Chapter 7
Sorry About All the Screaming
Mark’s car moves up the dark, winding road that leads to his house.
The same road I followed days ago, trying to find him, only to discover that while his house isn’t technically within Forest Park, it may as well be.
The trees seem to press in on the car, and the headlights illuminate only a narrow strip of road before us.
It feels more claustrophobic than cozy. I’ve never been the biggest fan of the woods at night.
It sets off some primal instinct that makes me uneasy. Or maybe that’s just nerves.
I already texted Katie to let her know I won’t be coming home tonight. She responded with a GIF of Sandra Bullock in Miss Congeniality singing, and I immediately put my phone on Do Not Disturb. She’s continued texting me, but I haven’t looked at anything she sent after that.
“Why do you live all the way up here?” I ask Mark, finally breaking the silence.
His eyes flick to me as he says, “It’s quiet.”
“The better to hear you scream, my dear,” I murmur to myself.
“What?” Mark asks, and I’m not sure if it’s because he heard me or because he didn’t.
“Nothing. So. Truth or dare?”
His eyebrows rise as surprise flickers across his face. “I didn’t think you were serious.”
“I’m always serious. So?”
“Truth.”
“Why do you really have all that shit in your glove box?” I know there’s a reason, and it’s not that he likes to be prepared.
His hands tighten on the steering wheel, and a long moment passes where it seems like he might not answer. Finally, he says, “When I was a kid, my mom and I lived out of our car off and on, and I got in the habit of making sure necessities were stocked, just in case.”
“In case you had to leave in a hurry?”
“Yes.”
I nod. Abusive dad then. Or stepdad. Probably the sort of guy who was nice enough until he started drinking, but touch a drop of alcohol and all hell breaks loose. Then once he sobered up, he’d swear it would never happen again. I only say, “Your turn,” though.
“What would I find if I Googled you?”
“Depends on how hard you looked.” Part of me wants to leave it at that, but he answered my question, and fair is fair.
“If you looked at the top few results, most likely just stuff about me being a psychiatrist and my practice. Maybe some patient reviews. If you kept looking though, on the second or third page of the search results, probably—I’m not sure, it’s been a while since I checked—you’d find some articles about my dad with my name briefly mentioned in them. Maybe some pictures of me as a kid.”
“Why?”
“My dad stole a lot of money, and the police raided our house. It was in the news for a while.” I still remember what it felt like the next day, seeing the pictures of me standing barefoot in the grass in front of our house, wearing only a nightgown with tears streaming down my face plastered in the newspapers.
Pretty little girl, crying for the camera while police swarmed her house and tore her life apart.
Prior to my dad’s trial and the availability of courtroom photos, those were the ones the media used most often when talking about him.
It didn’t matter that he wasn’t in them anywhere.
They simply put a much, much smaller picture of his mugshot below and called it good.
“What’s his name?”
“Randall Reed.”
“Where is he now?”
“Prison. My turn. Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” he says again.
I could ask him about whatever man it was in his life that routinely sent him and his mom fleeing to the safety of their car.
I could ask him about how he wound up as a hockey coach.
I could ask him about how he ended up here, of all places, because I’m sure there’s a story there, but I don’t.
I don’t ask any of those questions. Instead, I let the combination of alcohol and my own insecurities get the better of me.
“Have you ever been in love?” I regret the words as soon as they leave my mouth.
“Once. Why?” he asks.
“What’s that like?”
He considers it for a moment before asking, “Have you ever been skydiving?”
“No.”
“Well, before you jump out of the plane, it’s a mixture of fear and exhilaration. Then, once you’ve jumped, all you can hear is the wind roaring past you as you plummet toward the ground at two hundred feet per second. There’s no time to think—not really—so the fear disappears.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. I guess you could say I pulled the ripcord, and my parachute didn’t deploy. And when I tried to deploy the backup ‘chute, it was missing.” He’s quiet for a moment. “It ended badly, and I ended up here. Why do you ask?”
“You have to say truth or dare,” I remind him.
“Truth or dare?” he asks with a sigh.
“Truth,” I reply, deciding to be nice, since he clearly wants to know.
“Why did you ask?”
