Chapter 1: Where Were You Last Night?

The door to my apartment blew open, and Molly flung herself through it like an April thunderstorm. I set a pot of water to boil and wiped my hands on a dishtowel. By the time I got to the living room, Molly had already thrown her jacket in one corner, her shoes in another, and herself across my recliner.

“What, aren’t you going to offer me a drink?” she chided jokingly.

“Hi, Molly, it’s nice to see you, too.”

She jumped out of the chair almost as quickly as she’d jumped into it, throwing her arms around my neck and kissing my cheek. “Oh, Nick, you know I’m just giving you shit. Dinner smells great; what are we having?”

“Nothing special,” I said, returning her smile.

“Come on. Your ‘nothing special’ would be the special at most restaurants I’ve been to lately.”

“You’ve been eating in the wrong restaurants then. It’s just my personal twist on Beef Stroganoff – and it’ll be ready in about fifteen minutes.”

“Perfect. I’m starving.”

Molly had a dancer’s body: tall, lithe, sleek as a cat and just as graceful. She wore her usual black tank top over a comfortable pair of black jeans, which made her short dyed-silver hair and undercut stand out. I let myself stare for a moment as she turned away from me and picked a different chair to sit in this time.

“Can I get you a beer? Red wine?”

“You ask that as if you haven’t already picked out a bottle of wine for dinner.”

“You got me. A glass of Côtes-du-Rhône for the lady, then.”

“If I’m a ‘lady’ then you’ve been hanging out with the wrong women.”

Molly was an old college friend. In those days I fancied myself a writer; she studied chemical engineering. We flirted shamelessly all through college, but I was too boring for her and she was too wild for me. We’d even lived together for a short while after we graduated. When I couldn’t support myself with writing and took a job washing dishes, she covered part of my rent; when she got laid off from her first engineering job, I made sure she didn’t go hungry. Some old unresolved sexual tension stuck around, but mostly we just laughed it off.

“Can I change the playlist?”

“Does it matter if I say ‘yes’ or ‘no’?” I yelled from the kitchen, turning down the heat on the steak and picking two wineglasses off the shelf.

“Not really.”

I’d left my laptop open on purpose. There was no point making the music player hard to find; she was going to mess around with it regardless.

I never gave up on writing, but I never figured out how to make a living at it, either. At least working in restaurants paid the bills. From my start in the dish room, I’d worked my way up to serving tables, then tending bar, and eventually back to the kitchen. Along the way I’d made some friends in the industry, learned how to loosen up a bit, and turned into a pretty good cook.

The music stopped abruptly. I set a glass of wine for Molly down next to my laptop just as the opening riff of “London Calling” blasted from my stereo.

“The Clash? That’s a throwback. Not what I would have picked—”

“—’for a quiet, romantic dinner for two’, I know, dummy. You say that every time.”

Molly and I got together every few weeks for dinner; I shopped for the ingredients and cooked, and she paid for everything, even the wine. She always said it was cheaper than trying to eat at the restaurants I worked in. I was just happy for the opportunity to see her semi-regularly. Molly was one of those people who moved through life from peak to valley and back again, never standing still for very long. It made her incredibly attractive, frustrating as hell, and nearly impossible to schedule with.

“Are you writing anything right now?”

“Eh, kinda. I’ve got a piece kicking around that I’d like to pitch to The Toast, or maybe McSweeney’s. It’s only half-finished.”

“Can I read it?”

“Check the ‘Drafts’ folder on the desktop.”

While Molly read through my latest effort, I turned my attention to finishing up dinner. I dropped the egg noodles into boiling water, combined the roux with stock and vegetables (and a few secret ingredients), and seasoned the tender beef strips.

