Knotted

by Pam Godwin

  That girl misses Jake. I miss him. I mourn his absence more and more every day, and I despise myself for it. I hate that he has such an unbreakable hold on me. A hold that makes my stomach cramp over what I did tonight.

  I cheated on him.

  It doesn’t make a lick of sense. He’s probably out there fucking all the Sara Gilly’s in the world, and it’s his right to do so. He let me go.

  But I didn’t let him go. I don’t know how to do that, and goddammit, it hurts. I feel that pain like the strike of Dalton’s hand across my face.

  A burn rises through my sinuses, but I refuse to cry. Instead, I focus on the icy wind as it beats at my coat, penetrating the fabric and shivering through my bones.

  The motorcycle sucks in the winter, but I’m not getting rid of it. I just need a new jacket. A motorcycle jacket, like the one the faceless man wore tonight.

  Wouldn’t the good folks of Sandbank shit themselves if I rolled up looking like a biker chick?

  I’m definitely getting that jacket.

  As I motor into Stillwater and pass a tattoo parlor, another rebellious idea pops into my head. I make a swift U-turn, park in front of the shop, and walk in.

  “Can I help you?” A middle-aged man with a goatee looks up from a catalog at the front desk.

  When he starts the head-to-toe perusal, I snap my fingers.

  “I want a tattoo. Lots of them.” I hold out my arms. “Full sleeves.”

  “Okay.” He laughs, meeting my eyes. “That’ll take time. Like months. Maybe longer.”

  “I’m working on my doctorate.” I point in the direction of the campus. “I have years.”

  THREE YEARS LATER…

  The call comes from the prosecuting attorney. I should’ve expected it. Hell, I contact the attorney several times a year to stay apprised of Levi Tibbs’ release date. But as I end the call and stare at my phone, the hallway implodes. My vision blurs, and memory awaits me in the darkness.

  Rope around my wrists, a gag against my tongue, cruel hands, crushing weight, can’t move, burning, forcing, agony…

  Something bumps into me, and I whirl around, arms flailing.

  “Hey!” A college girl holds up her hands. “Watch it.”

  Shit. “Sorry.” I wipe the sheen of sweat from my face. “I’m sorry.”

  I step out of the flow of traffic in the campus corridor and lean against the wall. Pocketing the phone, I think about the reason for the attorney’s call.

  Levi Tibbs will go free in two weeks. He was sentenced to seven years, but he’s only serving six.

  Six years for brutalizing a sixteen-year-old girl.

  My breath leaves me. I’m not that girl.

  You’ll never amount to anything.

  I said I could and I would, and I’m doing it. I moved on, earned a bachelor’s degree in animal science, and I’m flying through veterinary college. If I keep up this pace, I’ll be a Doctor of Veterinary Medicine in two years. That’s faster than anyone expected.

  You’ll end up on the street or shacking up with some man like a fucking whore.

  I’m focused. Dedicated to my work. I don’t have time for distractions from my past.

  Straightening my spine, I lift my hand, palm up. I lament the welted scar every fucking day. Jake and Jarret probably laugh at theirs. Lorne is locked up. Nothing he can do about his.

  I made the blood oath under duress. Shouldn’t that negate its authenticity?

  What if I do nothing about Levi Tibbs’ release? Would he come after me? Would he force his evil on other sixteen-year-old girls?

  My stomach hardens, and I clench my hand, fisting the scar.

  It’s summer break. Classes don’t restart for two months. I could leave school for a few weeks. How long does it take to kill a man?

  I glance down the hall, taking in the dearth of students. Only reason I’m here today is to visit my favorite professor. So I focus on that.

  I make my way to his classroom and find the door shut. His summer class should’ve ended by now. Maybe he’s meeting with a student?

  Silently turning the handle, I peek in.

  Professor York stands in the back of the room with a pretty brunette. He leans over her, his mouth too close to hers to be appropriate as he speaks quietly. Then his hand lowers and touches the back of her skirt. His fingers ruck the material, gathering it, inching it higher until his hand slips beneath.

  I stumble back and turn away.

