Caught Up In You: Edgeplay The Complete Serial: A Billionaire and BBW BDSM romance

by Jenna McCormick

  I scan the choices, trying to decide where to go. Part of me thinks I should head north, to Albany or Syracuse. I have a few friends living around there who might help me.

  But he’d figure that out eventually. I approach the counter, cash in hand. “Grand Central Station.”

  The train is already in, waiting for the early bird commuters who flock to the city like the swallows to Capistrano. Stowing my bag overhead, I take my seat. My mind whirls as I consider what comes next.

  I know no one in Manhattan, or any of the other boroughs. Well, that’s not exactly true. Rochelle is due back from Dubai at some point this week. I can’t recall exactly when. My teeth sink into my lower lip. Can I trust her to help me hide from Connor?

  The train fills and pulls out of the station. Panic claws at me and my heart beats so fast I fear I’ll pass out. What the hell am I thinking? I’m walking away from an established life with a man who loves me, who supports me.

  Who smothers you. Snarkarella adds her perspective.

  My hands are shaking. For lack of anything else to do, I paw through my belongings, searching for the picture of Pops. I find something paper-like and, thinking it’s the photograph, pull it free.

  It’s a business card for Dr. Sanjay Trammel, the physician Connor brought in to start me on birth control. I must have tossed it in the bag by mistake.

  A fortunate accident. I innately trust medical professionals and hope to join their ranks someday. The good doctor had no love of Connor, thought he was abusing me. While that certainly isn’t the case, it assures me she’ll help me and not tell Connor my whereabouts. Her office is on Lexington, only a few blocks from the train station.

  Having a destination eases my mind somewhat and I stare out the window at the Hudson River. The early train is an express, making only a few stops at the larger stations along the way. The conductor punches my ticket, but otherwise I sit, undisturbed.

  Once the train pulls in to Grand Central Station I follow the signs to Lexington Avenue. Other than the brief visit with Connor, I’ve only been to the city twice before. Once to the Thanksgiving Day Parade with a few girlfriends in high school and once on a class field trip to see a musical. On every occasion the hustle and frenetic energy of the city surrounds me. This time there is also a feeling of security, of anonymity. The dense population is even better to get lost in than the tree covered hills of upstate. I merge onto Lexington and join the crowd. New York is a walking city.

  The doctor’s office is situated on the third floor, suite 300. A receptionist unlocks the door as I climb off the elevator. She offers me a neutrally detached smile. “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Dr. Trammel.”

  “She’s got rounds at the hospital and won’t be in until ten. Do you have an appointment?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Are you a patient?”

  I nod. “She’s seen me before. I’m here on a personal matter.”

  She maneuvers around the desk and pulls up her computer screen. “Have a seat in the waiting room. I’ll see if I can fit you in.”

  “Great. Thank you.”

  The waiting room chairs are faded but comfortable. I set my bag to the side and reach for a magazine I have no intention of reading. Just trying to look normal, not a desperate woman with nowhere else to go.

  I’m sure Connor is awake by now. He never sleeps more than four hours at a time. I try not to dwell on how frantic he must be, to wonder if he’s found my truck yet. Try and fail. I can see the wild-eyed desperation so vividly, can feel the frustration radiating from him. I should drop him a line somehow, let him know I’m all right. I had to leave secretly but now that I’m gone I should set his mind at ease.

  “Is there a pay phone nearby?” I ask the receptionist.

  She blinks, as if she has no idea what a pay phone even is. She’s young, hell, maybe she doesn’t. Maybe she thinks we’re all born with smartphones in our hands.

  After a moment her mouth closes and she says, “At the diner on the corner across the street.”

  I thank her and head back out of the building. Sure enough, a payphone hangs on the wall of the diner, easy to see through the plate glass window. I jaywalk like a native, making a beeline for the phone. My hands shake as I pick up the receiver, inserting a few coins and dialing his cell.

  He picks up halfway through the first ring. “Baily?”

  I close my eyes, the tension in his voice flaying me open. “I’m all right, Connor.”

