by Dylan Allen
“Tell me why you’re angry with me,” I demand.
She bites her lip and shakes her head miserably. “I’m not angry with you. I told you to move on and you did. I just hate everything because I want you for myself.”
Her misery is palpable, but I’m not sorry to see it. In fact, her words are music to my ears. If she wants me then, we can do this.
“Regan, we’re two consenting, single adults. I’m not here to fuck you and run. I want to make an honest woman out of you. I have since I was ten years old. I just had to grow up so you wouldn’t go to jail for being a pedophile.”
“Don’t be gross,” she mutters, but a tiny smile lifts the corners of her mouth.
“I did it. I’m a man. I can make my own decisions. And live with the consequences of them.”
“But you love your job, you wanted it so much, if they fire you, you’ll hate me.” she moans.
“Hate to break it to you…but if that’s the reason you won’t be with me, I’ll hate that more. You don’t get to decide that my job is more important than you. And, I don’t give a shit what your ex-husband or my brother have to say about it. We have something special. When is the last time you slept as well as you did the nights we spent together? Have you had any conversations as good as those? Has your body ever hummed the way it does when I touch you? Have you ever felt a connection as life-changing as the one we have shared since the instant we met 18 years ago?”
I cup her face in mine, tilt it up to mine. She shakes her head, her eyes full of misery.
“You won’t. Not in this lifetime. Or the next. Not unless it’s with me. But you’ve got to hold on as tight as I am. Or this won’t work.”
She stares at me, unblinking, before her face crumbles. “You don’t understand. I’m not…right,” she blurts.
“What do you mean?”
“I love you,” she wails, tears turning her dark eyes to a glittering obsidian. “Being with you is dizzying and exhilarating and exhausting and sublime in a way that I didn’t know anything could be. But…you don’t know what I’ve done…what I am. I ruined Rebecca’s and Matty’s and Jack’s lives. And I can’t make any of it right.”
I shake my head, confused. “Who the hell is Rebecca?”
“Oh my God, Stone…” she gulps—and then she doubles over and vomits all over me.
I rush and pick her up, grimacing and gagging when the smell assails me before I can hold my breath. I rush us both to the bathroom and pray I’m not sick, too.
She groans and I strip her robe off and hold her up with one arm as I turn on the shower with the other.
“Oh, Regan.” I stroke her hair and when the water is warm enough, I carry her in and put her down on the bench. I strip my clothes off and get in with her.
I wash her hair with her ginger shampoo and comb all the snags and tangles out. I prop her in my lap, her back to my chest, and give her a good massage with a conditioner.
She lets her weight rest against me, with her eyes closed, and a small smile tilting up the corners of her soft, wide lips.
I lift her off my lap and sit her down on the bench beside me. Then, I drop to my haunches in front of her, grab her washcloth and douse it with the vanilla soap.
I start with her neck and work my way down. I scrub every inch of her and inhale a lungful of vanilla-flavored steam. I’m methodical, and don’t linger. She needs sleep and so do I.
I brush her teeth as best as I can, dry and lotion her, and dress her in a sleep shirt with the words, “No rain, no flowers,” scribbled on the front.
Indeed.
I manage to get her hair into one long braid that hangs down her back. She watches me through sleep-heavy lids the whole time. At one point, she reaches up to pat my cheek.
“Just making sure you’re real,” she murmurs.
I carry her to bed and she’s asleep before I pull her comforter up over her shoulders.
I watch her for a moment. “What’s going on in that head of yours, Goddess?” I run a thumb over the rise of her cheekbone.
A snuffling snore is my answer.
I leave two aspirin and a bottle of water by her bed, turn out all of the lights, drop a kiss on her head, then go wait for her to wake up.
My clothes sit in a sodden pile of vomit. I rummage through her drawer until I find some socks that might fit, wrap a towel around my hips and go in search of intel that will give me some insight into whatever else is going on with her…and find out who this Rebecca is.
I wander through her house. It’s a two-story rambling mid century modern with more windows than walls. It’s decorated elegantly - brushed gold and beachy blues accent white walls, white furniture and the dark wood floors are dotted with white rugs and gold accent tables piled high with books and toys.
The open concept living area has a vaulted ceiling with massive skylights that allow the bright moonlight. In between each pair of windows, huge blown glass chandeliers drop down low enough that I can touch them when I lift my hand. Pictures of her children cover every single wall, and her fridge. They are gorgeous. Her daughter is, but for her big hazel eyes and light brown hair, her spitting image. Her sons have identically mischievous grins on their faces in every single picture. There’s a painting of her holding them as infants, one in each arm, a wreath of flowers on her head like a crown. Her daughter sits at her feet, her hair woven through with the same flowers as her mother’s.
I can’t wait to meet them and see her with them.
I stop at a picture of Regan pregnant. She’s on a beach, in profile, standing in ankle deep surf. She’s wearing a brilliant blue sarong; her hair is loose and flowing behind her. Her hand cups her hugely pregnant stomach, and her head is bowed as if she’s talking to the baby.
I want to see her like that.
