by Jc Emery
Emilio calms down and starts speaking in English, so I give the signal for the room to shut up and then un-mute the speaker.
“That boy. I told Carlo he was too young to apply for a position. Too immature. Carlo insisted. He knows his place, but maybe I need to remind him of it.”
“How should I move forward? My guys have been having trouble with their daily routes. People seem to think the company takes late payments. Too many to count. Tony’s got everybody questioning their contracts. They’re saying that if the company is sloppy enough to allow this embarrassment, then they shouldn’t retain the offered services.”
“I’ll reach out to your guys and get them back on schedule. Don’t worry about that, son. Carlo is unhappy with the way Ruby and her husband went about meeting the twins, but he’s agreed to temporarily let bygones be bygones. He’s a wise man. He sees the value in keeping the peace. You stay with Alexandra. She’s to be your wife after all.”
I shoot Ryan a deadly look that promises severe pain if he opens his mouth. Emilio thinking Leo is still betrothed to Alexandra is a good thing. It means that Tony is keeping his shit close to the vest. It’s the best scenario we could have hoped for. Ryan’s jaw ticks and his shoulders tighten as he grips the edge of the table. Fucking temper tantrums. He knows damn well, and every man in this room knows damn well, that Alex belongs to him. Even Leo knows Alex didn’t want to marry him, and he’s fine with it. He’s a smart man and knows that a wife who doesn’t want him isn’t much of a wife at all.
“And Ruby’s husband? His display in Brooklyn can’t be forgotten,” Leo says. He carefully eyes Pop, making sure he knows this is an act. We don’t have guns in Church. We never did, really. Only a few times, and when Ryan pulled his piece on Grady, we stopped. Didn’t matter how dangerous shit was at the time. No amount of safety planning is worth having to put a brother down for taking out another brother in the only fucking place we should be able to feel safe. Fuck that.
“Don’t let that bother you. Carlo has had his eyes on Mr. and Mrs. Stone for many years now. Though the grapevine has been unreliable at times, it’s proven worth the investment.”
What.the.fuck.
“Is this something I should be aware of?” Leo asks.
Emilio scoffs. “No. Take care of your bride, son.”
The men say their goodbyes and agree to catch up with one another in a few weeks. When the call has been disconnected, we sit there in silence.
“Did he just say we got another fucking rat?” Grady asks. His eyes are menacing and his growl fierce.
My body is tense, and from what I can tell, there’s not a man in the room who isn’t about ready to fuck something up. Another fucking rat? The anger that’s always just barely concealed in me is threatening to bubble over as I eye each one of my brothers. It couldn’t be one of our own, could it?
Chapter 12
DID YOU RUN? the text reads. It’s like he’s baiting me, and I’m starting to hate him for it. Okay, maybe hate is too strong of a word, but he’s getting on my damn nerves. I took care of myself long before he came along. I don’t need an owner or a master or whatever the fuck he thinks he’s doing—I just need a freaking friend. And I thought we were friends.
YOU WOULD KNOW IF YOU WERE HERE.
There. I said it.
I haven’t seen Ian in several days, and it’s pissing me off. Actually, the only thing pissing me off more than his not being here is him deciding that he’s going to act like he’s my keeper. He’s not, and he’s not going to be as long as he’s hiding from me. I’ll play his crazy little game as long as he shows up, but he’s not showing up, so screw it. I don’t want to irritate him, but I’m way too frustrated to bite my tongue right now.
I miss him and I thought—just maybe—we could have had something. But he doesn’t want from me what I want from him. He told me I was incapable of making my own choices, and I thought that meant more than daily text messages and acting like my human day planner.
THE RULES, MELINDA.
God, he’s annoying. My stomach flips. I’m grinning like a silly fool. I’m hopeless.
BITE ME, I text back. I can’t help but giggle. Ian’s not a man to be toyed with, but all that nonsense doesn’t stop me from baiting him the way he’s baiting me. Maybe I’ll suddenly remember the rules if he takes me for a ride on his Harley. Until then, I seem to be experiencing a random bout of memory loss.
YUM. WHERE?
I stare at my phone blankly. What does he . . . oh, hell. I’m not stupid. I know damn well what he means. My cheeks heat at the thought. Where is such a loaded question. I fumble with my phone until I settle on a response and start typing it out. No sooner than I have it ready to send do I decide against it and delete the entire thing. I can’t say that. I shake my head at myself. If I had actually told Ian to bite my ass, he’d probably be angry with me. I don’t mind annoying him, but I don’t want him angry. I’ve seen Ian angry, and I don’t like it. Maybe he’s trying to get over what I asked him do? He was so mad after, maybe because I wasn’t upset about what I saw. If anything, it gave me hope and a new mission.
DON’T PLAY WITH ME, M. THE RULES EXIST FOR A REASON. GO RUN!
I clench my jaw shut to suppress a scream. He takes all the fun out of being difficult.
