any way. More aggressive. The ‘mean girl’ type. She’d dress up for him too, but it was more like short bodycons and those platform stripper heels.”
Sophie chuckled softly. “Maybe his tastes are becoming a bit more refined,” she said, half-smiling.
She took a breath, then asked, “And how was Susan? Being in that, with him there? How did she handle it?”
I sighed, staring down at my coffee. “She was utterly embarrassed when he showed up that day. Wanted to disappear. She even had to admit to him that she was into bondage.”
“For the date—or, well, the catching-up thing—she didn’t want to wear the cuffs. She begged me not to put them on. She really fought me on it.”
I shook my head, voice quiet but firm. “But I just locked them back on. It wasn’t negotiable. I even put her on a struggler—the waist chain higher up. Made sure her wrists were closer to her chest. No slack.”
I looked at Sophie. “You know, just making sure she was really in them. No chance of accidentally slipping out.”
“That’s how she ended up going.”
Sophie gave me a tired, understanding look as she took a slow sip of her coffee.
“Do you think she’s having second thoughts? About all that stuff we talked about ... all the things Becca said?”
She looked at me directly. “Are you?”
I looked down. “I’ve been questioning it,” I said.
“The past week or so. Especially since last Tuesday, after that event. Susan told me she’d been watching prison documentaries—videos about women locked up, wearing restraints. Like she was trying to put herself in their shoes, to figure out how those women dealt with being cuffed all the time.”
I looked back up at Sophie and shrugged. “I think it was her way of trying to cope with being locked in those restraints constantly. Like she felt she’d done something wrong and now had to wear them. Like there was no choice—like it was a punishment, like committing a crime and going to prison.”
I took a slow sip, letting out a long sigh.
“But later that night, she sounded different. Like she’d accepted it. But it was more than that—she understood why she was in them. That she needed them. That she wanted them. That she needed me to keep them on her.”
“It’s complicated, Anne,” Sophie said softly, tilting her head and pressing her lips together like she was carefully sorting through her thoughts.
She leaned back, cradling her cup in both hands, watching the steam rise from the lid.
“It’s ... well, it’s a thing,” she said slowly. “There’s definitely a psychology behind it.”
She looked up at me, her eyes steady. “That craving—wanting it so badly, needing it even. But then, the moment you have it”—she made a small gesture, like pulling at invisible cuffs—”you start thinking about getting out. And when you finally do get out, all you can think about is going back.”
I nodded, murmuring, “Like a cycle.”
Sophie gave a small, understanding smile, eyes still fixed on her cup. “Yeah. A cycle that just feeds itself.”
“You crave the restraints. You need them, even. They give you this ... clarity, a kind of purpose,” Sophie said quietly.
“But after a while, the restlessness sets in. You want out. You fight it.”
She paused, then gave a faint, sad little smile.
“And then, when you finally are out, it feels wrong—like something’s missing. So, you start longing for them again.”
She looked up, meeting my eyes. “Yeah,” she said softly. “It’s a vicious circle.”
I nodded slowly. “So ... am I punishing her?” I asked, barely above a whisper. “Am—am I hurting her?”
Sophie looked up at me, her expression soft but serious. She shook her head gently.
“I don’t think so,” she said. “It’s not about punishment—not really. I mean, yeah, most people might see it that way. But for Susan ... and Becca too ... it’s more about being held. Contained. Controlled, but in a way that feels safe.”
She cradled her cup again, her voice steady and thoughtful. “I think it gives them something solid. Structure. Predictability. When everything inside feels messy or overwhelming, the restraints become a way to quiet it all down.”
She looked at me, and gave a small, knowing smile. “And she has you. That’s what makes it work. When you trust someone enough to lock you in—and they care about you enough not to let you out just because you panic or plead ... it’s strange, but that can feel comforting. In its own twisted, beautiful way.”
I nodded, unsure what to say.
