Okay

by Danielle Pearl

  "Sammy." My father's voice rings loud and clear over the line. "I figured you'd be in school. I was just going to leave a message for you to call me when you got out."

  "Well I'm here, so what do you need to tell me?" God I hope he gets to the fucking point.

  "Why aren't you in class?" he asks. He hasn't given two shits what I've done for the past five years straight, so why he thinks he has a right to question me now, I can't fucking imagine. But I still need him to help Rory, so I don't call him out on it.

  "It's my lunch hour," I lie, not that he would have known what time I took lunch even before he left us.

  "Can you talk now? I mean with privacy? Or-"

  "Yes, Mitch. I'm alone, just talk," I urge.

  I hear my father's deep exhale, and nerves creep up my spine, intimating that I'm going to like this conversation even less than I thought.

  "How well do you know this Aurora girl?" he asks.

  "Rory," I correct him for no goddamn reason at all.

  "How much do you know about her?" he presses.

  "Everything," I practically growl through my clenched jaw.

  "Look, I spoke to a couple of people down in her hometown. I should get the files I asked for by the end of the week, so I don't have anything solid, just talk—"

  "What kind of fucking talk?" I'm already fuming. I know what he's going to say. But I need to hear him say it. And then I need to tell him to go fuck himself. I can feel myself getting heated, so I pull the door shut and lean back against it, knowing now that the click of the lock won't be louder than this conversation.

  "Calm down, Sammy—"

  "Don't fucking call me Sammy. I'm not your little Sammy. I'm fucking eighteen, and I haven't seen you since I was a kid. I asked for your help, and I'm already fucking regretting it," I say slowly and carefully.

  There are a few moments of silence while we both regroup. Despite my words, I do as he's asked and try to calm myself.

  "I've just spoken to a few low level people. I'm waiting on the police reports and some other confidential documents I've gotten wind of," he begins.

  "Do you think I needed to call you to talk to some low level people?" I say patronizingly.

  "You know what, Sam, I think I know what I'm doing here, so why don't you just relax." Now he's the one losing his cool, and I'm sure his infamous temper isn't far away. The real monster only ever came out with the coaxing of alcohol, but that doesn't mean he couldn't be a real dick without it, even if he didn't put his hands on us.

  I stay carefully silent, certain that anything I might say would be counterproductive at this point, especially since it's on the tip of my tongue to tell him to fuck himself and figure out a Plan B. But I don't actually have a Plan B, and so I wait with practiced false patience while he continues.

  "I'll speak to the higher ups after I've reviewed all of the evidence myself. From both cases. But sometimes the people on the ground have access to information that doesn't make its way into the files or up the professional food chain," he explains.

  It makes sense, what he's saying, but I won't concede the point, I just continue to stay silent.

  "I'm just asking how well you know this Rory girl. Because I know what she accused the Forbes kid of, and I know what you saw in Miami. But we have to consider that the truth of one doesn't necessarily prove the truth of the other. Because there are a hell of a lot of people down there who are convinced she made the whole thing up. That it was her way of getting revenge after he ended their relationship. And I know it's hard to hear, but it isn't unheard of—girl's crying rape—"

  I did my best, but it's all I can listen to. "She didn't cry anything. The motherfucking bastard abused her for months, raped her, for months! He tried to strangle her, cut her open with his motherfucking house key, I've seen the fucking scar. His bullshit rumor that you're repeating right now—it's the reason he was free to come after her again in Miami. I won't let it happen again. I can't. She's telling the truth. Every word. You don't know her. I do. So don't believe her. Believe me."

  I'm breathing hard, every muscle in my body tense with barely contained rage. It's hard enough to listen to someone repeat this bullshit about Rory, to have a fresh view of exactly how that piece of shit got away with it the first time. How easily people believe the lies. But to listen to my own father doubt her? And Mitch fucking Caplan—an abusive bastard himself—with the gall to question her word after everything she's already suffered? It's about all I can fucking take right now.

  "I think we both know how easy it is to spin stories to hide abuse." I keep my tone low and even. And though I know he hears the accusation, I won't make this about us. It's not about us. "She's suffered enough. I won't have you questioning her."

