by Bromberg, K.
Rylee—
I may be a man, but I’m nowhere near gentle. In fact, I think you’re a little curious just how I like it. Step over the edge with me, Ryles—I’ll hold your hand and revel in making you lose that self-control you pride yourself on. I’ll be anything and everything but gentle.
I promise. You’ll never know your limits until you push yourself to them.
If you refuse to give me availability, I may have to take matters in my own hands. Maybe someone taking control is exactly what you want? What you need?
—Ace
“Egotistical asshole,” I mutter as I switch off my computer, refusing to respond. Like he knows what I want or need. But despite my anger, his words reverberate through me more than they should.
My phone rings as I drive to The House. I’m in a foul mood for some reason, and I can only blame it on Donavan and his damn emails. Damn him for filling me with wants and needs and desires again. I glance at the screen on my phone and groan.
It’s Haddie, my best friend and roommate. I’ve successfully avoided her and one of her notorious inquisitions since the event on Saturday night. Luckily, she’d had plans that kept her out of the house because one round of her questions and she would’ve known something had happened.
“Hey, Had!”
“Ry! Where’ve you been? You’re avoiding me!” she reprimands.
Geesh, five words into the conversation and she’s already starting in on me. “No, I’m not. We’ve just both been busy with—”
“Bullshit,” she argues. “I talked to Dane and know the story! Why didn’t you wake me up and tell me when you got home?”
I blanch, wondering what Dane told her, and then I realize that she is probably talking about the auction. “Because nothing happened but absolute humiliation. It was awful.”
“Oh, it couldn’t have been that bad!” she says sarcastically. “At least you got a hot date out of it. Who is he?”
I roll my eyes at her as I turn my car into the driveway of The House. “Some guy—”
“Well, obviously. I’m glad it wasn’t some girl because that would put a whole different spin on this.” She laughs, and I can’t help but smile. “So spill it, sister!”
“Really, Haddie, there’s nothing to tell.” I can hear her guffaw. “Oh, will you look at that? I just pulled up to The House. I gotta go.”
“Likely story, Ry. Don’t worry, I’ll get the scoop out of you when you get home tomorrow from work.” I cringe at the Haddie Montgomery promise to dig deeper. She never forgets.
“Look, I don’t know the guy,” I relent, hoping if I give her some information she’ll be satisfied and not pry any further. “Teddy introduced me to him before I was pulled into being a contestant. His name is Donavan something, and he’s the son of one of the chairpersons. That’s all I know.” I cringe at my blatant omission.
I hear her hum of approval on the end of the line and know the exact expression that is on her flawless face. Her button nose is scrunched up in disbelief while her heart-shaped lips purse as she tries to figure out if I’m telling the truth. “I really am at work now, Had. I have to go. Love ya, bye,” I sign off with our usual parting words.
“Love ya, bye.”
There is chaos in The House as usual when I walk in the door. I step over six book bags that lay haphazardly in the entryway. I can hear Top 40 music coming from one bedroom and the beginning of an argument coming from another as I pass the hallway on my way to the core of the house.
I hear the pop of a baseball mitt coming through the open windows at the rear of the house, and I know that Kyle and Ricky are in the midst of their frequent bout of catch. Any minute, one of them will be complaining that the other one has horrible aim. They’ll argue and then move to the next activity, playing with their Bakugan or competing at baseball on the Wii.
I walk into the great room to hear Scooter giggling as he sits next to my fellow counselor, Jackson, on the couch, arguing the merits of Spiderman versus Batman.
The great room is a common area of the house, combining the kitchen with a large open living area. Large windows open up to the backyard where I can see the boys playing catch. The room has couches on one end that form a U-shape around a small media center, while the other end houses a big wooden table, currently covered with what appears to be incomplete homework. The earth tone furniture is neither new nor shabby but gently worn and well used.
“Hey, guys,” I say as I place my bag on the kitchen island, appraising the state of dinner in two large Crock-Pots on the counter.
