by Billie Dale
I can’t pinpoint why this moment breaks me over the others. My strength multiplied with each precise strike the sicko battered me with. Moving so often, no place was home, binge watching shows where people chat, meet, and fuck, while I hide behind a deadbolt and twelve locks, feeling watched at every turn. He killed my damn cat for pity’s sake, yet I kept my sanity. Until now, when my mind splinters, and to protect itself I fall into a dark cavernous hole where not even my stalker will find me.
Thirty-Two
Joey
I screwed up.
Last night was giving in to temptation. My sole purpose to work her out of my system and close the lid on a life of what could’ve been. Solace.
The morning, waking up with her in my arms, the possibility of having the future I envisioned at eighteen rolled out the red carpet and said, “Come on down.” Naked and soft, with make you wanna roll your windows down and cruise curves. She’s my ultimate fantasy and greatest gamble wrapped in a short, hot as fuck package. When I slipped inside her, it wasn’t about getting off; it was because I couldn’t stand another second without to her. She’s the one my cold heart begs for. We needed a clean slate with a fresh start. Opening my heart to her destruction again is akin to walking a tightrope without a net. My life is about more than me, but the rightness of her makes it worth the fall.
Then the asshole ruined it all. He stole our moment, twisting it to his satisfaction. The ultimate puppet master dancing her strings. In my rage I lost sight of her. I foolishly believe her to still be full of the sassy strength I remembered, but years under his thumb took it away. I pride myself on seeing behind her mask to the real woman. When it crumbled, I wasn’t what she needed me to be.
The shame of getting caught with my pants down, mixed with rage over this fucknut’s violation of privacy, sent me into a burn the world down hurricane. A red cloud cloaked my brain and turned my vision black. She needed my comfort and reassurance but my mind couldn’t process anything beyond the anger.
When Hendrix walked her away, the broken emptiness in her eyes gutted me. As though her despair sprouted hands it gave me the punch to the face I needed to snap out of it. Too bad she was gone before I could react. The glare and clipped words from her brother were nothing compared to the rest of my friends’ ire after they cleared out. If looks could chop me into chum and feed me to the sharks, I’d be fish food. Since Sammy Lee caught us sans clothes, she glared the hardest, only holding her tongue because she wanted to catch Preslee. Seth and Miguel followed too, doing their job after a quick ass-chewing from their boss. When the room cleared, I faced off with a seriously pissed off Mazric and a backbreaking load of failure.
Before he could verbalize the shortcomings already rioting in my brain, I instead listed the things I needed him to use his influence completing. He refused but I wasn’t accepting denial. I told him to feel free to kick my ass after we stopped the plague blistering Preslee’s life.
We came to a truce with him promising to inflict maximum damage if I didn’t stay true to my word.
Money and fame truly can work miracles. He accomplished all I asked in a matter of minutes with a handful of phone calls. A short time later I’m pacing the lobby awaiting deliveries. Once I have everything, I need I run straight to where the concierge told Mazric his other reserved cabin is. After I set everything up I planted my ass in the sand a few clicks from the house and waited.
∞∞∞
Seth and Hendrix barrel out the door shouting orders to each other. I pick up a few of their words carried on the wind. Their panic has me on my feet, running toward the cabin.
Hendrix stands scanning the surroundings. When my foot snaps a twig, his posture hardens and a Taser rises from where his hand dangles at his side. In his other hand, I see two white and blue foil wrapped packages. He explains. I cringe.
Shit. I should’ve guessed her mind would go straight to him.
It takes too long for me to story it all to Hendrix after he calls Seth over. When I’m finished, I leave it to them to break it down for Miguel, heading straight to Preslee’s room.
She’s curled into the smallest ball, still wearing her pajamas from the night before. The slight hiccupping of her sobs and the hum of the central air are the only sounds. Without hesitation, I climb on the bed wrapping my body around hers. I shove one arm under her head and place the other over around her waist, dragging her back to my front. With her small spoon tucked in my big, I slip my hand up to cup her cheek using my thumb to swipe away the wetness.
