Code PINK_A Novel Of Suspense

by Erica R Stinson

  No one had seen us, but I was through with him and his bullshit, and I’d left the party immediately to come home.

  He’d stalked off in the opposite direction, no doubt to find Brooke, who he could fuck until the cows came home for all I cared now. I knew that I wouldn’t be seeing him anymore tonight.

  But he’d surprised me by showing up at the apartment a short while after I’d gotten there, enraged as he accused me of deliberately embarrassing him in front of everyone by leaving.

  Honestly, I was quite sure that no one had paid either of us a lick of attention at the party since the whole office was attending. There were at least three hundred people there, and they were too busy eating and drinking all the free stuff to worry about us.

  But as usual, Evan was trying to make everything all my fault so that he could have an excuse to get angry at me, and then start a fight. We were really getting heated in our argument, when he suddenly grabbed me roughly by the shoulders, his fingers digging into my flesh as he hissed at me.

  “You bitch! Who do you think you are!?” he’d snarled, as he shook me so hard that I’d thought that my head would roll right off my shoulders. I’d shoved him away from me, hard enough that he fell. He was pretty drunk, so it had been easy. I’d run into our bedroom and bolted the door, glad that he didn’t bother to follow me.

  I couldn’t do this anymore.

  I sat on the bed, wincing in pain as I laid my weary head against the decorative pillows, and cried myself to sleep as I wished I had never met Evan Mitchell.

  *******

  A soft knock on the door woke me early the next morning, and Evan’s voice filtered through the heavy wooden door. I rolled over and looked at the clock on the nightstand.

  Eight o’clock.

  He probably wanted his breakfast. There was cold cereal in the kitchen or he could heat up some water and make some fucking oatmeal. I didn’t care.

  “Daphne? Are you awake?” he asked, his voice choked with sobs. “Please open the door....”

  I didn’t say anything, as I heard him choke off a sob and move off down the hallway. He was back at the door an hour later, just as I was heading into the bathroom because I was nauseous.

  I had just found out about the baby a week ago. My doctor informed me that I was at least three months along. She had also given me a card for a women’s shelter, telling me that I could go there any time and get help. I had pretended not to know what she was talking about, and had left the card there on her desk.

  I didn’t bother making another appointment with her, because I was too ashamed to face her again, now that she knew. Apparently, my makeup skills weren’t as good as I’d thought.

  I would have to work on that.

  I came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, listening silently as Evan’s heart-wrenching sobs on the other side of the door, started to tear at me.

  It was bizarre how I seemed to have a love/hate relationship with him. Part of me really wanted to work it out, but the other part of me was not going to live through this shit again.

  I had been physically and sexually abused as a child, growing up in a foster home as a result, until I was eighteen. Raised by the most wonderful and loving couple that I knew, Barbara and Ethan Knight, who’d rescued me from foster-care hell, had allowed me to grow up somewhat normally.

  But I still had a shitload of problems as a result of being repeatedly raped by my own father from the time I was about seven, until I was removed from my home at ten. I had trouble dealing with my mother enabling my father to do this to me, even as she blamed me and physically abused me, regularly.

  No, I was done.

  I would not allow this shit to happen to me again, and hated myself for living through indecision and fear for the past year or so.

  I tried to shut out Evan’s excuses on how he’d been under a lot of stress, and all of the other shit he was crying about as I thought of my family.

  I swiped at my sudden tears as I thought of my foster parents, angry at myself for allowing Evan to make me estrange my whole family to the point that I had barely spoken to them since we’d started living together.

  Evan had complete control over me; mind, body and spirit.

  I was mad, hell, furious even, as I mulled it all over, thinking of how many times he had blackened an eye and reddened a cheek, just because he could.

  He had become someone that I didn’t know anymore, if I ever knew him at all. True, he didn’t look like the monster he became at times, but then again, looks could be deceiving.