  He’s not supposed to be with her. He’s in a fucking relationship. Why is he doing this?

  Men cheat. That’s what they do.

  My hands lose feeling. Listlessness spreads up my arms and deadens my chest. Everything inside me desensitizes, disconnects, and goes dormant.

  I walk home in a numb fog.

  I climb the front porch to the modest house. Insert the key. Pass through the rooms. Down the hallway. Sit on the bed in the master.

  Still numb.

  I want to feel something. Something profound. Intense. Dissolute. I want to feel pain that I can control.

  Sliding the laptop from my bag, I cue up one of my go-to videos. It’s a clip from a foreign film. A rape scene with a woman on her stomach, her hands bound with rope and arms stretched over her head. A man jerks his hips and groans on top of her, his fingers around her neck as he fucks her in the ass.

  The actress screams in another language, but I don’t pay attention to that. I absorb her tears, the round shape of her gaping mouth, the horrified expression scrunching her face. As her body tenses in pain, I cock my head, memorizing the way her fingers absently scrape against the rope.

  Then I stop the video and restart it from the beginning. She’s already tied up, but her face is slack. She doesn’t understand, doesn’t know what’s coming. That moment of ignorant innocence captivates me so deeply I can’t look away.

  When the man crawls onto her back and forces his dick in her ass, I freeze it. Restart it. Just like that, she’s innocent and whole again. Then he prowls over her, sodomizes her, and she breaks. I press freeze. Restart.

  Freeze.

  Restart.

  Stop the pain.

  Restart it.

  Stop it.

  Start it.

  I crave the power in controlling her agony. It’s like an addiction taking hold of me. I can’t let it go. I need more. God knows I’ve scoured the web for darker, grittier videos. This one’s my favorite.

  Stretching out on the bed, I watch the clip over and over. Each time I replay it, I grow needier, hungrier. My panties are wet, and I haven’t even touched myself. But I will. I’ll rub one out before—

  A gasp sounds behind me. “What are you watching?”

  My heart stops, and I slam the lid on the laptop. Fucking shit.

  Tempering my breaths, I shift toward the doorway and meet the pale eyes of Professor Miles York.

  “Are you watching a woman get raped?” He approaches the bed, running a hand over his neatly combed black hair. “Is that a snuff film?”

  “Just a movie. With actors.” I return the laptop to my bag. “You’re home early.”

  “No, I’m not.” He squints at me. “Let me see the video.”

  “What for?” I rise from the bed and stride to the closet. “It was just something I stumbled on.”

  “You don’t just stumble onto something like that.” He closes in behind me and wraps his arms around my waist. “If you want me to tie you up and…”

  Heavy, suffocating heat bears down on my back. The confinement peels away his voice, the room, the air. I reach up, clawing to escape, and my fingers find purchase in hangers and shelves.

  The weight vanishes, and I pivot, backing into the small closet and tangling in the hanging clothes.

  “Shit, I’m sorry.” He steps back, hands up and expression creased with worry. “I wasn’t thinking.”

  “It’s fine.” I straighten my camisole and bend to pick up the mess while I try to slow my breathing. “I’m just having a bad day.�
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  I can’t blame him for the misstep. After six months of living together, he doesn’t know about my past. I never answer his prodding questions, yet he’s learned how to steer around my triggers. Mostly.

  “Are you okay?” He grips my bare shoulders and slides his hands down my arms, circling his thumbs along the swirls of colorful tattoos.

  I nod, watching him trace the inked murals of sunsets and horses. It took the tattoo artist a year to transform my arms into the impressionist paintings I collected as a child.

  I never went back to the field party after that night. Never sought out sex again.

  My science professor sought me out. Initially, Miles was enamored by my academic records. Then he met me, and his interest evolved into something entirely different.

  He pursued me for a year before I had sex with him. By then, he was no longer my professor and well, he was really persistent. He convinced me to move into his house six months ago, and here we are, all cozy and domestic-like.

  And monogamous. Or so I thought.

  “Who was the brunette in your classroom?”

  “The brunette?” His eyebrows gather. “There’s probably twenty brunettes in my—”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Miles.” Turning back to the closet, I pull a travel bag from the top shelf. “I stopped by after your class today.”