  “Thank God.” He sighs in pure relief. “Who took you?”

  “Took me?” He thought I’d been kidnapped? My guilt redoubles.

  “There was no note but I knew you wouldn’t just vanish in the middle of the night.”

  I’m a horrible person. Of course he would think I was snatched from the Rosemont by some thief in the night. It had already happened to him. Sucking in a breath, I push the words out. “Connor, I did. I had to go and I knew you wouldn’t let me leave.”

  Silence.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry to hurt you, but it’s better this way.”

  Still he says nothing. I hear him breathing steadily, wonder what is going on in that landmine riddled head of his.

  “I’m going now,” I say at length.

  “Are you punishing me?” The question is delivered evenly by a man with tight control over his emotions.

  “Of course not. I’m doing what’s best for you. For both of us. You need to heal.”

  “Heal? Have you lost your mind? There’s a stalker out there, damn it! How well do you think I’ll heal if he kills you?” Barely leashed fury carries across our grainy connection.

  I haven’t forgotten about the car bomb, or the surprise package someone left for me. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Tell me where you are.” The command is sharp. I can’t tell which Connor is at the helm, but it doesn’t really matter now.

  “I love you.” The words are almost a sob.

  “Don’t you dare hang up that fucking phone—” his shout is cut off when I do exactly that.

  I’m still wearing his ring. I should have left it with him, but forgot to take it off. Now I can’t. It feels like the last tie I have to him and I’m loath to cut it.

  Instead I sit at the counter and order a cup of tea, my eyes trained on the Felix the cat clock on the wall. Nothing to do but wait.

  Dr. Trammel ushers me into her office. “Well, Miss Sinclair, what can I do for you?”

  Now that I’m face to face with her I have no idea. “Do you know anything about Complex-Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?”

  She cocks her head to the side. “Not much more than you would find in a basic internet search, I’m afraid. I do have a colleague who specializes in mental health disorders though. Would you like me to set up a meeting?”

  I nod and she picks up the phone. “Hello, Gerald? It’s Sanjay Trammel. I was wondering if you have any time to meet with a friend of mine. She has some questions about C-PTSD.”

  A smile breaks out when she calls me a friend. That’s the one thing I need more than anything else in the world right now, people I trust, and though our acquaintance is short, I do trust her.

  In moments it’s all arranged. Dr. Trammel writes down the address on a prescription pad. “You’re in luck, he’s combing through records today and jumped at the distraction.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Trammel.”

  “Please, call me Sanjay.” She extends the paper but doesn’t let go when I reach for it. “Are you in some sort of trouble, Baily?”

  How to answer that honestly? “I’m not sure. My grandfather just passed away.”

  Her brown eyes are full of sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I nod, accepting her words. “My world is in total upheaval right now. I’m trying to figure out what my next move should be.”

  Her gaze flicks down to the paper. “And I’m assuming this consultation has something to do with a certain billion
aire.”

  “I really can’t comment on that.” It’s one thing to discuss Connor’s symptoms abstractly, but I’m unwilling to betray his trust or talk about him behind his back.

  She releases the paper and guides me out of her office. “For what it’s worth, I think doing a little research is a wise course. Feel free to call me if you have any more questions.”

  I thank her again and head back downstairs, where I flag down a cab. Once I give the address for Gerald Balfour’s office, I stare out the window, my mind a total blank.

  Gerald Balfour meets me right out of the cab. He’s an overweight man in his mid-fifties with a bald pate and a big grin. I like him instantly.

  “Miss Sinclair, it’s so lovely to meet you. Would you care for something to drink?” He waves to a small sitting room with a torn pleather couch in a hideous royal purple and matching wingback chair.

  “Coffee if you have any.” I set my bag down and shrug out of my coat.

  He bustles into a small galley kitchen and soon returns with two steaming mugs. Though his taste in furniture leaves something to be desired, the coffee is excellent.

  “So, Sanjay said you’re doing research on C-PTSD. Are you a student?”

