Conflicting Hearts

by J. D. Burrows

  We grab our jackets and head out the door. The tide is on its way out, but not enough to climb on the rocks looking for starfish. Frankly, I don’t feel like it either, since I’m in the dumps.

  Ian grabs my hand and holds me tight. The air is a bit chilly as usual when a morning fog lingers offshore. The waves roll in quietly with a soft slurping sound, and it’s peaceful.

  The farther we walk in silence, I debate the necessity to reveal more of my past. He’s too quiet, and it bothers me. Ian deserves answers no matter how frightened I am to give them. It’s important that I fill in the blanks before he fills them in with speculation. I squeeze my eyes shut as I open the door for him to peek inside.

  “What do you want to ask me, Ian, about my past? You had questions last night.”

  The grip of his hand tightens. He glances over at me with a sorrowful look upon his face. I think he knows this isn’t going to be easy for me. I have my time out word, so for the most part, I feel confident that I can answer some questions before totally disassociating myself from the pain.

  “It’s a strange question, but it’s driving me crazy.”

  “What is it?”

  “What was sex like with your ex-husband? Did he—did he treat you rough, the way you like it?”

  I almost want to burst out laughing. “My ex-husband, Ian, pretty much used me as a receptacle. He could have cared less about my pleasure as long as he got what he wanted.” I remember how brokenhearted I was when I realized what a mistake I made. Right after we married it was obvious he didn’t love me. He wanted a whipping post he could verbally lash.

  “Most of the time, he made me feel like crap. When he was done with me, he’d get up and go wash his hands for ten minutes to rid himself of my smell, I guess. He told me that I made him nauseated when he touched me.”

  Ian halts our steps. He turns and looks at me in disbelief. “You mean he never pleased you?”

  I look down at the sand. “What do you think I did? I pleased myself to find release. It was like that for years, until I no longer shared my bed with him.”

  “What about other men in your life before you got married? How did they treat you?”

  I scowl over his question, because my promiscuous tendencies have gathered a long laundry list of past sexual encounters. My mind remembers them all with clarity—Randy, John, Marcus, two Michaels, and Stephen. It’s too intrusive to tell him about everyone, and how some of them did give me what I wanted to one degree or another. Of course, after they got what they wanted, they all eventually abandoned me. Even I don’t like to think about it.

  “Let’s not go there,” I say, with an annoyed clip. “If you want me to tell you, then I want details about every woman you’ve done since you lost your virginity.”

  “Fair enough. Let’s not,” he replies in an edgy tone.

  Poor Ian. I’m corrupting the man with my horrid past. He looks like he’s on information overload, and I’m afraid I’m going to short circuit his kind heart.

  We walk down the beach a few yards. He’s silent, until he halts again and faces me. The palm of his hand touches my cheek, and with a sympathetic gaze he looks into my eyes.

  “What happened when you were a child?” He voice trembles. “Can you tell me?”

  There’s no way I can maintain eye contact and speak the words. I lower my head and grimace.

  “Don’t look at me when I tell you,” I insist. “I can’t bear the shame.”

  “Okay, then. I’ll hug you while you tell me. I’ll look over your shoulder, you look over mine.”

  Ian doesn’t give me a moment to protest. He grabs me and pulls me against his chest and wraps his arms around me in a bear-hug manner. Instinctively, I know he’s holding me up, because probably my knees are going to give way when I’m done. Okay, you can do this. Suck in a deep breath and just spit it out.

  “He lured me to his bedroom and told me that we were going to play a game and that he wanted to give me a hug.” How ironic, Ian is hugging me now. I inhale in another breath.

  “If I did what he told me, I’d get a candy bar after he was done. Then he pushed me back onto his bed, and stood in front of me and took out his penis. I remember how I thought it was ugly, and frankly, today I still cannot look at one with any great pleasure.” I cringe over my words. “No offense to you, sweets.”

  “None taken,” he whispers.

  My tears start, and Ian holds me closer. He’s stroking my back.

