Chapter 14 #2
“Oh,” I yelp, blinking water from my eyes.
Calloway stands just outside the shower, watching me. “Better?”
I nod and slide down the slick tile wall.
In an instant, Calloway is there, fully clothed under the spray, holding me upright. Water soaks through his expensive shirt, plastering it to his chest. Droplets cling to his eyelashes and roll down his perfect cheekbones.
“Got you,” he says, supporting me with an arm around my waist.
I lean against him, my head resting on his chest. “Why are you being so nice to me?”
“Because you need help.”
I laugh, the sound hollow even to my drugged ears. “I don’t deserve it.”
His free hand strokes wet hair from my face, tucking it behind my ear. The tenderness of the gesture makes my chest ache.
“Everyone deserves kindness, Jiya.”
I shake my head against his chest. “Not me. Not after—”
“Shhh,” he soothes. “We can talk when you’re sober.”
We stand under the spray until my skin puckers with goosebumps. Calloway reaches around me to shut off the water, then helps me out of the shower. He wraps me in a towel, rubbing my arms to warm them.
Water drips from Calloway’s clothes, creating puddles on my bathroom floor.
He looks down at himself, at the shirt plastered to his skin and the trousers soaked through, and grimaces.
“Take them off,” I say. “No point in catching pneumonia. Remember?”
He hesitates, his jaw tight. “Turn around.”
I shake my head, swaying slightly. “Don’t wanna.”
“Jiya.” His tone is warning, but I just smile, clutching my towel tighter around myself.
With a sigh that sounds like he’s mentally counting to ten, he peels off his wet shirt.
Water droplets cling to his chest and slide down the planes of his abdomen.
I watch, transfixed, as he unbuttons his pants and steps out of them, leaving himself in just black boxer briefs that are as soaked as everything else.
The unmistakable outline of his erection strains against the wet fabric. My eyes widen. He’s hard. Very hard.
And he’s enormous.
But something looks…lumpy. There are strange bumps visible through the clinging wet fabric.
“Are you a monster?” I blurt out, squinting at his crotch.
His head snaps up, his expression one of pure bewilderment. “Sorry, what?”
“Your cock,” I say, pointing with a wobbly finger. “It’s a monster cock.”
A flush spreads across his cheeks. “I mean, it’s big, but I wouldn’t call it—”
“No.” I shake my head, my drugged mind struggling to articulate the problem. “I’m not talking about the size. I’m saying you have something weird in there. Like, medically weird. Are you okay? Is something wrong with your cock?”
He looks down, horrified. “Fuck. What?”
“The bumps!” I insist, frustrated. “Are you telling me you haven’t noticed the bumps?”
Pure, unadulterated panic flashes in his eyes. In one swift motion, he yanks down his underwear, staring at himself with growing horror.
I stare too. Along the upper side of his shaft runs a neat line of small metal barbells, embedded just beneath the skin.
“Oh,” I say, recognition finally dawning. “You have a Jacob’s Ladder.”
He looks up at me. “Yes. What about it? Is that what you were talking about?” he demands, gesturing at his own erection. “The piercings?”
“Sorry.” A giggle bubbles up from my chest, escaping before I can stop it. “I didn’t realize what I was seeing.”
I can’t look away. My eyes are locked on the series of small, metal barbells running along his shaft. Six of them, glinting under the bathroom light. I’ve seen plenty of men’s dicks before, but never one with jewelry like this.
“I’ve never been with a pierced man,” I mumble, still swaying as I lean against the sink for support.
Calloway’s expression shifts from frantic relief to a new, profound discomfort. He snatches my hand towel from the rack and covers himself with a sharp, jerky movement.
“No!” The cry rips from my throat, and I lurch forward, nearly losing my balance. “Don’t hide it. I want to see. You’re beautiful.”
His eyes harden. “No.”
I pout, my lower lip jutting out as I stare at the terry cloth now hiding the object of my fascination.
“Does it hurt?” I ask, tilting my head.
“No. Not anymore.”
“Will it hurt me?” My voice drops to what I hope is a seductive whisper.
Calloway sighs, a long, weary sound, and runs a hand through his wet hair. “No, it’s supposed to enhance the woman’s experience, not hurt. And it won’t hurt you, because we’re not having sex.”
I take a step toward him, my eyes lighting up. “I want to try it.”
