The Bronze Garza

by S. Ann Cole

  One, I’m supposed to hate men. I should not be thinking about men at all. I’ve been trying to send that memo to my brain for almost two weeks now.

  Two, I don’t like this particular man. That memo seems to have gotten lost in my brain mail as well.

  Three, even if I did like him, he’s not mine. I shouldn’t care if someone else is touching him.

  Four, even if I wanted him to be mine, he’d never have me. He knows too much. He knows it all. I might be bright and shiny here in L.A., but he knows the “Russia” me. He’s seen me. Used and debased. Virtue stripped. And that’s not something a man like him could ever get past.

  Back in Russia, when he was just a sexy stranger dwelling in my sexual fantasies, I would’ve let him have me. That way. As a Diamond Girl. A high-priced whore. Because that’s what those kind of men enjoy—captive, broken, helpless girls.

  But the truth is out now and the fantasy is dead. He’s not one of those men. Everything about him had been fake. He gets to step out of character, leave it all behind in Russia’s chilly winds, and return to his normal life.

  For me, not so much.

  For me, all of it was real.

  And all of it came back with me. In my head. I don’t get to just take a bow, walk off stage and be applauded for a job well done. What I get are nightmares and a life of dark secrets, secrets my future husband can never know if I ever want to get a shot at happiness.

  So what business do I have feeling the way I do right now over this man? Audrey is allowed to touch him. She’s not defiled and sullied. Even if she does have any such filthy, dark, disgusting secrets, he doesn’t know them. There’s nothing to turn him off from her.

  Audrey has a chance. Heck, from the looks of it, she’s had her chance.

  Me, I never will.

  Not with him anyway.

  No matter how much a deep, deep part of me wishes that a chance with Torin Garza was a possibility.

  ~

  “ARE YOU OKAY?”

  Torin’s question cuts through the fog of pitiful thoughts swirling around in my head.

  We’re in the kitchen unpacking the groceries. After the supermarket, we went to the health store for multivitamins and protein powder then to the market for shark oil and fresh herbs. And I’d not said a word the entire time. Preoccupied with my own thoughts, I just trailed along.

  Up until tonight, I’ve never pitied myself. Even with all that’s happened to me, low self-esteem or self-confidence just aren’t weaknesses that I associate with. But something about seeing Audrey with Torin earlier has triggered something in me. A realization of just how unfortunate I’ve become. I have it all. But at the same time, I have nothing at all.

  “Huh?” I reply in answer to Torin.

  “You’ve been monosyllabic for nearly two hours now,” he expounds as he stocks bottles of coconut water into the fridge. “Not used to you being so...quiet.”

  “I thought you preferred me quiet.”

  “Yeah, if that was your personality. But it isn’t,” he says. “So, it’s kinda freaking me out.”

  Despite my mood, I smile, sliding him a glance. “Did you just use the term ‘freaking me out’?”

  He shrugs. “See, that’s the kinda weird shit that happens when you aren’t being you. That’s how I freak out. By saying things like ‘freaking me out.’”

  I can’t help giggling. “Please stop using the words ‘freak’ and ‘out’ together. It sounds so weird and...wrong coming from you.”

  “Only if you stop being so ‘freakishly’ quiet.”

  “Okay, okay, fine. I’ll talk...” Except I can’t, because I’m too depressed right now to find words. “...starting tomorrow.” I scratch the side of my neck. “For now, I don’t feel too well, so I think I’m going to head upstairs.”

  “Of course you aren’t feeling well. All you’ve had for the day is a smoothie,” he chastises, looking me over. “Surprised you’re still standing.”

  “Trust me,” I say with a wave of my hand, “I can go days without eating now. Starvation was Igor’s favorite punishment for me. Start worrying only if I go past five days. I’ve never gone that long.”

  He averts his gaze from me, jaw clenched.

  See? Bring up the not-so-distant past and he can’t even look at me.