She’s limp in my hold but not asleep. My lips trace the skin of her shoulder, up her neck offering silent empathy. Eyes closed, she remains corpse stiff but for her tears. An empty husk reamed out by a masterful piece of shit.
“Come back to me,” I whisper between tastes of her skin. She stays catatonic, locked in the prison of her fear. “Eighth grade. Asia and Brooklyn stole Sammy Lee’s clothes from the girl’s locker room, leaving her only the mandatory PE outfit to wear for the rest of day. You took scissors, markers, glitter stolen from the art room, and a pair of leggings from your bag, using it all to change the crappy white shirt and polyester red shorts into a kick-ass outfit. The next day twenty girls were wearing the copycat. You refused to let The Townies hurt your friend. Also, the day after you tripped over your invisible shoelaces, dumping an entire plate of spaghetti on Asia’s head, which thanks to the toxicity of school lunch stained her fake bleached hair. You are a force to reckon with.”
Her chest expands with a deep breath and the corner of her lips slant up a smidge. “Ninth grade. Creeden bragged to an entire study hall table how you let him round the bases under the bleachers during a football game. I was trying my damnedest to snag your attention and threatened to kill him for touching you. He came clean a second before my fist punched his face, confessing how you hated the way everyone made fun of him and agreed to let the rumor fly if he bought you unlimited sketch books and gave you free food from the diner. You didn’t care about people’s opinion, so long as another human wasn’t tortured on the high school bullshit train.”
Those full lips tug a bit higher and her body relaxes in my hold. Her fiery spark strikes but like a Zippo at the end of its flint; it can’t ignite. “Junior year. Two meaty jerks were dangling a seventh grade boy out the second story window because he wore eyeliner, dressed emo, sang with a feminine angelic voice, and was too small to be a man.”
“Gage,” she murmurs, her voice cracked and weak around the letters of his name.
“Torturing the poor kid for being what we now identify as gender neutral. You couldn’t risk them dropping the boy. I’ve never been more in awe and pissed off when I heard you flashed them your tits for letting him go. What’s better is, a few days later, those same shitwits ran tearing through the hall holding their crotches, screaming about their dicks burning off. Guess someone sprayed a ton of homemade lip plumper in their boxers. A mixture of jalapeño juice and peppermint with a hint of chocolate. Genius in its design and lethal on the genitals. I know because my girlfriend gave me a blowjob with it on once.” I cringe at the memory, but laugh at how she talked Mazric into swapping out their underwear for the ones she saturated with the brew. Dumb hicks were too stupid to notice they weren’t the same ones they wore before their shower. “You hooked Gage up with Hendrix, and I believe the other day I read about one of his songs climbing up in YouTube views.”
She twists her head to face me, opening her red-ringed, tear-swollen eyes. Hidden in the deep stormy sea of blue is her fire. It’s dim and a stiff wind will snuff it out, but it’s there. Refusing to let her sink again, I rush off the bed, “Keep those eyes on me, Sunflower,” I whisper. She squints to focus, watching me jog to her side and a gasping breath rattles her chest when I sweep her up in my arms. Cradled to my chest I carry her to the bathroom. I lower her legs, keeping a tight grip on her hand while I twist the faucet in the shower.
Strands of her hair hang down around her face. Scraggly pieces frizzed from swea
t torn free from a messy bun. Careful not to hurt her, I untwist the band atop her head. Her blonde locks touch her shoulders. Steam fills the room as I drag down the straps of her camisole, scrunching it at her waist. I work my thumbs in the sides of her shorts, tugging both garments down her creamy skin. She’s a veritable feast for my eyes and I will enjoy her again, but she’s a fragile porcelain doll standing before me who needs the kid glove treatment.
I pull my shirt over my head before wrapping my arms around her naked body. My dick hardens, raising his bulbous head to check out the situation.
Hey, don’t shake your head and hold off on the judgment. I’m a man. Preslee is a goddess with her clothes on. A deity who I subconsciously coveted for years and had a teeny tiny taste of, which is not near enough. So yeah, my blood races and my cock wants her. I won’t act on it but he truly has a mind of his own.
