Chapter 12
I blushwhen Hannah walks into the room. I can’t imagine what she thinks of me. Within the first hour of knowing me, she’s seen me stripped down by her boss in front of everyone, and now I’m naked save for a towel cuddled in Matthew’s lap. I must seem pathetic to her.
She sets the tray on the small side table beside where we’re sitting. “I brought a little of everything,” Hannah says with a shrug. “I wasn’t sure what you’d be up to eating considering…” she trails off, a haunted look taking over her delicate features. She shakes her head as if she’s knocking free of a bad memory then gives me a friendly smile. “If you need anything, just pick up the phone over there and dial one.”
I return her smile with a shy one of my own. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Rose. It’s my pleasure to serve you.” Something about the way she says that makes my skin prickle.
“Thank you, Hannah. I think we’ll be fine for the evening. Why don’t you take the rest of the night off?”
Hannah gives Matthew a bright smile. “Thanks, Matthew.” She turns her attention to me once again. “If you need anything at all, don’t hesitate to call,” she reminds me.
I get the distinct impression she’s not talking about bringing me food or whatever else a housekeeper does. “I will. Thank you for the food. Everything looks delicious.”
“You’re welcome. Enjoy your evening. I better go check on Slade.” There is a devious sparkle in her eye, and I can’t help but wonder about her relationship with Slade.
As soon as she’s gone, Matthew pulls a plate of pasta from the tray. I’m still perched on his lap. I should probably move to the other chair, but I really don’t want to. I like being close to Matthew. I feel safest when he’s within arm’s reach. Don’t get much closer than sitting in his lap. I reach for the plate, and he pulls it back, giving me a hard look. He twirls the fork in the noodles, swiping them through a thick cream sauce, then holds the fork up to his lips, carefully blowing on the bite of food before bringing it to my own lips.
I open my mouth, accepting the bite. I moan as the food hits my taste buds. The sauce is rich and flavorful, obviously homecooked and not from a jar like I’m used to. I savor the bite and practically salivate when Matthew offers me a second bite, this one with a piece of chicken smothered in the same delicious sauce.
“You don’t have to feed me,” I say to Matthew after the second bite.
He just gives me a look that tells me not to argue, so I don’t. If I’m honest with myself, I like him feeding me. He’s taking care of me in such a small, yet profound way. There’s something intimate about being fed that has nothing to do with my being naked on his lap.
Matthew silently feeds me bite after bite until I feel like I’m going to burst. He holds out another bite, and I shake my head. “I’m stuffed.”
He looks from me to the half-empty plate and doesn’t seem satisfied. Damn Dr. Martinez. She ran a battery of tests on me while I was sedated and found that I’m deficient in several essential nutrients and that I’m borderline malnourished. Ever since, Matthew has been shoving food at me every chance he gets, never satisfied with how much I eat.
“You should eat more.”
“I really can’t. I’m full.”
Even though he doesn’t look happy about it, he sets the plate back down on the tray. I groan when he picks up another plate because this one has a slice of cheesecake covered in chocolate and caramel sauce. Matthew gets a forkful, and I swear I can already taste the tartness of the cheesecake and the chocolatey caramelly goodness. Except, he doesn’t offer the bite to me. Instead, he eats it and gives an exaggerated moan as if it’s the best thing in the world.
“This is delicious. Too bad, you’re full.” He takes another bite of the cheesecake.
I lick my lips, staring at the cheesecake longingly. “I could maybe eat another bite…”
Matthew points the next forkful at my lips. I don’t hesitate to take what he’s offering. It’s even better than it looks. The cheesecake itself is creamy and smooth with just the right amount of crisp crust. The chocolate sauce is just the right amount of bitter to counteract the almost overly sweet taste of the caramel. I moan as I savor the treat.
I can’t remember the last time I tasted a dessert so perfect. Stale cookies from the shelter don’t hold a candle to this cheesecake. The last thing I can remember tasting this good was a birthday cake for… someone… years ago. Back before—I shove the thoughts away. I won’t think of my past. Not now while I’m enjoying my present so much.
