by Lilah Pace
“Have the two of you talked about this man on the loose in town?”
“No. Not yet. ” I chew on my lower lip. “We were both busy this weekend. He basically lived in his lab on campus, and I had to proctor a test on Friday. Then I stayed at Carmen’s all weekend, because she was scared to death. But we bought her some pepper spray of her own and installed a couple of extra locks. So now she’s good. ”
Doreen doesn’t fall for the distraction. “But you talked to Jonah at some point, obviously. Yet you didn’t discuss this subject at all. ”
Oh, fine. Might as well admit this and get it over with. “I don’t want to discuss it with him. ”
“Are you afraid he’ll respond badly?”
“It’s not that. ” How can I put it into words? Instead of meeting Doreen’s eyes, I stare at one of her lush houseplants the whole time I speak. “Playing games with Jonah—pretending to be raped for my own pleasure—it feels so much sicker while people are really being hurt. ”
“You and Jonah have worked hard on consent. On establishing boundaries. That makes what you do very, very different from the reality of rape. You know this, Vivienne. ”
“Yeah, I do. So why do I need to pretend it’s the real thing? Why do I need the fantasy every single time?”
Doreen sighs. “Well, that’s the question. ”
It has been for years. I feel no closer to an answer.
• • •
In the end, I don’t have to raise the subject of the unknown assailant TV stations have now dubbed the Austin Stalker. Jonah does it for me.
Not half an hour after I’ve left Doreen’s, as I’m in the vitamin aisle at the drugstore, my phone vibrates in my purse. When I see it’s him, I pick up right away. “Hey. What’s up?”
“You should stay at my place tonight,” Jonah says.
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My cheeks flush hot. “You want me again so soon?”
A woman over by the gingko supplements gives me a look. Oops. Reminder to self: Lower your voice in public.
Jonah says, “I always want you. But I meant that you’d be safer here. My apartment’s on the top floor, and there’s security in the lobby. And you wouldn’t be alone. ”
“My place is more secure than it looks. You always have the door left open for you; a real intruder wouldn’t find it so easy to get inside. ”
“Still. Good locks are no match for an actual security system with cameras and a guard. ”
“I’m not worried,” I insist.
After a pause, Jonah says, “I am. ”
This isn’t about making me feel safe—at least, not only about that. Jonah has his own fears to contend with. What might have been stirred up within his soul because of this? So I relent. “Okay. I’m going to run home and pack an overnight bag. I’ll get to your place around . . . six thirty?”
“How does salmon sound for dinner?”
Apparently he genuinely likes to cook. This is yet another new discovery—one more of the many things I still get to learn about Jonah. “Sounds fantastic. ”
By the time I arrive there, darkness has fallen, and the city lights glitter all around the penthouse. It’s as if we were suspended just above the stars. Jonah’s apartment smells of lemon and fresh bread, and when he opens the door for me, he’s even wearing a black apron tied neatly, chef-style, around his waist.
“Good,” he says, instead of hello. Jonah pulls me into his arms for a long, lingering hug. “You’re here. ”
“Thanks for asking me. ” I kiss his cheek, revel in the feeling of being held in those strong arms. “My house is safe—really—but it’s just nice to know you were thinking of me. ”
He looks at me, and though I can’t quite read his expression, I think he might be surprised. “I’m always thinking of you. ”
And now I’m melting.
The dining area of Jonah’s penthouse offers a great look at the city—or at the nearby exposed-brick wall, where he hung my etching. Now I can look at it properly, without erotic reflections getting in the way. Although it’s from a series I created last year, well before we ever met, it captures the exact contrast in him that I find so compelling. It depicts a man’s hands holding a bird, the strength and tension in his fingers all the more striking because of the care with which he’s protecting something so small and fragile.
Jonah bid for this at a charity auction without even knowing I was the artist. Maybe he senses this contrast within himself too—the intertwined brutality and gentleness.
This reminds me of my next project, creating a new series of etchings that will symbolize Jonah and what he means to me. Can I ever do better than these hands, this bird? In my heart I feel sure I can, but the exact image still eludes me.