  Barbara and Ethan Knight, or Mom and Dad as I still called them, were the only parents I recognized from the moment they took me in. I had never seen either one of my biological parents again after the court hearings when I was about thirteen, nor did I know or even care whether or not they were alive or dead.

  Mom and Dad had done their best to help me get past the trauma, spent countless thousands on years of therapy because they loved and cared about me. Now, here I was, throwing it all away by allowing Evan to abuse me physically and emotionally.

  Tears of shame slid down my cheeks as I thought of how disappointed in me my parents were going to be when I ended up coming back home, when I never should have left in the first damned place.

  They had pleaded with me to reconsider when I told them that Evan had invited me to live with him in New York. I had never lived on my own before, nor had I ever been out of the state of Virginia by myself, much less Charlottesville truth be told.

  "Honey, you barely know him. Please think about it first," Mom had begged me, two days before I left. Dad hadn’t made me feel as bad about going, but I could feel his disapproval of the whole thing, despite the fact that both my parents seemed to like Evan very much.

  But I was in love, and I had followed my heart to the upper east side of New York City to be with the man that I thought was going to make all my dreams come true.

  None of this turned out like I thought it would. My life has become a struggle of constant chaos as Evan’s moods shifted from night to day, and then back to night again,

  I shuddered with the memory of that first episode, which seemed like just yesterday, even though it had happened more than a year ago.

  “Do you think I enjoy having to teach you how to behave?!”

  “I’m so-sor-.....” I tried to speak, as I lay on the floor where he’d put me, but I couldn’t stop crying.

  “You’re sorry?” he spat and then scoffed. “Yes, Daphne, you are sorry. What am I going to do with you?!”

  My shoulders shook as I sobbed, and Evan paced back and forth across our bedroom floor, muttering about what a crybaby moron I was. I knew that he was worked up to the point that he couldn’t control his anger if he tried. He was glaring at me now as I tried to stifle my cries, feeling as if I were going to throw up. I keeled over, clutching myself as I willed him to just leave me alone.

  “Oh, what are you going to do now? Lay there and cry?” he taunted, as I continued to weep and my stomach roiled with nausea. I tried to answer, but started coughing instead as I tried not to vomit.

  “Why do you always have to play the victim, Daphne? Huh?” he barked, squatting over me as I sniffled, and remained where I was.

  “Why do you always have to make me look like the bad guy!?” he roared directly into my face, as I squeezed my eyes shut and tears slid down my cheeks, “You’re fucking worthless, you know that, right? A complete fucking waste of space and breath!”

  I cringed, a whole new world of hurt beginning in me from his cruel comments. My whole life I had suffered from low self-esteem and no self-worth, and a lot of times Evan’s words hurt just as much as his touch. I buried my face against my arm in shame, as he continued to verbally strip me down to my very core with his cutting remarks about my looks, my competence, and how I was nothing without him.

  How no other man would ever want me.

  How lucky I was to have him.

  I felt him shove me roughly with his bare
foot; right into my backside, as I remained curled up in the fetal position. He shoved me again, harder this time, as I willed myself to look at him. I hurt, all over and I just couldn’t move.

  “Seriously, Daphne? We’re really doing this? I barely touched you.” He defended himself, when I didn’t move. “Get up.”

  All I could do was lie there as Evan stood over me and then let out a snort of disgust, throwing his hands up into the air in exasperation.

  “Whatever. Just remember, you started it, as usual.” He said, stalking from the bedroom and I heard the door to our guest bedroom slam a moment later, where I knew he’d spend the night.

  Of course, he had apologized the next day and had sworn to never strike me again. Evan had been very upset, as he begged me not to leave him.

  I recalled packing my suitcase as I ignored his pleas, barely able to see out of my left eye because it was swollen shut from where he’d hit me. He had gotten on his knees, even, crying as he said that he was sorry and that it would never happen again. Over and over he wept and begged me to reconsider until I was crying too, and forgiving him.