Matthew holds up another forkful, and I eagerly eat. He feeds me until the only thing left on the plate is a few crumbs from the crust and smears of chocolate and caramel. I have to admit, if I were alone, I’d be licking the plate clean, it was that good.
“That was the best thing I’ve ever eaten in my life,” I say honestly.
“Glad you enjoyed it, love,” Matthew says, sounding tense.
I open my mouth to ask him what’s wrong, but instead of words, I yawn. Now that my stomach is full, I’m suddenly exhausted.
“Let’s get you ready for bed.”
Matthew helps me up from his lap then leads me over toward his bed. “Um. Matty?” He turns, raising an eyebrow in question. “Shouldn’t you be showing me which guest room is mine?”
He just shakes his head. “You’ll stay here.” The way he says it is so final that I know there is no sense in arguing. “I’ll take the guest room.”
“I can’t kick you out of your own room. I don’t mind a guest room. They are way nicer than anywhere I’ve stayed in the past.”
“Nonsense. My room is more comfortable. The other rooms don’t have a bathtub like this one does. You’ll be more comfortable here.”
I look from him to the massive bed. I chew my bottom lip as I consider the options. I can do what he says and stay in his room while he takes the guest room, or we could both stay here. It’s not any different than him staying with me at the clinic. He shared a bed with me last night, and that bed was half the size of this one.
“You can stay here too.” My words are impulsive, and I know it. I’m fooling myself if I think that sleeping beside him in his bed is the same thing as sharing a hospital-like bed. It isn’t at all, but I don’t hate the idea of sleeping together. I slept better with Matthew by my side than I have in years.
“Rose, I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”
“Why isn’t it?” I do my best to sound nonchalant. I have no doubt that he’s also thinking about what sharing a bed could mean. He obviously doesn’t want me to feel uncomfortable. He wants to keep me safe. That’s enough for me to know that I want him to stay here with me.
“It just isn’t.”
“That’s the biggest non-answer I’ve ever heard. The bed is huge. There’s plenty of room. Besides,” I can feel my cheeks heating with a blush, “I like the idea of sleeping beside you. I feel safe with you.”
Matthew lets out a pained groan, then pulls me against his chest, hugging me. “I can deny you nothing, sweetheart.”
“So you’ll stay?” I ask, hopefully.
“Yes, love. I’ll stay. Now let’s get you tucked in. You look exhausted.”
“I am,” I say on another yawn, proving my words to be true. It feels like it’s been days since I slept. In reality, it’s barely been ten hours since Kisten drove me away from the club.
“Do you want a shirt to sleep in?”
I think about it for a minute. My back feels a ton better after my bath, but it sounds like torture to sleep in clothes. I shake my head no and bravely drop the towel from around my body. Matthew makes a pained sound, and his eyes darken. He’s looking at me the way I looked at that cheesecake earlier like he wants to devour me and lick up the crumbs. In the past, a man looking at me like this would make me shake from fear. Matthew wearing the look warms me from the inside out.
I shiver as Matthew reaches out and puts his hand on my shoulder. I’m not quite sure what he’s doing until he turns me around so that my back is facing him. Another shiver skates down my spine as he carefully traces the worst of the cane marks on my back.
“Daniels is fucking lucky it isn’t nearly as bad as it looked. Stay here, I’m going to grab some salve.”
He’s only gone for a minute. The salve is cool and smells minty. Matthew slowly works the cream into every inch of my back before moving to my bottom. The nurses at the clinic always helped me with this part. It was always clinical. This doesn’t feel clinical in the least little bit. That same warm feeling from before spreads through my body, and I can feel wetness between my legs again. The feeling is overwhelming, and by the time Matthew is done rubbing salve onto my upper thighs, I’m practically panting. I really don’t want him to stop.