  I end the call and slam my thumb into the power button and shut the damn thing off. I'm done with this conversation. With any conversation right now. My head hangs to my chest and I catch my temples between my thumb and middle finger and try to rub out the stress pooling there.

  Fuck. This is bad. That couldn't have gone worse, and I still need him. I need him to believe her. I need him to believe me. I don't know how to protect her without his help. I take several deep, calming breaths. I'm going to have to call him back at some point and fix it, I know that. But I've got a couple of weeks before I'm meant to meet him in his office, so I'll just let him stew for now.

  And then I hear a sound that cracks open my chest and freezes my heart.

  "Stop," Rory's faint voice murmurs, and I burst back through the door, frantic. For a moment I actually believed she could be under attack. She's not of course, she's just dreaming, but that doesn't mean she's not living that exact terrifying scenario inside her subconscious.

  I'm at her side in an instant, and I'm gutted by the sight in front of me. Her face is scrunched up in fear, her forearm held over it in a defensive motion. The rest of her is curled up in a fetal position, and she's still in a deep sleep.

  "No," she squeaks, and in a split second I'm on the bed, rubbing her back, and brushing the hair from her face.

  "I'm here, baby girl. He can't hurt you. I promise, he can't hurt you," I swear to her over and over. Part of me wishes my father could see this, could see what that motherfucking bastard has done to her. Let him witness the symptoms of her very real PTSD and tell me she made it all up. But Rory would never want that, and truthfully, neither would I.

  "I've got you. I won't let anyone hurt you. Ever again. I fucking swear to God, baby girl. You're safe. Just sleep," I plead.

  The more I comfort and whisper to her, the more she relaxes back into a peaceful sleep. I watch, riveted, as the lines in her forehead smooth out, her muscles relax, and that sweet serenity sweeps over her features.

  "That's it, Ror, just sleep," I encourage her.

  I watch her body settle, and then freeze as her fingers skim over my tee shirt, and then clutch the back of it, holding herself against me. Her breathing evens out, and I know her nightmare has been chased off.

  I feel a heady swell of pride. I did that. I saved her from that motherfucking bastard, even in her dream, and I'm overcome with a vague sense of that god-like feeling only she can elicit in me. God, there's no greater gift than when she lets me help her, in whatever way she allows.

  Rory bends her knee, sliding it over my thigh, and I let her weight shift me onto my back so she can get into whatever position she finds comfortable. I'm not complaining that that position happens to lead to her thigh hooked over my hip, her cheek pressed into my chest like a pillow, and her arm draped over my abdomen.

  She stills again and I sigh at the sweet torture of it. It's heaven, holding her like this, but my attraction to her is barely controllable when she's just near me, or even in my thoughts. Now, laying like this, with a certain part of my body lined up so close to it's favorite part of hers, I'm finding the intensity of my arousal almost painful, and no amount of distracting thoughts seems to help.

  Last night's Knicks game, spring training stat
s, even my Grandma Lena… they don't stay center stage for more than a few moments each. Instead, I feel every square inch of where our bodies align against each other, feel the heat of her skin even through the cotton of her clothing.

  Images force their way through my mind. Memories. Rory's innocent curiosity at her own desire. The sweet mortification and the blush that crept over her entire naked body when I'd realized how inexperienced she was with actual pleasure. The honor and humility I felt when I understood the opportunity in front of me. That even though that motherfucking bastard had stolen her virginity, I could still be the one to give her that very significant first.

  I see it happen all over again in my head. The first time I watched her come. I was fucking mesmerized. It wasn't the first time I got a girl off, not by a long-shot, but it was the first time I cared like that. It was always tit for tat before. I enjoyed it, don't get me wrong, it's a proud feeling—good for the ego and a major turn-on, but that wasn't the motivation for it. More like a happy side effect on the way to getting what I wanted, which was my own pleasure.

