Chapter 5
H e’s always, always in my mind—not as a pleasure, any more than I am always a pleasure to myself—but, as my own being. - Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights
Emma
My clunky Mary Janes slowed me down as I tore down Burling Street toward Halsted.
I knew that street would be busy despite the late hour and my best chance of getting a cab.
I didn’t dare risk a glance back. I could no longer hear him shout but there wasn’t a doubt in my mind he still pursued me… silently, like a hunter.
“Taxi! Taxi! Taxi!” I frantically waved my arms in the air as I screamed for a taxi.
As one pulled over to the curb, a couple who were both unsteady on their feet hobbled toward it. Shouldering them out of the way, I wrenched the back passenger door open and hopped in.
“Sorry! I’m so sorry!” I shouted at the confused pair of drunks through the closed window. My heavy breathing fogged up the glass as the cab pulled away.
“Where to, miss?”
“Edgewater. Winthrop Avenue.”
A taxi all the way to my apartment was an extravagance I couldn’t afford, but I had no choice. Twisting at the waist, I stared out through the grimy rear window, half expecting to see him clinging to the trunk hood like some action movie hero.
The cacophony of red, green, and white lights of the city blurred as I squinted at every car that pulled up behind my cab.
The car took a left-hand turn onto my quiet residential street. Overgrown trees smothered most of the light from the street lamps.
Digging into the front pocket of my backpack, I pulled out a few crumpled bills and tossed them to the driver. “Keep the change,” I tossed over my shoulder as if I could afford it. What I really couldn’t afford was staying out on the street for one minute longer than necessary.
Hugging my backpack to my chest, my gaze darted down both sides of the street. Everything was quiet and still.
As I stepped onto the weed-littered walkway leading to my apartment building, careful not to trip over the parts of the cement that had cracked and raised up, I tried to listen past the pounding of my heart for any unusual sounds.
Just as I reached the outer door, there was a muted roar of an engine as a large black SUV turned onto my street.
Transfixed, I stared at the bright headlights as it rolled closer and closer to me.
Visions of the SUV careening up onto the lawn, the door swinging open and my being pulled into the dark interior by a pissed-off Russian, never to be seen again, taunted me.
The SUV slowed as it approached my building.
My lungs screamed for air as I forgot to breathe.
My limbs went numb as a cold shiver of fear ran its fingertips up my spine.
The SUV drove past.
I braced a hand against the stone threshold as my knees almost buckled with relief.
The outer door always had a broken lock, so I swung it open and stepped inside the dimly lit corridor. The dingy grey cracked tile floor, smoke-stained walls, and flickering yellowed dome ceiling light felt like Buckingham Palace to me.
Making my way to my first-floor apartment, my hands shook so badly I couldn’t get the key in the lock. Thankfully, after a few tries, it swung open wide.
“Thank God! Where the hell have you been, Emma?”
Shoving Mary aside, I slammed the door shut.
Turning, I slid the bolt lock in place, then put on the chain that we rarely used. And just for good measure, I turned the little button lock on the doorknob.
“Emma? What’s the matter? What’s happened?”
Tossing my backpack onto our worn sofa, I ran over to the two small windows on the other side of our tiny living room, which overlooked the front yard.
Putting my thumb and forefinger between the metal slats, I peered through the blinds.
The only signs of life outside on the street were the occasional lights in the apartment buildings across the way.
“Emma! What the fuck? I was going out of my mind with worry! I even called the cops! Where have you been? Why is your hair wet?”
Despite the late hour, Mary still had her glossy black hair done up in her signature rockabilly victory rolls with a bright red bandana, and matching matte lipstick. Although she had changed into one of her favorite Buffy the Vampire Slayer t-shirts and a pair of leopard print tights.
Stumbling over a pile of books haphazardly stacked near our secondhand coffee table, I walked over to her and wrapped my arms around her waist, laying my head on her shoulder. “I could really use a whiskey tea.”
* * *
A half hour later, my hair wrapped in a towel and wearing my Pride & Prejudice Limited Edition t-shirt, I was curled up on the sofa with a pot of tea generously spiked with whiskey and sweetened with orange marmalade.
Mary sat across from me. Our feet shared the same brightly colored pink and green crocheted afghan.
Mary waved her hands in the air as she shook her head. “Wait! Wait! I’m confused. Dodgy old Mr. Fitzgerald’s son kissed you?”
She knew about my current predicament. That if I didn’t come up with tuition by the end of next week, I’d be kicked out of the Librarian Sciences Master’s program.
I couldn’t imagine a better job than being a librarian.
Spending every day surrounded by the thoughts and imaginings of the greatest minds of civilization.
Reverently running the tips of my fingers along the smooth gilded lettering on the bindings, the words coming alive in my mind as I pictured each story.
Books had been the only constant companions in my life. My only genuine friends. Through their pages, I had lived a thousand lives and had had countless adventures.
I had faced down marauding armies, braved thunderous storms on the high seas, sliced an opponent to ribbons with my rapier wit, and dared to kiss the dangerous man who crept out of the shadows to steal a forbidden embrace.
Through books I was beautiful, confident, and brash. Between these pages, I had filled my life with color, music, laughter, and passion.
I dared.
I risked it all.
I lived!
Why would anyone settle for the dull drudgery of reality?
In books, the handsome guy saw through the reserve of the shy, unpopular girl and intuitively knew the person she was within. He looked past what others saw and realized she was smart and funny and charming. In books, the wallflower got the guy.
Too bad that didn’t happen in reality… well… at least not until tonight!
Letting out a frustrated sigh, I put my teacup down and hugged my ‘I’d Rather Be Reading’ throw pillow to my chest. “No! Just listen…”
I then told her the whole sordid, wanton story, leaving nothing out.
