Chapter 19 Jillian
JILLIAN
“So I will wait for the next time you want me”
— “Moon Song” by Phoebe Bridgers
I leave the playground before the last family does. I don’t want to be the woman standing alone at a fence in the dark. And God forbid someone ask me if I’m okay. What would I even say?
Thanks for asking! No, I’m not okay at all!
In fact, I’m deeply depressed and fucked-up in ways I cannot even begin to describe!
I have PTSD and my trauma has trauma, I sleep with the lights on, I am developing strange fetishes for masked men with domination kinks, and I think I’m subconsciously blowing my life up because deep down, I don’t believe that I deserve great things! But I so appreciate your question!
I put my headphones in and turn the volume up until the music is so loud it hurts. Phoebe Bridgers is the songstress of choice this evening. Not the smart choice when you’re already a mess, but I’m clearly not making smart choices today.
The grocery store on Broadway is basically deserted.
I’m surprised it’s even open. Thanksgiving, of course, means that everyone’s happily at home, sitting around tables with people they belong to.
I grab a basket and walk the aisles without a list, grabbing items at random.
Eggs. Bread. Milk. Clementines. I add yogurt and a box of granola bars and a bottle of cheap red wine that I’ll drink tonight on my couch while I put my mental screensaver on and try not to think about things I shouldn’t be thinking about.
The checkout girl has tinsel in her hair. She wishes me a happy Thanksgiving and I say “you, too” and smile, even though the effort it costs me to smile feels like pushing a boulder up a hill.
Outside, the cold stings my wet cheeks and I realize I’m still crying. Not too bad, not the kind anyone would notice, but definitely, undeniably tears. I’ve sprung a leak and it won’t stop, no matter how many times I wipe my face and curse myself.
It’s the playground that’s doing it to me. That was a stupid detour and I should’ve known better. I don’t let myself do this often—not just the playground drive-by, but the other stuff that always comes with it. The math, the imagining.
I hope she looks nothing like him, wherever she is.
I shift the grocery bag to my other arm and walk faster. The music drowns out the street noise and my own breathing and everything else I don’t want to hear right now.
Home. Wine. Couch. That’s the whole plan. It sounds blissfully dull, and I couldn’t be happier to do it—
—until a hand grabs me by the elbow and drags me into the dark mouth of an alley.
I’m so surprised that I let go of my groceries. The bag hits the pavement and all the eggs crack, wine spills, and clementines go rolling everywhere. But I can’t even spare a thought for my poor lost fruits, because there’s a tall, dangerous man who’s demanding my full and undivided attention.
I know it’s him before I even turn around. I’ve felt this exact gloved hand on my body enough times now to recognize it. I yank my arm free and spin.
He’s standing in the alley in full gear. Black jacket, hat on, and the mask. The fucking ski mask, right here, on a public street in Manhattan.
“Are you out of your mind?” I hiss. “Have you been following me?”
He just breathes and stares at me.
“Hey.” I shove his chest. It barely registers. “I asked you a question. Have you been following me?”
He nods silently.
“For how long?”
He shrugs.
My hands are shaking, but it’s not from fear. It’s rage. Uncut, uncomplicated rage, and God, it feels good to feel something clean for once.
“This wasn’t the deal,” I spit. “You come to my apartment. That’s it.
That’s where this happens. That’s—that’s the container, okay?
That’s what makes it manageable. You show up at my window, we do what we do, you leave.
That’s the arrangement. You don’t get to follow me around the city in a ski mask and drag me into alleys. ”
“I couldn’t wait.”
“You couldn’t wait?” I repeat. “What are you, a child? You couldn’t wait a few hours?”
He shakes his head.
I press my back against the brick wall and fold my arms across my chest. My wired earbuds got ripped out when he grabbed me and Phoebe Bridgers is tinkling faintly from where they dangle against my coat. I pull them out of the jack and stuff them in my pocket. “Someone could see you, you know.”
He shrugs again. Clearly, he does not care.
Or maybe he just believes he’s above it all?
Yeah, that must be it. He’s so arrogant and convinced of his own omnipotence that he’s just like, sure, who gives a shit if a random civilian sees a masked man terrorizing a woman in an alleyway?
Hell, I bet he could have the entire FBI surrounding us and he would still believe in the marrow of his bones that he’d walk away scot-free.
Knowing what I know about how the world treats men, I’d be inclined to agree with him.
“So what’s the plan here?” I ask. “You just gonna lurk in alleys all night?”
“The plan was to watch,” he answers. “The plan changed.”