It had been a while since I’d listened to this album. Actually, it was funny that she’d picked it; The Clash always reminded me of Molly, and the first and only time we tried going on a date. We’d ended up at this awful late-night diner off campus; the only things it had going for it were an actual vintage jukebox that ran on dimes and the fact that it was open all night. Molly had declared that “Rudie Can’t Fail” was the only song worth listening to in the entire jukebox and she’d dropped an entire dollar’s worth of dimes in, punching the same song ten times. Around the third time through, the manager figured out what she’d done, unplugged the jukebox, and asked us to pay our bill on the spot. Molly laughed all the way back to campus, dropping me at the front door to my dorm with a goodnight hug.

Like I said: unpredictable, attractive, and frustrating as hell.

I started plating our dinner. After all we’d been through over the years, Molly and I had emerged from our early 20s with a comfortable friendship that I really enjoyed. We were still close, or as close as possible given our various schedules and commitments. Whatever feelings I had for her back then, apart from the occasional pleasant flashback, I’d found ways to set them aside just like I had for the rest of my college crushes: tucked away in a mental shoebox, taped shut, and placed gently in a dark corner.

A bright burst of laughter eminated from the living room. “Nick, did you write this?”

Without turning around, I said, “Probably, why?” On second thought, why would she even ask that question, unless... “You’re not poking around in my Drafts folder any more, are you.”

“Uh ... maybe?”

Of course she’d gotten bored and gone looking through my hard drive looking for other stuff to read. Of course she’d found the folder full of erotica I had saved up from many years of browsing the Internet. I could tell from the tone of her voice. Well, that was basically harmless.

“What did you find, Molly?”

“It’s called Careful What You Wish For. Is it yours?”

I froze.

Of course she’d found not just the folder full of erotica, but the hidden folder full of stuff I’d written, back when I was writing smut for practice and occasionally a few extra bucks.

Of course she’d found the one I’d written about her.

I put down the dinner plates and turned to step into the archway between the kitchen and the living room. Molly had turned the laptop around to show me what she was reading, with a goofy grin on her face. I didn’t actually need to look at the screen to know, but it was easier to do that than to look her in the eyes.

“Uh, yes. That’s one of mine.”

How had she found it? Why hadn’t I deleted it? At least I’d changed our names. Maybe she wouldn’t notice.

“You wrote smut about me?”

Of course she’d noticed.

She arched an eyebrow. “You wrote smut about us?”

Shit.

“Molly, it’s just a story. It’s fiction. I didn’t even submit that one anywhere.”

She laughed. “Why’d you write it, then?”

“Creative process. I write, edit, rewrite, and throw away hundreds of pages of text that never get seen by anyone else.”

“Including the people you write them about.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to. Oh, Nick, don’t look so surprised that I figured it out. You’re not the first erotica author I’ve met – well, scratch that, you probably are the first erotica author I ever met, even if neither of us knew it at the time. Anyway, it’s not the first time somebody’s written a story about me. It’s actually kind of flattering, in a perverted sort of way. And you really nailed some of my— well, anyway.

“Besides,” she said, gesturing to the screen, “it wasn’t even a challenge. ‘Sarah’ is built like me, dresses like me, even has the same hairstyle as me. And you’re obviously ‘Ryan’. All you did was a find-and-replace on our names. Tell me I’m wrong.”

I had, in fact, put in slightly more effort than that, but I found it difficult to argue at that particular moment.

Taking my silence as a confession, she stood up. “So why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That you’d written a bunch of porn about me. About us. About tying me up and—”

“You don’t just say stuff like that to people, Molly. Most women would slap the shit out of me for writing something like that, and then never speak to me again. And,” I said, half under my breath, “it’s not like I was ever going to show it to you.”

“And yet, you did.”

“Oh, no! I didn’t show you anything. That folder isn’t exactly sitting next to ‘Drafts’; you went looking,” I said, accusingly.

She at least had the courtesy to look a little bit sheepish, but she was still smiling. “You knew I would.”

“I have met you, yes. But you still went snooping through my files.”

“Well I’m not sorry.” Just then the smell of beef, noodles, and cream sauce hit her, and she inhaled deeply. “Oh my god I want to eat that right now.”