“So I actually have to teach next semester. ” He pours us each a little sauvignon blanc. The wine is the palest possible shade of gold. “Even research professors get pulled in once in a while. ”
“I’m guessing they didn’t stick you with the Rocks for Jocks section. ”
“Why they do that to entry-level geology, I’ll never know. ” This seems to be a sore point for Jonah. “It’s one of the most accessible sciences for non-science majors. We shouldn’t treat it as a throwaway class. ”
“Wait, you are teaching that? If so, you can change things. ”
He looks thoughtful. “Maybe I’ll volunteer sometime. But no. I’m doing a graduate seminar. Tuesdays and Thursdays, afternoon class. ”
“That’s pretty close to my schedule. We could ride to class together. ”
Jonah gives me an appraising look. “Yeah. We could. ”
His imagination must be showing him much the same visions mine is showing me: The two of us sleeping over at each other’s places, our lives coming together more and more. This is where most guys would panic. But Jonah seems to like the idea. So do I.
Once we’ve finished our meal and loaded the dishwasher, I expect Jonah to make some suggestion for our evening—finding a movie on TV or Netflix, for instance. We’re still learning how to be with each other in the quiet moments. There’s a charm to just standing beside him in his kitchen, Spanish guitar playing from the sound system.
But instead he slides his arms around me and steers me into a dance. I laugh softly; he does too, and says, “Is it too ridiculous? Dancing with a guy in front of the sink?”
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“I wasn’t laughing because it’s funny. Because it’s beautiful. ” I look into Jonah’s gray eyes. “Because you’re beautiful. ”
He kisses me, a gentle, searching kiss. As I open my lips for him, he keeps us swaying to the rhythm of the sultry guitar music. His mouth tastes like wine. City lights gleam in the dark around us. His broad hands smooth their way down my back, bringing our bodies closer together. I love the feel of him, the scent of him. The knowledge that I’m completely safe in his arms.
“I promise I invited you over with no ulterior motives,” he whispers between kisses along my throat. “But I’d love to take you to bed. ”
Of course he assumed we’d sleep together. I guess I did too, until this very moment, when I’m turned on and blissed out and yet unsure what to do. “I—I don’t think I can play one of our games tonight. ”
“That’s okay. We don’t have to . . . ” Then his voice trails off. “But you need the fantasy, to enjoy sex. ”
“Not to enjoy it—”
“I meant, you need it to have an orgasm. ”
“Yeah. I do. ”
I needed him to understand this. Now he does. Why hasn’t it made things any easier?
Jonah begins, “You said—sometimes the fantasy alone made you come. You fantasized about that when we had sex before. ”
“I don’t even think I can fantasize about it tonight,” I confess. “With that guy out there—I just feel weird about it today. I’m sorry. ”
“Don’t apologize,” he says, and his voice is firm. “You’re allowed to feel weird about it. You never have t
o say you’re sorry for not wanting the same thing I do in bed. ”
“I guess I’m not used to that. Because you’re so good at giving me what I want. ” I brush my hand against his hair; it’s grown a little longer, just enough for me to run my fingers through it. “Tonight is different, that’s all. ”
“Okay. ” Jonah kisses my forehead.
“We can still make love,” I offer. “Sex is still fun, even when I don’t—”
“No. I don’t want to . . . use you. ”
I know what he needs. “You need to learn to accept a gift. ”
With that, I push him back—not too hard, only enough for him to get the idea. By this time, we’ve danced toward the living room area of his penthouse, and so he topples back onto the broad, dark red leather ottoman. As he sits there, arms braced wide, legs slightly spread, I kneel in front of him and reach for his belt.
“Vivienne—you don’t have to—”
“I know. But I want to. And so do you. So let me just this once, okay?” I caress the ridge of his quickly hardening erection through the denim of his jeans. “Relax. ”
I unfasten his belt, unbutton, unzip. Jonah’s already so hard he nearly juts out from his boxers. With one hand I circle him, push his underwear out of my way; as I brush my thumb over the tip, I feel the slickness of pre-come against my skin.
