* * *
Jeanine’s eyes adjusted in the dark as she stroked a sleeping Kirk. Admitting what George had done to her had been a big step, but Kirk had taken it well. He hadn’t asked for details, and after they returned to the cabin, they’d made sweet, slow love, before falling asleep in each other’s arms.
So why, then, was she awake in the middle of the night? Something had woken her, triggered the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. She concentrated on the night sounds outside. Had she heard a car or truck? Or was that the thudding of her heart?
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, but the images pumped in her mind. Kirk had flipped her on her back. One minute, she was riding high, and as she was about to crest, he’d turned her over, despite his wounded thigh.
He’d covered her with his huge body and plunged into her, wedging himself between her legs, and she had been helpless like an upside down turtle.
She’d climaxed, despite her fear and anxiety, and he hadn’t had a clue that she was flashing back to another man who’d covered her and made her helpless—so helpless, she’d come without wanting to.
She shut her eyes and recited what she’d learned from Phyllis. She had to own the truth. She could survive only by facing the truth. She had the courage to tell the truth. And the truth would set her free. She was what she was, but she would be what she wanted to be.
A survivor and a winner.
Her body relaxed and her breathing steadied. She put her head on Kirk’s chest and her arm and leg over him. He was her rock—her safe haven. This week had been traumatic and healing at the same time. She’d gone over everything Simpson had done to her with her therapist and she was ready to move past it. He couldn’t touch her now, and nothing he’d done to her could possibly hurt her. She was finally free from George Simpson.
Closing her eyes, she let Kirk’s steady heartbeat calm her to sleep.
* * *
The voices came closer, laughing and mocking, a persistent droning in her ear. Jeanine was tied to a bed in the basement. All around her were live body parts. Nameless flesh, white and naked, covered with leather winged demons.
Above it all, a deep, booming laughter played in a loop. Over and over again, drumming in her head. The pale arms and legs flailed underneath the dark creatures and their shuddering wings, and the scent was heavy with a coppery taste mingled with musk. Moans and wails mixed, and hurried breathing accelerated in raspy huffs, seeking pain, death, or euphoria?
A dark shadow approached, his face masked, his wings out. She strained against the ties around her arms and legs, but she had nowhere to go.
“Who are you?” she cried, hating the fear in her voice.
“You know who I am,” the demon answered, parking himself above her. His cock was large and erect and he parted her legs with it.
“No, no, stay away from me. I’m not yours anymore.”
“You’ll always be mine.” He thrust and pierced to her heart. “I gave you your first orgasm. You come only for me and no one else.”
No. She would not come. Would not give him the pleasure of coming apart for him. She wasn’t his. Not anymore. Not ever.
“What we had was an inappropriate relationship,” she said, screwing up her strength. “You need to leave me alone.”
“That’s your adult mind speaking,” the demon said, his hot breath spewing over her face. “That’s not what you thought when you were mine.”
“I was never yours.”
“Yes, you were.” The scenery changed, and George had his hand inside her panties. “Who put a roof over your head? Who fed you and clothed you? Who made you feel good? Me, Papa. You always came for Papa.”
“You abused me. You’re a monster.”
He tickled her and pushed a finger into her, violating her. “I gave you joy. I made you feel good. You loved it, and you’re going to love me again. You should have waited for me, Jeanine. But you betrayed me.”
“No, you betrayed me by going to jail. You let Karen find out by filing for divorce. You ruined everything, Papa. You know what Karen did to me after you left? She threw me out into the streets. She called me a filthy whore. She told everyone how I’d seduced you. How I came on to you.”
He continued to tickle her between her legs, and despite her anger, pleasure overtook her. She was fast approaching a climax. She shouldn’t let him. She couldn’t, but as he rubbed her, he taunted her. “You seduced me, you little tart. You don’t remember? You made me fall in love with you, and you should have waited for me. I went to jail for you because I loved you. Now, it’s time for you to come to me. Now it’s time for you to love me back.”