To keep her from noticing her effect on my body and because it’s all kinds of wrong to want her while she’s floundering, I grip her waist setting her in the shower. With my jeans still on I join her.
I position her under the spray. She squeezes her eyes shut, angles her neck, and I watch the water pour over her head and down her body. Her nipples harden and droplets hang from their peaks. I lengthen behind my soaked zipper. Thank fuck I didn’t bother with briefs when I dressed, because the only thing keeping me sane is the bite of the teeth into my engorged flesh. She’s not moving and I need a distraction.
I crowd her, keeping my hips away because she doesn’t need my erection poking her stomach. Behind her I grab her shampoo, squeeze out a glob and massage the suds into her scalp. As my fingers work, her mouth falls open and a moan slips free.
Damn, I love it yet it so doesn’t help my bulging issue.
I need to keep reminding her who she is and I need the diversion away from her body. While I rinse her, I continue stoking the flame I saw earlier. “When Sam dropped the pregnancy bomb on Mazric, he spiraled out of control. You kept tabs on him. Made sure he landed in his own bed each night. To this day I don’t think he’s aware you were there, watering down his alcohol and checking in with his friends.”
“How do you know that?” she asks, as I work conditioner over her head.
“Every year,” I ignore her question continuing to work on her hair, “on my birthday, I receive this anonymous package in the mail. It’s full of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, a personal-sized cheesecake from an amazing bakery in Chicago, and a couple new paperback thrillers. Never a return address or clue where it came from. Yet full of all the things I love. At first the only way I could enjoy it was if I lied to myself, but I figured it was from you. It took me years and a hearty fight against addiction to understand why you walked away from me. Every box I opened showed me I still lived in your heart.”
After rinsing I grab the poufy sponge, add a dollop her bodywash, filling the stall with her peppermint scent. I’ve envisioned overdosing on the smell of her since the day I pulled her over. Not the mass-produced version she buys, but the sweet temptation it becomes on her skin. When she’s clean, I bury my face in the crook of her neck, the spot where her decadence and true essence feed my need.
“I call you Sunflower because they’re pure and pull out toxins. Tall, strong, and follows the sun. I started because of your hair but the woman in here,” I tap her chest, “is the embodiment of what a sunflower means. Come back to me, Preslee. My soul can’t take losing you again.”
Thirty-Three
Preslee
His words, all of them from the moment I realized he cuddled behind me, grew roots in my mind. Kicking, punching, clawing they attack the ominous cloud chipping away its thickness piece by piece. He’s lending me his strength, beating it back by reminding me of all the times I stood up for those who couldn’t, and loving my friends the only way I knew how.
As a little girl, I idolized powerful women. Fictional heroes like Buffy Summers, Sydney Bristow, Veronica Mars, Xena. I started building my paper chain with Hendrix. Every time I championed for him, it added another link. Righting wrongs, taking on bullies, and stopping any injustice I came across in my narrow world helped grow it longer. I believed my linkage was thick welded steel, unbreakable, solid in construction. My parents raised me to help when and where I could, with whatever means at my disposal. When I hightailed it out of Seven Mile Forge with headstrong goals, I believed myself impervious so long as I wrapped myself in my chain, thinking I could change the world.
Naïve, yes, but my intentions were pure. Turns out the tough titanium interlocking hoops were nothing more than weighted paper fastened with cheap school glue. Remember those colorful paper chains we made as kids? We cut construction paper, used our glue sticks, and wrapped our Christmas tree with the creation. One weak bond unraveled our work. Joey, unbeknownst to me, was the linchpin in my chain. He was the glue, even when I quit him. His unwavering belief in me held it all together. I bought in to the whole fated soul mate propaganda fed to me in every romance I read. We are meant to be so someday we would be.
For a month I lived stalker free. Yes, I became complacent, letting my walls fall. Before bed at night, I danced. For the first time since the asshole invaded my life seven years ago, I held hope. Oh, sure I felt sorry for his next fixation, because there is always another one but I rode the freedom train all the same.
Joey and I reconnected on a cellular level. Tra-la-la, we reached the climax of our friends to lovers. Boy, what a climax it was. My windows opened and I sang my fairy-tale song because our HEA arrived.
