I Know What Love Is

by Bianca, Whitney

  Elliot.

  My hand froze on my breast. An image of his cruel mouth flashed in my brain. I thought about how he looked, sauntering across the street in his sweat-soaked shirt and jeans. I bet he still smelled the same. I bet he still fucked the same. I wondered how many girls had there been since me? A familiar wave of guilt washed over me. If I had been strong enough to come forward, if I hadn't been stupid and gotten the hell out of dodge, maybe I could have prevented more girls from meeting Elliot in a dark bar. I could have stopped him. I could have locked him up and thrown away the key.

  Shaking my head, I began to shampoo my hair. Guilt was useless. It wouldn't help anyone. It sure as hell wouldn't help me. Regret and shame were two more of those useless emotions I'd had just about enough of. Thinking about Elliot had my heart pumping and my blood flowing. Years had passed, but the memory of him had never faded. It had only gotten stronger with age. Seeing him had only fanned the flame. No matter how much I wanted to be free of him, he had an undeniable hold on me. I'd never gotten closure and I knew I never would.

  Soapy water ran down my body, over my sensitive breasts and down my thighs, but I ignored the sensations and finished with my shower quickly. I dried off impatiently, freeing myself from the steamy bathroom and heading for my closet. I pulled out the white cotton sundress I'd mail-ordered from a fancy boutique in Beverly Hills just for Trace. He was going to lose his shit when he saw me in it, sans bra. A smile curled over my lips. I might be totally fucked in the head, but at least I was still trying.

  I thought back to the moment Trace proposed to me. It was after church on Sunday. The whole family went out for brunch at my mother's favorite restaurant in Dallas, Cafe Pacific, and Trace had dropped to his knee in front of everybody. I remember how my face froze in a grotesque-feeling smile as I felt everyone's eyes on me. I remember wanting to scream and run from the dining room. But I didn't. I said yes.

  Arranging the dress on the bed, I let my towel drop to the floor. Flopping on my back on the bed beside my dress, I closed my eyes and pictured Trace. He was tall and lanky, his shoulders broad. His body was well-formed from years of track and field in high school and he maintained his workout even though we'd been out of school for almost six years. He had strawberry blond hair and straight white teeth. He was attractive by anyone's standards. Determined, I imagined pulling off his trademark plaid button-up off and running my hands down his smooth back. I imagined kissing him and letting him pull me close. In real life, when he touched me, he was gentle and soft and reverent. But, this time, in my mind, he wasn't gentle. I imagined him fighting his way in between my legs and thrusting his big, evil cock inside of me.

  The problem was, I had stopped picturing Trace.

  Elliot had taken his place.

  His manic eyes were boring into mine. His rough hands were forcing my thighs open wider and wider. I arched my back, trying to claw myself free, but freedom was impossible. He was already deep inside, his hard body completely melded with mine. I remembered the way he used to kiss me, the way he used to taste me and suck me. I knew I would hate myself when it was over, but I didn't care. I imagined his tongue against mine, plundering my mouth as he fucked me hard.

  I was wet as hell within seconds. I was so turned on, I felt a little crazed. Suddenly, the only thing I wanted was to feel a release and it was so close. I didn't care how I got there. Fuck my inhibitions. Fuck my guilt. I imagined Elliot invading me, using my body for his own pleasure. I was his slave all over again as I rubbed my clit and tweaked my nipples, my whole body tightening with tension. My toes curled and I dug my heels into my quilt. Finally, when I couldn't take anymore, I imagined his hand closing around my throat, choking me as he fucked me. I bucked against my own hand, a moan hovering at the back of my throat as I came.

  Elliot! Fuck, fuck, fuck! my mind screamed as my eyes rolled back in my head, a muffled grunt the only sound that I allowed myself to make. My body spasmed, the aftershocks of pleasure sizzling through me. When I was spent, I dropped my head back, limp and breathing like I'd just run a marathon. When my breaths returned to normal, I opened my eyes and listened. Nothing had changed. The air was as still and as quiet as before. I was still alone in the house. I sat up, my body still tingling from the orgasm, and immediately pushed it out of my mind. I'd come with Elliot's face in my mind and his name on my lips, but I told myself it meant nothing. I shut down my mind and refused to feel anything, one way or the other. The less I felt, the better off I'd be. The important thing was I was in a sexual mood, not how I'd gotten that way.