“I think that’s why she’s been watching those prison videos,” Sophie went on. “I don’t think she sees herself as a prisoner, not exactly. I think she’s trying to understand the mindset. What it means to not have a choice. To have to wear restraints, no matter how you feel. Because that’s the closest thing she can find to what she’s living with.”
She paused for a moment, then looked right at me—clear-eyed, quiet. “So yeah,” she said softly. “It messes with your head. Hers. And yours too.”
“So, Becca’s the same way?” I asked.
Sophie nodded—slowly, a little uncertain. Like she wasn’t completely sure how to answer.
“Yes,” she said, still nodding, eyes on me. But then her gaze drifted off, and when she looked back, she added softly, “No.”
A faint, conflicted smile tugged at the corner of her mouth as she nodded again, almost to herself.
She paused, visibly gathering her thoughts. Bit her lip for a second, then spoke again, carefully.
“I ... I think she’s always been that way. Maybe not the same exact need Susan has, but ... yeah. I think she’s always carried something. This anxiety that just never quite lets up.”
She lowered her head slightly, then raised it again. “The kind that doesn’t just make you nervous. The kind that lives in your bones. Ben’s mentioned it before—it runs in her family. Her grandmother had her hands full with Becca growing up. Maybe she knew what it was. Maybe not. But ... I think she tried to help in her own way.”
Sophie shifted a little in her chair, like the memories made her uneasy.
“She taught Becca how to dress,” Sophie said. “And I don’t mean just matching shoes or doing her hair—I mean really dress. With intention. With care. A certain way. I think part of that came from her grandmother’s old-fashioned ideas about femininity—what it meant to be ‘put together.’”
She glanced at me, then added with a faint smile, “Not the pinup part, though. That ... that was all Becca.”
She gave a quiet chuckle, shaking her head with that fondness people get when talking about someone they love.
“You’ve seen her,” she said. “Becca can make a grocery run look like a pinup shoot.”
But then her smile softened into something sadder. More reflective.
“I don’t know ... I feel like maybe her grandmother saw something in her. Something unsettled. And dressing her that way—it might’ve been her way of giving Becca structure. Of helping her feel anchored.”
She paused, her eyes dropping before she looked at me again.
“The dresses, the heels, the hosiery ... I think they started as comfort. A way of keeping things stable. But over time, for Becca, it became more than just how she looked. It became control. Like ... if everything was perfect on the outside, maybe she could hold everything else together inside.”
She looked up at me, and for a moment, there was a weight in her expression. A quiet kind of sadness.
“Being forced to dress like that, from such an early age...” she said softly. “It changes you. For Becca, it worked. She needed that kind of structure. But for others?” She shook her head. “It can just make things worse.”
She let that hang in the air a moment, then took a slow breath, as if she were choosing to step away from the subject—away from whatever memories had just surfaced.
“And the whole thing with the FBI...” she started, her voice trailing off as she searched for the words. “It woke something up in her. Something that was already there, just ... quiet before. Something she’s always craved. Something she’s always needed.”
She took another sip from her cup—slower now, almost like it gave her a moment to center herself.
“But I don’t think it’s really about the restraints. Not exactly,” she said, more gently this time. “It’s about what they give her. The feeling behind it. The sense of being safe.”
Her voice softened, her eyes on mine now—steadier, but with a kind of tenderness that came from knowing.
“Restraints just happen to be one of the few things that create that feeling—at least, the part about being contained,” Sophie said softly.
She glanced down at her coffee for a moment, then back up at me. “I don’t know if you’ve ever tried them yourself. If you’ve actually put them on.”
She set her cup down and brought her hands up to her waist, miming the position. “Having your hands cuffed like this—in hinged cuffs and that box, locked to a chain at your waist—you’re helpless. You really can’t use your hands. They’re just ... here.” She tapped her wrists together gently.
Her voice dropped, turning colder, more deliberate. “And walking in heels with leg cuffs on—especially the shorter ones—it’s awkward. At best, it becomes a graceful shuffle. But it’s still a hobble.”
She paused, her tone sharper now.
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