“No, no, no.” Jeanine’s head jerked back and forth. She lifted her hips from the bed, finding the lurid and addictive rhythm revolting. The molten heat roiled inside of her, straining to escape, but she would not come for him. She would not give him the pleasure.
“You’re so close, my little doll. Come for Papa. Come for me, now.”
“I won’t. I can’t.”
“You will because it’s me you love.” He lowered his lips to her crotch and spoke into her folds. “I’m your first and only lover.”
“No. No. Don’t do that. I’m not yours anymore.”
“Oh, but you are.” The demon’s forked tongue licked both sides of her clit, vibrating and rubbing it. “You’ll always be mine.”
There was no more struggle. He always paid her well. Gave her what she wanted. Her hips jerked and her blood vibrated, thick and sweet, and she came, came so hard, she cried out, shattering under his satisfied laughter.
“Jeanine, are you okay?” Rough hands shook the orgasm out of her sleep. Her insides were still throbbing and pulsing, and she didn’t want to let it go.
Her eyes popped open, adjusting to the dark. She was on a large bed with a man. Not George. No, he was in jail. That had been a dream. A horrid dream.
“Yes, bad dream,” she muttered, still tingling from the dream climax. “Make love to me. I need you inside. Please.”
She clutched him, grabbed his cock and stroked it until it was hard. Her mouth attacked his, and she ravaged him with her tongue, thrusting and going a little crazy. His response was immediate. He jerked his hips and she planted herself on top of him, desperate for him to plug her.
It didn’t matter who he was, only that he wasn’t George. Never George. He’d forced her, made her come against her will. Tied her down and tortured her with his lips and tongue, his penis and his fingers. He’d pleasured her, or so he claimed, to chain her to his heart—to love only him.
But she’d extinguish him with men hotter and younger than he, men who didn’t know her body the way he did. Men who couldn’t make her come the way he did. Men who filled out her black book with sexual frustration. None of them any good—until Kirk.
I’m still better than he, George said in her brain. I taught you everything you know. I know your body best. I know what turns you on and what gets you high.
“Shut up.” Jeanine growled and gripped Kirk’s cock between her legs. She blew out a breath and rode him like he was a wild horse, her legs and hips jerking as she bounced over him at galloping speed—his meat between her legs, hitting her over and over again, running over that spot, the one that belonged to her, and not to George.
The orgasm slammed her like a Mack truck crashing into a schoolroom. Her thoughts scattered far and wide and she keened, shattering as hot, molten bolts rushed through the center of her body, threading through her heart.
Who do you love, Jeanine? Who do you love?
“Papa. I love you. I love you, Papa.” She collapsed over the hard slab of abs, the hot rod between her legs, the sweating chest and corded arms, and rubbed herself through the aftershocks.
“Who do you love?” Kirk’s sharp, disbelieving voice slapped her back to the present. “What’s going on, Jeanine? What are you doing to me?”
He reached over and flicked on the bedside lamp. His eyes were popping from his face and
he was pale, breathing hard. He was still between her legs. She’d clamped onto him, so she squeezed him with her internal muscles, clenching him, not wanting to let him go.
“Nothing, Kirk. Go back to sleep. I was only dreaming. I had a nightmare.”
“You climbed on me and we had sex.” He lifted her hard and shoved her to his side. “Without a condom. You called out for Papa. It’s sick, Jeanine. Is that what you called Simpson? Papa? You said you loved him while screwing me. Is that what it’s been about? Me between your legs while you think of him?”
“No, no. I only think of you. I only want you, Kirk.”
“Strange way of showing it.” He pulled up his sweatpants. “You never told me you loved me. You fucked me like a piece of meat, all the while loving him. Were you waiting for him at Marcia’s house when I showed up? Was that what happened? I got in the way and I got shot, but you, how do I know you hadn’t been waiting for him the entire time? Waiting for him to get out of jail so you could finally be together.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jeanine slammed her fist into the headboard of the bed, cracking it. Her knuckles exploded with pain, but she didn’t give a shit. She kicked the mattress and pounded it with both fists, over and over. If only she could pummel Simpson out of her brain, out of her dreams, make everything disappear.
