Chapter 9
NINE
KIRA
“I don’t know why you’re being so obstinate,” Carol says, lips curving in familiar disapproval at what I’m wearing. “And how dare you dress like a whore for your engagement dinner? Your father’s going to be horrified.”
I look down, too. Oh god, why am I wearing this? It’s the tight black dress I wore to Carnal earlier tonight. Why didn’t I change?
My face flames as I look toward the stairs. “How long ’til Daddy comes down? Do you have something I can change into?”
And Drew. I don’t want him seeing me in this either. He’s not as conservative as Dad or anything, but I know he’ll be mortified in front of his parents. And wasn’t that what we agreed when we started this whole thing? Neither of us would embarrass the other, and then we’d both be free of them.
“Of course, I’ve got a dress for you,” my mother snaps. “I know better than to trust you with these things. Follow me.”
She heads up the stairs and I follow, feeling about as big as an ant. But then, she always makes me feel this way.
After she’s corseted and bound me in the dress she had in mind, I look in the mirror, gasping for breath and feeling more exposed than ever. My already big hair has been blown out about three inches bigger than normal before being bound back in a high up-do. Meanwhile, my cleavage is an inch lower.
Oh, right. Sometimes when I’m on campus a lot like I have been lately, I forget that I’m still officially a Dallas church lady . Or the daughter of one, anyway.
Carol comes to the mirror beside me, looking far too much like my stretched and Botoxed older twin as she smiles at me.
“There’s my little girl,” she whispers, puckering her lips like she’s going to give me a kiss.
I scream, jerking awake, only to find myself all but plastered to Isaak’s chest. Oh, dear god! I jerk back from him to my side of the bed in the dark of our hotel bedroom, swiping at my mouth and praying I didn’t drool on him.
But then I worry I moved too quickly or that I actually screamed out loud when I was dreaming because he starts to stir.
Immediately, I pull the covers up and play dead.
The mattress continues to shift, and deep, throaty rumbles come from his side, but I can’t make out what he’s saying, if it’s anything.
“Watch out,” I think he mumbles, and I realize he’s dreaming, too.
He actually might’ve been the one to wake me up with as sharply as his legs spasm back and forth.
I don’t think it’s a good dream. Should I wake him? I can’t remember if it’s bad or not to wake someone up from a nightmare.
“No!” he barks. “Elma!”
He suddenly shoots to a sitting position, breathing hard.
There’s a long moment where he doesn’t do anything. It’s silent in the room except for the loud noise of his breath sawing in and out.
“Fuck,” I hear him hiss, and when I crack my eyes open just the tiniest bit, I see him drag his hands through his hair, then down his face.
Next thing I know, he’s climbing out of bed and tossing down the sheet behind him. The shadow of his big body lumbers toward the bathroom, but he’s quiet about closing the door. Then I hear the shower. Only then do I turn over to see what time it is.
Three-thirty in the morning.
Does this happen a lot? It’s almost like he has a routine for when it does. I don’t know many people who take middle-of-the-night showers. Or does he just know he won’t be able to get back to sleep?
I flop back in bed, arm thrown over my face. I don’t know if I’ll be getting back to sleep, either.
It’s been three days with my new bodyguard, and I’d love to say we’ve gotten into a routine, but that’d be a lie. The guy Carol hired might’ve been a narc and a bore, but I’ll give him this: I could generally forget he was there.
It’s impossible to ignore Isaak, though. Whether he’s trying to pry information out of me to see if he can guess who the stalker is, chewing loudly during one of his many requested “chow breaks,” or interfering when I’m trying to conduct research at Carnal .
I still can’t decide if I regret turning down the nice, tall, incredibly intimidating dom with the dark, liquid voice tonight who offered to spank me.
I couldn’t take my eyes off him and Moira the entire night. They certainly did a lot more than just spanking.
I feel breathless just remembering it all. In the end, I was just happy that Moira seemed to find someone to finally satisfy her. By the time the mysterious dom was making her recite bible verses and spanking her with a bible if she didn’t get them right, she was screaming and coming harder than I’ve ever seen her. Because of my research at the club, I’ve seen my friend have a lot of sex.
Then I had to climb back in Isaak’s rumbling truck while still being all turned on from everything at the club. My super helpful brain was happy to transpose the big, good-looking man beside me onto the scenes I’d just seen. And myself for Moira.
