I Know What Love Is

by Bianca, Whitney

  I Know

  What Love Is

  by

  Whitney Bianca

  I Know What Love Is

  (I Know What Love Is #1)

  copyright 2014

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are fictitious, or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual locales or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely and purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this original work may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever without written permission of the author.

  Contact information:

  email: bia.whitney@gmail.com

  Cover art by Slaughtered Heart Graphics

  Self-Published First E-book Edition

  August 2014

  ***AUTHOR'S NOTE***

  This is a work of fiction. The story contained within these pages may be considered objectionable and distasteful to some. As a writer, it is my job to tell stories and live inside my character's heads as I write. I do not judge my characters. However, I do not in any way condone their actions or the violent ways in which they express themselves.

  This dark erotic tale is completely fictional and is no way intended for harm.

  This is Joan and Elliot's story.

  Reader beware.

  Chapter One

  The flat, red desert horizon stretches for miles all around me as I speed down the seemingly never-ending black asphalt road. I've been driving for a day straight but I don't have time to stop. I'm on a strict timetable.

  I almost can't believe I'm back in Texas. After all this time, I'm finally home. It's strange, but I actually missed the oppressive heat. It's smothering and uncomfortable, but at least it's predictable.

  Predictable is comforting.

  I need all the comfort I can get.

  I reach down between my legs and adjust the gun hidden in my left boot. I'm wearing my lucky blue boots, but I also know I have to make my own luck. The gun is one way to do that. I don't want to take any chances. I've spent hours at the shooting range preparing for today. I don't want to lose control if the shit hits the fan.

  After all, I'm about to do something crazy.

  Five years ago, I never would have imagined this life for myself. Five years ago, I was a carefree girl who lived in the bright sunlight.

  I had no idea the darkness that could exist in this world.

  I know now.

  Believe me, I know.

  *****

  The night that changed my life forever was nothing special.

  It was a typical Friday night in Texas. The music was loud and the booze was flowing. I didn't see him at first. I was standing by the bar, my white tank top riding up the curve of my waist and my jean skirt riding low on my hips. I felt sexy, carefree. After a long work week, I just wanted to kick back, drink a few whiskey-and-Cokes, and get laid. I remember that, after all these years. I was definitely looking for a man to take home.

  For a long time, I would think back on what I was wearing, like it made a lick of difference. I was dressed to get laid, quite honestly. Short skirt. Tight top. Black bra. Maybe I was asking for it. Maybe I was a bad girl with loose morals and dirty desires. Lots of people are under the illusion that good girls don't get raped. Bad girls, though, are asking for trouble and deserve whatever they get. But hell no, I wasn't asking for trouble, I swear. No one would ask for what happened to me. Silly me, I was looking to get lucky. What I got instead was a one way ticket to the dark side.

  It had nothing to do with my clothes.

  He told me later, his voice rough in my ear, that it was my hair. Long and dark, I used to wear it down my back in a loose braid. He said he saw himself wrapping my braid around his big hand and pulling. Yanking me down. He always wanted me down—on my knees, on my stomach. Down. Beneath him. And after awhile, he forced me to pretend to enjoy it. The sad thing is, eventually, I no longer had to pretend.

  I did enjoy it.

  That little tidbit? I've kept it to myself, all these years. Only he and I know how I come against his hard cock when he thrusts it into me, over and over.

  I adapted to my environment.

  I mutated.

  But dammit, I didn't ask for it. I never asked for that, or all the shit that came after. Trust me.

  Anyway, that fateful night in the bar, I didn't see him at first. I was preoccupied. The bartender was cute. He had dark hair, olive skin, a sleeve of colorful tattoos down his arm, and a plain gold band on his left ring finger. Married. What a shame. That didn't stop me, though. I was twenty-two, and as far as I was concerned, flirting was harmless. I can't remember exactly what I was saying, but I remember giggling a lot. I had one cowboy boot hooked on the rung of the stool next to me, my knee lifted and my thighs parted. A bead of whiskey rolled down between my breasts, after a bit spilled on the way to my mouth. It was a hot night in Austin, but the bar inside was dark and cool. Laughter and the hum of music lulled me into complacency. It was a great night. Nothing bad could happen. I was feeling good.

