Chapter Sixteen

Sydney

It’s after ten p.m. when I knock on Robert’s bedroom door. We returned from our “honeymoon” yesterday, and I’m feeling restless after my Joyful Justice council call.

Robert’s words come back to me. For someone who worries so much about the little guy, you really don’t pay enough attention to the big ones. There needs to be more systemic change—just killing bad guys isn’t cutting it.

“Come in.” Robert’s voice sounds muffled behind the thick door. I take a breath, Blue touches his nose to my hip, and I push into the room, gesturing for Nila and Frank to stay.

Robert is sitting up in bed reading a book, a heather gray linen blanket pulled to his waist. He rests the book on his bare chest before removing reading glasses.

I don’t enter the room, just hover in the doorway, not wanting to make showing up at his bedroom door a thing. But also needing to have this conversation before I lay my head down on my own fancy-ass sheets and sleep. Blue sits next to me, leaning against my leg, a wall of warm support.

“Everything okay?” Robert asks.

“Not really.” He cocks his head, his gaze falling to my stomach. I cup it, protectively, instinctually. “Not me or the baby. I want…” He meets my gaze again, and raises a brow. “I want your help with something.”

His lips twitch but he manages not to grin. “What can I do?”

“Help me decriminalize sex work.”

The grin comes now, flashing across his features, lighting his eyes with amusement. “What a wonderful bride you are, my sweet Sydney Rye.”

I roll my eyes and step into the room, Blue moving with me. “Look, I think we both know that criminalizing sex work is just another way of oppressing women.”

“I think the argument is that it is protecting them.”

“Right, but we both know that’s some bullshit.”

He laughs a low murmur, the book on his chest vibrating with the sound. I’m halfway to the bed when Blue’s wet nose swipes my fingers. How far into the dragon’s den do we want to walk? I stop and cross my arms over my chest.

Robert sobers. “They’ve decriminalized sex work in New Zealand,” he says, almost to himself.

“Yes, and legalized it in other places. But from what I understand,” I take another step forward, then stop myself, “decriminalizing is what sex workers are calling for, because legalizing leads to more police interventions.”

“Yes,” Robert says slowly. “But there is also the fear that by decriminalizing pimps and brothels, you open the door even wider for exploitation.”

“But the thing is, criminalizing the customers increases the risk to the women.” I move forward again. “You can say, okay, the sex worker won’t be arrested. But! If the client is in legal jeopardy he can ask to meet in a more isolated place, which in turn leads to more incidents of violence.”

“True.”

“So,” I step forward again. “It’s important to decriminalize the act for both parties.”

“But don’t you think it needs to be regulated?”

“I don’t know exactly. But the police should not be involved. Do you know the statistics on cops and sex workers?”

“I’ve heard some that are disturbing.”

“And it doesn’t bother you?” I’m at the foot of the bed now, standing right in front of the bench where his bathrobe is draped.

“I don’t get bothered by things that don’t concern me.”

“Right.” I shake my head. “Of course you don’t.” I turn, annoyance driving my actions. What a self-centered asshole, but what did I expect? Blue moves with me, touching his snout to my hip. Blue knows.

“Wait, Sydney.” I don’t stop walking away. Better to get out of the bedroom anyway. I should never have knocked on his stupid door. Sheets rustle behind me followed by a few quick steps. Blue turns to face him and I follow his lead, crossing my arms over my chest again.

Robert is holding his robe and, seeing that I’ve paused my retreat, shrugs into it. “Look,” he ties the black waffled cotton closed, “I don’t have to care in order to help.” I laugh, because, come on. Robert smiles and it’s almost sheepish. “I want to help you.

“And the price?”

“No price. We are married. I want you to be happy.” He takes a step forward and glances down at Blue, who sits close to my side.

“Okay, then what can we do to decriminalize sex work?”

His eyes return to mine, and there is a hint of surprise in them. I didn’t remind him about the circumstances of our marriage, didn’t give him any grief about how forcing our union was supposed to make me happy.

“Well,” he starts. “The only people who agree with you are sex workers. Even mainline feminists believe that prostitution should be regulated more severely than you’re suggesting.”

“I think there should be punishment for traffickers and exploiters, obviously.” I roll my eyes and Robert grins—we both know how I deal with people who exploit the innocent. “But a well-run brothel, that protects the sex workers and their clients, websites that give sex workers the ability to screen potential clients. That’s just common sense, right?”

His lips twitch. “Your common sense is not like everyone else’s.”

I laugh. “I guess that’s one thing we have in common.”