  “After he lifted my dress and pulled down my panties, he laid on top of me and masturbated by rubbing himself against my body.”

  The suffocating feeling that overcomes me starts to squeeze my chest. “He ejaculated on my belly. When he finished, I earned my candy bar.”

  “Did he ever penetrate you, Rachel?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. “If he did, I’ve blocked out the memory. I think he must have fondled me often, because I can remember being aroused as a child and wanting release.”

  By now, I think Ian is going to crush me in his embrace. I pull away from him to catch my breath, and when I look at his face, he has tears in his eyes.

  “Oh, Ian, don’t cry for me,” I tell him. “Please, you’ll make me feel worse.”

  He’s upset. I’m drenched in shame. His eyes have more questions, and instinctively I know what they are.

  “You’re wondering why I want it rough after what happened to me as a child, don’t you?”

  He nods his head.

  “I don’t know, frankly. I think it’s because he held me underneath him, and I couldn’t move. Something happened inside of me, because he aroused me by what he did.” I’m feeling frustrated. “You know, I’m not a psychiatrist. All I know is that I respond to bondage, and I’m sure it’s because of the sexual abuse.” I start to tremble as I stand before him. My veins feel as if ice is flowing through my body.

  “Okay, okay, that’s enough, Rachel. Time out.” It’s obvious that I’m about to lose it.

  I nod my head in agreement. It’s time out.

  Our conversations for the rest of our day together avoid my past. I take the little girl within and hide her back into the closet of my mind, where there is only darkness. I replace her by roleplaying a carefree and happy young woman again. There are times I think I deserve an Oscar for my performances, and this is definitely one of them.

  * * * *

  We are back in the car, driving toward Portland. I feel a distinct sadness leaving the beach house. Not only is it my dream home, but my dream location to live out my life.

  “It’s too bad you can’t live here all the time, Ian.”

  “Yeah, but the commute would kill me. Two hours a day back and forth with my hours, doesn’t make sense.”

  “Ever thought of going into practice in a small town like Cannon Beach or Seaside?” Ian turns his head and gives me a smile over my suggestion.

  “No, because there probably isn’t much need for a corporate attorney in such small communities.”

  “Can’t you practice any other kind of law? You know, handsome criminal lawyer or something like that for the county?”

  Ian bellows a husky laugh. “God, Rachel, you are watching too many television series about attorneys.”

  “Well gosh,” I boisterously respond, “I thought it was a brilliant idea.”

  “If I ever went into criminal law, I surely wouldn’t defend the bastards. I’d be a prosecuting attorney and put them in jail.”

  His voice sounds stern, and I wonder if he’s thinking of a certain person that tainted a little girl’s life. After all these years, I have no idea if that asshole is dead, alive, or in jail for hurting someone else. All I remember is that eventually his family sold the house, and they moved away.

  “Yeah, you’re the good-guy type,” I agree. “Frankly, I’m glad, or I’d probably have a court date by now for having rear-ended your prissy sports car.” I smirk at Ian, and he flashes me a wicked look that surprises me.

  �
�Missy, you owe me for not suing your ass,” he snarls. “I’ll admit that I was pissed when you initially hit me.” He pauses for a moment and then narrows his eyes looking like a bad-boy. “One of these days, you’re going to have to pay up.”

  Suddenly, my body is on fire at the thought. Does he mean what I hope he means? It doesn’t take long for my mind to picture him making me pay up in all sorts of cruel ways. I start to squirm in the seat next to him feeling aroused. My neck bursts out into red blotches, and I quickly roll down the window halfway and thrust my face into the wind. I hear him chuckle as if he knows exactly what’s happening to me.

  “Did that turn you on that easily?” he asks curiously, with his sweet voice again. “The making you pay up threat?”

  My lips are sealed, but I’m aching with the thought of it. I wonder if he even has it in him to follow through with his threat. He’s too sweet to be mean, and in my heart I know it. If he continues to taunt me though, we’re going to be in trouble.