About halfway through, after I had described how he’d spanked me, she stopped me to go into our tiny kitchen and grab a bottle of tequila from under the sink and two shot glasses emblazoned with the Loyola University logo. She poured us both a shot. We clinked glasses and belted them down.
After pouring herself a second shot, she nodded to me. “Okay, I’m ready… continue.”
After I had finished, she said nothing at first. Then her red painted lips opened in a big smile as she leaned forward. “You slut !” she teased.
I threw my pillow at her. “This isn’t funny, Mary!”
Grabbing the pillow and tossing it back at me, she countered, “Who said anything about it being funny? That is the most fucking amazing sex story I’ve ever heard! I’m jealous!”
“He mistook me for a… for a… lady of the night!” I huffed.
Pouring us both another shot, she handed my glass to me. It was slightly overfilled and dripped tequila onto my blanket. Carefully raising it to my lips, I sipped a small amount so it no longer dripped, then clinked glasses with Mary and tossed it back.
“First of all, we are not in nineteenth century London. They’re called hookers. He thought you were a hooker !”
Peeved, I snapped back, “Actually, he thought I was an escort. They are way more glamorous and high-end than a hooker.”
Mary raised one perfectly penciled eyebrow. “Still…”
“What? You don’t think a man could mistake me for someone sexy?”
“I’ve been telling you for years that men dig that whole innocent schoolgirl vibe you’ve got going on but your nose is too buried in a book to notice. That’s why you’re a virgin at twenty-three.” She stuck her tongue out at me with her last statement.
Once more throwing the pillow at her, I fired back, “Not anymore!” Then stuck my tongue out at her.
“You slut !” she cried out again, laughing.
Curling my knees up to my chest, I wrapped my arms around my bent legs. “Do you really think it makes me a slut?”
“Are you serious?”
“I slept with a guy I don’t even know!”
“Yeah? So? It happens all the time! At least you have a fabulous story! I lost my virginity in the back of a beat-up Dodge in an empty parking lot behind a movie theater to a guy who got his balls stuck in his jeans zipper. You lost yours to some sexy-as-fuck Russian dude with a pirate scar.”
I shrugged as I twisted a frayed edge of the afghan around my finger. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, I wasn’t sure what to think. Everything was just a confused jumble.
Mary pulled the blanket out of my hands.
“Hey! Don’t you start feeling any bullshit Catholic guilt over this.
Seriously, you were long past due. There might be a double standard about girls who sleep around too much, but let’s face it.
No guy wants a girlfriend who’s in her mid-twenties and still a freaking virgin .
They’ll think you were raised in some cult in the middle of the woods. ”
I kept my gaze averted. “It’s just…”
“What?”
My cheeks burned as I inhaled a deep breath before blurting out, “He was kind of… rough and, well… forceful. There were… parts… that were painful. Not just the virginity part but other times and I… I kind of… well… liked it.”
Mary curled her fingers into a claw. “Meow! Who knew you were into the kinky shit?”
“You don’t think it’s wrong or twisted or something?”
“Hell, no! In fact, I’m relieved. I figured you for a pretty boring missionary girl when you finally got around to it. Who knew you were so sassy and audacious!”
I placed my forehead on my knees, burying my face to hide a smile. It was a rather outrageous story, straight out of a romance book. Maybe I had the moxie to be one of the heroines I admired after all?
“Oh, my God! This is just like ‘Smashed,’ season six, episode nine of Buffy the Vampire Slayer ! The one where Buffy finally fucks Spike and they tear the house down around them!” observed Mary excitably.
I remembered the episode. You couldn’t be best friends with Mary and not have seen every episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer at least three times.
I always rooted for the bad boy Spike. Angel was just too nice…
and gentle. The ‘Smashed’ episode was hot as hell.
The way Spike threw Buffy against the wall and just started fucking her.
I bit my lip as similar memories of tonight and the time in the shower came crashing back.
“So are you going to see him again?” asked Mary, breaking into my sensual reverie.
“Are you crazy? Did you miss the part about the shaved head and tattoos with blood?”
“Don’t judge. For all you know, he’s a proper businessman who owns a string of furniture stores across the Midwest.”
Mary pulled out her laptop and flipped it open. The light from the monitor cast a bluish light over her face, making her lipstick look a dark, gothic purple. “What’s his name? I’ll Google him.”
Both my hands flew to my mouth. My eyes stretched wide open.
“What?” asked Mary.
I shook my head, too horrified to speak.
“Tell me! You told me everything else.”
I muffled my response behind my hands.
Mary leaned over and grabbed my wrists, pulling my hands down. “Say that again?”
The heat of a humiliating blush crept over my chest and up my cheeks. “I don’t know his name.”
For a moment, the apartment was silent. Then Mary threw her head back and laughed.
“You slut !”
* * *
Later that night, I was tucked in under a mountain of blankets on my twin bed, staring at the ceiling.
With a frustrated sigh, I curled onto my side and winced as a bruising soreness settled between my legs.
It wasn’t just there. Everything felt sore.
There was no way I wouldn’t have bruises tomorrow. Yet, I couldn’t regret tonight.
It was crazy and wrong and completely out of character for me…
and that was what I liked about it. It was like I had stepped out of the pages of a book and finally lived , if only for a few hours.
Years from now, when I worked at some quaint little suburban library, I’d feast on the memories of tonight and know that at least for one night, I had been the heroine of my story.
Reaching for my phone, I brought up Google Translate. It was a long shot, but I knew you could type in the phonetic spelling of a word and sometimes Google would recognize it. It took several tries and versions, but I finally typed in Ty moy moy malen’kiy.
The actual phrase glowed on the screen in Russian Cyrillic. Ты мой, мой маленький.
I stared at the English translation, unable to suppress the fluttering in my stomach.
You are mine, my little one.