by Jenna Howard
A larger part of her wanted to thrust the contents at someone else with the whispered hope that they’d be able to make everything better. She wanted to unload it all. Until Doyle had brought it up, she hadn’t realized how tired she was of carrying this around. Not that she ever had anyone to show her past. Counseling had been good but she hadn’t felt safe to give all. Within a short week, Doyle had made her feel safe.
That was the thought that made her exhale the breath she felt strangling in her chest. She sank to her knees to flip the grey blanket back and reach back until her fingers touched the box. It felt cold to her, colder than the concrete floor. Dragging it free, she stared at the massive layers of tape covering the flaps. Keeping the dragon in.
All her boxes on the shelves were labeled: school work, books, Cyanide. This box had nothing on it. A label wasn’t necessary. She had sealed it with a savage desperation, almost using an entire roll of packing tape. Pushing the box aside, she eased the blanket back down, smoothing it to protect the desk.
Not until Kate approached the partially open door, did she hear low, deep voices and she winced at the realization that Jace was home. Usually she actively sought him out when they were both in the house. With the chill spreading through her because of the box, she felt too vulnerable to deal with the man who still didn’t know what to do with her. She wasn’t that complicated. Setting the box down long enough to lock the door behind her, Kate’s steps slowed even more when she realized what the topic of conversation was about.
Or rather who.
“You sure you don’t want to share with the class who you’re fucking?” There was a slippery, snide tone to Anderson Reeve’s voice, a cruelty that held barbs. Her numb fingers gripped the edge of her box.
“It doesn’t matter,” a familiar voice rumbled out and she looked down at the box of hell she was holding, not quite sure how she felt about that sentence. A sharp sensation was crawling under her skin.
“Well then.” Anderson wasn’t a nice person, especially when he was using, as if all the poisons inside him made him feel like he had to spread that toxicity. “Share.”
“No.”
“Why are we discussing D’s latest fuck toy?”
She shut her eyes as Jace’s voice clawed through her. She thought she heard Max softly curse.
“Because it’s a very interesting fuck toy.”
Fuck toy. The words bounced around her head, hammering at her. She told herself he didn’t know he was referring to his daughter as his band mate’s fuck toy. Not that he’d likely care. She saw herself standing in this very basement, stuttering and stammering at him, looking for him to step up and be her dad. Instead he hadn’t cared.
And there was this box.
This fucking box and everything it held. This box she was too scared to hold onto but too afraid to get rid of. The dark had always been a safe place for her and as she stood in the unlit, seldom used exercise room, it turned on her.
She wanted to hear that she wasn’t a fuck toy, that she was something…someone.
This house, she thought as she held her breath, waiting. This house of nightmares and shadows hungry to devour her up. Stop them, stop them. Defend. Just once…just once she wanted to not feel alone in this god damn house that was supposed to have been a safe place.
Always, always wanting.
“We’re here to work,” her dom snapped out, “not discuss my fuck life.”
There it was.
Or wasn’t.
The chill from the box was sliding up her arms until she was afraid of dropping it. The weight of it shifted until she swore it was trying to push her into the ground, bury her. All because she had wanted to not carry the burden of it, because she had wanted to trust him with all of it. Because she had wanted to trust him. Period. Always wanting.
“Music. Album. Write,” Carl said. “I do not want to hear about D’s kink.”
“But it’s gotten so interesting,” Anderson drawled, dragging the word interesting out like he was torturing it. “Hasn’t it, D?”
“Stop talking,” Max muttered under his breath.
Considering he had probably been the one to tell Anderson, she thought that was a bit hypocritical.
“D’s fuck toy doesn’t matter. The music does. Let’s do this shit.”
She really wanted them to stop referring to her as a fuck toy. She wanted Doyle to stop them. She needed him to. Kate listened, waited.
What she got was “Is it just me or is this break utter shit?”
She really needed that one percent glimmer of hope to just give up and die. There was the rustle of paper.