I never imagined that domesticity could be as thrilling as globe-trotting, but I’m getting that tingling just thinking about being in that backyard with her and the kids. I wonder if she wants more children.
I walk past her kitchen and enter a short hallway that has a door with a piece of paper with “Mom’s Office” written by a child’s hand in green crayon, decorated with huge red exclamation marks.
She’s got a small recording station set up at one end. At the other is a large, pristine white desk. The only thing on it is a small silver laptop, a cordless landline phone, and a huge computer monitor.
I sit in the white leather chair behind the desk and see a small business card tucked underneath the laptop. It reads simply, “The Jezebel” Herstory with a phone number on it and a URL.
I dial it. It goes straight to voicemail and Regan’s voice starts speaking. “You’ve reached The Jezebel. If you’ve got a tip, leave it after the beep. If you’re calling to try and scare me, you wasted your time.”
What the hell is she doing?
I go to the URL listed on the card and start reading. The logo is similar to the tattoo on her lower back, but it’s adorned with gold leaves.
“It is a universally recognized lie that well-behaved women rarely make history. In fact, it is only by behaving in ways that the men who write our history books approve of that they do. I’ve heard it said that The Jezebel is a voice for those of us who want to set the record straight and know that the person listening believes them. Tell me the truth that’s so inconvenient, you’ve been forced to rewrite it. Release the ache of your untold story. Let’s make herstory, together.”
There are three dozen episodes. The first one six months ago, around the time I sent her the book and my letters.
The first episode is titled: He Called it Revenge.
With my heart in my throat, I pop my earbuds in, click the link and start listening.
By the time I’m on the last episode, the sun has come up and my world view has been turned inside out. I’m afraid I’m going to be sick. My stomach heaves and my blood feels like it’s been set on fire. I’m sweating from the effort it’s taking to sit still.
Not just because no
w I know what happened to her the summer after her Freshman year. The other stories I heard and the assumptions and premises they’ve challenged me to question.
Tyson only knows half of what is wrong with Regan. Now that I know everything, I don’t blame her for wanting distance to figure it all out.
I only wish her grandfather was still alive so I could kill him myself.
How could he have done those things to her?
Even through these new lenses, one thing remains true. I wasn’t wrong all those years ago when I thought Regan was magic personified. My woman’s blood is tinged with mercury. Her spine is fortified by steel, her mind is wondrous, and her heart is a boundless bounty, and I love her without any condition.
And even though she’s proven herself more than capable, I won’t let her carry this load alone for one more day.
From the day she put her arms around me, meeting my fury with her gentle words and safe sanctuary, she started shaping me. When I saw her last, I swore that one day, she’d be mine. Since then, every decision I’ve made has been influenced by that goal.
Thank God that the struggles of my youth were a whetstone for my character, my confidence, and my tenacity. Regan’s walls are up so high, I’ll need all of them in spades to get over them.
I shut the computer down, walk back to the bedroom and crawl into bed with her. I draw her warm, sweet smelling body against my chest and close my eyes and let my mind shut down so I can get some rest, too.
Because when she wakes up, her ass will be mine.
17 Years Earlier
PALESTINE, EAST TEXAS
He called it revenge
Regan
“Right this way, ladies,” one of the men from the truck says.
“Hey, let me go, asshole,” Jack screams.
“What’s going on?” I swivel around to see what’s happening, but a rough pair of hands grab me and start pulling me toward the door. My heart is beating so fast and so hard, I’m afraid I’m going to pass out.
“Shut up and keep walking,” a man growls and tightens his already punishing grip on my arm. He drags me through the yard, and I stumble, my heels sticking in the mud, twisting my ankles, as I scrabble to keep up with the man.
It’s pitch black, and the cabin is completely surrounded by trees that soar, so high, that I can’t see the tops of them.
The front door of the cabin swings open, and Weston steps out. “You made it, Princess, and you brought friends.”
His expression is twisted in a grin that is so cruel and excited that it makes my blood run cold. I stop and start trying to scurry backward.
“No, you can’t take us in there,” I yell, as I try to dig my bare feet into the ground. I claw at the hand around my arm, screaming for Matty and Jack. Why are they suddenly so quiet?
The man lifts me, hoisting me over his shoulder, and carries me into the house. Panic is all I know, as he walks through a sparsely furnished living room. The wall-mounted tv is tuned to something loud, but he’s moving too fast for me to see anything clearly. My feet and fists strike his back and torso, but he doesn’t seem to feel it.
Tears run down my face and into my open mouth, choking my screams and filling me with a terror more visceral than anything I’ve ever known.
He dumps me unceremoniously onto a mattress in the middle of the room. It’s thin, and my head slams against the hard floor, and for a moment, I’m dazed. He tugs my leg, and before I know what’s happening, something tightens painfully, pinching near my foot. I sit and wail, in horror, when I see the shackle around my ankle. I kick for everything I’m worth. And yelp, as whatever it’s anchored to on the ground makes my joints pop, as I yank to try free myself.
“Men three times your size can’t break free. You’ll just hurt yourself,” the man says, in between grunts, as he wrestles to grab my other ankle. I manage to pull it free, and my foot connects with his face.