  He’d been really nice to me after that, the incident forgotten, until it happened again a couple of months later, and then a third time a couple of months after that, which ended with me in the emergency room to have my broken arm set in a cast for six weeks. At that point, I really did leave him, opting to stay at a hotel so that I could heal in peace and then decide what to do next.

  At the time I couldn’t decide whether to try to live in New York on my own, or return to Virginia and admit to my family that I’d made a huge mistake.

  I didn’t have any money or a job, and didn’t know anyone else in New York City thanks to him not allowing me any friends. I had gone to the police and they encouraged me to take out a restraining order. There was no way I could do that, and I was sure that Evan would kill me if I did.

  Of course, in true Evan Mitchell fashion, he managed to find me. I had stupidly used our credit card to check in to a nearby Marriott, and he’d tracked me there.

  After causing a huge scene at the hotel, and begging me to come home to him as he cried, again, I had felt sorry for him and relented.

  I had agreed only to come home after he’d promised to never hit me again, ever. And he had to get therapy for his anger management issues. It was an ultimatum on which I was not going to budge. He’d promised that and more, as he’d shown me an appointment card for a mental therapist, stating that he had set up a session for that coming week.

  I had loved and believed him, telling him that I wanted to make it work between us.

  Of course, Evan managed his way out of the appointment and had never actually gone to the therapist, blaming his busy work schedule when I asked him about it, in the heat of yet another argument two weeks after I’d stupidly returned home.

  I hadn’t said a word when he had tried to sell me his bullshit, angry at myself for believing that he would ever go to therapy in the first place. He hadn’t hit me that time, but I knew it was eventually going to happen again at some point.

  Evan became a different person when his temper got the best of him, and I didn’t like him when he was like that.

  “I’m going to leave now. You just....rest....for today. I’ll take you out for dinner tonight.” He wept at the door now, sniffling as I imagined his handsome face swollen with tears. “If you feel up to it, call me in a bit. Even if I’m in a meeting, I’ll answer, but please Daphne. Please, just talk to me. I can’t stand it when you’re mad at me.”

  Then he was crying again, and I was too now, as I opened the door a crack to see him standing there. Before I knew what was happening, Evan was on the other side of the door and inside the room as he gathered me into his arms.

  His lips rained kisses on my face, as he held me tight and begged for forgiveness amidst the tears streaming down his cheeks. I cried for us, too, returning his kisses as my anger completely evaporated. He took me up into his arms and carried me down the hall to our bedroom, laying me on the bed once we got there.

  I didn’t really care for sex, not like Evan did, and he seemed to want it all of the time.

  I’d recently discovered a collection of porno movies he kept hidden on the top shelf in our bedroom closet. It had repulsed me, looking at some of titles and photos on the gleaming DVD cases. I felt more afraid than ever for what he had in store for me once we were married.

  Painfully, I still carried the scars from being molested, and it was affecting my everyday life with my fiancé.

  Even though he was more than aware of my past sexual abuse and trauma stemming from it, I was going to therapy for it, alone. Evan felt that I just needed to get laid regularly to get through all this ‘frigid nonsense’, as he’d put it, when I’d asked him to come with me to one of the sessions when we first got engaged.

  As it was, he was always trying to do lewd stuff when we were in the bedroom. And all I could do was just lie there ‘like a fucking corpse’ as he’d so bluntly put it, while he did whatever he needed to satisfy himself.

  I didn’t want it to always be this way, so a few months after we were living together I found a sexual therapist that I felt could help. And I wanted someone who specialized in couples, and had researched a top therapist that I felt was a good fit for us. Since it was his sex life too, I figured it might help if Evan and I tried to work on it together.

  “You’re the one with the problem, not me.” He’d accused, ending any further ideas I had about including him in my treatment.

  I tended to be clingy when it came to Evan, terrified that he was going to leave me.