“Yes,” he agrees, something shifting behind his eyes. Distrust? He must suspect I’m plotting against him in some fashion but can’t see the connection to my interest in decriminalizing the sex trade. Because there isn’t one. This is off topic, off mission…but I know that Robert can help. The man can do almost anything.

“Sex workers need allies,” I say. “People with power who are willing to listen to them and make things happen on their behalf.”

Robert nods and focuses on the floor for a moment, his brow furrowed. He glances back at his bed and then to the open bedroom door. “Shall we sit and discuss?” His attention returns to my face. “I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

Now doesn’t that sound nice and domestic.

We move to the apartment’s library—because every apartment needs a library, right? This one has all the fittings: leather-bound books on walnut shelves, two leather chairs facing a fireplace, with a humidor and ashtray on the round table between them. The only thing that would make it more masculine would be an animal head mounted on the wall.

As promised, Robert makes me a cup of chamomile tea and pours himself a cognac. With the click of a gas-fueled starter, he lights the stack of wood in the fireplace.

“So,” I ask, curling up in one of the big chairs and breathing in the sweet aroma of the honeyed tea. “How do we do it?” Blue sighs as he lies at my feet, resting his head between his paws. Nila curls up by the fire, and Frank splays himself out next to her. She lets out a low growl when Frank’s paw lands on top of hers but does not move away from him.

Robert crosses his legs, the dawn blue of his pajama pants flashing between the flaps of the black robe.

“Every country has its own laws, of course,” he begins, “so I assume you’re talking about starting here. And in America most criminal activity is regulated by state law, so enacting federal legislation on sex work will be that much more challenging. For starters, we will have to find a sponsor for the bill.”

“The bill?”

“First we have to write the bill, yes.” He nods to himself. “A senator, one with standing, who isn’t afraid to take risks…or perhaps one we have some information on.” He sips his cognac.

I sip my tea. “Dirt?” I ask.

He nods.

“Do you have someone in mind?”

“Yes.”

I smile. “Will you tell me who?”

Robert shifts in his seat to better face me. “I would like to tell you all my plans. Share all my thoughts with you. Together we are a powerful team who can do as we please.” I bristle. “Yes, see there,” he points a finger at me. “You think we should not do as we please. You are making a moral judgment.”

“Sure, that we shouldn’t do as we please if it hurts others.”

“Exactly. Do you see that this is the same argument that can be leveled against decriminalizing sex work?”

“How?” I sit tall, putting my tea down on the table between us. Blue’s collar jingles as he raises his head to check on me.

“Men are willing to pay for sex—they want to do as they please with young women who wouldn’t have them any other way. Most people believe that is hurting the women. So,” he shrugs. “You’re asking to decriminalize something that is immoral. If you think it’s immoral for you and I to do as we please, then why should it be okay for johns?”

“Okay.” I put up a hand. “First, you’re narrowing the field of sex work down to a sliver of it. Second, who says it’s immoral?”

“Either way, one party is paying another for an intimate act they would not perform without remuneration.” He puts out his hands like lady justice, weighting the scales. “So, the buyer is pleased,” he lifts his right hand, “and the seller is hurt,” he lowers his left.

“But the sex workers are benefiting as well. They’re getting paid. Would you consider a bartender bringing you a beer as someone who is getting hurt so you can have as you please?”

Robert stares at me, his gaze placid. “You think bringing a beer and giving a blow job are the same?”

“No, but I think they can both be honest work.”

Both our phones ping at the same time. A message from Dan is on my screen. “You need to watch this now,” his text reads. It links to a video titled Her Prophet Manifesto.

I glance over at Robert. “We should watch on the big screen, no?” he asks.

“Do you think there should be popcorn?”

Robert throws his head back and laughs.

“You have one year for women to be equally represented in positions of power. One year to equally represent women in all systems of government, and on the boards of all publicly traded corporations.” The Her Prophet, wearing her signature black burka, pauses, letting that bomb fly through the air…the whistling warning of its approach the only sound.

“One year to have women equally represented in power or any man who stands in the way will die.” The bomb hits. “This is the demand of your mother, wife, sister, and daughter.” And the shrapnel flies.

“We are in your home, we are your family, we gave you life, we bore your children, and we are no longer willing to be currency. Our bodies will no longer be the spoils which you war over, the debts that you owe, or the pleasures that you steal.” The prophet’s words are as stark as the white background behind her black form.