“Changed into what?”
He steps closer. My back is already against the brick, so there’s nowhere else for me to go. I can only stand still as he plants one hand on the wall beside my head and brings his face close to mine, close enough that I can feel the warmth of his breath through the mask.
“You were crying,” he says.
I immediately deny it. “No, I wasn’t.”
“Little fox, haven’t we talked about what will happen if you lie to me?”
“It’s cold out,” I insist as my heart starts to pitter-patter in my chest. “My eyes water when it’s cold.”
“I saw the tears while you stood at that fence.”
I feel sick to my stomach. “You saw that? That’s—you can’t just—” I close my eyes. “That was private.”
“I know.”
“If you know, then why the fuck were you watching?”
“Because I watch you. That’s what I do.” His thumb drags across my cheekbone, catching a tear track that I missed. The leather of his gloves is cold against my skin. “Who made you cry?”
“Nobody. I told you, it’s the cold.”
“Who?” he growls.
“Drop it.”
He doesn’t drop it. He just keeps his thumb on my cheek and his eyes on mine, those pale, unreadable eyes above the black fabric. I can feel him waiting. He’s patient when he wants to be, which is one of the more infuriating things about him.
“It doesn’t matter,” I say, turning my face away. “It was a long time ago.”
He absorbs that. His thumb traces down to my jaw and tilts my chin back up. “I’ll find out eventually.”
“No. You won’t.”
He’s so close now that his chest is touching mine. The wall is rough through my coat and his hand is in my hair. I should push him away. I should absolutely push him away. This is categorically insane behavior from both of us.
But when he kisses me and I let him, neither of us are truly surprised.
He makes a sound against my mouth—surprised, almost—and then his hands are everywhere.
He spins me around and my palms hit the brick and the cold scrapes my skin.
He shoves my coat up and yanks my jeans down just far enough, just past my hips.
I hear his belt, his zipper. Then his hand grips the back of my neck and he pushes into me and I gasp so loud it bounces off the walls of the alley.
He doesn’t ease in. He fucks me the way he grabbed me—sudden, greedy, with no warm-up to speak of.
Anyone could walk by and see me in the most compromising position I’ve ever been in.
And I can’t bring myself to push him away.
He pulls my hips back and drives deeper. I bite my own forearm to keep from making noise. But a moan slips out anyway, only partially muffled against my coat sleeve, and he rewards it by going harder.
“That’s it,” he murmurs behind me. “Let me hear you.”
“Someone will—” I start.
“I don’t give a fuck.”
His hand moves from my neck to my hair and he wraps it around his fist, pulling my head back until I’m looking up at the sliver of dark sky between the buildings. My back is bowed and my knees are shaking. He’s so deep I can feel him in my ribs.
He finishes with a groan that vibrates through his chest and into my spine. His forehead drops against the back of my head and we both just stand there, breathing hard, fogging the cold air between us.
My legs are jelly. I’m barely holding myself up with my palms flat against the brick. He pulls out and I wince. He tugs my jeans back up for me before I can do it myself, which is weirdly considerate for a man who just fucked me in an alley without asking.
I turn around and sag against the wall. He’s already tucking himself back in, pulling his zipper up. My hair is wrecked. My hands are scraped raw from the brick and there’s grit embedded in my palms.
I look down at the carnage of my grocery bag. Egg yolk is oozing across the pavement. Red wine is pooling around the scattered clementines. One of the fruits has rolled all the way to the mouth of the alley.
“You owe me groceries,” I say.
He looks at the mess on the ground, then back at me. “I’ll Venmo you.”
It takes me a moment to realize he’s joking. When he does, I start to giggle, and the giggle turns into a laugh, and the laugh turns into a whole fit of laughter, and before I know it, I’m doubled over, wheezing, delirious, unsure what the hell is happening to me.
I mean, this can’t be real. None of this can.
I’ve spent my whole life focused on my career above everything else, and now, I’m running the very real risk of everything getting derailed just so I can get my rocks off in dirty alleyways with a man whose face I’ve never seen.
Is that wise? Is that girlbossy of me? Definitely not.
But one thing is becoming painfully clear, as I rearrange my clothes and the Masked Man does the same: The thin, weak little rules I tried putting in place to contain this whole disaster are already crumbling under the force of it.
There’s something real here that’s more powerful than mere lust, and three simple rules will not be enough to keep it all from blowing up in my face.
When will that happen? How bad will the consequences be when it does? Stay tuned to find out, I guess.
For now, all I can do is laugh.