Especially when we climbed into bed together.
Bend over for him. Beg him to spank you. Beg him to fuck you and make you scream like Moira screamed for her dom.
I cover my eyes with my hands even though the room is dark. Thank god this is the last night before we can get separate rooms. Good lord! How much can one little OCD-tortured brain take?
He simply takes up too much space, literally and figuratively. There’s no possible way to ignore Isaak Luther. After the game tomorrow, at least we’ll be able to get separate beds. This is too much to ask of two strangers.
I mean, does the man have to sleep in only his boxers? When I woke just a few minutes ago, my face was smashed against his broad, warm, bare chest. His chest hair was softer than I expected, and my fingers were all tangled up in it. Good god, at least I woke up first!
I couldn’t imagine my mortification if I hadn’t.
What if you’d been curled over, and you’d woken with your head on his lower stomach, mouth right by his pelvis … And instead of waking from a nightmare, he’d woken, still breathing hard, and ? —
Intrusive thought. It’s just an intrusive thought. I can cut it off at the root and forget it ever existed. It never has to happen again because it wasn’t real.
But I can think of all the things that are real to drown it out.
Like my engagement party tomorrow with Drew. Shit, I guess it’s tonight since the clock says it’s three-thirty in the morning already. It’s been too long since I saw him. We usually try to catch up at least once a week. He’s always been one of my best friends.
We used to talk every day. I twist in bed and reach for my phone on the nightstand.
It’s all but automatic at this point to ignore the fifteen abusive text messages that have popped up while I slept. Instead of giving them any airtime in my head, I pull up my photo albums and click on the one labeled Drera , the silly name Drew and I made up for ourselves in high school.
I smile even though I feel my forehead tighten and furrow as I look through the pictures of us. We went to the same expensive prep school and were both under a lot of pressure in high school. His dad is trying to build some sort of political dynasty, and since Drew’s an only child, all the weight falls on his shoulders. I know he hates it and his father.
Even though we’re smiling in all the pictures, I can see how miserable we both were. We only had each other to talk to about what was happening at home. I knew his dad did more than just lecture. Sometimes, when he got really drunk and in a mood, he hit Drew.
Carol never beat me, even though, in a twisted way, I used to wish she would have. Then I’d have something to finally show the world. Like, look! A bruise. A broken bone. She really is an abuser! I felt guilty every time I thought it, especially when Drew came to school trying to hide his limp or holding his stomach.
I just didn’t know how to deal with what was happening in my own home. I didn’t know back then that constant cruel words still counted as abuse. Instead, I scribbled down Carol’s screamed words in my journal as if I could capture evidence to prove to myself I wasn’t crazy and that it really was as bad as I thought.
Everybody else adored my mother. She threw amazing parties, was generous at church, and had a kind word and listening ear for everyone. Until she got home and transformed back into a monster like some sort of shapeshifter.
My thumb continues swiping through memories. In so many pictures, I’m looking at Drew, not the camera. I had such a wicked crush on him back then. It was awful.
We were best friends, yeah, but our parents had been talking about this arranged marriage bullshit our whole lives. For a while there, Drew rebelled against anything and everything his dad wanted for him.
Including me, which hurt.
He still considered me his best friend, sure, but he fucked anyone who’d open their legs or bend over for him.
I was so screwed up, and it only made me love him more for a while. Even when I was providing an alibi for him, so his dad would think he was with me while he went off on another hookup. His dad took his car away for falling grades, so I’d pick him up and drop him off at his latest. Then, I’d park down the street and read a book or do homework until he texted me when he was done.
It was pathetic. It was also still better than being at home, where the monster was. So I spent hours and hours in the dark with just my dome light on, being studious while other people my age got up to shenanigans.
Drew certainly always dumped himself back in the passenger seat, smelling like alcohol and all sorts of other things I couldn’t even begin to identify. He seemed exciting, dark, mysterious, and tortured while also being my Drew, the boy who goofed off with me and watched YouTube videos for hours in our cars after school. Neither of us wanted to actually go into our houses.
It was a painful, confusing few years.
I keep scrolling through the photos until I come to the prom pics. Even after all these years, I still can’t help the full-body cringe.
Ugly, slutty embarrassment . That was my mother’s assessment of me when she finally saw the pictures that came out in the yearbook. That’s not what has me cringing down to my bones, though.