  But with Rory… it was something different. A transcendent experience in its own right. Feeling her body pulse and contract around my fingers, against my tongue. And God, the fucking taste of her. Seeing her body flush, seized by mind-numbing pleasure, and the look on her face—a heady mix of shock and pure bliss. And her cries. Those fucking whimpers. And hearing my name in that lust-coated tone of hers. Fuck, she's ruined me for good.

  These insuppressible memories aren't helping my current situation. I'm quite sure the bulge in my jeans has never been this stiff and swollen in my life. And that's saying something for an eighteen year old guy. If all goes as planned and Rory gets a good, long nap in, it will be hours before I can get home and relieve some of my own tension.

  Rory snuggles into me even more, her soft breasts pressed into my side and chest, and I groan to myself at the heavenly torment. At least I'll have some new fantasy material for later.

  I listen to the sound of her breathing, feel the warmth of each exhale through the thin cotton of my tee shirt. I slowly slip my fingers into her hair, lightly stroking them through the soft, loose locks, brushing them off of her face. My other arm slides around her back, holding her in the position she's unconsciously chosen, and I sigh. I've dreamed of getting her back in my arms countless times, but never like this, and it's bittersweet. Because she's here by default, not by choice, and I know it's only temporary.

  "I love you," I whisper, only because I know she's a world away, and I let my own eyes fall closed, and drift off, longing to join her.

  Chapter Seven

  "I love you," Sam whispers, his low timbre rumbling against the skin of my neck.

  I want to say it back, to tell him I never stopped, but there's a reason I can't—I'm not supposed to, though I can't recall why. We are outside, on a beach I don't recognize, but it's breathtakingly beautiful, and I half think we might be in heaven. I will him to touch me, but he hesitates. Why?

  "Touch me," I plead, and Sam pulls back, his lips twisting up into a smirk, revealing the dimple I love so much.

  "Where?" he asks, taunting me, still keeping his hands painstakingly to himself.

  "Please," I beg, and he licks his lips.

  Slowly, painfully slowly, he presses his hand to my waist, lifting the hem of my tee shirt as he slowly runs the pads of his fingers up, just a few inches.

  "Here?" he asks, his voice thickening with desire.

  I let my eyes fall close and nod, yes.

  He rewards me by continuing his path further upward until he's teasing the underside of my bra, slipping his thumb just the tiniest bit underneath.

  "Here?" he rasps, and I suspect he's torturing himself as much as he is me, but it's a wonderful torture, and I want more of it.

  "Yes," I breathe.

  Sam's patience is slipping, I can sense it. His other hand finds my waist, gripping it firmly while the first moves over the cup of my bra, molding me until I moan out loud. He keeps his face hovering just above mine, so close our noses brush, that I breathe his breath, but he doesn't kiss me.

  The hand on my waist opens wide, so big his thumb reaches the underwire of my bra while his pinky grips my hip. Suddenly he slides the whole thing down and around to my ass, pulling my body flush against his. I moan again when I feel how badly he wants me against my stomach. He leans down to my ear again, and brushes his lips back and forth over the lobe before taking it gently between his teeth.

  "Do you see what you do to me?" he rumbles.

  I nod again, relishing the most powerful feeling I've ever known—the effect I have on Sam.

  "Tell me you want me," he demands.

  "I want you," I say without hesitation, and he groans in response.

  "What's our safe word?"

  "Calculus."

  With that, Sam lifts me by the back of my thighs, and I wrap my legs around him. Suddenly we're inside a bright hotel room, lit by only the afternoon sun, though I've no idea how we got inside, and I'm almost sure it was just evening out on the beach.

  Sam lays me gently back onto the bed. It's then that I realize I'm dreaming. That otherwise Sam would never be here, touching me like this and telling me he loves me. But right now, I don't have time to care. Because I have him. Even if I know I'm only dreaming, right now, Sam is mine, and I'm going to savor every moment of it.

  We undress hastily, and I pull him down to me. Finally he kisses me deeply, but I'm afraid to close my eyes, afraid that when I open them he will dissolve into nothing.

  "Sam."

  "Sleep, baby girl," he murmurs.

  What?

  I don't want to sleep. Sleep is just about the last thing on my mind right now.

