Chapter 15: The Gallery Under the Bed
The silence in the wake of the shutting door was absolute, a heavy blanket smothering the apartment. Garrett stood frozen in the living room, the ghost of Katy’s promise—every little thing—echoing in the stillness. The whiskey in his glass had stopped swirling, a placid amber pool. He set it down on the coffee table with a sharp click that seemed to judge the quiet.
He sank onto the couch, the leather sighing under Katy’s weight. The television remote was cool in his hand. He thumbed the button, and the screen flared to life, a burst of canned laughter from a sitcom that felt like it was broadcasting from another galaxy. He flicked through channels. A car chase, a nature documentary on deep-sea anglerfish, a infomercial for a knife that could cut through a boot. Nothing stuck. The images were just colored light, meaningless noise.
His free hand, resting on his thigh, began to move almost of its own accord. His fingers, Katy’s fingers, traced a slow, absent circle on the soft skin of his inner thigh through the thin fabric of his sweatpants. It was a nervous habit, a fidget. But the topography was all wrong. The sensation was foreign, a low hum of response from a body that wasn't his. He let his head fall back against the cushions, eyes closed, trying to ignore the peculiar, gathering warmth.
A vibration buzzed against the coffee table. His phone. Katy’s phone.
He lunged for it, his heart a sudden, frantic drum in Katy’s chest.
The screen glowed with a single text from ‘Dom’.
> Katy: She’s even more breathtaking in person. Shy. Blushes when I touch your hand.
Garrett’s breath hitched. His fingers, still resting on his thigh, pressed down harder. The warmth intensified, a low thrum answering the text in a language his mind couldn’t translate.
Another buzz. A photo.
It was a selfie, taken from his own perspective. Dominique was looking up at the camera, her eyes wide and dark, her lips slightly parted. The corner of the table was visible, two wine glasses between them. His own hand—Katy’s hand in his body—was reaching across the frame, his fingers just brushing a stray strand of hair from Dominique’s cheek. The intimacy of the gesture was a violation. The possessiveness in it was Katy’s.
A hot, sharp jolt went through him, a confusing mix of anger, jealousy, and a dark, unwelcome thrill. His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, into the damp warmth he’d discovered earlier. The touch was no longer absent. It was intentional. Searching.
Another buzz. Another photo.
This one was closer, darker. It was taken under the table. His hand—his large, familiar, basketball-calloused hand—was resting high on Dominique’s thigh, her dress rucked up, the skin of her leg pale in the dim light. The image was grainy, illicit.
Garrett’s own fingers moved faster, mirroring the implied rhythm in the photo. A soft, choked sound escaped his lips—Katy’s lips. The sensations were a tidal wave, overwhelming his thoughts. They were not his. They were hers. Alien, deeper, a building pressure that owed nothing to him and everything to the body he was trapped inside. He was a passenger, a spectator to his own defilement, and the view was making him dizzy.
The phone buzzed one last time. Not a photo. Just text.
> Katy: By the way. The mattress in my room is way better than that old couch. Just saying. Check under the right side at the headboard. You'll find what you need ;)
The words were a bucket of ice water and a crack of lightning all at once.
The mattress.
He stumbled down the hallway, pushing open the door to Katy’s room. It was becoming more familiar to him now than he expected, but it smelled like her perfume, a scent that was now intimately, uncomfortably familiar. He went to the bed, running a hand over the plush comforter.
His fingers brushed against something solid tucked just beneath the edge of the box spring. He knelt, his heart hammering again, a different kind of dread now. He pulled.
It was a case. Hard-shelled, sleek, black. It looked like something you’d carry expensive camera equipment in.
He flipped the latches. They opened with a precise, satisfying click.
The interior was lined with plush black foam, each item nestled in its own custom-cut slot. It wasn’t a random collection. It was an arsenal. A curated selection of shapes, sizes, and textures, some sleek and modern, others more organic, all designed with a singular, devastating purpose. The clinical organization of it was more shocking than the objects themselves.
Tucked into the lid of the case was a small, folded square of notepaper. He knew her handwriting.
> Couldn’t let you have a completely boring night in. A girl should know her own equipment. Enjoy :)