There is nothing more perfect than Jonah’s face right now—lips slightly parted, eyes desperate. He winds his hands through my hair as I open my mouth to take him in.
But I don’t give him everything right away. Instead I lick him, tease the ridge at the head with my lips, nuzzle him against my cheek, kiss him—anything but suck him. Anticipation is sometimes the best part, and I intend to make him enjoy the wait. I luxuriate in the feel of swollen veins against my tongue, and the taste of salt.
“Fuck,” Jonah whispers.
“Mmm-mmm. ” It’s a negative, but it makes him groan, no doubt from the vibration of my lips against his cock. I pull back, and he slips from my mouth, blood-dark and glistening. “Not tonight. Tonight is all about you, baby. ”
Somehow, that was the wrong thing to say.
Jonah pushes back from me and sits up. “No. We’re not doing this. ”
“Are you serious?” A man turning down a blowjob? Who knew that was even possible? But the stupid joke dies in my throat unspoken. “I don’t understand. ”
“I told you. I’m not comfortable using you. ”
“You’re not!” But he knows that, surely—at least, his rational mind probably does. I suspect we’re dealing with a deeper level here. “Why isn’t it okay for me to make you come even if you’re not doing the same for me?”
“It’s too close,” he says shortly. “If I’m not giving anything back to you, it’s too much like—”
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His voice trails off. There’s no need for him to say the rest. Carter took what he wanted from Jonah’s mother without any thought for her pleasure, only her pain. To Jonah, any sex that isn’t reciprocal must be suspect.
“It’s always been so important to you that it’s good for me,” I say. “But that’s not just because you’re generous, is it? You need me to come. ”
“That’s how I know I don’t want to be like him,” Jonah says quietly. “That’s how I know that he twisted my mind, but he doesn’t control it. ”
“No. He doesn’t. You’re your own man, Jonah. Always. Never doubt that. ”
He smiles crookedly. Since sex is off the menu tonight, maybe we can finally talk more about his side of this. I feel like I understand the issues Jonah has because of his upbringing in the home of Carter and Lorena Hale, but apparently there are dimensions to this I hadn’t yet guessed. If he’s finally ready to open up more about this, I’m ready to listen.
I lean down to kiss him. Jonah embraces me tenderly, drawing me down beside him—but we both jerk upright when the intercom buzzes loudly, announcing someone who’s dropped by uninvited.
Who the hell? I look at Jonah, but he seems to be as confused as I am. So I climb off him, allowing him to tuck himself in and zip up as he goes to the intercom. “Who is it?” he calls.
A Texas-twanged man’s voice replies, “We’re with the Austin Police Department. We’d like to have a word with you, if you don’t mind. ”
The polite words only thinly veil hostility. Jonah and I look at each other, and I see in his eyes the terrible realization of why the police are here.
They’re looking for the Stalker. And they think it’s Jonah.
Nine
Thank God I had one of Kip’s peppermints in my purse. At least I can sit here at the table beside Jonah without the cops smelling sex on my breath from the incomplete blowjob.
That would be tacky at the best of times—and now, it could be disastrous for Jonah.
The two police officers sitting opposite from us could not be more stereotypically good cop/bad cop unless one wore a halo and the other had devil horns. Good Cop is about fifty, male, African-American, with a bit of salt-and pepper in his beard and a small but constant smile. Bad Cop is thirtysomething, white, red-haired, wiry, and permanently scowling. Both of them focus on Jonah; neither of them looks much at me.
“As you might know,” Good Cop says, “we had another attack a couple nights ago. Young girl was grabbed in the parking lot of her apartment complex. Guy forced her into his truck. ”
“I heard there was another attack. ” Jonah is cooler under pressure than I think I could ever be. “But I didn’t hear any of the details. ”
This is Bad Cop’s cue. “We keep some particulars out of the papers. To eliminate false confessions, make sure we’re only going after the right guy. ”
Good Cop gives Bad Cop an admonishing look, as if they hadn’t rehearsed this a thousand times. “We’ll start with the basics. Can you account for your whereabouts on Thursday night between seven and ten P. M. ?”