  It was a dive. I used to love dives. Skeezy men and hipsters, drinking cheap beer and playing darts and pool. This particular dive bar, The Blue Mermaid, was leaning toward skeeze, but I was down with that. I lived up the street and it was close. When I found Mr. Right Now, there'd be no time to reconsider. I'd have him upstairs and naked in less than ten minutes.

  That was my frame of mind at the time. No apologies, no regrets.

  This where I made my first mistake.

  It took me too damn long. I spent too much time giggling with the bartender. I gave him too much time to scout me out. Too much time to figure out exactly what he was going to do with me.

  I had to pee, so I sidled down the narrow wood-paneled hallway toward the ladies'. After I did my business and washed my hands, I glanced up at myself in the cracked, misty mirror. I remember this moment, in particular. This was the last time I looked at myself before it all went to hell. Old Me had golden skin, naturally tan from my Anglo-Mexican lineage and the Texas sun. Old Me had bright, laughing brown eyes and soft lips that glistened with a lipgloss sheen. Old Me had a curvy hourglass figure and toned muscles from jogging and volleyball on Saturdays.

  Old Me was beautiful. Old Me was healthy. Old Me had a lifetime of possibilities ahead of her.

  I realize I'm getting sappy. Forgive me. It's hard for me, you know? This little trip down memory lane is probably not good for me. I'm supposed to be moving on. If I was half as well-adjusted as I pretend to be, I might actually find something of worth in rehashing all this old bullshit. I wish I could be one of those women who uses her story to help others. I wish I could be one of those women who does tours of high schools and colleges to let other women know that they're not alone. Rape is not something you asked for. Rape is not who you are.

  Alas, I'm not well-adjusted. I'm just good at faking it.

  I bumped into a brick wall of a man outside of the restroom, my nose pressing into his chest and his big hands clamping down on my biceps. I couldn't help but take a big whiff of him. He smelled like beer, sweat, and the spicy scent of pine, like one of those cardboard trees that hang from rearview mirrors. All man. All brute.

  He was wearing a black button up, black jeans, and steel-toed boots. His shoulders were broad, and his arms rippled with muscle under the thin fabric of his shirt. The skin on his face and forearms was dark, but his neck was pink, like he spent too much time in the sun. He worked with his hands, no doubt. Construction, road crew, or sanitation, I figured. My father ran a huge landscaping business in Dallas and I had grown up around those kind of guys my whole life. They were burly, loud, and could be total assholes if not handled properly.

  “'Scuse me, sugar,” I mumbled as I
stumbled back. He didn't let me go, though. He held me past all courtesy. He forced me to look him in the face, my eyebrows raised in a question. That was the first time he forced me to do anything, but it wouldn't be the last. But I didn't look him in the eye, not yet. My gaze was drawn to his mouth.

  It's a strange thing to remember, his mouth. But that's the spot my eyes zeroed in on, in that moment. It was a straight line of a mouth, with a thin lips, and no beard or distracting facial hair. There was something cruel about it, but I didn't know what. Later I would know. Yes ma'am, I would.

  “What's your name?” he said, his voice low. His fingers were digging into the flesh of my arms and I felt my brow furrow in annoyance. Who was this big motherfucker, thinking he could touch me? I wasn't smart enough to be scared. Yet.

  “None of your business,” I said, the liquor giving me confidence. I tried to pull away, but he moved toward me, pressing me against the cheap wood paneling of the hallway, his thigh shoving between mine. Finally, I started to register the danger of the situation. My heart started pounding; blood throbbed in my ears. Blood also flowed to another part of my body, lower down. It's embarrassing, but it's true. My body reacted to his big thigh pressing against me.