  His footsteps pace through the room behind me. Then pause.

  “Kendra Forde.” He sighs her name.

  I lean against the doorframe as he perches on the bed and loosens his tie.

  He looks like Clark Kent in that suit. The buttoned-up collar, slightly wavy black hair, pale blue eyes, and mild-manner demeanor, he has the whole tall, dark, and handsome nerd thing going on.

  Since he spends most of his time in a classroom, he doesn’t have much in the way of muscle. Not even close to Jake’s sturdy build. But he keeps himself fit.

  “She’s been after me for months.” He slouches forward, elbows on his knees. “I told her I’m not interested, Conor.”

  Every vagina on campus wants to ride Miles York. With his irresistible charm, brainy good-looks, and authoritative voice behind the podium, why wouldn’t they?

  “So what you’re saying is…” I cross my arms. “You turned her down by putting your hand under her skirt?”

  A muscle twitches in his jaw, and he lifts his gaze to mine, pinning me with a hard stare. “It was a weak moment. And wrong. I realized the lapse in judgment immediately and sent her away.”

  My mind swims as I open the travel bag and begin to pack. I want to berate him for his lapse in judgment, but who am I to cast stones? I’m made entirely of damaged pieces, stitched together with irreparable flaws.

  What kind of person can’t have her wrists touched? I’m so much more fucked up than a simple lapse in judgment.

  “What are you doing?” Miles jumps from the bed and grabs the bag from my grip.

  I snatch it back. “I’m leaving.”

  “Jesus, fuck.” He rakes a hand through his perfect hair, messing it up. “Kendra stopped by only minutes ago. Not enough time for anything to happen. Stop this!” His voice rises, eyes flinty. “You’re not leaving.”

  “I’m going back home.” I stuff clothes into the bag. “Just for a couple of weeks.”

  To murder Levi Tibbs.

  I know I’m taking advantage of the situation. I need a reason to be mad at Miles so I don’t have to lie to him about why I’m leaving. I should feel bad about the distraught way he watches me pack, but feelings are tricky. If I give them an inch, they swallow me whole.

  “I wouldn’t cheat on you, Conor.” He follows me through the room, pulling at his collar. “I mean, look at you. You’re the hottest damn woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. Do you see the way men stare at you? Like they’re waiting for you to turn your head, to give them the tiniest hint of interest?”

  I zip up the bag and face him. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m lucky.” He steps into my space and rests his hands on my hips, his mouth hovering. “I’m so fucking lucky to be the one you want. I wouldn’t throw that away.”

  Except the one I want did throw me away.

  And now I’m going home to honor the pact I made with him. I’ll have to see him, talk to him, and be reminded of the life I can’t have.

  “I love you,” Miles breathes against my mouth.

  He says it every day, and I never say it back.

  He doesn’t demand anything from me. Doesn’t try to fix me. Aside from the weak moment with Kendra Forde, Miles is a steady, reliable, pain-free improvement in my life.

  He’s a great reason for me to stay away from Jake Holsten.

  “I should only be gone for a week or two.” I step back and sling the bag over my shoulder.

  With a dejected nod, he stuffs his hands in his pockets. “You’re going to the ranch?”

  Not exactly.

  “Sandbank.” I head to the front of the house, slowing my gait to let him catch up.

  He knows my parents are dead and the family I grew up with still owns the ranch. But he doesn’t know about the ravine. Or the boyfriend who kicked me to the curb. Or the brother in prison who doesn’t want to see me. Or the dad who hit me. He doesn’t know my ugliest pieces.

  It’s only an hour drive, but his over-protectiveness compels him to say, “Call me as soon as you arrive. And don’t speed. I hate the thought of you straddling that two-wheeled hearse on the interstate.”

  “If it’s too fast, you’re too old.”

  At age thirty, he’s eight years older than me. I never gave much thought to the age difference until now.

  He leans in for a kiss, and I let him take it. But the moment his mouth parts to deepen the connection, I pull back.

  “I’ll text you.” I grab the motorcycle jacket and helmet and step onto the porch.