Grateful for the change of subject, I hastily agreed. “Good, because it’s ready. If you can grab the plates, I’ll get the wine.”

One thing I’ve always liked about Molly is that she is the best conversationalist I’ve ever known. We never run out of things to talk about, regardless of how long we’ve known each other or how long it’s been since we’ve seen each other. On the other hand, one thing that I’ve always found frustrating about Molly is that if she doesn’t want to talk about something, she won’t. She’ll find ways to twist your questions and pivot onto another topic, and usually you won’t even notice she’s done it.

So, despite the elephant in the room, dinner was really nice. I expected her to start teasing me about That Story again as soon as we sat down, but she didn’t. The conversation flowed naturally just like it always did, although I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was just slightly off. Fortunately, the bottle of wine I’d picked out paired perfectly with the beef. And while Molly was always thankful for whatever I cooked, tonight she was absolutely effusive with her praise.

“Nick, the stroganoff is incredible. I know I’m biased but this is seriously amazing. I don’t know what you did to the sauce but there’s this delicious earthy element to it that’s totally not what I expect from a cream sauce like this.”

“Ancient family secret.”

“No, c’mon.”

“Okay, I actually picked it up from one of the other cooks at La Marque. It’s coffee, believe it or not. I mix a little into the beef broth before I put it all together.”

“Fucking hell. I knew it was something. Now tell me about this bottle of wine.”

Molly, of course, knew that I could talk about food and wine practically forever. Hazards of working in a professional kitchen. Still, I was thinking about the unfinished conversation from earlier. She’d laughed it off, just like any other time the undercurrent of sexual tension between us came to the surface. That was basically our normal state of being, anyway: we flirted, it was clear no one was going to take it seriously, and if we ever got too close, Molly would laugh and change the subject. Maybe that’s all my story meant to her – just another way of flirting. I could live with that. The last thing I wanted was to lose my best friend over a story that I was definitely going to go delete as soon as she left my house tonight. And then the shoebox could go back into its corner where it belonged.

By the time I got up to fetch dessert, I’d convinced myself the whole thing was a non-issue. I brewed a shot of strong coffee in a Moka pot and brought it to the table alongside three scoops of vanilla ice cream with a dash of chocolate syrup and some slivered almonds on top: an affogato. Molly dove in before I’d finished pouring the coffee on top of the ice cream, which meant she finished her first bite before I even got my spoon into the dish.

“Mmm, this is really good. The almonds are a nice touch. So, where’d you learn to tie rope like that?”

That’s when it hit me: the weird thing about our dinner conversation was that Molly hadn’t been flirting with me. Normally a topic change like that wouldn’t even have registered, but this wasn’t a normal conversation. Or a normal topic change.

“Sorry, like what?”

“Like in your story, dummy.”

“What makes you think I can tie, after skimming one story?”

“What makes you think I only skimmed one story?”

“Molly!”

“I love your non-fiction, you know. You’ve always had a way of painting with words that makes it so easy to see what you’re picturing.”

“I told you, that story— if you’re so convinced that story is about you and me, then you already know it’s fictional.”

“Yes, I’m pretty clear on the fact that you’ve never taken me to bed and tied me up. But your smut is too good, Nick. Nobody writes that stuff well unless they’ve done a lot of research. And usually that means personal experience.”

“Okay, sure. Since you asked, yes, I’ve been tying for a while now. You remember Kathy from school? I dated her senior year.”

“Kathy taught you how to tie?!”

“Eh, more or less. She told me early on that she was really into bondage, but it turned out she hadn’t had the chance to actually do much. We learned it together. I certainly got plenty of practice tying her up. She tried it on me a couple of times, but neither of us was really into it the same way. It was good for me to learn how the ropes felt, though. Maybe that’s why I can write it from both sides.”

“You two were still dating when you and I moved in together.”

“Yeah. By that point we’d figured out some stress ties that she really liked. Uh,” I coughed, “really liked. I tried to make sure you were out of the house before we played that way though.”