His hands on me feel so good. So different from any other man’s touch before his. I know he was only tending to my injuries, but it felt like so much more. Every time he touches me, it feels like so much more than how he intends. I know he’s just looking out for me and being kind. I talked to one of the nurses about the club and dominants, she said that Matthew—well she called him Master Bennett like everyone else around the club calls him—takes care of his submissives.
The same spark of jealous flickers inside me at the thought of one of the gorgeous submissives from the club with my Matthew. God, I’m in so much trouble. He’s not my Matthew. I’m just the girl who he rescued from a bad situation and feels like he’s responsible since my injuries occurred in his club.
“Time for bed,” Matthew says, pulling me from my jealous thoughts. “I’m going to take a quick shower.”
“Okay.” I crawl onto the big bed and lay on my stomach. The bed is the softest bed I’ve ever laid on. It feels like a cloud, and it smells of Matthew. I unabashedly watch him undress. He strips down to his black boxer briefs, his hands pause at the waistband. He looks at me, then strides into the bathroom, his underwear still in place.
Not even going to lie… I wanted him to keep going. He confuses me—my reactions. I don’t like casual contact, and yet I crave Matthew’s touch. A week ago, I couldn’t imagine falling asleep next to a man, and now I want it more than anything. I’ve never felt desire or attraction before Matthew… I feel out of control. I want things that I’ve never wanted before. I don’t understand what it is about this man that makes me react completely different than I would with anyone else.
I hear the shower turn on and try to imagine what Matthew looks like naked with water streaming down his muscular chest. Lord, I’ve sunk way far down the rabbit hole. I close my eyes and try to focus on something else. Anything besides these new and overwhelming desires of my body.
I must fall asleep because the next thing I remember is Matthew crawling into bed. There is a flash of disappointment when he doesn’t pull me close, but I don’t have time to dwell on that. Matthew might not pull me close, but he does start combing his fingers through my hair. It feels so good that sleep quickly swallows me up again.
* * *
I wakeup to sunlight streaming in through a crack in the curtains. The space Matthew put between us last night is completely gone. He’s got me wrapped up in his strong arms, and it’s absolutely the perfect way to wake up. There isn’t an inch between us, and I love it. I relax back into him, my head on his chest directly over his heart, an arm wrapped around his waist. I even have one leg thrown over his.
I don’t want this to end. I close my eyes and listen to the steady beat of his heart. I let the sound lull me back to sleep. My last thought before sleep consumes me is of home.
* * *
“Take me with you tomorrow, please Matty, don’t leave me here,” I beg through my tears.
He takes my face in his hands and refuses to let me look away. I can just barely make out his handsome features in the dark. “Love, you know I can’t just take you. They will say I kidnapped you and send me to jail. We have to do this the right way. I swear to you, I will find a way to get you out of this place.”
I push my forehead to his, and he just holds me there. I have a feeling that this will be the last night we have together, and there is so much I should tell him. I know he’s older than me. I know this isn’t right, but I’ve been in love with him since the first time he pulled me out of a hidey-hole on my second day in this hellhole.
He sees me. He’s been my protector, my friend. My everything. Matthew is the only person who has cared about me besides my mom. And she didn’t even love me enough to stay clean. She died chasing a high that was more important than her daughter.
We lay snuggled against each other, silently soaking up the last hours we have. When the first light of dawn starts to creep through the window, I roll over so that my upper half is laying across his chest, my chin resting on my folded arms. “Matty, you know I’m in love with you, right?” I ask quietly.
Pushing his fingers through the mess of my hair, he roughly pushes his lips to my forehead, scratching my skin a bit with his morning stubble. “Yeah, baby girl, I know.” his voice is rough with emotion as he continues, “God damn me to Hell, but I love you too. Doesn’t change anything though, you know that. You are everything to me, but at the same time, we can be nothing more than this until you’re eighteen. You understand that, right?”