I hear various versions of “Hi, Rylee” in response.
Jackson looks up from the couch, his brown eyes full of humor over his debate with eight-year-old Scooter, and smiles. “We were just taking a break from homework. They’ll have it finished before dinner is ready.”
I lift the lid off a Crock-Pot and stir what appears to be pot roast and vegetables. My stomach grumbles, reminding me that I’d worked through lunch today at the corporate office.
“Smells good,” I say, smacking Shane’s hand as he reaches to pinch a piece of the freshly baked loaves of bread that sit on cookie sheets on top of the stove. “Hands off. That’s for dinner. Go get a piece of fruit if you’re hungry.”
He rolls his eyes at me as only a fifteen-year-old boy can. “Hey, can’t blame a guy for trying,” he counters, his prepubescent voice cracking as he skirts around me, brushing his shaggy blonde hair off his forehead.
“You need a haircut, bud.” He shrugs at me, his lopsided grin stealing my heart as it does regularly. “Did you finish your paper yet so I can review it?”
He turns around to face me, walking backwards. “Yes, Mom!” he replies, the term of endearment not lost on me. For that, in fact, is what the staff here is to these boys; we are the parents they no longer have. And in most instances, the chance of adoption above a certain age diminishes drastically. The state has turned over their guardianship to my company.
I work mostly in the corporate office several miles away, but require that all of my trained staff work at least one twenty-four hour shift per week. This time allows them to connect with the boys, and to never forget whom exactly we are fighting on behalf of on a daily basis.
These boys and my staff are my second family. They fuel me emotionally and challenge me mentally. At times they try my patience and push my limits, but I love them with all my heart. I’d do anything for them.
Connor comes flying through the kitchen, running to the back door with something under his arm, while Aiden is chasing after him. “Hey, guys, calm down,” I reprimand as I hear Aiden shout that he’s going to get it back and make him pay.
“Cool it, boys,” Jackson says in his deep baritone, rising from the couch to watch the interaction. Those two have a habit of antagonizing each other, sometimes to the point of becoming physical.
I feel small hands wrap around my thigh, and I look down into the angelic eyes of Scooter. “Hey, bud.” I smile, taking slow and deliberate movements to reciprocate the hug. I can see him steel himself for my touch, but he does not flinch. It has taken me sixteen months to elicit this reaction from an eight-year-old whose only physical contact with his mother was through fists or objects. I squat down to his eye level and kiss him softly on the cheek. Trusting, chocolate-brown eyes look at me. “I agree with you. Spiderman is way cooler than Batman. He’s got that spidey-sense that Batman only wishes he had.” He smiles at me, nodding his head enthusiastically. “Why don’t you go pick up your mess? It’s almost time for dinner.”
He nods, flashing me a shy smile, and I watch him walk back to the family room where his beloved comic books are sprawled haphazardly across the floor. I move my gaze from Scooter to the figure huddled on the other couch.
Zander is static. He is in the same mute state he’s been in for the past three months he’s been in my care. He is curled into himself, an impassive expression on his face, as he watches the muted television with large, haunted eyes. He has his belo
ved stuffed dog, ratty and coming apart at the seams, a lifeline held tightly against his chest. His wavy brown hair curls softly at the nape of his neck. He desperately needs a haircut, but I can still hear his terrified shrieks from a month ago when he caught sight of the scissors as I approached him for a trim.
“No change, Jax?” I murmur to Jackson who has walked up beside me, keeping my eyes on Zander.
“Nope.” He sighs loudly, empathy rolling off him in waves. He continues in a muted tone, “His appointment with Dr. Delaney was the same. She said he just stared at her while she tried to get him to participate in the play therapy.”
“Something is going to trigger him. Something will snap him out of his shock. Hopefully it will be sooner rather than later so we can limit damage to his subconscious...” I hold back my sorrow for the lost little boy “...and help the police figure out what happened.”