Howls of grief tore from her throat, and tears washed her face. She ripped at her hair and threw her head against the bed, kicking her heels in the air and slamming them onto the mattress. Her body flailed like a dying fish, wracked by harsh sobs, her throat raw from the guttural cries she couldn’t control.
Simpson had won. He’d owned her and ruined her. What a fool she was to think that any sane man would want anything to do with her—the disgusted, warped little whore who’d put a popular coach in jail.
He’d been Kirk’s beloved coach, a friend of his family, someone he’d looked up to. And now, he’d driven Kirk away, as surely as if he’d pointed a gun at him.
No, it wasn’t Simpson. It was her fault. She was the crazy one, the one who loved her Papa, even when he did horrid things to her, because maybe she deserved it. Maybe she was the defective one.
And now, Kirk was gone. He’d pulled on his clothes and stomped out the door. He wouldn’t listen to her. Didn’t want to hear a peep out of her. He couldn’t clear out fast enough.
“Liar!” she’d screamed at the top of her lungs. “You said you were my friend. You said you’d never leave me, that you’d stick with me until I got better.”
He hadn’t turned around, even to defend himself. Just kept walking until he got into his truck. Hating her, and forgetting her. Driving away as fast as he could—the taillights dimming into the night. Gone.
She couldn’t blame him. What she’d done to him was heinous. She’d attacked him and forced him to have sex with her. Taken advantage of him lying there asleep, not fully aware, and she’d raped him. She was no freaking better than Simpson. She’d used Kirk to wipe the stain of Simpson from her groggy mind. Used Kirk to erase the dream. Used him to banish George Simpson to hell.
And now, she’d lost Kirk. It was evident by the way he shrugged off her touch, as if she were a deadly plague, the way he refused to listen, covering his ears and shaking his head, and the way he walked out, hard, fast, and solid—never looking back. Never thinking back. Never remembering.
It pierced her to the very core of her soul.
Who do you love? Who do you love? Who?
“Kirk,” she sobbed, gasping for breath. “I want to love Kirk.”
Except she didn’t know what love was. She was a machine. A robot without a heart. A hollowed out shell. Every notion of love she had was false, phony, manufactured, a big lie.
Swallowing her tears, she swiped her hand angrily over her eyes, and pulled herself off the bed. There was nothing here at this ranch for her. No amount of horseback riding, hiking, meditation or talking to Phyllis would ever rid her of her past.
There was only one person she had to see. One person she had to face, and after that, there was nothing left for her to do but fade away.
Her shell had been cracked, and she’d been exposed as a fraud. She wasn’t strong. She wasn’t a winner. She hated sex and she was a whore.
Even worse, she was a helpless, worthless victim.
* * *
Kirk rode up the elevator to his apartment in the secure high rise building. Gleaming, modern, luxurious and posh.
He hated it. It would be empty, cold, clinical and sterile. No one to come home to. No one to expect.
He’d never minded before, opening the door to an empty place. It had meant freedom and order. No one to question him. No one to nag. No one to mess with his things. His room would be just the way he left it, and he could wrap himself in a blanket of solitude, knowing he had no need for companionship—especially females. They messed with a man’s peace and quiet, screwed with his mind, hogged up the bathroom and fucked the handyman in his bed.
He got off at his floor and carried his suitcase down the long corridor. He barely knew his neighbors, couldn’t remember their names, and when he approached his unit, he felt Jeanine’s absence like a punch in his gut. He’d gotten used to waking up with her, kissing her first thing in the morning, running his fingers through her tangled hair and holding her while he slept. Her voice inhabited his mind, her scent filled his nose, and her taste was always in his mouth.
But it had all been one-sided. He’d simply traded his sex addiction for love addiction. He’d made up a fantasy in his mind that she was his perfect lover, that she was the one who “got” him, understood him. They were partners in recovery, buddies with benefits, two peas in a pod.