Smiling a sad smile, I nod my understanding then rest my head back down on his chest. “I’m going to miss you, Matty.”
“Me too, love. Me, too.”
The dream shifts to a different time. A different memory.
Matthew is gone. I haven’t seen him in weeks. The Grants won’t let me out of the house. It’s summer vacation from school, and not even the younger kids are allowed outside to play.
A new social worker came yesterday, and something about the visit seemed to spook the Grants. This social worker was different. She didn’t just do a cursory check and leave, she went through the entire house and talked to each of us kids individually. Of course, none of us spoke one ill word of the Grants. We all learned that lesson when the old social worker reported directly to the Grants whatever we said.
I hate not knowing why this last visit was different. Did Matthew finally find someone to listen to him? He promised he would get me out of this house. I wish I could contact him. Mrs. Perfect storms into the room I now share with three other girls—a trio of sisters that came to live here two weeks ago—and starts pulling trash bags out of a box and throwing them at us.
“Pack your shit. You have five minutes.” She leaves without another word.
Lydia, the youngest of the sisters, starts crying as the rest of us look at each other in confusion. None of us are stupid, we’ve all been in the system long enough to know the score. We start shoving our things into our trash bags. Lydia cries the whole time.
Five minutes later, Mr. Perfect screams for everyone to get downstairs. Trash bags in hand, we march down the stairs expecting to see our new social worker. That’s what happens when you’re told to pack and given a black trash bag. A social worker comes and takes you away. Not that any of us would complain. Anywhere is better than here.
I don’t know how much I’m going to be made to regret that thought. Within minutes, we are all loaded into a van… not a regular van with seats and stuff, a moving van. Cara, the oldest of the trio of sisters, puts up a fight when she realizes what’s happening. Mr. Perfect slaps her so hard she’s knocked to the ground. Nobody fights after that.
Two days later, we arrive at Red House. That’s when I know I will never see Matthew again. I do my best to hang onto his memory. I cling to it like a security blanket. Slowly, bit by bit, we are stripped of our humanity. Each day, his memory becomes more and more vague, until he’s nothing more than a dream.
A dream that promises to save me. A dream who swears he’ll keep me safe. A dream that says he loves me…
* * *
Gentle hands shake me awake.“Come on, sweetheart,” the voice in my dream says. “It’s just a dream. Wake up.”
I don’t want to wake up. I’m happiest when I’m dreaming of the blue-eyed boy who tells such sweet, sweet lies.
“Wake up, love. You’re okay,” the voice coaxes. Consciousness prickles, but I resist. I push it aside so I can stay surrounded by the pretty lies. “Come back to me, Rosie,” the voice croons as gentle hands stroke through my hair and down my neck.
I jerk out of sleep, instantly awake. Rosie. No one calls me that anymore. None of us kept our names after we were moved to Red House. The Grants gave me the name Tessa. We weren’t allowed to speak our real names under the threat of being beaten. When I escaped, I took my name back. It became a mantra for me. I would repeat, “I am Amara Rose Thompson” over and over again.
“Are you okay?”
“I—I don’t think so.” I shake my head, nervous.
I study Matthew’s face, trying to see what my subconscious somehow already knew. Somehow, this man is the boy I’ve been dreaming of for years. If he’s the boy from my dreams, that means that my dreams are memories, and Matthew isn’t just some good Samaritan stranger.
The Grants did their best to make sure I thought I was crazy. Those first weeks I would wake up screaming and crying for the boy—Matty. His name is right there in the forefront of my mind. As I look into the worried blue eyes of the man who saved me from Damon, I can’t keep from seeing the impossible, the boy from my dreams.
All these years, I thought that my brain created my dreams as an escape. A coping mechanism. Something to keep hope alive within a hopeless situation. Instead of dreaming about the brave prince rescuing the princess, I dreamed up a blue-eyed boy to be my hero.
My hero. I’ve thought of the boy in my dreams as my hero, and from the moment Damon pushed me into Matthew’s arms, I’ve thought of him as my hero.