  Suddenly, he hits the button and rolls down the window all the way. “Apparently, so. You better cool off, because this car is way too small to get screwed in.”

  I burst out laughing, and so does he. The sexual tension between us fills his roadster, and I turn and look at him.

  “That was definitely a getting to know you moment,” he slurs.

  “Stinker!” I glare at him. I shove my face back into the wind, close my eyes and imagine him attacking my body while I’m helpless beneath him. I’m so damn pathetic.

  * * * *

  The following morning I drag myself into work in a fit of depression. I have missed a few of my purple pills over the weekend, and now I’m all screwed up on my dosage. My melancholy mood makes it difficult to get motivated, and my mind drifts back to the weekend with Ian.

  He brought me home, walked me to the door, and to my chagrin gave me a short goodnight kiss. It’s obvious that he’s serious about the no sex interval between us. I’m saddened and horny, but for once I leave myself alone when I crawl in bed.

  It’s obvious that I’ve moved into my next mode in the relationship—it’s my usual religious guilt tactic. It’s time to bargain with the higher power. “I’ll be faithful God and not fool around with myself, if you give him to me.”

  For some reason, my former religious education tells me that I must obey, before God can give me anything good. If I sin, he’s going to slap me down, bring me troubles, or make me sick; and masturbating is sin, or so the church tells me. I should be going blind one of these days or my hand will fall off with leprosy. My theology is as screwed up as the little girl I still have shoved in the closet in the back of my mind. The poor slut wants out, but I’m keeping her captive for the moment.

  Immediately, I start my morning routine of checking my social page to see if Ian has popped by to say hello. Instead, of an email, I find a picture posted on my wall of a dozen red roses. My face bursts into a cheek-hurting grin when I read his note.

  “Thanks for the weekend. How about next—same time, same place?”

  It’s useless, and I bring my hand up to my mouth and stifle a giggle. Is he serious about another weekend at his beach house? Maybe he is asking me to be his permanent weekend live-in? “I can do that,” I say out loud.

  “Do what?” Julie comes up and plops on the chair next to my desk. I quickly close out my page, turn my head, and give her a quirky grin.

  “Nothing.”

  She squints her eyes at me like she knows I’m lying through my teeth. “What did you do this weekend? See your victim again?”

  “Sort of.”

  “You guys hitting it off?”

  “Sort of.”

  “A woman of words this morning, aren’t you?”

  It’s impossible to look her in the eye, so I look at my computer instead and open my email. “I’m feeling a bit private about the whole thing. Don’t want to jinx it.”

  “You’ve hardly dated anyone since your divorce, Rachel. I’m dying to know.”

  “I can’t tell you. Okay?”

  Julie’s face falls into a disappointed frown. “Thought we were friends,” she mumbles, moving to her feet.

  “Listen, Julie, I don’t want to hurt your feelings. This one is important to me, and I’m kind of protecting it. Does that make sense?”

  “No. You afraid I’ll get all hot and bothered for him, too, or something?”

  “It’s nothing like that.”

  “Whatever.”

  Julie mopes back to her cubicle and sits down. I’ve offended her, no doubt, but I don’t want to spill my private life around the office like everybody else does about theirs. It bugs me. I have a right to boundaries, I reminded myself, sitting up straight in my chair with a bit of an air. That’s a first.

  Suddenly, I remember that I haven’t answered Ian’s question. I quickly look around to make sure no one is watching and then I reopen the page.

  My humor is raw this morning. I type in the comment line. “As your cook or your housekeeper?”

  He must be staring at his page, because he comes back within a few seconds and answers. “I prefer lover, but if you want to cook and clean, go for it.”

  “Oh, brother,” I mumble. He’s something else. I’m so happy that he’s being sweet to me and hasn’t run the other way in spite of my awful confession.

  I hear Mr. Stewart’s voice coming up behind me, and my heart leaps in my throat. Quickly, I get out and greet the boss. “Good morning.” As usual, he grunts, walks by, and goes into his office. Reality has returned, and so has the long work week.