  “I plan on being a nurse.” It’s not a lie, just a misdirection. Better for him to think I’m merely interested in his field than that I have a specific agenda.

  He nods, accepting my words at face value. “Well, maybe you should tell me what you know about it and we can take it from there.”

  I sum up what Connor related to me, that Complex-Post Traumatic Stress Disorder occurs when someone has prolonged exposure to physical or emotional trauma.

  He nods. “Typically we see this in adults or teens who were abused in some way as children. C-PTSD wasn’t included in the DSM-IV. That’s the manual mental health professionals use to diagnose psychological disorders. Dr. Judith Herman, the pioneer in C-PTSD, has made proposals for its criteria and inclusion in the DSM-V. I have a copy of her book here if you’re interested.”

  I nod and he stands, crossing to the black built in bookshelves spanning the far wall. He pulls out a white paperback and hands it to me. I read the title. Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence--from Domestic Abuse to Political Terror.

  “If that isn’t some scary shit.” I don’t realize I’ve said the words out loud until he chuckles.

  “I couldn’t have put it better myself. If mankind stopped abusing one another tomorrow, this disorder would cease to exist. Dr. Herman explains it better than I could ever hope to. Why don’t you read the book a little. I’ll be here, suffering through paperwork, if you have any questions.”

  I set aside my coffee. “That would be great.”

  I settle myself on the surprisingly comfortable couch and dive in. One particular phrase describing the criteria of C-PTSD draws me up short.

  People with C-PTSD may view the perpetrator as all powerful or be obsessed with the relationship which may be accompanied by thoughts of revenge.

  I shut the book and close my eyes. Viewing the perpetrator as all powerful. Is that how Connor saw my grandfather? And the thoughts of revenge part makes the coffee churn uncomfortably in my stomach. Connor said he wanted answers, but was that all he was after?

  I continue to read until Dr. Balfour taps me on the hand. “I’m about to break for lunch. There’s a small Chinese place around the corner. Would you care to join me?”

  I set the book aside. “How’s your filing going?”

  “Slowly,” he grumbles, holding my coat out for me. “So, do you have any questions?”

  Dozens. Possibly hundreds. “I was reading about something called dissociative amnesia.”

  He pushed the button for the elevator. “Yes. Those who’ve suffered from C-PTSD can develop dissociative amnesia, or the inability to remember past experiences or current information.”

  “Like memory loss?” I had plenty of experience with that with Pops.

  “More complicated than that. The memories are inaccessible, blocked. In simple amnesia, the kind that shows up on soap operas, the loss of information is the result of a physical injury or perhaps disease. With dissociative amnesia, the memories still exist, but are buried in the person’s mind. Inaccessible to the conscious brain.”

  I thought about that for a beat. “Like they’re locked up.”

  The noise of the city surrounds us and I mull over what he’s told me as we make our way to the Chinese restaurant. We hit the buffet and continue our conversation over moo shu pork and chicken chow mein.

  “The term ‘survivor’ is not entirely accurate for those afflicted with C-PTSD. Because the roots of their relational traumas lie deep within their early childhood experiences, people with C-PTSD will often manifest strong dependency needs combined with a deep distrust of other people. In other words, they are compelled to seek out others but will constantly fear further harm or betrayal.”

  That fits Connor to a T. “And what about dissociative identity disorder, that’s another symptom, right?”

  Dr. Balfour finishes his eggroll, then grins at me. “You’re really going for all the doozies. Dissociative identity disorder is characterized by the presence of two or more distinct or split identities or personality states that continually have power over the person's behavior. There's also an inability to recall key personal information that is too far-reaching to be explained as mere forgetfulness. With dissociative identity disorder, there are variations in memory, which fluctuate with the person's split personality.”

  I push my plate aside, appetite gone. “So say someone suffers from both dissociative identity disorder and dissociative amnesia. How do you treat that?”

  He blinks at me and wipes his mouth. “Well, there are various schools of thought. Medication, talk therapy, hypnosis. But if an individual was unfortunate enough to be afflicted with all of the above? The best treatment would be a miracle.”