  Trace rang the doorbell around 7:00 p.m., when the blazing Texas sun was starting to drop in the sky. I checked myself out in the antique mirror in the foyer and pasted a big smile on my face. I looked effortlessly attractive, like I hadn't spent an hour applying makeup and curling my hair. My feet were bare, my toenails painted a shell pink that my mother would have approved of. I looked like a fresh-faced innocent girl, a girl that nothing bad had ever happened to. When I swung open the door, Trace's face brightened in simple, pure happiness, his eyes flitting from my smile to my tits, perky and well-showcased in the dress.

  “Goddamn, Jo. You know how to make a man feel welcome,” he said, his voice warm and smooth. Familiarity and comfort rippled down my spine and I stepped forward, tilting my cheek up for a kiss. He wrapped his arms around me, kissing me on my cheek as expected. But then he surprised me, dragging his lips to my mouth and kissing me like he meant it. I felt my hands circle his neck as his arms pulled me close. A giddy feeling went through me. This was normal. Making out with your fiancé was normal. Feeling tingly as your fiancé kissed you was normal. I lifted up on my tiptoes, licking at him and sucking his tongue into my mouth. He jerked against me, surprised at my passion. He pulled away, staring down at me with heavy-lidded eyes. He let out a shaky breath and laughed. “Aw, babe, I missed you, too.” I laughed along with him, and took a step back.

  “You better have brought your appetite,” I said, my voice abnormally cheerful. I always sounded like my mother when I talked to Trace, like nothing was wrong now that my man had arrived. She had the little Southern woman thing down pat and I had learned from the best. I waved him inside and shut the door, forcing myself not to glance out onto the lawn again. There was nothing there, I told myself. I punched in the alarm code again and followed Trace into the kitchen.

  I listened to him talk about his day, laughing and responding at the appropriate times. I set the chicken on the counter to cool, tenting it with aluminum foil to keep in the moisture, like my mother taught me. I chopped up the tomatoes and carrots for the a salad, a bemused smile on my face. I whisked up a lemon vinaigrette dressing and handed him the butcher knife to carve the bird.

  We were like two kids playing house, I realized.

  It was so domestic, we might as well have been already married. I wished we already were. Then it would all be over with. I had placed a few bridal magazines on the edge of the counter, to make it look like I was deeply ensconced in planning the wedding. In reality, my mother had taken over the planning. I was barely involved. She picked out the flowers and dragged me to cake tastings and fittings. I did my part, showed up and smiled and acted excited. I couldn't wait for the wedding to be behind me, quite honestly.

  I watched him carving through the crisp skin of the chicken breast and I felt my lips curve downward. He was doing it wrong, making a mess of the perfectly cooked meat. I caught myself frowning and turned away. I went to the fridge and pulled out one of my father's light beers for him. I popped the top and poured it into a tall glass, minimal foam.

  “Sugar, why don't you go sit down at the table and I'll bring you a plate,” I said brightly, holding out the frosty glass. He set the knife on the counter, pressed a chaste kiss to my cheek, and headed out onto the patio, where I had lit candles on the table in preparation for dinner. I take my time preparing the plates, measuring out perfect portions of meat and vegetables. A breast and a thigh for him, one half of a breast
with no skin for me. My mother had reminded me a week ago that I was not allowed to gain weight, or I wouldn't fit into my wedding dress. It sounded draconian, but in reality, my appetite was mostly non-existent anyway. I ate merely because I needed to eat to live, not because I wanted to.

  Like I said, I was an old pro at keeping up appearances.

  We dined beside the olympic-sized pool in the backyard where I did laps every morning, the sunset a perfect romantic backdrop for our date. When the food was gone and the dishes cleared, I sipped my white wine and he drank his beer in companionable silence.