  Forcing a smile, I pluck a banana off the bunch. “But, since I don’t want you to worry, or worse, call Daddy and tattle on me”—I grab an apple from the fruit bowl—“I’ll be sure to have these before bed.”

  With a cauldron of misery roiling in my chest, I flash him another insincere smile before turning and leaving.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Let’s make a deal.”

  Lyra

  I’M NOT A BATH PERSON, BUT I just had one. Thirty minutes of soaking in my own filth and self-deprecation.

  I twist my hair up into a bun, slip on my nightgown, and climb into bed. The apple and banana sits untouched on the nightstand.

  I switch on the television because I’m unable to sleep in silence anymore without waking up screaming and awash in cold sweat. At the recommendation of my therapist, I use the noise from the television as a tether to keep me from falling into deep sleep, which has been successful in preventing night terrors.

  I fetch my phone from the nightstand and dial Holly. Not surprisingly, it just rings and rings like it has been for almost two months now. Ever since the accident, she’s been acting strange. Scarce. I’m always the one calling or texting her and she hardly ever answers. It hurts, because she’s my best friend, my only friend. When I was hospitalized, she only came to see me once. Even then she was distant.

  Maybe she no longer wants to be around someone who has misfortune yipping at her heels. Or maybe...

  No. I shake the thought out of my head. Because if I dare entertain the suppositions that have been niggling at the back of my mind for the past couple of weeks, I’ll lose faith in humanity entirely. And I’m already halfway there.

  I call Patrick instead.

  “Hey, little sister!”

  “Hey you.”

  “Wait, what is wrong?” he asks, concern filling his voice. “You sound very off.”

  “Nothing’s wrong. Just bored and thought I’d call to see how you’re doing.”

  “Oh, I am good, good. I was going to call you actually,” he says. “They are giving me ten days off after doing multiple back-to-back shifts for the past couple of months, so I am going to be home as of tomorrow. You can come back, instead of staying at that stranger’s house. I am kind of annoyed that Mitch did not tell me what he was planning. I would have asked for the time off and stayed with you.”

  “I thought you knew.”

  “I did not. Mom told me two days after you left.”

  Hmm. Which means Eloise didn’t know until then either. Why would Dad hide this from them? I thought he’d at least talked to Patrick about it. What am I missing?

  “Well, I’d love that,” I say, not sure if I mean it. “Let me talk to Dad about it.”

  “Lyra, you do understand that you are a grown woman and can make your own decisions, right?”

  “Yeah, I know. But I go along with it all because he’s stressed and worried. Doing things like this makes him feel better, so...”

  “Well, being scared and cooped up all the time is not going to get you any closer to normalcy. You have to go out and start living again. You only have one life.”

  Yeah, that’s what you all said the last time and then I got run over by a car.

  But I don’t point that out to him. I change the subject instead and we chat for a bit before he tells me he has to get back to work.

  After hanging up, I switch the channel to family feud and snuggle up under the sheets. Too unsettled to sleep.

  Two episodes later, a knock comes at the door.

  Well, that’s a first.

  “I’m sleeping,” I say aloud.

  The knob turns and then the door swings open.

  He enter
s without permission, a food tray in hand. His gaze flicks to the apple and banana on the nightstand, almost as if he knew they’d be there.

  “What’s that?” I ask of the tray.

  “Seared salmon, garden salad, and lemon-grass tea.”

  “You made it?”

  “Yes.”

  Wow. That’s also a first. He’s always on me about eating, but he’s never so much as poured me a cup of coffee. I suppose to remind me that he’s merely my keeper and not my manservant.

  “Well, you wasted your time,” I mumble. “I’m not hungry.”

  “Let’s make a deal.”

  “No.”

  “You eat this meal,” he goes on as if he doesn’t hear me, “and I’ll answer your questions about Audrey.”

  He sits down on the bed, back against the headboard, and rests the tray on his lap.

  “And just what makes you think I have questions about this irrelevant Audrey person?”

  “‘Cause you went quiet on me after my run-in with her.”