Her throat felt tight and there was a burning in her jaw that was at odds with the chill in her hands.
She could, she realize, stand in the dark until they were done. All she wanted, however, was to get out. Out of this god damn house where she was inconsequential, where she was a fuck toy, where she was no one. This world. This toxic, horrible world.
He was right.
This wasn’t her world, because she couldn’t conform to it. She was tired. So tired of dredging it alone in this world. Exhaling slowly, she let it go. Let it die in the shadows of Jace Jennings’ exercise room.
“Red,” she whispered, and opened her eyes. Enough. Enough, Kate. That’s what he said: when it hurt or became too much, she had the power. She had the power to stop it from hurting or overwhelming her. Tightening her fingers on the side edges of the box, she made herself step out of the dark.
The stairs were situated on the other side of the sectional sofa were the band was. It was a familiar set up. Carl and Max with their guitars, Jace sprawled along the entire middle section of the horseshoe-shaped couch, while Anderson looked like a child who was about to have a massive tantrum because nobody was paying attention to him as he smoked a cigarette. Doyle sat on a cajón drum box, his legs spread while he quietly drummed his fingers on the edge as he looked at the music on the table.
She was always surprised the wooden box held him up because he made it look small and fragile. He didn’t bring his drums here, not since a drunk Anderson had grabbed one of the snare drums and threw it into the television. Anderson was why they now wrote out here instead of in Jace’s music room. Had to protect the important things.
“Fuck.” Max was staring at her. His gaze flicked from her to Doyle to the room she had just emerged from.
The light, steady tapping stopped and she made herself look at Doyle. Enough, Kate. This fuck toy says what? “Red,” she told him. Clutching her box, she made herself go up the curved stairs. She was not going to cry in this house anymore.
She needed to put this box down, find someplace new to store it. She refused to take it back to her studio, refused to have it taint her haven. She also didn’t want it where she slept. That gave her nowhere.
She shouldn’t have come for it.
She should have left it in the dark, buried in the storage room. Leave it in this house.
“Kate–”
“Red. Didn’t you say a good dom listened, observed?” She had to set the box down to open the door to the garage and there was relief at not touching it. Once she had the door open, she hit the button for the far garage door. Jace’s fancy sports car and SUV took up the two main spots, but she got the last one. Well, not her. Usually whatever girl was currently living in his bed, but since there was nobody, she had been able to use the garage. A rarity.
The box. She could not leave the box. As much as she wanted too, she couldn’t. Grabbing it, she looked at Doyle, who looked irritated. Too bad. She was bleeding.
She was tired of it.
“You were right. This isn’t my world. I don’t want it anymore. So…red.” She wanted to scream it at him but that required far more than she was capable of.
“What do you think happened down there?”
“I think my dom let them call me a fuck toy. That’s what I think happened down there.” Red. Like the blood spilling from thin scars. Red.
&
nbsp; She kicked the door shut and the bang wasn’t as satisfying as it should’ve been. She shoved the box into her trunk before she slid into the driver’s seat. Her hands were shaking as she gripped the steering wheel, lowering her head down. Tired. She was so tired of this happening to her.
“Red, Kate. Red.”
****
Kate - 2003
There was no rhyme or reason to when a present would show up on her bed. Sometimes a week would go by, maybe two. Or for three days she’d come home to find something on her bed. Locking her door didn’t help. She’d come home and there would be an envelope that said Pretty Little No One on it and inside would be a ticket to a movie or a play or a hockey game. Sometimes it was a gift card or a note. Nothing was signed but she knew. She knew.
She stared at the envelope propped against her pillow and her stomach began to hurt. Her knotted ribbon had finally disintegrated. She had found a pretty yellow one that had come wrapped around a present for Natalie, her half-sister. Since it had been in the trash, she had considered it fair game. The extra length was curled up in the top drawer of her dresser along with other ribbons she had salvaged.