  I pressed my palms to his chest, still clinging to the hope that he would let me go if I asked him nicely to leave me alone. He was probably just a drunk asshole, I told myself. A drunk asshole who thought a pretty girl calling him 'sugar' meant he was going to get a free pass to pussy town.

  His face was directly over mine, and I stole a glance at him. He was a handsome but hard-looking man, his nose blunt, but his cheekbones sharp. He was older than me, I guessed late twenties to my twenty-two. His green eyes were flat and dead, no feeling in them at all. I wondered if he wasn't just drunk. Maybe he was on something else? Meth and painkiller addiction was rampant in the South. But a tweaker wouldn't be as big as him. A tweaker would have tics and bad skin and bad teeth. A tweaker wouldn't be as calm and as sure as he was.

  “What's your name?” he repeated, his voice softer this time. Despite the softness, I wasn't fooled. I knew I was in trouble, I just didn't know how much.

  “Look mister, I don't want any trouble,” I said, trying to keep the shake out of my voice. I held my hands up in surrender, but that only caused him to press himself harder against me. So hard, I could barely breath. He had me flattened between him and the wall. Both were unyielding and the air was slowly leaking out of me. I could barely take a breath. I could feel his erection then, through his jeans and my skirt. Scaring an innocent girl gave him a woody, I realized. Okay, maybe I wasn't so innocent. But that was still not a good sign.

  “What's your goddamn name?” he hissed, and dropped his face to my neck. He bit me before I could even realize what was happening, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin. My fingernails dug into his chest, but he didn't stop. His tongue lathed between his teeth, wetting the skin trapped there. My nipples hardened. My thighs clenched around his leg. My whole body tightened. It was the fear, I think. My whole body was frozen.

  Finally, he released me and I heard myself whimper in shock. He pulled back, and blood stained his teeth. My blood. He dipped his head again, licking at my skin a few more times, to staunch the flow of blood. He moved fast, and my white tank top didn't get a drop of tell-tale red on it. Not then, anyway.

  For a second, I wondered if vampires were real. Vampires like in mythology, not the glittery vampires in stupid movies aimed at teenage girls. Vicious vampires who would tear your throat out without a moment's hesitation. But vampires don't exist. Mr. Brick Wall was just fucking with me, terrorizing me. He liked watching me bleed. There are far scarier things to worry about than made-up bogeymen, believe me.

  “Last chance,” he said then, licking his lips and grinding his hips into mine. I couldn't breathe. My head was swimming. My body was aching already, throbbing. I wanted to continue fighting. I really did. I wanted to knee him in the balls and run back to the safety of the bar. But it was too hard. He was too big. So, I sealed my fate.

  “Daisy,” I whispered. “My name's Daisy, you fucking asshole.”

  *****

  She told me her name was Daisy, but that was a fucking lie. I didn't find out until much later that her real name was Joan, like that rock chick Joan Jett. She and her namesake had a lot in common, actually. Sexy dark hair, an I-don't-take-no-shit kind of attitude, and sneering lips. Sneering lips that looked fucking great stretched around my cock, once I forced all the fight out of her. I enjoyed that part—forcing her—a little too much, I admit.

  Oh, fuck. That first night. My dick still gets hard when I think about it.

  She was all tits and ass and long hair, and my eyes were on her the minute she walked into the bar. It wasn't the first time I'd seen her there, in fact. A few weeks before, she'd come in with a few other girls, but she stood out like a beacon amongst all the rest. Fuck, to this day, I don't know why she chose me, but she did. It sounds real dumb, but her body called to me. The way she laughed and talked with her hair and hands flying. The way she posed for smiling pictures with the other chicks at her table. My eyes followed her everywhere she went. The way she moved was seared in my brain, and all I could think about was her. Holding her down. Tangling my hand in those silky strands of long, black hair. Sucking on her tits. Clamping my hands on her hips and fucking her, hard.

  Ever since then, I'd been waiting.

  Waiting to get her alone.