Zander had come to us after the police found him covered in blood in his house. He had been trying to use a box of Band-Aids to stop the bleeding from the stab wounds that covered his mother. A neighbor walking her dog had overheard his mother’s strangled cries for help and called the police. She died before they arrived. It is assumed that Zander’s father committed the murder, but without Zander’s statement, the events that led up to the actual act are a mystery. With his father missing, he’s the only one who knows what happened that night.
Zander has not uttered a word in the three months since his mother’s murder. It’s my job to make sure we provide for him in every way possible so he can dig his way out of the catatonic, repressed state he’s in. Then we can help him begin the lengthy process of healing.
I turn from the heartbreak that is Zander and work with Jackson to get dinner finished. We work in sync, side by side, like an old married couple; we’ve had this shift together for the past two years and can now anticipate each other’s movements.
We both work in silence, listening to the flurry of activity in The House.
“So I heard the benefit was a success—with an unexpected entrant in the auction.” He wiggles his eyebrows at me, and I roll my eyes in response before turning back to the sink. “And one hot and heavy make-out session backstage.”
I drop the knife I’m washing. It clatters loudly against the stainless steel basin. I’m grateful that my back is to Jackson so he can’t see the stunned look on my face. What the hell? Someone must have seen me with Donavan. I have to remind myself to breathe as I panic, trying to figure out how to respond. I don’t need my staff gossiping about my backstage encounter.
“What—what do you mean?” I try to sound casual, but I hope I am the only one who can hear the distress in my voice. I turn the water off, waiting for the response.
Jackson laughs his deep, hearty laugh. “I would have loved to see you in action, Ry.”
Shit, shit, shit! My heart races. How am I going to explain this one? I feel warmth on my cheeks as my flush spreads. I open my mouth to answer him when he continues.
“Parading around on stage at the event you so desperately fought against.” I can hear the amusement in his voice. “My God, you must have been pissed!”
“You have no idea.” My response is almost a whisper. I have nothing left to wash, but I keep my back to him, afraid the questions will start if he sees my face.
“And then Bailey told me she met this hot guy—her words, not mine—and lured him backstage in typical Bailey fashion and had a hot and heavy make-out session with him.”
I release the breath I’m holding, grateful that it was our intern Bailey bragging about her exploits rather than gossiping about her boss’s. And then I realize that sexy siren Bailey, whom all the guys at work want to date, was most likely Donavan’s first conquest on Saturday night.
If that were the case, why would he want to go from the leggy, auburn-haired bombshell to me? Talk about reinforcing my feeling of being second choice.
I blow my hair up out of my face. “Well, you know Bailey,” I counter, trying to phrase my next words carefully. “She definitely likes to have her fun.”
Jax laughs, patting my back as he walks by. “That was a nice way of putting it,” he says as he starts to make the boys’ school lunches for the next day. “She’s a great girl, works hard, the kids love her … just not a girl I’d want my son to date.”
I murmur an agreement thinking about our beguilingly sweet intern, who is only five years my junior, and her free ways. A part of me has always been jealous of girls like her. Girls who throw caution to the wind and live their life without regrets, kiss random boys recklessly, take spur of the moment road trips, and are always the life of the party. I often worry that one day I’ll look back on my life and feel like I haven’t lived. That I haven’t taken enough chances, sown my wild oats, or ventured outside my comfort zone.
My life is safe, predictable, controlled, and always in order. I like it that way most of the time. It’s not that I’m not jealous of her because she kissed Donavan first—well maybe a little—but rather that she lives without regrets.
I shake myself out of my thoughts, ones that I have been having more frequently with the anniversary approaching. If anything, I should have learned that life is short and I need to really live it, not stay in my safe corner as it passes me by. I pull myself from my thoughts and refocus on the task at hand.
“Boys,” I shout over the chaos, “it’s time to come finish your homework.” I hear groans coming from various rooms because I’ve said the dreaded “H” word. Six boys, varying from eight to fifteen years old, sullenly walk toward the table, grumbling as they go.