Shaelynn and the baby were gone. Apparently Shaelynn had realized that Jace had no desire to be a father to her daughter. The fight had been loud and violent. The next day Shaelynn and Natalie were gone, along with all the pretty presents. It was nice to not have Shaelynn screaming all the time, but weird to be in a house where it was just her, Jace and the nanny, who used to live downstairs but was currently in Jace’s bed.
Sandra had decided Kate needed someone to look after her. Mostly though she had wanted to be Jace’s lover. She sure didn’t take care of Kate. At twelve, Kate really didn’t need anyone to babysit her. Actually, she never had.
Self-reliant. That’s what her teacher had said she was. She liked that word.
Now, though, she didn’t feel very self-reliant. She picked up the envelope and whatever was in it rattled, slithering from one corner to the next. Flipping up the flap she stared at the gold necklace inside. A simple chain with a charm on it. Her stomach cramped when she saw it was a number one. Dropping the latest present, she stumbled back from her bed.
For a short time, Kate had felt safe in her bedroom. There were walls, a comfortable bed. She had a pile of money hidden because at odd times she’d find an envelope filled with money tossed on her bed. Her birthday, Christmas. Two thousand dollars each time. What she’d do with two thousand dollars every time, she didn’t know. Now though, she wanted to grab all her money and run back to the trailer park.
Since her birthday and the hockey jersey, Kate had begun stockpiling cans under her bed again.
Twisting the bright new knot, Kate fled the trap that was her bedroom. She stumbled down the curving stairs because Jace liked circles. The lights that hung down the curving staircase from the top floor to the basement were circles. The bar in the basement was round, his shower was round, his office was round. He even had a tattoo of joined circles around his biceps. The sound of music came from the basement and she continued down the round staircase, only to stop when she saw Jace.
He sat on the curved couch, his guitar in place while he sipped from a bottle of beer. It was weird to see him alone. No band members, no groupies, no friends. She twisted and squeezed a knot as she approached the sectional on her tip toes. Folding her arms on the back of the black leather, she watched him play and sing.
When he sang, he made her heart feel tight and funny. She didn’t always understand what he was singing about but she understood the passion and love in his voice. He loved to sing. He was really, really good at it.
This man was her father.
The thought came at the oddest times, flooding her with an alien feeling because she never called him Dad. Not even in her head. He was Jace. Pressing her mouth against her forearm, she got lost in the song. In the power of it. Jace was a horrible father, even she had realized this in six months of living here, but he was an amazing musician.
“Fuck. Damn it.” He flexed out his hand and made a note on the paper sitting on the round table. He looked up and spotted her watching. A frown appeared as if he struggled to remember who she was and why she was here.
Kate, she thought to herself. I’m Kate.
“What?” He sounded impatient, like she was inconveniencing him. I’m Kate. I’m yours.
“I—” She pinched skin on her wrist, she was turning the knot so much. Struggling to find the words, he became impatient and returned to the music. “There’s this guy,” she said. He sighed and slapped his hands over the strings, cutting the music off. “He keeps…he…he…” Tears burned as she struggled. In her head it was all there. He kept putting presents on her bed, he scared her, he had kissed her at the New Year’s Eve party in a way no one should kiss a child, he scared her so much.
“This boy is bugging you?”
She nodded.
“Tell him to piss off.”
“But—” Jace turned is attention back to the music, done with her. He’s not a boy, she finished in her head.
Chapter 12
Finding one woman should not have been this hard. Yes, there were over half a million people in the city, but finding Kate should’ve been a lot easier. Her apartment had been treacherous. Her roommates were something else. It was hard to imagine his sweet girl living with those two. They were walking vaginas. Groupies. Immaterial. After that he had been at a loss.
He had even checked the penthouse though it had been empty. Jace was zero help so he hadn’t even bothered. After that who was there to call? He didn’t know her friends. He knew dick all. Except that he had hurt her. Unintentionally.