  The day started like any other. I woke up, headed to the construction site before sunrise. Worked in the sweltering heat until a cold beer sounded like heaven. Left work around seven, went home and jacked off, showered, then headed back out into the night, in search of a little trouble. I ended up at The Blue Mermaid, because let's face it, I was still looking for her. Her. Her. Her. Everything always comes down to Joan. That's why I'm in the shit I'm in now, because I can't give up that fucking girl.

  Anyway, that night, I was hanging out, drinking my beer and not being too obvious about it, when she came in the door. Nobody followed her inside. She didn't meet up with anybody. She headed straight for the bar, alone.

  Alone .

  My fucking lucky night.

  And she was just how I remembered her. Prettier, even. She was dressed like she was out to get some, though, and that pissed me off. She was looking for a man, and she was giggling and sucking on her drink straw, but she wasn't looking at me. She was looking at the bartender like she wanted to throw up her skirt for him right then and there. My eyes never left her, anger building, willing her to look at me. If she was going to wet anyone's cock that night, it was going to be mine. I had waited long enough, dammit. I deserved her.

  Turns out, she agreed with me. She told me so, much later. Whispered in my ear that she only wanted me, that she was mine forever and ever. Fuck, it makes me hard just thinking about her saying those soft words as I slid my cock in and out of her. No one else could have her then, and no one else can have her now. I won't let her leave me, and I'll kill any motherfucker that touches her.

  That's a fact.

  I used to not be so violent. I wish I could stop these urges, I really do. I don't want her to be afraid of me, but that's just my way. Nobody gets between me and what's mine.

  And she is mine. Whether she likes it or not.

  *****

  “Daisy? That's a real pretty name,” he said, his intonation flat. I was just beginning to realize how fucking creepy he was. His eyes were on my mouth, and I clamped my lips shut. I was starting to sweat, and I just wanted to be free of him, but he wasn't going anywhere. He dropped my arms from his grasp, leaning one hand against the wall above my head, blocking the view of my face from anyone that might have passed by. The hallway was dimly lit anyway, so no one would be paying us much mind. My only hope was that someone would need to use the ladies' room soon. I would be able to signal them to help me. How foolish I was. I still had hope.

  His other big hand began to roam, from my hip to t
he swell of my left breast. I shivered as he thumbed my hard nipple, not because I wanted to. I wished I could be like steel against him, not let him have any bit of me. But my body was weak. It reacted to his touch because under the skin, there are nerves, not brains. My brain was disgusted by him and by myself, but that didn't stop any of it from happening. When he shoved his hand under my skirt, he found me wet. He moved my panties aside and slid a long finger deep inside of me, and something snapped. I began to fight. I shoved at his immovable chest, and when that didn't work, I pounded my fists against him and slapped his face.

  You know what he did?

  He laughed.

  A slow and sinister chuckle, right before he lowered his mouth and kissed me, right on the lips. I screamed into him, but the sound was muffled. The music in the bar was too loud for anyone to hear me anyway. I was getting assaulted in public, in my own backyard, and no one was the wiser. He slid another finger inside of me, finger-fucking me hard enough to hurt. My hands circled around his wrist, trying to dislodge him, but I barely budged him an inch. His tongue thrust deep in my mouth and I could hardly remember to breathe. My chest was burning. Black dots were bursting behind my eyelids. I almost passed out.

  I wish I had.

  Instead, I was awake as he dragged me into the ladies' room and locked the door. He threw me up against the sink and the hard porcelain bruised the back of my thighs. I held out my hands, like that would stop him.

  “No,” I said, my voice weak. “No!” I tried again, hysteria making me shrill. He pretended he didn't hear me, fumbling with his belt, his eyes on my mouth. Pure terror was running through my veins. Again, I felt frozen, my muscles locking. He was so big, and I was so small. What could I possibly do? My mind ran over all the possibilities. Run into a stall and lock it. Try to push past him. Bang on the door and scream. Do something, you idiot! But time got away from me.