“No, you don’t.”
“Mood killer,” I groan.
“Where are your clothes?” he asks, his voice strained as he changes the subject.
I point toward my bedroom. He helps me there, sitting me on the edge of the bed while he rummages through my dresser. He returns with a T-shirt and shorts, setting them beside me.
“Can you dress yourself?”
I attempt to remove my wet bra, fumbling with the clasp. After watching my clumsy efforts, Calloway lets out another sigh.
“I’ll help, and I’m not looking,” he says.
With his eyes closed, his fingers find the clasp of my bra and release it. I let it fall away, the cool air hardening my nipples.
“Put the shirt on now, please.”
I grasp the shirt he hands me, holding it against my chest. “I did,” I lie.
“Good. Now let me find us some towels for our hair.”
He turns back to face me, his eyes widening. The T-shirt is still clutched in my hand, my body exposed to him. His gaze sweeps over me for one electric second before he curses and squeezes his eyes shut.
“I thought you said you got dressed!”
The initial flash of triumph I felt at catching him off-guard fades fast. My confidence crumbles as I glance down at my naked body.
“I’m that ugly to you?” I whisper, my lip quivering.
Calloway’s face softens, though his eyes remain closed. “You’re not ugly. You’re perfect.”
The words should please me. It’s exactly what I want to hear. But something about the way he keeps his eyes shut makes my chest ache. Men are supposed to look. They always look. That’s the point.
“You can’t even bear to look at me.”
Hurt rises like a wave, breaking through the drug’s fog. I pull the shirt over my head, struggling with the armholes, my dignity in tatters.
“What’s wrong with me?” I mumble into the cotton.
Calloway opens his eyes, seeing I’m now partially covered. Relief crosses his face.
“Nothing’s wrong with you, Jiya. You have no idea what you’re doing to me. But you are also not yourself.”
I shake my head, the movement sending the room spinning again. “I am. I want you.”
His expression turns serious, almost sad. “No. You’re drugged. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“You’re saving yourself for marriage or something? Are you a virgin?”
His mouth tightens. “No. And I’m not getting into the subject with you. Let’s get you dressed.”
I nod, but when I try to stand to remove my wet underwear, I sway. Calloway steadies me with his hands on my shoulders.
“Sit,” he orders.
He kneels before me, his eyes locked on mine as his fingers hook into the waistband of my wet underwear. “Lift your hips.”
I obey, and he slides the wet fabric down my legs. He helps me step out of them, then guides my feet into the shorts, pulling them up to my thighs.
“Stand,” he instructs, supporting me as I rise so he can pull the shorts the rest of the way up.
Once I’m dressed, he helps me into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin like tucking in a child. He places a glass of water and two ibuprofen on my nightstand.
“Take these when you wake up,” he says. “You’ll need them.”
I catch his wrist as he moves to leave. “Stay,” I plead, my eyelids growing heavy. “Please.”
He hesitates, then sits on the edge of the bed. “Until you fall asleep,” he concedes.
I smile, victorious in this small way. My eyes drift closed as I feel his weight settle beside me.
“Why won’t you touch me?” I mumble. “Everyone wants me.”
His fingers brush a strand of hair from my forehead, the touch feather-light. “I won’t take advantage of someone who’s not in control,” he says softly. “That’s not who I am.”
The words don’t compute. He’s a killer. A predator.
“Then who are you?” I ask, fighting to keep my eyes open, needing to understand this man who makes no sense.
A shadow passes over his face, a flicker of old pain that’s gone as quickly as it came.
“Someone who knows what it’s like to be used,” he says. “Now sleep, Jiya. I’ll be here.”
His hand finds mine atop the covers, his fingers intertwining with my own. The simple, warm contact is more intimate than anything that happened tonight.
His words echo in the fog of my mind: Someone who knows what it’s like to be used.
They don’t sound like a lie. They sound like a confession.
The darkness is pulling me under, a welcome abyss. But my mind refuses to rest. It’s replaying the night on a loop, two images of Calloway flickering and overlapping.
There’s the man in the bathroom with murder in his eyes, who detailed how he would make another man eat his own fingers.
And then there’s this man, sitting by my bed, whose touch is gentle. The man who refused to take what I offered because I wasn’t in control.
The monster and the gentleman. The protector and the predator. Which one is the mask?