I’m grinning at the camera with all my teeth, full of such hope and actually feeling pretty for one day in my pathetic life. I’d already ditched the ugly beige dress my mom had forced on me and donned a simple pink A-line dress with a sweetheart neckline.
That night was ‘the night,’ I’d promised myself. I would declare my feelings to Drew and lose my virginity to him. Then we’d really be bound for life. God, I was so fucking na?ve.
I hear the shower turn off and all but drop the phone in my hurry to turn it off and place it face down on the nightstand.
I’ve just barely got my breathing under control by the time Isaak walks out from the shower.
Does he even have the boxers on? Or, since he assumes I’m asleep, did he just come out totally naked?
Not fucking helpful. Jesus. I grabbed my phone to distract myself, and now here I am, right back to the intrusive thoughts. I cling to my pillow and squeeze my eyes shut. I will not look. I will not look.
I peek.
And catch an eyeful of Isaak’s ass as he bends over to step into his boxers. In the shadow of the deeper darkness, I think I see something swinging between his legs. I immediately squeeze my eyes shut, but it’s almost impossible to slow my breathing down now. Dammit, can he tell I’m awake?
I all but stop breathing when he whispers, “Kira?”
It’s a struggle, but I try to maintain the same slow breathing rhythm. I am asleep. I am asleep. If I give out the vibe hard enough, will he believe it? Can you give out a vibe when you’re actually asleep? I’m probably trying too hard like always.
I breathe out in relief when he just climbs into bed, then realize I just broke the pattern. I try to snort a little and turn over in bed like it was just a natural move.
Except he’s climbed into bed facing me.
And now I’m facing him.
When my eyes blink a little, it’s to find him watching me. I startle.
“I knew you were awake.”
Embarrassed, I go into attack mode. “Yeah, ’cause you just scared the shit out of me!”
“You were awake before that.”
“I don’t know. I’m dozing. I’m not used to people in the bed with me getting up to take a shower in the middle of the night.”
“What do the men in bed with you usually do?”
Again, I’m immediately embarrassed. I don’t usually have men in bed with me at all, middle of the night or otherwise.
“Why are you still talking to me? You already woke me up. Let’s just go back to sleep already. It’s an ungodly hour.” I plump my pillow in aggravation and shut my eyes.
“Love to,” comes his gruff reply.
The mattress creaks as he stretches out beside me. Long minutes tick by. I’m not sleeping, and I can tell by the fact that he’s not snoring yet that neither is he.
“Can’t sleep?” he asks.
“Not if you keep talking to me,” I snap.
“Are you nervous about your engagement thing tonight?”
“I wasn’t, but thanks for reminding me.”
“What’s your fiancé like? Dougal? Dalton? Something pretentious like that, right?”
“It’s Drew,” I grouse. “And he’s not pretentious. He’s kind. And refined. Not that you’d know anything about that.”
Isaak snorts. “You think being refined is something to brag about? Must be nice to be part of the one percent.”
“Jesus, I didn’t mean anything by it. I just meant he has manners. He opens the door for me. Sends thank-you notes when he gets gifts. When was the last time you sent a thank you note?”
“Does a day after thanks-for-the-ride text count?”
“Thank you for making my point.”
“I’m just a man, honey. And plenty think me a gentleman ’cause I don’t ghost.”
“But you don’t want to make an honest woman out of any of them, either, do you?”
He laughs under his breath. “What century are we in?”
I breathe out and lean my head back against the pillow. I don’t even know what I’m talking about anymore. Sometimes I say things and only realize after that I sound exactly like my mother, which is beyond horrifying.
The area I’m about to become a Ph.D. in is literally all about destigmatizing old ways of thinking about sex and cultural mores. I thought I’d deconstructed my thinking about all this shit. But then I go to a place like Carnal or spend time with Isaak and find my stomach all in knots, all turned on.
I’m a stereotypical hypocrite. So, I’m exactly what I was born to be.
“I’m tired,” I whisper. “Can we just sleep?”
He’s quiet and, after a moment, whispers back, his rough voice all but a caress in the night. “Yeah. Sorry, Red.”
Which has me all but twisting in the sheets with longing and sexual need. But then, I always did have a thing for the tortured bad boys, didn’t I?