“You mind-fuck, Doyle,” Oz said, “you don’t fuck with her mind. Maybe you should–”
“Maybe you should not finish that sentence. I fucked up. I get it.”
His friend went quiet for a few seconds. “Maybe I should finish it. Are you sure pursuing this is the right thing to do? Not for you, for her. You’re the one who said she was fragile.”
Had he? He couldn’t remember. Impatiently, he tapped his thumb on the leather wrapped steering wheel. His gaze landed on the black ring that had one day been waiting for him at the club just before he had left on tour. It was a deceptively simple design. He remembered the text where she confessed she had made the ring for him. Kate wasn’t one to easily give up her secrets.
She clutched them tight. So for her to have shared even that tiny nugget had been rare. Smoothing his index finger along the band, he remembered the slack from the others at him wearing the ring. He wasn’t a jewelry kind of guy. Fuck, he hadn’t even worn his wedding ring. Not because he hadn’t loved Claire and he had planned on fucking around on her, it just wasn’t his thing. Had it been an issue? He couldn’t remember. He did know Oz wore his. Doyle also knew he hadn’t taken Kate’s ring off since he had slid it on.
Hello, asshole, here’s an obvious statement.
“Your wife was the one who told me she was stronger than she realized.” He snatched up his phone and opened up the text conversation that had been going with Kate pretty steadily until today. He thumbed through random snippets: some clean, some very much not clean. Fun was telling her what to do and making her text back as he made her touch herself. She wasn’t allowed to fix typos. There were a lot of typos.
Doyle found what he was looking for, halting the scrolling to look at the photo, at her words when she told him this was Kate’s world. He watched the video. Nothing about the space said workshop or warehouse. Rental? Doubtful. She had the carcasses of guitars on walls. So that meant somewhere in the city, there was something with Kate’s name on it. Someone would’ve helped her with the legalities. Someone like– “I gotta go.” He disconnected the call, cutting his friend off in mid-word.
Starting the engine, he told his hands-free to call Charlie.
“How goes the work session?” Their manager never joined them. He had a low tolerance for bullshit.
“
No one’s dead. Kate Jennings.”
“I’m acquainted with her.”
Dick. “Where is she set up?”
“Is this an emergency?”
Her green eyes filled with pain and something broken. Something that had felt a lot like her fragile trust. “I think my dom let them call me a fuck toy. That’s what I think happened down there.”
Hell yes, this was a fucking emergency. “Yes.”
His manager hesitated. Charles rattled off the apartment where the venus flytrap vaginas were. “No, I don’t want that shitty apartment. I want to know where she’s set up.”
“Doyle, I can’t in good conscience–”
“It’s been a while since I threw down. I’m a little rusty, and I’m sober, but it shouldn’t be that hard to remember.”
“Are you threatening me with throwing a tantrum?”
“Well, I know how much you like cleaning up after us, Charles. It’s just a matter of how big a mess I make. You have a fondness for having to bail us out of jail, don’t you?”
“God damn it, Doyle. You’re an asshole.”
“How hard is it to clean up a mess when it hits Twitter? This wasn’t around for me before. Big and messy. Maybe someone accidentally gets hurt.” Jesus. He was not rocking sanity at all. “Kate. Jennings. Voila, no shit storm.”
“Fucker.” He gave an address.
“Always a pleasure, Charlie.” He hung up as he fed her location to the GPS. Not even his blackmail was a big of mess to clean up as this. Trust was fragile. Especially with someone who rarely experienced it. Throw in the mind-fuck world of her submission, and things could get extremely sticky. He knew better.
Assholes like Anderson were manipulative jack-offs. Unhappy with their lives, they had to make everyone else miserable. The mind-fuck had caught him by surprise. Usually he was able to handle the bassist’s bullshit, but that it had been Kate had blindsided him. How Anderson knew wasn’t the point. Maybe he had come into the penthouse when they had been scening, maybe he had actually known who she had been at the party. The how wasn’t important.