  As I cross the driveway to the bike, I glance over my shoulder.

  He looks at me like he’s thinking about the future, maybe wondering if I’ll return or if he wants me to.

  I turn away, thinking about the past, wondering if Jake knows about Levi Tibbs or if he even cares.

  He won’t get an email from me this time, and I won’t be showing up at the ranch. But word travels fast in Sandbank.

  He’ll find out soon enough that I’m back in town.

  Every head in the bar turns in my direction, their eyes judging me up and down and inside out. I know what they see.

  The front page of the Sandbank newspaper.

  The ruined girl from Julep Ranch.

  The lost cause with the dead dad and the brother in prison.

  After poor little Conor Cassidy fell between the cracks, it makes sense that she would ride a dangerous motorcycle, desecrate her skin with tattoos, and sell her soul to devil. She still wears those scratched-up square toe boots, so that must mean she’s clinging to an irretrievable life. Such a shame. The Lord Jesus can’t even save her from the tragedy she’s become.

  I see the pity in their eyes. And the distrust. How dare I bring my atrocities into their town?

  Holding my head high, I weave around the tables at the Big Sugar.

  Tossed peanut shells scatter the floor and crunch beneath my boots. Country music plays from an old jukebox in the corner. As the only bar in Sandbank, it’s stacked deep with folks winding down after a hard day with drinks and friends and maybe a line dance or two on the dance floor.

  No dancing or drinking for me. I’m probably the only twenty-two-year-old in Oklahoma who has never tasted alcohol.

  I’m here to get a read on the current state of affairs, eavesdrop on gossip, and maybe give them something scandalous to whisper about. And I admit, a big part of me is dying for an update on Jake Holsten.

  He’s not here. I’ve already scanned every face in the place. But as I make my way through the bar, I hear his name.

  “You know what I need? Another dose of vitamin Jake.”

  I don’t recognize the voice, but as I turn, I
know who she is, as well as the three women she shares a high-top table with. We all went to school together.

  A few feet away, they swirl their colorful cocktails and avoid my stare. They’re aware I’m standing here, and they whisper loud enough to make damn sure I don’t miss a word.

  “The first time Jake fucked me, I couldn’t sit for three days.”

  “He ever take you doggy? Swear to God, I came seventeen times when he bent me over the tailgate of his truck.”

  Giggling laughter. “He fucks like he’s fighting a war. All angry and savage. It’s so damn hot.”

  Gross and Ewww and I seriously think I’m going to vomit.

  But in a twisted way, their conversation brings me relief. I never let myself imagine Jake married. Knowing he’s a playboy is easier to swallow than the idea of a wife and kids.

  It still hurts to digest. Every cutting word scrapes through my innards like broken glass.

  They continue to giggle and whisper about all the kinky, godlike ways Jake performs in the sac. They’re baiting me, and by the time I close the distance, I’m ready to bite.

  I step between two of their stools and prop a boot on a foot rail.

  “Conor Cassidy!” Fake smiles all around. “It’s been ages. How are you?”

  “Fine, thank you.” I lean against the table, resting my tattooed arms on the surface. “Listen, I know I’ve been gone awhile and a lot of shit has gone down. I’ve encountered my share of cruelty at the hands of men, but what I’m realizing is… Women are as mean as cat meat. Instead of standing together against the cheaters and the players and the scumbag abusers, they turn on one another. They’re heartless. Downright vicious to each other. Maybe because we’re competitive? Is that what this is? A competition?”

  Jaws drop, and eyes widen. One of them takes a sip of her drink, squirming in the awkwardness.

  It’s no wonder I have no friends.

  “Let me just say this.” I lower my voice. “Y’all know Jake and I grew up together and were fixing to get married. You also know I was attacked while he was forced to watch. Then I was carted across the country like a dirty secret.” I blow out a breath. “Maybe you don’t know I returned two years later. Jake had already moved on. Completely washed his hands of me. He didn’t want me then, and he doesn’t want me now. It’s over. So y’all can retract your claws. I’m not here to steal your cowboy. Truth is I don’t even want to see him.”