I look over toward the couch where Zander remains curled into himself, rocking back and forth for comfort.
I slowly walk toward him and kneel in front of him. “Zander, do you want to join us? I can read you a book if you’d like?” I speak softly to him, slowly reaching my hand out, holding it still for him to see my intention, and rest it on his hand that rests on his knee. He continues rocking, but his blue eyes flicker over to hold mine.
I see so many things in the depths of his eyes that shake me to the core. I smile softly at him and squeeze his hand. “We’d love for you to join us.” He remains silent but his eyes are still fused on mine. A small sliver of hope springs within me since he normally looks at me and glances away after a few seconds. “Come on, Zander, take my hand, I won’t let go if you don’t want me to.”
He continues to stare at me for some time as I remain stock still, a reassuring smile on my face. His tiny hand moves, and he closes his fingers around my palm. He stands slowly, and we move to join the rest of the boys at the table.
I’M DRAGGING BIG TIME. I’VE hit the last hour of my shift at The House, and the long hours of the past couple of days have caught up with me. The boys were a handful today.
Kellen, my co-counselor, is playing tag with the boys outside. I can hear their laughter and squeals through the open windows.
I’m in the kitchen getting everything together for dinner for the next shift when the house phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Oh, good! You’re still there.” I hear relief tinged with excitement.
“Just barely.” I laugh. “I have about fifteen minutes left. What can I do for you, Teddy?”
“I know you’re probably exhausted, but is it possible for you to stop by the office on the way home?”
It’s the last thing I want to do, as much as I love him. I just want to go home, crawl into bed, and sleep until tomorrow. “Um, okay. Sure. Is something wrong?”
“Just the opposite! I think we found the solution to find the rest of the funding for the new facilities.” He says enthusiastically. “I’ll tell you about it when you get here. We’re just hammering out all of the details now.”
“Wow! Are you serious?” My hopes start to rise. Even with the charity event and the numerous other donations we have already received, we are still shy of our goal by several million dollars. “I—I will be there as soon as I can, depe
nding on traffic.”
I hang up the phone, excitement bubbling inside me. All my hard work over the past two years to get the approvals, the board’s backing, the plans, the funding—it all might finally come to fruition.
I finish preparing the dinner so all that the next shift has to do is put it in the oven. I grab my purse and overnight bag and start to gather my things. I glance at my cell phone and begrudgingly decide to check my email. Maybe I can tackle a few phone calls from them while I am in traffic.
I scan my inbox and notice an email I’d received earlier in the day from Donavan. I contemplate just deleting it, but curiosity gets the best of me and I open it up.
To: Rylee Thomas
From: Ace
Subject: Dexterous Fingers
__________________________
Rylee—
You’ve left me no choice. Your lack of response has left me to take matters into my own hands.
You remember how those felt, don’t you?
—Ace
Arrogant ass. I delete the email. What’s he going to do? I’m even more indifferent to him now that I know about his and Bailey’s tryst in the dressing room. Or at least I am trying to be. Come to think about it, they probably fit each other perfectly. Manwhore and maneater.
I smile at the thought as I finish collecting my things and say goodbye to the troops.
Traffic is unusually light as I drive toward the office. I take this as a sign that good things are going to happen. It’s a beautiful, sunny California day, unusually warm for the ending of January. What I would give to grab a towel, head to the beach and lie there, letting the sun’s warmth rejuvenate me.
In no time at all, I pull into the parking lot of Corporate Cares. I walk quickly up to the building’s lobby, checking my reflection in the mirrored windows. I have on my favorite blue jeans that sit low on my waist and a snug, red V-neck T-shirt. Luckily I had an extra one in my bag because I don’t think Teddy would enjoy my original one that’s now splattered with Ricky’s vomit. I fuss with my hair a moment, pulling the clip from it and letting my curls fall down my back.