First my sycophant puppeteer reappeared; kick one. Flying while believing the Bermuda Triangle would devour the plane; kick two. My screwup with the reservations; kick three. Believing Joey didn’t feel the ass over elbows, falling sensation rightness I did, Acme anvil, full body squashing. SPLAT!
The care he takes with my body, combined with everything Joey, stitches my jagged shards. Peppermint hums in the air, soothing me with its familiar scent. Warning bells ring in my head, but I’m too defeated to pay attention. Come back to me, Preslee. My soul can’t take losing you again. These words push me the last step I need to find my light, my rage.
My aching eyes open, spanning the width of his naked chest, working down to where his soaked jeans hang on his hips before climbing up to find him watching me. Withholding my emotions stuck me in this mess so best to stay honest, even if it hurts.
“Was what we did hate fucking?” Based on his reaction earlier I can guess his answer, but I need his truth even if it breaks me again.
He reaches past me, ending the rain shower falling on my head. Water clings to his body and in the chill from the air goosebumps trace the lines of his muscles. While I wait for his answer and admire the way wet denim hugs his body, he grabs a big fluffy towel. He steps out, dripping on the tile floor while he drags the soft cloth along my skin.
On his knees, he sweeps the towel up my legs, blinking up from hooded lids. “Can you handle it if I say yes?” he asks in a smoky whisper.
“Maybe. Maybe not. I want the truth.” My voice grows stronger and I spread my legs, giving him access to dry all of me.
His throat moves with a large swallow while his hand under the towel shakes as he works it over my knee and up my thigh. “Christ, woman. You’ll be the death of me,” he exhales around a groan and his hot breath fans between my legs. He wraps me in the large terrycloth, using it to pull me closer. “First round was more fucking you out of my system than hate. I made myself believe adult Preslee couldn’t be nearly as fantastic as I’d built teenage Preslee to be in my head. Believed one taste would cure it.”
I curl deeper into the fabric, staring at the floor. “No,” his finger meets my chin dragging my eyes back to his, “stay with me.” A clog of tears catches in my throat. I force it down, nodding my acquiescence. “I slept. With you wrapped around me, I slumbered deeper than I have in years. My mind at peace and my soul no longer searching. There isn’t a drug out there able to do what holding your body does.”
My mouth drops open and a scoffing weird snort comes out. Touchy feels isn’t my bag of tricks because emotion reveals too many soft spots where people can jab pointy sticks.
“Scoff, rib, jab, mock all you want, woman. I’m unleashing my truth.” He kisses my nose, shocking me into shutting my lips. “When morning came, I figured I was dreaming. For a handful of seconds, you stayed and we were living our time. The universe righted its wrongs and time rewound. Of course, reality brought clarity. I would never change Cash and while I hate the actuality of it, I think everything happened the way it was supposed to.”
Freezing, I trade the towel for a thick robe hanging on the back of the door. Our conversation is far from over but standing in the frigid bathroom isn’t the place to do it. I step to him. Rolling his comments around in my head, I focus on removing his pants. He’s so delicious with drips from his hair playing a game of Plinko down all his muscles before soaking into his waistband. My fingers trace his exposed hip divots, circling his belly button before working his button and zipper. With it open the weight of the water tugs them to his ankles, leaving him standing gloriously naked before me.
Going commando for the win.
Yes, moments ago I was all oh woe is me, bad, bad, black hole. Boo freaking hoo. Now I’m watching Joey TV and I’m addicted. Look up wishy-washy on Wiki and I’ll be there smiling with my hands up in a what ya gonna do pose. I guess if I were Achilles, he would be my heel. He’s not the only one balancing on the precarious edge of what we could be or the ways it could fail. But I’m the one with the excess baggage.
He slips a pack of contacts in my hand.
I shake my head. “I can’t wear these. They’re from him.” I lean to drop them in the trash. His fingers on my wrist stop me.
“I tried for glasses but the island optometrist couldn’t craft the lenses fast enough. Said to pick them up tomorrow. I hope the frames are okay,” he rambles. “Anyway, after a phone call he found these samples in your prescription to hold you over.