  I had abandonment issues and I didn’t know how to be alone, nor did I like it. The thought of it made me feel sick to my stomach as I remembered the early years of neglect and no socialization or attention from my biological parents, unless it was negative.

  I grew up thinking that it was normal to be treated this way, and that I was bad. That I deserved it for disappointing my mother and father all of the time, to make them treat me like they had.

  I had mistaken my father’s sexual abuse for love, realizing over time that he only rewarded me for letting him do the nasty things he wanted to. I hated him for what he’d done to me, though I had liked his touch at times, even while knowing that it was very wrong.

  I hated my mother more for seeing what was going on, and making me an enemy instead of an ally and making him stop.

  “Daphne?” Evan whispered, interrupting my thoughts, his lips pressing against mine gently, “I love you.”

  He hovered over me, his face serious, but calm as he gazed at me and I felt the ice around my heart begin to melt.

  My God.

  He was an Adonis.

  Evan was tall, six feet two inches, had a dark mop of hair with neat sideburns, broad shouldered with dark blue eyes that glittered like sapphire gems, his lips firm and somewhat full. His nose was a shade too long, but you didn’t really notice it too much because you were so busy appraising the rest of him.

  Extremely charming and eloquent at everything he did, he was greatly admired by his peers and superiors at work. It was his gumption that was rapidly taking him to the top of his career as an architect, but he wasn’t quite there, despite his hard work. It was this that was causing the current problems with his stress levels.

  He felt that was doing everything right, but still was not rewarded for his efforts. He wanted the corner office with the big window, to live like he felt he was entitled and have enough wealth to afford the lifestyle he could only dream about. We were hardly poor, but we weren’t filthy stinking rich either.

  His dark blue eyes were deep and roving when they stared into mine. His lips firm and sensuous, with his fine, straight nose upturned just enough to give him a regal air.

  With the expensive clothes he wore and the sexy smile he put on for all women, young and old, Evan was a definite hunk. He was the source of lusting for all single females, and even some of the married o
nes, I was sure. So often, the phony women in our social circle told me how lucky I was to have such an adoring fiancé even as they tried to get at him, as if I didn’t know what was going on.

  Evan Mitchell had won me over as he’d displayed the genteel manners of an eighteenth century gentleman from a Jane Austen novel, my favorite author, and was just as witty as could be. He would hold doors for me, or help me out of the car, offer me his jacket if the air grew a hint too cool. He’d constantly tell me how beautiful I was, and then he’d kiss my hand tenderly as I’d blush and giggle, loving every second of it. I can admit that I had fallen hard for Evan’s charms, and I was besotted.

  That was one of my favorite words that Mrs. Jennings used in Sense and Sensibility to describe Colonel Brandon’s feelings for Miss Marianne.

  Evan was sweet and very loving towards me for the rest of the morning as he began his foreplay, a first for him. I was pleasantly surprised that he was being so caring with me, lust in his eyes, as he kissed me passionately. I was trying hard not to stare at the erection straining against the front of his pajama bottoms, already dreading the pain that I knew was coming.

  He reached down there a moment later, and I cringed as I caught sight of the angry red tip of his penis as it poked through the opening in the crotch of the striped fabric, his breath hot on my face as he hovered over me.

  Evan fumbled with the drawer of the nightstand on his side of the bed, removing a large bottle of KY Lubricating Jelly that he kept there and squirted a dollop on the palm of his hand before gripping the tip of his large penis, and working his hand over the engorged shaft and head.

  I stared at the ceiling, already zoning out from what was happening, as I felt his heavy weight press on top of me, my legs forced apart by his body as he pulled me to him. I knew by now, it didn’t do any good to tell him no, so I just laid there. I wanted it to be over, already.

  But it never went fast, or well.

  The mattress was squeaking underneath our weight as Evan moved on top of me, his face against my neck, as his cries and grunts increased. I was always disappointed that I couldn’t feel anything but pain, whenever we made love. It had always been like this from the very start.