Chapter 29
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Without finesse and with minimal coordination, my fingers crash against the keyboard. The furious clack, clack, clack sounds through my office, setting my teeth on edge. Irritation prickles at my skin like the bites of tiny red ants.
Dear uninspired writer,
I stare at the words until my eyes unfocus, blurring the letters. Over and over, I type and delete.
Your manuscript is juvenile and your grammar is abysmal.
“Damnit!” I grunt, jamming my finger into the delete button for the tenth time.
I drop my head, letting my gaze rest on my lap. “This isn't you,” I chide myself. “Stop being a jerk and just do what you do. Just edit.”
For what feels like the hundredth time today, I yank my eyes away from my unfinished work and refill my coffee mug. Armed with the creamy brew, I feel more settled, more capable. At least, that's what I tell myself.
As the hours tick by, I find myself reading and rereading paragraphs. My normally enthusiastic notes are limited to grammar edits and spelling corrections.
A heavy sigh whistles out through my nose. I've always found solace in stories, a way to escape. Today, every line falls flat. My heart sits lifelessly in my chest, unable to feel the characters.
Four days, the words whisper through my brain like a taunt. It's been four days since Gray showed up here with blood on his face. Four days with no sign of him. Four days since he violated me.
My own voice scoffs inside my head. Violated? Did you really feel violated?
I clench my fists in my lap, wrapping my fingers around the hem of my sweater.
My body tightens, compressing like a spring.
My head drops low, shame washing over me as the admission of my own feelings rings through my head like a blaring alarm.
The truth is, I didn't feel violated. I felt afraid, shaken to my core.
“No, I did what he wanted because I was afraid. Only because I was afraid.” The lie slides off my tongue like sandpaper.
It wasn’t just fear that I felt. When I gave in to him, gave him control over my body, I felt free.
I felt a relief I never have before. For a moment, every thought bouncing around in my head had quieted.
The scars of my past, the constant presence in my mind that screams my inadequacies, they lifted and I was weightless.
I felt wanted. Under his praise, I melted like chocolate in the sun.
I became a desperate, wanton thing, aching to please him.
Anger bubbles in my stomach, a queasy, rumbling feeling.
He touched me. He made me want him. He made me crave this feeling that no one else has ever given me.
And now he's gone. The shadow that's haunted me day and night has dissipated, escaping like smoke through an open window.
I'm just the ash left behind by the fire.
He got what he wanted, and it wasn't enough. I wasn't enough.
The ghostly voice of my father whispers in my ear, You're nothing, girl. No one could love someone like you. You’re a broken, useless thing. I press my palms against my ears, like I can block him out.
My chest compresses, squeezing my heart.
I shouldn't have expected him to stay. I shouldn't have deluded myself into thinking he could have been different than every other man in my life. But he isn’t just like every other man, is he? my own voice whispers through my head. No, I respond, he’s worse.
He didn’t just take control of me. He made me give it to him.
“How could you be so stupid?!” I scream into the quiet of my office. “He's a goddamned stalker. He's probably moved on to his next victim. You weren't even good enough to keep a psycho around. How could you let yourself think you were special?”
It’s just like my father always said, I’m broken.
This is just more proof of it. Only a broken thing would be so eager for attention that they would take it from a man like him.
He’s a murderer, a monster. I should want him gone.
I wanted it at first. I did everything in my power to keep him away.
I got what I asked for, so why does it make my heart feel like it’s being crushed inside my chest?
“Well, fuck him!” My coffee mug jangles, nearly toppling over when I slam my palms against the desk. “I don’t need him.”
* * *
The lit sign above the door to the local bar reads Jack’s Place.
It flickers, letters fading in and out of existence.
Its neon lights, much like the rest of the building, have seen better days.
There isn’t much in this town, but at least we have a bar.
For a moment, my courage falters and I wonder what the Hell I’m doing here.
“It’s just a bar,” I remind myself.
Pushing the door open, the scent of beer and peanuts wafts around me.
A bell above the door jingles, drawing the bartender’s attention.
He’s handsome in a small town way. His curly, brown hair is slightly disheveled, as if he’d brushed it with his hands instead of a comb.
It frames a kind face, strong but with a hint of softness.
He smiles as I approach the bar, his brown eyes warm with welcome.
His cheeks pinken when I push my coat off of my shoulders.
Something about the way his eyes flit from my face to my body makes me feel powerful, wanted.
His eyes snag on my hips where my sweater dress hugs me, highlighting my curves while still covering me.
Something shifts inside me, and for once, I don’t hide from the appreciating gaze.