  “Hang on,”—I sit up and cross my arms with attitude—“what are you trying to say here? That I’m jealous?”

  He studies me for a beat, then, “No. I don’t think you are.” Before I can stop him, he transfers the tray from his lap to mine. “But I’d like to know what’s been going through your head.”

  I keep my arms crossed. “Why do you care?”

  He tips his head from side to side, as if thinking about it. “Don’t know. But I do.”

  I’m infuriated with my body for always feeling the way it does whenever he’s so close to me. He’s intoxicating and exasperating. Still, being near him is like sitting in front of a fireplace with a mug of hot chocolate on a cold, cold night.

  You don’t like him. You don’t like him. You don’t like him.

  There’s no chance of me letting him in on my pathetic thoughts, so I pick up the fork, poke at some salad, and stuff it into my mouth.

  “Is she your girlfriend?” I ask with a full mouth.

  “Thought you concluded the other day that I don’t have a girlfriend.”

  “Clearly I was wrong.”

  “You weren’t,” he says. “Audrey’s not my girlfriend. We just...”

  “Fuck sometimes?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Huh.” I fork in a piece of salmon next. It’s delicious. “So you’re one of those guys.”

  “Who’re ‘those’ guys?”

  “The despicable kind that sees the opposite sex as nothing more than an avenue for sexual release. Use them and forget them, right?”

  Jaw tight, he averts his gaze to the TV, though I know he’s not watching it. Steve Harvey’s voice seems to get louder somehow.

  Then, with indifference, he brings his attention back to me and shrugs. “I’m whatever you believe I am, Lyra.”

  “Why isn’t she your girlfriend?”

  “Because my life isn’t designed for girlfriends.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It means that sometimes I have to do jobs that take me away for months at a time, where I have to pretend to be a sleaze-bag who fucks imprisoned girls. Or jobs of babysitting little rich princesses while their daddies are on business trips,” he bites out. “Not exactly the kind of happily ever after any sane woman would want.”

  I glower at him. “Hey, buddy, I don’t want to be here anymore than you want me here. You took this job. So don’t try to blame me for being such a burden on your life.”

  “What burden?” He looks at me as if I’ve lost my marbles. “Newsflash, little Miss Self-Absorbed, I run a multi-million-dollar company and manage a staff of over a hundred. You’re one job of many.” He straightens up off the bed. “You asked me a question and I answered; there’s no fucking room in my life for a girlfriend.”

  He glares at me and I glare right back, and this entire argument just feels so stupid. It’s as if we’re arguing about something other than what we’re arguing about.

  Or maybe I’m just being pissy because I’ve realized that I want him and know I’ll never have him.

  We stare at each other for a long time, until our glare melts into something else. The rhythm of my heartbeat shifts pace, my breaths shorten.

  His liquid gaze falls to my bosom, to its heavy rise and fall from my quickening breaths. He glances away and the act angers me. Is it really so damn repulsive to find me attractive?

  My eyes burn. Suddenly I feel like I’m in the penthouse in Russia again, looking at him with longing and silently begging him to pick me.

  In defeat, I drop my gaze to the food on my lap. “My stepbrother is getting some time off from work, which means he’ll be at the house. So I’ll be out of your hair by tomorrow. No more of me cramping your style and whatnot.”

  “Your father—”

  “Doesn’t control me,” I snip. “I go along with all of this nonsense for his benefit. But if Patrick’s going to be at the house I don’t need to be here anymore. I’m just as safe with him.”

  At that, he shrugs as if to say he doesn’t care either way and starts out of the room. “At least finish eating so you don’t fucking die on my watch.”

  “Asshole,” I mutter under my breath. But I finish eating the food. Not because he told me to, but because it tastes damn good.

  Of course the bastard would also be a good cook.

  ~

  “I’M IN THE mood for an online shopping spree, but I can’t think of anything that I want. What do you want, Jo? Let me spoil you today before I leave.”