  Chapter 14

  Hump Day Visitor

  Hump day rolls around, and I haven’t heard from Ian. I try to attribute it to his crazy job, rather than to the fears I entertain like old friends in my wounded heart. I miss him and can’t help but wonder if he’s pondering my confession and what to do with me.

  Frankly, I wouldn’t blame him if he started to have second thoughts. Nor would I be surprised if he hasn’t been on the Internet entering search terms trying to figure out what’s wrong with me. If he lands on the BDSM pages and discovers there’s a term for my tendencies, I’m probably never going to hear from him again. I try not to worry, but with my brain, it’s difficult.

  If that wasn’t enough of my problems, at two o’clock all hell breaks loose. Mr. Stewart announces that one of the attorneys from the firm that represents our company will be coming within the hour to peruse some files in regards to a nasty litigation we’ve been dragged into. A disgruntled client is suing, and one of the attorneys on the defense team needs to review some of the background files on the case.

  “Book the conference room and make sure it’s cleared out for the rest of the day,” he barks. He shoves a list in my face with file numbers. “Pull these files and have them ready for the attorney. I expect you to be available to help in any other requests that come up for information.”

  “Yes, Mr. Stewart,” I reply congenially, cursing him inside like I always do. The man is an ungrateful sod.

  I book the conference room, and then start my trek to the file area to look for the matters on the list. As usual, most of them are missing. They are probably sitting on a desk somewhere in another office and now I’ll be off on a scavenger hunt trying to find them.

  When three o’clock rolls around, I get a call from Melanie at the reception desk that our legal guest has arrived. I smile, wishing it was really Ian, but alas his firm doesn’t represent the company.

  I round the corner to the reception and see a tall, slender, blonde woman in a gray skirt and jacket. She’s strikingly elegant, even if she is a lawyer. Melanie gives me a nod: she’s the one.

  “Ma’am, I’m Mr. Stewart’s assistant.” I smile at her, feeling terribly insecure. She whips out a business card and shoves it at me, displaying her manicured French nails. I take it in my hand and read the name.

  Susan J. Richards, Attorney at Law.

  The blood drains from my face. Slowly, I lift my eyes
and look at her. Damn! Is this Ian’s ex-wife? I have no idea if she kept her married name after the divorce, but for some reason, standing here near this woman, something tells me I’m not wrong in my conclusion. What are the odds of meeting Susan Richards? My inward preconceived ideas are confirmed—she’s a freaking knockout. I hate her already.

  “Well, are you going to let me stand here all day?” Her haughty and demeaning tone slaps me in the face as she eyes me with disrespect. I’m the scum at the bottom of her world, and the woman is putting me in my place. Oh, I see where this is going. I chew on my lower lip for a second so I don’t blurt out some rude comment.

  “No, of course, not, Ms. Richards,” I reply. I make sure to enunciate the Ms. in her face. Bitch. “If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the conference room we have set up.”

  I turn around and lead the way. My jaw is clenched, my eyes are wide with contempt, and I’m spitting angry. She wants to intimidate me, and I want to wrestle her to the floor. Well, actually, I’ll like to turn around and tell her that I’ve been doing her ex and see how she reacts. Uh, ma’am, I’d just like to tell you that I’ve been screwing an Ian Richards—any relation? I grin over what I know and she doesn’t.

  We arrive at the conference room, and I inform her of the state of affairs. “Mr. Stewart has arranged for you to work here. I’ve already pulled some of the relevant files.” I try not to let her presence intimidate me, but it’s not easy. “You’ll find them there on the corner.” I point to the stack.

  “Fine. Are there others?” she asks, flipping her brief case down on the conference table top with an attitude.

  “Yes, but I’ve not been able to locate them as of yet.”

  “Well, locate them,” she snidely replies, looking at me in the eye. “I don’t wish to return again. It’s my preference to finish this up this afternoon.”