All rubbish. He closed his eyes and gripped the headache ripping through his skull.
He’d been the one to walk away. He’d let anger overtake his concern for her. He’d packed his things and took off in the night—hadn’t said goodbye, hadn’t even looked her in the eye, hadn’t considered how she’d feel to lose his company. Because she’d obviously enjoyed him. Enjoyed the attention he’d heaped on her, enjoyed their moments together, laughing, bantering, cuddling, and teasing.
That hadn’t been for Simpson, had it? Only the sex was Simpson’s. She’d used him to prove she was over Simpson. Except she wasn’t. She still called out to him. She loved him. It was plain to see, and she’d waited for him, never marrying, never getting close to anyone.
He had to hold onto that anger if he were to survive. From now on, he was going partying. Forget the therapy and the stupidity. There was nothing wrong with being a sex addict. Nothing at all. It kept his heart guarded and made him strong—impervious to being hurt.
Except, every time a certain person came into his mind, his entire chest would cave in, and he’d rip his fingers over the ache, wishing he could squeeze her out of his heart and turn it to stone.
He unlocked the door of his apartment and nearly jumped out of his skin. The TV was on and four guys wearing baseball caps sat on the floor with video game controllers. His brother, Matt, had let himself in. Damn. He so didn’t need this right now.
“Hey, you’re back early,” Matt said, pausing the game. “Hey guys, this is my big brother, Kirk, the baseball player.”
“Dude.”
“Yo.”
“Hey, man.”
Matt’s friends grunted in monosyllables.
Kirk was in no mood to be civil. His head ached and his thigh throbbed. He dragged his brother to the kitchen. “What are you doing here?”
“You said I could crash here while you were out of town.”
“That was before I heard you and Simpson robbed that woman’s place. What was that all about?”
“Oh, that? No harm done. We didn’t find anything except for the letters.”
“What letters? I’m giving those letters back to Mom.”
“Not those letters,” Matt said. “These were ones Jeanine wrote to George. She thought she threw them away, but Tina saved the
m. We didn’t break in. Tina let us in and she gave us the letters, but when George stole Jeanine’s underwear, she had to make something up, so she called the cops after we left.”
“This is sickening. Completely sick.” Kirk grabbed his brother by the shirt and shoved him flat against the wall. “You let that sicko go through her underwear?”
“That wasn’t planned. You were supposed to have given the letters Mom sent to Jeanine so she could remember how much George loved her. Then he would show up with the letters Tina fished out of the trash and remind her how much she loved him, too.”
“What for? He was a fucking child rapist. He raped her and manipulated her for years.”
“You’re wrong,” Matt said. “She wasn’t a victim. She was the perpetrator. She seduced George when all he wanted to do was paint her.”
Kirk lost it. He raised his fist and slammed the wall behind Matt, smashing the drywall. “She was a child. A fucking child.”
“This is good, real good.” Matt blinked fast, nodding. A sheen of sweat shone on his forehead. “Mom wants me to be a bestselling author. She says my book’s going to hit the NY Times list. I just have to interview Jeanine to make it better. Get her firsthand account.”
“Book? What book?” Kirk shook his brother’s shoulders. “What the hell are you and Mom up to?”
“George’s memoir. I’m writing it with him. From pro baseball player to the slammer.”
“No one’s going to buy it.”
“People like Hannibal Lector. That became a movie.”
“That was fiction. This is disgusting.”
“True crime always sells.”
“No, it doesn’t. And I’m telling you this. If you ever write a word about any of this, I’ll cut you into tiny pieces, slowly.” He yanked his brother by the arm. “Take your friends, your video games, and your fucking stupid book idea and get the hell out of here.”
Matt’s friends gathered their things quickly and filed out of Kirk’s apartment in short order. Kirk kicked the door after them and straightened out the mess they’d left behind.
Playing Catch: A Baseball Romance Page 23