“At the beginning of civilization our gender became an object. We have hidden in your homes and been complicit in the myth that we must be protected in order to create a safe environment for the species. We demand to be returned to our rightful place as equal partners in the stewardship of humanity.”

She pauses again, her dark eyes holding the camera. A ring light reflects in them. Her videos are getting more professional.

“You will not know us until our cold blade presses against your throat and by then it will be too late. So heed me. The old arrangement has ended. The peace is broken. Return us to our original status as your equals or die.”

She stops again, and for a moment I think the message is over but she goes on. “Furthermore. From this moment forth, any man who uses a woman’s body against her will, any man who abuses a female will pay the price with his life. This is the new deal—you will find that promoting us to power is easier than living with warriors in your bed.”

The video ends.

Silence fills the space between Robert and me. Husband and wife—against my will. “Did you know about this?” he asks, finally, quietly.

“No,” I answer plainly. “But I’d say that either way, wouldn’t I?”

He huffs a small laugh. “I already expect to wake up with your blade at my throat.” Something in his tone implies he’d like it very much, to ride the edge of death in bed with me.

I sit back, easing into the couch, the weight of the baby pressing on my bladder. “I have to pee,” I say, making no move to stand. Robert rises and offers his hand. I close my eyes and breathe for a moment, exhaustion suddenly overwhelming me. It’s not that the baby is so heavy I can’t stand on my own, just that growing another person is tiring and accepting his hand doesn’t have to mean anything. Yet, I debate internally.

“Sydney,” Robert says, and I open my eyes a little, watching him through my lashes. His hand is still out. The gold band I placed on his ring finger glimmers in the light. I rub at the matching gold on my own hand. A prisoner’s manacle or a wife’s adornment? “Come on.” He wriggles his fingers at me.

Stop being so damn dramatic. I take his offered hand and let him help me off the couch. Robert moves back so that I can pass easily. I head to the bathroom.

When I return Robert doesn’t look up from the tablet in his hand. “This is going to get a lot of women killed,” he says.

“A lot of men too, I’d guess,” I say.

I take a seat next to him and lean against his shoulder to look down at the tablet. Our thighs brush as he holds it so that we can both see.

“Without Billy Ray Titus to lead the incels, I wonder what voice will rise up to demand the prophet’s head?” I say.

“Oh, plenty,” says Robert, scrolling through Twitter. He’s done a search for #HerProphet. There are death threats aplenty.

“Do you think it will work?” I ask, even though I suspect his answer.

“No.” His answer is as stark as the prophet’s demand.

“Why not?”

“Because not enough women will join her.”

I lean back, looking at him from more of a distance. He lifts his gaze from the tablet, the blue glow of the screen casting a cool light over his bearded face. “Really?”

He leans back against the couch, shifting so that while his torso is further from me his leg presses more intimately against mine. “Obviously, you would kill any man who abused you.”

“Then why haven’t I killed you?” I ask, the question coming out softer than I meant it to. I wanted to tease him, instead I exposed something about myself. I am not as heartless as I want to be…

“Because I don’t abuse you, Sydney. I love you, I honor you, and I serve you.”

I laugh at that. “You serve me?”

“I brought down an entire cartel in order to serve you.”

“That served you too! Your own son was trying to destroy you, and because you’re not a complete sociopath, instead of killing him, you got him arrested. And you didn’t just ‘free’ me of the burden of a cartel trying to kill me and destroy Joyful Justice, you also trapped me into marriage!” My voice is high-pitched, my exhaustion from earlier replaced by righteous indignation. Lord help me, I do love my indignation righteous. I am so damn right in this moment. So why is Robert smirking at me like he knows something I don’t?

“You’re incredibly beautiful, you know that, don’t you?”

“What! That is so not the point.”

“You never try to make yourself more beautiful. You’ve only ever worn makeup to fool people into believing something about you—”

“That’s not true, I used to wear makeup…” My mind races back to when I was Joy Humbolt. I used to get dressed up and go out and have fun. Just for fun. With James…we had some wild nights, and I’d wake up with mascara smeared under my eyes. Not from tears but from sweaty laughter.

Robert’s face softens and he leans forward, as though he sees the pain on my face. He cups my cheek and I turn away, so he can’t see my eyes. Can’t see the sudden tears there. “You don’t have to be so hard all the time, Sydney, not with me.”

I hiccup a laugh but don’t respond. He’s right, I don’t have to be hard with him, but I do need to be sharp. If I don’t cut him loose, he’ll own me forever. I won’t allow that.

I don’t plan to use a blade, but he’ll bleed nonetheless…