He howls in pain and returns my blow with a fist slammed into my cheekbone. Pain and light explode, and I fall back, sobbing as the coppery taste of my blood trickles onto my lips.
“Why are you doing this?”
“Getting paid, bitch. Shut up.” He grunts and grabs my arms. He pulls them together over my head and I feel the now familiar slide of cold metal before they’re bound together and attached to an anchor in the ground.
I’m trapped, helpless, and staring into the eyes of a man I’ve never seen before, but who I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’ll never forget.
“I can pay you more.”
“Doubt it. But you’ll make us some nice money.” His smile makes me want to throw up.
Weston strolls in.
“Welcome, Princess. You like my new house?”
I gape up at him in horror. “Wh- Why are you doing this?” I cry.
He smiles that terrible smile and sits next to me on the mattress. I struggle to catch my breath.
“Do you want money? My grandfather will pay you to give me back. But if you hurt me, he won’t.”
“You, dumb cunt. I don’t want money. I want my pound of flesh.”
He lifts his shirt and twists to show me a small scar on his lower back. Tears fall from my eyes, as I look at it.
“Thanks to you and that little shit who called the police, I have a record. I had eight months of community service. So, I’m thinking that once I stab you and then make you spend 8 months getting fucked up the ass by men you don’t know and who don’t give a shit about anything beyond the nut, they’re going bust inside of you, we’ll be even.”
And then he holds up a knife, one just like the one Stone stuck him with.
“What are you doing?”
I scream as the knife flashes down and slices my shirt open leaving me completely bare from the waist up.
His smile makes my stomach heave.
“Weston. You can’t do this.”
He lowers his head and draws his tongue around my nipple. It’s a disgusting imitation of a lover’s caress, and I can’t hold back my cries, as he sucks and licks and bites me until I beg him to stop.
“See? All you had to say is please,” he says, as he lifts his head.
He cuts every stitch of clothing off my body, and when he finally leaves the room, there’s not a single part of me he hasn’t touched.
“Turn her on her stomach,” he says to the man who carried me in. He’s sitting on a small sofa, stroking himself, as he watches me. I’ve never felt so vulnerable.
“And Regan, you better try to get used to it. I’ve got three customers upstairs waiting for you.”
I start to scream, and I don’t stop until Weston sticks a needle in my arm and injects me with something that makes it all go away.
Trust
Stone
“Good morning, Goddess.” I push a lock of hair that came loose from my makeshift braid, out of her eyes, and she blinks, several times, then peers at the clock.
“Oh, heaven help me, why does my head hurt so much?” She covers her head with her hands and moans.
“You got drunk last night.” I reach over her and grab the two aspirin and the bottle of water. “Here, take these.”
I help her sit up, and she opens her mouth to let me drop the aspirin in and sips the water. She grimaces and swallows, but sighs and takes a few more sips of water, before she lays down again.
“Why are you here? Where’s your date?” she asks, her expression puzzled, and groggy.
I’d planned to ease into it, give her a chance to wake up, but I can’t hold it in any longer.
“I heard your podcast, Regan. I listened to the whole thing.”
She makes a sound, that’s between a moan and a whimper, and covers her eyes with her hands.
I pry them off her face and weave our fingers together in an imitation of what, I hope, we’ll do with our lives.
Then, I press our joined hands into the mattress to ground myself. Her warm, pliant hands a reminder that she’s here with me and safe. And that as long as I
draw breath, that’s how she’ll stay.
“I’m so proud of you. Incredibly proud of you.”
“Proud of me? For what?”
I glance up to find her watching me with worried eyes. “I’m sorry you went through that. And I feel sick to think that he wanted to hurt you because of what I did.”
She sits up, suddenly, and winces. “No, don’t say that. You were a child. He was an adult, and what he did was because he’s depraved and emotionally broken. And because he could.”
“Yeah, but I stabbed him. I pressed the silent alarm and then left you face the music. Shit, Regan. I’m sorry...”
“No. Don’t say that again. Please.” She tries to free her hand and I let it go immediately.
She groans and flops back onto the pillows and flings an arm over her face. “See, this is why I didn’t tell you. Or anyone else.” she laments. “I can’t carry the burden of your guilt on top of mine. And unlike yours, mine isn’t imagined.”
“Imagined?”
She lifts her arm a fraction, and peers at me. “Yes, imagined.” she clips. “I’m not fragile. Don’t treat me like I am. What happened to me shouldn’t happen to anyone. But I got out of there. I got my life back. I’m a survivor. Not a victim. You should be afraid of me. Do you know the kind of strength it takes to put one foot in front of the other after a piece of your soul is irrevocably damaged? I won’t ever be the same. And I hate that it took my best friend dying to realize that may not be such a bad thing. I survived.” She makes a sound that’s halfway between a moan and a growl. Then she drops her arm to her side like it got too heavy for her to hold up anymore.
“Like I said, I am so proud of you.” I take her hand in mine again and trace the network of veins, smile at the way her fingers curl into my palm. I’m relieved she doesn’t resent me. But it’s going to take me a little while longer to get over my guilt. I wish I could get my hands on that fucker.