  I'm about to tell him exactly that, when my fear comes true, and he dematerializes right in front of me.

  NO!

  No.

  No, no, no.

  I keep my eyes shut tight, praying for sleep to swallow me back up. But no matter how much I try to fall back into my subconscious, my wakefulness grows until it's no longer deniable. The rush of disappointment rolls over me and I feel the perpetual ache in my chest grow with it. It's then that I realize I'm curled up against something large and firm, and I freeze in a long moment of consternation.

  I brush my fingers over soft cotton, and breathe deeply.

  I recognize the scent instantly. A combination of Sam's after-shave, his body wash and something that's just inherently him. My eyes fly open.

  I am wrapped around him like a vine, his thick, denim-clad thigh between mine, and his chest my perfect pillow. I both hear and feel the comforting sound of each steady, thumping beat of his strong heart. The muted pink light sweeping in through the blinds tells me it must be nearly dusk, and we're in my bedroom. I haven't the slightest clue how we got here.

  The last thing I remember was forcing half a grilled cheese sandwich down my throat despite my lack of appetite just to appease Sam. And then realizing I wasn't going to make it through the rest of the school day. I told the girls I was going to grab something from my car, but really I was just going to drive home. Though I can't say I remember doing it.

  But here I am, and so is Sam.

  I rack my brain trying to remember something. Anything. But the balance of the afternoon is a muddlement of partially remembered dreams and very little else.

  I lift my head slowly, just enough to peek up at him. He's out cold. Well, that's not accurate. He's fast asleep, yes, but there's nothing cold about him. His body is so appealingly warm, and the little skin that's no longer in contact with it regrets it instantly. I press my face back to his chest and try to think.

  He starred in almost all of my dreams in what must have been a pretty long nap. First he was in my car. I was driving. Or maybe he was driving. And then I think he was upset about something, but I have no idea what, and I think I hugged him? I don't remember the details.

  But then Robin was there, and Sam was gone, and Robin
did what he always does, until Sam reappeared, but he couldn't hear my screams. Robin went after him, and I begged him to stop, but… but what?

  The next thing I remember the scene had changed, and Robin was gone, but Sam was okay. He had stopped him, and he was telling me everything was okay, that Robin couldn't hurt me, and that I was safe. And I really did feel safe.

  God, I wish I could remember more. As much as I remember from that last dream. Though I sure am glad I remember that last dream.

  It felt so real at first. The sensation of his skin on my body, of his breath in my ear, the deep gravel of his voice… it all has an unfathomable effect on me. My fingers move barely, practically of their own volition, over his tightly packed abs.

  I stop them. I don't want to wake him. I don't know what will happen when he wakes, and I suspect it will probably include him saying goodbye and leaving. Especially since it's probably later than he'd intended us to sleep. Assuming he'd intended it at all.

  But he must have.

  I realize now that I must have fallen asleep before I could drive home. In retrospect, it's probably a damn good thing that I did, considering I probably shouldn't have been driving anyway. I don't know what I was thinking, taking a risk like that. I guess the point is that I wasn't thinking—I was too damn tired to think.

  Sam must have seen me head to my car. He must have found me and driven me home. And then held me because he knew it would keep the nightmares away.

  Immediately I know that he didn't hold me the whole time. Because Robin showed up. And though we've only fallen asleep together a few times, I know in my heart that it wasn't a coincidence. That Sam kept him away.

  And Sam's presence also explains this last dream of mine. God, do I wish it could have been real. That it could be real. His body is something no girl could resist. It's just perfectly sculpted, heavily muscled in all the right places, but still lean. And curled up against it is a precarious place to be.

  I peek up at his face again, suddenly incredibly aware that I should be savoring this moment. This stolen opportunity to observe him so close. I watch him sleep, greedily taking in every feature—from his full lips, so incredibly soft-looking next to his masculine jawline, his straight nose and chiseled cheekbones. His lashes are so thick any girl would be jealous, and his hair is adorably disheveled from sleep. He looks positively perfect, and I commit this exact sight to memory.