I take a deep breath and close my eyes, willing the dream-Matty to disappear. There has to be a reasonable explanation for this, I mean, he can’t possibly be the boy I dream about. Can he? Has he always looked so similar to Matthew? Or is it my subconscious putting the boy I called Matty into the position of my hero because he is my rescuer in so many ways?
“Love, you’re starting to worry me, what is it? Did you have another nightmare?”
I shake my head. “Honestly, I really don’t know what I am at the moment. I had a dream, but now I’m wondering if it’s not actually a memory.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
Do I? Will he think I’m crazy if I tell him that I’ve been dreaming about him—or a boy who looks like him—for years? Maybe I am crazy.
“I—I think I dreamed about you,” I shake my head again, trying to dispel the dream-Matty from my mind. “It doesn’t make any sense. I’ve had these dreams for as long as I can remember. Usually after…” I close my eyes, stopping that train of thought in its tracks. I don’t want to go there right now—maybe not ever. “This dream is both my favorite and my least favorite.”
Matthew’s not looking at me like I’m crazy. He actually looks… excited?
“Why is it both your favorite and least favorite?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek, not sure that I want to answer. I close my eyes, take a deep, steadying breath, then decide to tell him the truth. “It’s my least favorite because I know I’ll never see you again. And it’s my favorite because…” I hesitate.
If this is my dream boy, how will he react to me saying my favorite part is that he tells me he loves me? On the same token, what if he isn’t the boy? What if I tell him I dream of a boy who I now can’t seem to disentangle dream from reality?
Matthew gently cups my cheek and looks at me imploringly. “You can tell me anything, love. I’m not going anywhere.”
How does he always know what to say? With one assurance that he isn’t going to disappear on me no matter what I tell him, he’s alleviated my worries.
“It’s my favorite because you admit that you love me.”
Matthew sucks in a breath, and there is an intensity about him that I’ve never seen before. “Do you remember?” he asks with so much hope it’s painful. “Do you know who I am, my Rosie?”
And just like that, it comes flooding back. All the things I stuffed into a box in the back of my mind. Memories of my mother. Us laughing and dancing in the kitchen to 80s music before I lost her the first time to addiction. The memory of her healthy and happy is a knife to my heart because now that I remember the happy times, I also see her body prone on the floor, the needle still protruding from her arm. The funeral where the only two people in attendance were my social worker and me.
Then it’s Matthew. Matthew as a teenaged boy teasing me. Making me smile when smiling was the last thing I wanted to do. Matthew protecting me from our foster parents. Matthew finding me. No matter where I hid, he always came to pull me out. Whether it was from a tree, under the old porch, or from my own dark thoughts. He was always there. Until he wasn’t.
I don’t realize I’m crying until Matthew wipes the tears from my cheeks. “You’re my Matty. You’ve always been my Matty.”
His eyes close tightly, and he leans his forehead against mine. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold him to me. Hoping against all hope that this isn’t just another wonderful yet extremely realistic dream.
“And you’re my Rosie.”
“I thought you were just a dream. They told me you didn’t exist when I woke up crying for you. After a while, I believed them. I thought that I was crazy. That I was just making up a hero that would take me away.”
“Sweetheart, I am very real. I’m flattered that your subconscious thought I was hero material,” he says teasingly.
“In all fairness, conscious me thinks you are pretty heroic too.” The man saved me from Damon, paid I’m not even sure how much money to free me of his contract. He’s given me a place to live and a security detail—no matter how over the top that is, it’s sweet. Not to mention, he has provided me with medical care to help my body heal from Damon’s beating. You don’t get much more heroic than that in my book.
“Good to know.”
Matthew kisses my forehead, then rolls to his side, pulling me with him. I snuggle into his arms. There is so much that we need to discuss, but not now. Now, we find comfort and solace within each other’s arms. Reality will sneak up on us soon enough. No need to rush it along.