  “Are you ready for dessert?” I asked, knowing he had an undeniable sweet tooth. He smiled goofily and nodded. A slice of cake could get him excited as a child. I stood and ran a hand through his hair on my way to the kitchen. Going through the motions. Playing the part of a woman who was blissfully in love. Sometimes I wondered if I was becoming a robot, acting out a set of pre-programmed motions with no troublesome emotion involved.

  Maintaining my code of silence was of the utmost importance. The more normal I acted, the less my family asked questions. The day I returned to Dallas, beat up and vacant-eyed, they looked at me with concern in their eyes. They demanded answers. I fed them the story about the bike accident, but I could never be sure if they truly believed me. After a lot of work on my part, I was back to being normal Jo. Beautiful, mild-mannered Jo, who had been a hell-raiser as a teenager, but now was getting married at twenty-four like a good Southern girl. Kids would surely follow and a mortgage and a dog and Sunday brunches with the grandparents after church.

  Everyone would be thrilled.

  My secret would be safe.

  I slid the big knife from the butcher block on the counter and turned to the Lemon bundt cake I bought that morning, poised to cut a big wedge for my fiancé . I had no sooner breached the glaze frosting with the blade when the doorbell rang. I furrowed my brow, wondering who the hell it was. At that time of night, we usually only got visits from Mr. Evans across the way, letting us know that the dog had gotten out. Mrs. Evans had a chihuahua that loved to swim in our pool and piss on my father's perfect emerald green lawn. Lulu was his name. I liked to scratch him behind the ears and let him run free. He was a little escape artist and I could respect that.

  To this day, I don't know why I didn't put the knife down on the counter. Instead, I carried it with me to the door. I leaned to the side, trying to make-out the figure standing on the porch through the side panels of the door. It was a dark, tall figure, and my heart clenched in my chest. A rolling wave of unease rippled through me and I stopped short, frozen in the middle of the foyer. I glanced at the alarm control panel, and noted with relief that it was still activated. I knew that whoever was on the porch could see a blurry version of me through the wavy glass of the windows. Whoever it was knew I was standing in the foyer, mere feet away.

  I jumped when a hand pressed against the glass. It was a black gloved hand, big and threatening. My throat squeezed closed and I backed up. No. No, it couldn't be, I thought. I blinked my eyes, wondering if I was seeing things. I was silly enough to wonder if my masturbation session earlier had come back to haunt me. In reality, I'd done something far more stupid. I thought back to my trip to Austin. I thought about Elliot, staring me down as I drove past.

  I knew immediately that he'd seen me.

  I was a fucking idiot.

  The gloved hand tapped a finger on the glass and I turned and bolted into the kitchen, throwing myself against the sink and forcing myself to look out of the window above it. The lawn was in shadow, lit only by a few perimeter lights. I saw the man in black running toward the back and I couldn't help it—I screamed. He must've heard me, because he turned his head to me right before hopping up on the fence and hauling himself over.

  I ran to the French doors off the kitchen, bolting them closed, my eyes scanning the edges of the dark lawn. It was only then that I remembered Trace. He was still sitting at the table on the patio. My eyes found his and he was glancing at me, perplexed. I opened and closed my mouth like a fish, actually debating with myself whether or not I should open the doors and let him inside. I didn't know how much time I had. Turned out not much. A sound jolted Trace's attention off of me, and then he stood abruptly, so abruptly that he knocked the chair out from under him. He lifted his hands up on either side of his face, as if surrendering.

  Shit.

  I forced myself to swallow and take a deep breath. I told myself to remember all the plans I'd made, all the ways I'd plotted to get out of a situation such as this. Run out the front. Trip the alarm. Fight the motherfucker.

  Hurt him.

  Kill him.

  I realized I had the knife in my hand and I tightened my grip on it. Trace was backing up, and the man in black came into my field of vision. A silver gun was in his hand, trained right on my fiancé . Trace didn't look to me, perhaps trying to avoid drawing attention to me, but I already knew what the man in black wanted.

  He wanted me.

  After two years, he'd finally come for me.

  *****

  Joan Martina Vasquez.

  That's her full name.