  31

  I buzz Rochelle’s apartment, praying fervently that she’s home. I’m not sure what I’ll do if she’s not, but exhaustion is creeping over me, sapping my strength.

  “Who is it?” A woman’s voice, but with all the ambient noise I can’t tell if it’s her.

  “Baily Sinclair.”

  “Come on up.” The door buzzes and I yank it open, too tired to think twice.

  Rochelle’s apartment is on the fourth and fifth floor of a five story brownstone on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I take the stairs, still mulling over what to say to her.

  It’s obviously one of her off days, because this is the first time I’ve seen Rochelle dressed as though she didn’t intend to be seen. She’s wearing jeans and an old flannel shirt, and her hair is haphazardly tied back in two wild braids reminiscent of Pippi Long Stocking. She greets me at the door with a hug and a huge smile, which fades when she sees my bag. “What’s going on?”

  “My grandfather died and I left Connor.” I make a face as Snarkarella chirps, Way to hit the highlights.

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Rochelle wraps an arm around my shoulder and leads me deeper into her apartment. It’s not cool and ostentatious like Connor’s, but snug and filled with soft feminine things like throw pillows, oriental rugs in royal blue and gold, sheer taupe curtains diffusing the natural light. The high ceilings and recessed lighting give the space a warm glow.

  She gestures to a plush white sofa I’m almost hesitant to sit on.

  “I’m sorry to just show up like this, but I didn’t know where else to go.”

  She sits next to me, her expression sad. “It’s fine, honey. I just got back late last night. I’m heading out in a little bit if you want to come with.”

  The idea of traversing the bustling streets makes me bite my lip. I stop automatically because of Connor’s constant of forcing me to suck his cock when I do that. Then the reality that we might never share such intimacy again settles around me like a lead-lined cloak. Though I fight them, tears leak out from behind my closed eyelid
s.

  “I’ll take that as a raging hell no.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m such train wreck,” I sob.

  Rochelle laughs lightly, which oddly helps me stem the flow of tears. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve had my share of breakups that left me emotionally eviscerated. And losing your grandfather too? No honey, I’m laughing because it was idiotic of me to think you’d want to go out. I’ll cancel my plans and we’ll order some scrumptious take-out and watch some outstanding cinema. Sound like a plan?”

  The last thing I want is to intrude in her life, but her offer is too tempting. I need to spill about Connor to someone who’s witnessed his damage firsthand. “Sounds great.”

  Rochelle shows me to the second bedroom. Instead of the warm colors of the rest of the apartment, this room is done in black and white. Black wrought iron bed with a white duvet, and black bolster pillows. Stark black and white landscape prints on the wall, a leafless tree, a cobblestone street with a single lamp post, the jagged peak of a distant mountain with fat clouds threatening to wreak havoc in the foreground. Dramatic, dark and ominous, perfect for my mood.

  “I’ve got a few calls to make. Get some rest and we’ll talk more later.”

  I give her an impulsive hug. “Thank you.”

  After a long, hot shower, I comb out my hair and retreat to my room. Though I can’t muster the energy to move or the wherewithal to think, I don’t drift off right away either. This is just a weigh station, temporary, and I feel the burden of taking on my own future pressing down on me.

  Though I’ve taken the first steps, I’m not really ready to tackle the future without Connor. Despite what Dr. Balfour said about him needing a miracle to recover, my heart tells me I gave up too soon and urges me to return to him.

  It hasn’t even been a full day, Snarkarella points out. He lied to you, hid things from you. If you go back to him now, he’ll browbeat you into submission. And not the fun, kinky kind either.

  I close my eyes, unwilling to acknowledge the truth in her words. She got what she wanted, I left Connor. But all I can hear is the worry in his voice, the panic revealed when he thought I’d been kidnapped. No matter what’s happened to me or what might happen in the future, I doubt I’ll ever rest easy knowing I hurt someone who loved me.