I can hardly remember the police coming and cutting the ropes that restrained me and Greg, but that’s what Greg said happened and I have no reason to doubt him. The thing I do remember is sobbing like an orphaned child in the kitchen and Greg forcing a beer in my hand.

The cops asked me a hundred questions and I wanted to leave, but I was home, so where would I go?

“We need shots,” Greg insisted, so we headed to the closest bar, The Gaslight, infamous for opening at 6 am (an alcoholic’s morning paradise), was busy during the late afternoon as the sun was setting.

We sat at the bar and Greg ordered two tequilas and two Buds. The skinny and illegally smoking bartender placed lime and salt between us, but Greg told her we wouldn’t need it. She removed them without any sort of response.

We sat quietly. I watched the bartender push her cigarette butt in a half-filled ashtray and light another. I felt a well of pain rush through my stomach and I asked her for one. “If I get busted, you help pay the fine.”

“No, problem.” She smiled and handed me one. As I lit it, I still could feel Steve near me, almost as if he was sitting next to me affecting my every move. I dragged on the Marlboro and could feel the heat of the smoke attempt to kill the pain. For a moment it almost did, but quickly I could hear Steve’s voice beckoning me to feel more pain. I never had a thought of being raped, it never occurred to me before and I hoped I didn’t tell the police, so I asked Greg softly, “What did I tell the police.”

“What happened,” he said staring straight ahead.

“Everything?”

“Everything. You’re still lucky. Steve’s done worse things.”

That hung in my throat. Murder was worse but I couldn’t imagine it. For a glimmering moment I wished Steve had blown my head off.

We had a few more shots and left. We stood on the street corner talking about Steve, whether he would get caught and if he didn’t, would he come after us again.

“I think so,” I said. “I can’t go back to my house Greg, I can’t.”

“Stay with me and Fran.”

“There’s no room. Come on, I’ll take you home. There’s someone I want to see.”

After I dropped Greg off, I started to cry again at the first red light that I hit. When I looked over, a young adolescent girl was staring at me and I couldn’t believe she was old enough to drive. A part of me felt bad for letting her see my pain.

I drove through Laurel Canyon; anxious for the comfort of a woman’s arms around me, assuring me there was still love in the world.

Betsy lived in a funky cottage next to a house and I could hear folk music as I headed up the pathway with my hands in my pockets, but as I reached the door I could hear her sobbing on the other side. I wondered if she heard what had happened? I knocked.

She opened the door and leaped on me. “Michael, oh my God! I’m so glad you’re here.”

“Me too,” I said, assuming by her dramatic attention to me she knew what had gone down.

“Fran is such a bitch, why did I ever get involved with her?”

“What did you say?”

“Oh,” she said, stepping away from me. “You know Mike, I think honesty is real important. So I’ve got something to tell you.”

“What?”

“I’m sort of a lesbian.”

I froze. “Excuse me?”

“Well, I love men, too. I love you.”

“You do?” I said, completely stunned that this woman would ever be capable of love.

“Mike, I think I’m over women for good. I want a stable man.”

“Well, I’m about as far away as stable as you’re going to get. Aren’t you curious where I’ve been for the last couple of days.”

“I just figured you’ve been busy. So where you been?”

“Dealing with demons and to tell you the truth, I’m tired of it.” I left with Betsy screaming my name. I got in my car and drove around the city several times before registering for a room at the Hyatt downtown. Lying in the strange bed in the strange room, in utter horror of the world around me, I thought of Hillary and how at peace she must be.