  It's beautiful. As beautiful as she was, in her white dress, her shoulders and legs bare to my gaze as I stood beside the pool in her parents' backyard. I knew she wore the dress just for me, like she could sense I was coming for her. She looked pure and clean, like a bride on her wedding day. Her eyes were wide and wild, her thick dark hair brushing her shoulders. I'd heard her scream a few minutes before, and the sound sent a pang of longing through me. I'd missed the sound.

  I'd missed everything about her.

  Two years was a long time to be without the woman you loved. Too long.

  I had my friend Mark at the DMV look up the license plate for me. When I saw a dark-haired woman scouting out the construction site, a ripple of anticipation went through me. It had to have been my girl, looking for me. And sure enough. The black BMW was registered to a Martin Vasquez, 2567 Magnolia Lane, Dallas Texas. An hour on the internet revealed that Mr. Vasquez had a 24-year-old daughter named Joan. Joan Vasquez had graduated Summa Cum Laude from the University of Texas in Austin and had a degree in business. Joan Vasquez had an inactive MySpace account she hadn't bothered to steel against prying eyes. Amazing what an internet search could reveal.

  Joan and Elliot.

  Putting the names together almost made us sound like two normal people, in a normal relationship. Joan and Elliot live down the block. Joan and Elliot are coming over tonight for dinner. Joan and Elliot are going to fuck later.

  It had a nice ring to it.

  First, I had some shit to take care of. Mainly, the motherfucker who stood in front of me. He was tall but younger than me, and I could see the fear in his eyes. He wanted to look at Joan, but he kept his face to mine. He loved my Joan, I could tell. I glanced to the table. Candles flickered, and a glass of wine with pink lipstick on the rim was half empty. I'd interrupted a romantic dinner, apparently. He probably thought he was going to get lucky with my woman later. How wrong he was.

  His luck had run out.

  Keeping my gun steady pointed at him, I reached around to my back pocket and found my handcuffs. I bought them online, but they were decent. Thick metal and police-approved. I tossed them through the air and he caught them. He had the reflexes of an athlete, and I cocked my head, sensing what Joan must see in him. He didn't look very smart, but he wasn't screaming and acting like a pussy. He was quiet, trying to stay strong for Joan's benefit.

  I wondered how much longer he'd be quiet.

  “Put them on,” I said, motioning to a support pillar behind him on the patio. “Lock yourself to that.”

  “Listen, man, whatever you want, just tell me. I can get it for you,” he began to bargain, stepping backward to the pillar. “My wallet is in my back pocket. I can get it for you.”

  “Put on the cuffs,” I repeated, beginning to get impatient. Joan was still standing in the kitchen, her body p
ressed against the door, like she thought that flimsy barrier would keep me from her. She was watching her boyfriend and I, a blank expression on her face. His eyes flicked to her, following my gaze.

  “Please,” he said, and I knew that he was going to start being a problem. “Please, don't hurt her.”

  “Who is she?” I asked, keeping my voice neutral.

  “My fiancée. We're getting married next month,” he said, the cuffs still dangling from one wrist.

  Wrong answer.

  I sent a sharp glance to Joan and her eyes widened. She could see my anger, sense that I was about to snap. I pointed my finger at her, accusing her across the space between us, without words. How dare she? How dare she put some other motherfucker's ring on her finger when she belonged to me? Before I knew what I was doing, I stepped forward and swung my arm, smacking him hard in the head with the gun. He didn't go down, but blood streamed down his face as he reeled back.

  I swung again, catching his jaw this time. He fell to his knees against the stone-paved patio and I kneed him in the face, breaking his nose. I heard the crunch of the bone and his grunt of pain and it satisfied me. I didn't completely blame him, of course, but a flare of hatred still shot through me. This boy had been touching my woman, fucking her, putting his dick in the pussy that belonged to me.

  Joan screamed again, banging her palm on the glass window pane of the door. The sound only got me more riled up. I bent, grabbing the guy's hands roughly. I was impatient, and I wasn't exactly gentle as I locked him to the pillar, his arms wrapped around it and the cuffs in front. His face was a bloody mess now, but it looked worse than it was.