I absorb it, twirling my fingers through my hair as I order a drink.
I’m not sure where this newfound confidence comes from, this freedom to let him look at me.
You know exactly where and who it comes from, the thought slithers through my mind, dragging with it a painful reminder of why I’m here. Bullshit, I yell back at the slippery thoughts. I sip my drink, drowning my sorrows in the harsh burn of alcohol.
After three drinks, my blood is alight with a boldness that I’ve never known. I skim through my phone, through the texts that I should have deleted, but never did. With the kind of conviction that only drunkenness can bring, I text the unknown number that isn’t unknown to me anymore.
I hate you.
You’re just like everyone else. You used me and left.
Don’t ever come near me again.
Asshole!
When he doesn’t respond, my heart sinks into my stomach.
By my third drink, the fluttery ache in my belly has dulled to a gentle quiver.
By the fifth, it’s no longer there, replaced with a sloshing warmth.
When a man pulls up a barstool next to me and offers me a sixth drink, I barely look at him before agreeing.
I lap at my drink like a thirsty dog, not caring that I can’t even recognize the flavor.
He sits close, talking next to my ear about something.
Sports, maybe? Was it sports? I let him chatter at me, occasionally nodding my head in agreement, or maybe it’s just bobbing along to the music.
I’m not sure. When a gentle hand lands on my shoulder, I turn my head toward him, actually looking at him for the first time.
He’s a decent looking man in his forties, not quite as cute as the bartender, but handsome in his own right.
Maybe I should go home with him. The thought flits through my mind and I scoff, maybe inwardly or maybe out loud.
The concept makes my lips pucker and my nose scrunch up in disgust. I realize immediately that there’d be no point in going anywhere with him.
He’s not the man my body is pining after.
He won’t make me come so hard that I see stars.
Only one man has ever done that to me. I pinch the bridge of my nose, willing away the memory of that asshole’s hands on me.
It feels like he’s everywhere, like I can’t shake the thoughts of him out of me.
Even now, I can smell the dark aroma of vanilla and leather, a scent that’s uniquely him.
A pained grunt at my side draws my attention back from my thoughts.
The face of the man beside me ripples with pain as his hand falls away from my shoulder.
His eyes are wide and frightened, tears dripping from the corners.
Wait, something isn’t right. There’s still a hand on my shoulder.
I whip my head around, the room slightly spinning as my eyes land on the hulking figure beside me. His face is pulled tight and his eyes burn with anger. My body instinctively leans toward him before I right myself, pushing myself back on my barstool until my back bumps into the bar.
“Ma—” I begin and quickly stop myself. I will not call him master. I will absolutely not call him that, no matter how much that nagging, horny part of my brain wants to. “Gray,” I utter as dryly as I can.
Unable to shoulder the weight of his gaze, my eyes lower to his chest. “Leave me alone.” I hate that my voice wavers.
The guy next to me whisper-screams in my ear, “Shit. Is that your husband? He looks pissed…and I think he broke my fucking hand.”
I open my mouth to tell him that he is absolutely not my husband, when Gray cuts me off.
“Yes,” he answers, his lips pulling up into a wolfish grin, “and I’m taking my wife home. Now.”
I open my mouth, an argument on the tip of my tongue, but no words come out.
They get strangled in my throat, choking me under the weight of his gaze.
His eyes sparkle with unspoken challenge, like he’s daring me to fight him.
His hand darts out, pinching my chin between his fingers.
I whimper when his thumb digs into my skin in a silent warning.
“Let’s go, wife,” he draws the word out like he’s tasting it.
He bends forward, pressing his lips against the shell of my ear. His breath whispers across my sensitive skin, goosebumps rising in its wake. “You wanted my attention, precious. Now you have it.”
I slurp down a mouthful of my drink, finding my mouth suddenly as dry as the Sahara.
Gray drops a wad of cash on the bar that looks like significantly more than what my drinks cost before unceremoniously hauling my body over his shoulder.
My head sways back and forth against his back, the alcohol sloshing in my belly with his steps.
Without permission from my brain, my body relaxes into his hold. The warmth of his body tingles through me, warming places I didn’t realize were cold. The motion of his steps rocks me as we move. My eyelids begin to droop as we sway. Through the haze of drunkenness, my thoughts tumble through me.
I didn’t realize I was tired. I'm so tired. He’s so warm, like a big, angry blanket. Why does he smell so good? He smells like sex and sugar cookies. Oh, crap. Did I say that last one out loud?
The chuckle that rumbles through his chest confirms that I might have, in fact, said that last one out loud.
Shit.