“I’ve never been in love. Not really. I’ve dated lots of people—men and women—but… I guess when I’m standing in the plane’s opening, waiting to jump, every single time, I look out at the ground and think, ‘Nah. I’m good.’”
“You’ve seriously never been in love?”
I shake my head, deciding not to ask him any more questions. A few minutes later, he turns down his driveway. Lights flicker on as we near the house. He must have some kind of smart home setup that detects when he’s nearby. I bet there’s a pretty elaborate security system too.
As the lights come on, I’m presented with a large house that can only be described as mid-century modern meets treehouse.
“This is your house?” I ask as we get out of the car. I don’t know what I thought his house would look like, but definitely not this.
“Not what you were expecting?” he replies, seeming to read my mind.
“No. This is… whimsical. You do not strike me as being full of whimsy.” There’s a deck that wraps around the house, and it’s hard to say for sure, but the exterior square footage must be nearly as large as the interior.
“I have a thing for architecture.”
“And what? This was some famous architect’s house?”
He looks a little sheepish as he says, “Yes. Would you like to come in?”
I nod as I move toward the front of the car, and he takes my hand.
Heat seems to flow through his skin to mine and up my arm.
I’m surprised that my admission of never having been in love didn’t give him second thoughts.
But maybe he doesn’t care because he’s intending that this will be a one-night stand.
I don’t think so, though. He doesn’t strike me as the type to bring people back to his house for that.
We pass a small carport filled with shelves of turpentine and stain, and he leads me up a series of steps toward a small bridge, which connects to the deck and house.
There’s a large entry door made almost entirely of glass, and he stops to unlock it before pulling me into the house.
He gives me a quick tour. It’s floor-to-ceiling glass windows, vaulted ceilings, and light-colored wood.
It’s completely unexpected, but gorgeous.
“You’re showing off, aren’t you?” I ask as we return to the living room, and he smirks.
“Okay, well just to warn you, my condo looks nothing like this, and I should probably ask you for the number of whoever did your interior design.” I grab his hand and tug him closer to me until the space between our bodies vanishes, and all I can feel are the hard lines of his pressing into mine.
His hands circle my waist, gripping it. “Truth or dare?” It’s still my turn.
“Truth.”
“What is it you want from tonight?”
His fingertips slowly trace up my spine, making me fight the urge to shiver, as his eyes bore into mine.
“I want to take you out on my deck, where anyone can see us, and I want you in my lap, writhing on top of me, until I’m so close to coming that I’m worried about it happening before I’ve even had you.
Then, I want to tear your clothes off and plunge my tongue inside you.
I want to feel you clenching my tongue while you climax, so I can imagine how good it’ll feel when you’re coming around my dick, screaming my name. ”
My breath catches as he presses his hips into mine, and I feel exactly how much he wants me.
I respond by pressing against him with the same amount of force, and the friction makes me gasp slightly.
His gaze, locked on mine, intensifies. I couldn’t look away even if I wanted to, and I don’t want to.
“I want to bury myself so deep in your mouth that you’re gagging on me, tasting the pre-cum dripping from me.
Then I want to bend you over the railing of my deck and fuck you until you’re screaming my name so loudly, for so long that the neighbors call the police, and when they show up, I’ll look them straight in the face and say, ‘Sorry about all the screaming, officers.’ And once they leave, I’ll look at you and see my cum running down your thighs.
After that, I want to bring you back in here and do it all over again. ”
“Damn,” I whisper, clearing my throat, still unable to look away from him. “I don’t know what I was expecting you to say, but it wasn’t that. You want to see your cum running down my thighs?” I question.
His fingers move to my face, pushing my hair back. “I know you’re on birth control,” he says with a smirk. “And I’m clean, so assuming you are too, yes. I’d like to see my cum running down your thighs.”
Thoughts spin furiously through my head.
I’m trying to decide what to say next. To determine which words will get me closer to my goal, but he’s right here.
He’s all I can see, all I can feel, and my cunt is throbbing, begging for release, shouting at me to say yes.
To agree to everything he just said. Finally, I settle on the truth.
Winning gets him off. It’ll probably take me further than any lie ever could.