  Jo eyes me from where she’s sheering some shrubs. “Like my sugar momma?”

  I grin at her from the porch. “If you’ll have me.”

  She snorts. “Some more paperbacks. Them tablet things ain’t good on my eyes.”

  “Alrighty.” I launch the browser on my laptop. “Loading up Book Depository.”

  It’s a new day and I’ve already cranked out over five thousand words on my “book.” But I’ve hit a wall with the plot, so I’m taking a break until my brain feels like playing nice again.

  I add every book from the bestselling thrillers list to the cart, along with some mystery and a handful of literary fiction.

  “Anything else?” I ask. “I’m pouring all the sugar today, lady.”

  “Nah, I’m good,” she replies over the clip-clip-clip of the shears. “Already got a sugar daddy who takes real good care of me. God bless him.”

  “Who, Mr. Grumpy? Pfft. I can do much better for you than he ever can.”

  She laughs from the gut. “I’m sure you can. If I think of somethin’ I’ll let ya know, yeah?”

  “Playing hard to get, I see,” I say teasingly. I stand and set my laptop aside. “I’m gonna go grab my credit card. You better think fast, though, because I’m leaving this evening and you may never see me again.”

  “What with ‘Madame Universe’ trying to eject you from her womb and all?” she asks wryly.

  “Exactly.”

  I trek back to the house, bracing for a run-in with Torin in the basement.

  Thankfully, he isn’t there when I walk in.

  We’ve not spoken to each other since last night, even though we stood side-by-side in the kitchen this morning. Him making a protein shake, me blending a smoothie. When we were done, he went one way and I went the other. I didn’t even sit on the counter to piss him off. I’m too mad at him to have fun annoying him.

  The house is quiet, and I wonder if he’s even still here. I’d pretty much told him I no longer needed his services last night, so I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s gone out without telling me.

  I jog upstairs to my room and grab my purse. As I’m about to head back downstairs, I pause and look to the opposite end of the hall where Torin’s room is, gnawing at my lip, contemplating. Eventually, I choose to be a creep, like always, and tiptoe toward his room. He’s not my favorite person today—or ever—but creeping outside his bedroom door and pressing my ear to the wood has become like
a ritual to me.

  I brake to a halt when I realize the door is ajar.

  It’s never ajar. Never open. Never even a crack.

  Today is my lucky day. If he’s not here, then I’m about to snoop like it’s nobody’s business.

  But a low groan stops me from taking another step. He’s here.

  Stepping back, I peek through the sliver of space between the doorframe and the door.

  And I see him.

  Sitting on the side of his bed.

  I inhale a sharp breath, releasing it slowly as tiny flickers of flame licks greedily at me.

  His eyes are closed. His jeans are undone. His fingers are fisted around his very erect, very hard cock. The feelings of lust and untamed desire that are coasting through me right now have no right to be there. But he’s...beautiful.

  So...freaking...beautiful.

  His fist runs up and down his shaft, his neck arching.

  Another low groan leaves him. And his expression looks almost pained as he squeezes the bulbous head.

  I’m feeling things. Urges. Things I’ve not felt since being with my college boyfriend during our heavy make-out sessions. That maddening, resistless point where I’d want to rip my clothes off and go all the way, but always somehow managed to stop myself.

  Now, I’m fighting so hard to hold back. Using every bit of restraint in me to stop from pushing this damn door open, walk up to him, drop to my knees, and beg him to do whatever he wants with me.

  “Lyra...”

  I stiffen at the breathy groan of my name.

  Shit. I’ve been caught.

  But…no. His eyes are still closed. He doesn’t even seem aware of anything, as if he’s in another world.

  I don’t move, don’t breathe, don’t blink.

  “Your mouth...always...” He strokes himself so hard there’s no way it isn’t painful. “...fucking talking.”

  His sounds are deep. His garbles intelligible.

  But I think...I think wherever he is right now, I’m there with him.

  He’s masturbating while thinking of me.