“Well well well, you sly dog,” she grinned. “I always thought you were the boring one in this relationship, Nick. Maybe I ought to change my mind on that.” Molly took another bite of ice cream, but wrapped her lips around the spoon and looked straight at me. That was more like it; that was the Molly I knew. I relaxed a little bit and decided to return her serve.

“Soooo ... what about you?”

“What about me?” she smiled mischeviously.

“Are you into rope, too?”

“Of course I am, dummy! You obviously knew that already!”

“What makes you say that?”

“Well ‘Sarah’ is certainly into it, isn’t she?”

It was suddenly much harder to breathe.

“C’mon Nick, how could you not know? Did you find a pair of handcuffs in the couch cushions one day? Or was it just the boxes of mail-order sex toys in the recycling bin? You didn’t— no, you wouldn’t—” She gasped, but it was exaggerated for the effect. “You didn’t go through my stash of toys, did you?”

“Molly! I would never!”

“No, of course not, and even if you had you wouldn’t tell me. But you must have known somehow. Did you listen in on me having sex some night? I’m not exactly quiet, even with a ballgag stuffed in my mouth. I bet you could tell, couldn’t you?”

“Molly, I—”

Her laughter rang clear as a bell. I knew that laugh. That was the laugh that said we’d pushed the flirting far enough, and she was letting us both off the hook for getting too close to the edge of doing something—

“Oh, Nick, you’re so easy. You don’t have to tell me how you figured out that I’m kinky. I’ve got a much better idea, anyway.”

“Better idea?”

“Come show me.”

“ ... what?”

“That’s what they tell writers to do, right? ‘Show, don’t tell’?”

“Uh, something like that, yeah?”

“Great. Come on.” She grabbed my hand and pulled me out of my chair, and it was two or three steps before I realized she was leading me towards my own bedroom.

“Molly.”

“Yes, Nick?”

“What are you doing?”

“Having some fun with you, I hope?”

“Making fun of me, more like. This is a joke, right?”

That stopped her. “What? No!”

“You can’t be serious.”

“Why not?”

My mind was a blur. This wasn’t how things went between us! Dinner was supposed to just be between friends. We’d have a couple of drinks, she’d compliment my cooking, we’d talk about all kinds of stuff, I’d get a hug goodnight and a promise to schedule our next dinner that she wouldn’t follow through on. We’d flirt just like we always did, and then it would stop. It always stopped. She always stopped it. Right before I had to admit something I wanted. Surely we were going to stop again before that point.

... right?

For a moment, Molly met my dazed look, but then she sighed and her eyes dropped away from mine.

“Look, Nick, cards on the table here. Your writing is good, I mean, really good. Yeah, it was a little weird at first to find out you’d written bondage porn about us when we’ve never actually wound up in the sack, but given our history I can’t exactly say I’m surprised. And, frankly ... it was hot. Really hot. And way more accurate than it had any right to be. I seriously don’t know how you figured out some of my kinks, but that story pushed all of my buttons in the right way. That’s why I wanted to know how you knew.

“But right now I don’t actually care. All I know is that I’ve been super fucking turned on since we started eating dinner – hell, your cooking usually does that to me anyway – and it’s been months since anybody tied me up with even the faintest bit of skill. I’ve got somebody I know and trust right here in front of me, and I’m banking on the fact that you’re as good with your hands as ‘Ryan’ is.”

This didn’t sound like “stopping”.

Molly – the woman I’d lusted after, danced around, lived with, cooked for, taken care of, been friends with, trusted more than anyone else I could think of – was standing here, in my living room, and I’m pretty sure she was asking me to take her to bed for the first time ever and ... what? Tie her up? The inside of my head was filled with a cacophony of voices yelling advice, most of them conflicting with each other. But the “rope top” portion of my brain heard “tie” and was starting to wake up.

“So ... how about it? Help a girl out?”