“I was here,” Jonah says. “At home. ”
Bad Cop raises an eyebrow. “Alone?”
I speak for the first time since they walked through the door and I said hello through a mouthful of peppermint. “No. I stayed here that night. ”
“Yes, ma’am. ” Good Cop sounds more deferential than he feels, I’d bet. He’s trying to coax me off my guard. “When did you arrive?”
“Seven fifteen? Seven thirty? Somewhere around there. ” I didn’t make note of it them; I was too excited by the thought of what lay ahead to pay attention to those kinds of details. Now I wish I knew the answer to the minute.
This may be good enough, though. Good Cop and Bad Cop exchange glances that tell me they’ve done the math and realized Jonah couldn’t have attacked the girl and returned here in time to welcome me. So now they’ve decided one of two things. Either they know Jonah’s almost certainly innocent—or I’m just another messed-up woman lying to protect her man.
So I try to offer evidence they can’t disprove. “Jonah doesn’t even own a truck. And you said the attacker had one, right?”
Good Cop patiently explains, “Trucks can be rented, ma’am. And Professor Marks here is a man of means. If he wanted to buy a used truck from someone off Craigslist, without any of the legal niceties in the way—to rent or purchase a parking space somewhere else—he’d certainly have no trouble doing so. ”
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All true. I feel embarrassed to have spoken.
Bad Cop’s Texas drawl is thick. “Now, tell me who you are again, miss?”
“My name is Vivienne Charles. I’m a graduate student and TA in the fine arts department at the university. ”
“What I meant was,” Bad Cop says, as if it were totally stupid to respond to his question with my name, “who are you to Mr. Marks here?”
Jonah fields this one. “She’s my girlfriend. ”
He’s never actually called me that before. Maybe it’s an old-fashioned word, in some ways, but hearing it in Jonah’s voice gives me a tiny thrill of happiness his cur
rent predicament can’t fully eclipse.
“How long y’all been together?” Good Cop asks.
“We met last August,” Jonah explains. “Went out on our first date in September. ”
Good Cop makes a note in his little booklet. Maybe he thinks a relationship that’s less than four months old isn’t substantive enough to turn me into Jonah’s go-to alibi. I wouldn’t lie to the cops for anyone.
But it doesn’t matter. We can never explain why we were so intimately bound from the very start, least of all to the police.
“And you two simply stayed in all night,” Good Cop says. “Dinner and a movie, that kind of thing?”
Bad Cop chimes in before we even have a chance to answer. “Did you have sexual intercourse?”
“How the hell is that any of your business?” Jonah’s gray eyes have turned stormy; this could be about to get ugly.
“It’s all right. ” I lay one hand over Jonah’s forearm and smile at Bad Cop. “Yes, we had sex. Right about where you’re sitting, actually. ”
That wipes the smirk off his face. Bad Cop slowly takes his arms off the dining room table as if it has Fornication Cooties, and sits way back in his chair.
(Okay, I lied by a few feet. It’s worth it to see this jerk look like he just bit into a lemon. )
I add, “Besides, this building has security. You guys had to sign in, right?” Maybe there’s an exception for the cops. “I put in the security code when I entered the garage, and I bet there’s a record. You’ll be able to see exactly when I arrived. ”
“True,” Bad Cop says. “But that doesn’t tell us when Mr. Marks here left. See, there’s a residents-only entrance on the side of the building. Uses a key lock instead of a security code. ”
“Security footage should clear me,” Jonah interjects. The tension in his voice is tightening.
“It might,” Bad Cop says affably, “if the camera on the side of the building were working. It isn’t. Hasn’t been for a few months now—as you might’ve known, Mr. Marks. ”
“Of course he didn’t know that!” I protest. “And he wouldn’t sneak out the front and leave me alone here. ”
“What about the night of November twenty-ninth?” Good Cop acts like he didn’t even hear what I said. “Mr. Marks, can you remember your whereabouts on that night?”