ALREADY RAN, BOSS, I say. I stare at the screen for a long moment and then toss the phone on my nightstand. He never lets me have the upper hand, like ever. Feeling defeated, I give up on him for the night. Just because he’s getting on my nerves doesn’t mean I have to spend the evening sitting and sulking. I don’t want to be that woman whose life is dictated by her relationships. I always hated those girls growing up. When they had a new boyfriend or something good happened, they were in insufferably cheery moods. But if something bad happened or they broke up, they would spend at least a week moping and forcing everyone around them to be just as miserable as they were. Those are the girls Holly and I used to mock for being so needy. I refuse to be one of those girls, even though I know I’m one pathetic sigh away from being one of them. I love how Ian makes me feel, but I really hate how needy I become when he’s not around. It can’t be healthy.
I throw myself onto my bed and shove my face in my pillow. I know what I need to do, but I’m scared. I don’t want to try only to find out I’m not ready. It’s been five months. If I’m not ready now, when will I ever be? In the back of my head, I fear that I already have the answer—that I won’t ever be ready. But that’s not acceptable. It’s just not. Maybe I won’t ever be totally healed or normal, but I have to believe that I can have some things back. Those assholes don’t get to take everything from me. They just don’t. I didn’t feel much when I watched Ian, not sexually anyway. A little tingle, maybe a bit of excitement, but that was it. Emotionally, I felt so much. Thankful to Kaz for doing as I’d asked. Thankful to Ian for playing along. Maybe I should have been jealous because I was watching the man I want with another woman, but I wasn’t. I just kept thinking how lucky she was to be able to be with him. Those thoughts verged on a tinge of sadness when I started to think that I might never heal enough to be with him in that way.
Summoning the courage I’ve been faking for weeks now, I crawl off my bed and go to my bedroom door and lock it. The absolute last thing I need is for either my mom or dad to walk in while I’m trying to reclaim a tiny bit of normalcy. In my closet, in an old shoe box that’s hidden in an old suitcase I haven’t used in years, is the bag I’m looking for. I pull it out and stare at it wearily. It’s really just a few pieces of plastic and metal with a silicone shell. The damn thing isn’t demonic, and it’s not going to hurt me. I know that, but its purpose terrifies me half to death.
I want this.
Maybe Ian doesn’t want me the way I want him, and maybe he never will. But right now it’s unfair to want him to want me since I can’t give myself to him. If I really want to have Ian in a permanent way, then I’m going to have to get over this. No man, especially not a Forsaken man, wants
a woman who can’t fulfill his needs. If I can’t touch him and he can’t touch me, there’s absolutely no hope that I’ll ever be able to turn my fantasy into a reality.
Maybe that’s why he’s avoiding me. He knows I can’t meet his basic needs and sees no point in trying to form a relationship because of that. The idea that he could want me, if only I can get over this one thing, fills me with a new determination to get better. For him, for us.
The adult toy inside the bag feels so heavy as I pull it out. I borrowed my mom’s car a few days ago and drove down to Santa Rosa to buy the stupid thing. I was not about to find a place in Willits to buy something like this. We’re kind of isolated out here, and even though the people there may not know me, I know me. I know how close I am to home, and I know they could recognize me from the newspaper article about my attack. Even if they don’t recognize me, the very thought of buying a sex toy so close to home is too nerve-racking. I could have ordered the stupid thing online, but my mom is nosy and would want to know what’s in the package. This was just easier, even if it did take half a day to run the errand and more money than I would have liked to spend. I push the guilt away and rationalize that even if it is Ian’s money I spent on this, it’s also for Ian, so it’s okay. Not that he cares.
When I was in the hospital, he stayed in my room as much as he could, and when he couldn’t, he sat outside my room. I was half out of my mind at that point, but I always knew he was there. He told me I didn’t have to work, that he would take care of me. In a moment of pure, selfish pity, I accepted the arrangement. Now, every month, like clockwork, he brings by a wad of cash. I’ve tried to refuse it, and I’ve tried to give some back because it’s always way too much. He never accepts it. I gave up trying to argue when Holly told me the truth about how she and Grady got together. He tried to force that twenty-five grand on her, and even though she fought not to take it with everything she had, he still managed to make her accept it. It’s in a hat box in their closet now. She says she’s hanging on to it until he dies so she can bury him with it. In the same spirit, I use the money I need and put the rest away. Not in the bank, though. I know enough to know that cash deposits of random amounts with no traceable source are suspect, and I don’t want to get anyone into trouble. Especially not Ian.
Ian—that’s why I’m doing this. For Ian.
The device is already loaded with batteries. I did that they day I brought it home. I also tried it out on my arm. I spent a little extra on it because it has four setting levels, each one more powerful than the last. The lowest setting barely buzzes, but the woman at the store swears that the little extension on its side ensures even the low setting is pleasurable. I don’t know what I can handle, if anything, but I’m determined to push myself to find a way to eventually enjoy this. Even if it’s only ever with myself.
With shaky hands, I toss the vibrator on my bed and remove my clothes. Even my socks get tossed on the floor. Being naked isn’t much of an issue as is being naked with the intent to pleasure myself. I’d never experimented with touching myself before I met Heath. Then we were together and there was no need to. It wasn’t until he went away and some of the other Army wives were talking about their favorite toys that I gave it a try. I thought I’d feel dirty by touching myself so intimately and all alone, but I didn’t. Getting off became a part of my routine. Talk to Heath, touch myself, go grocery shopping, study for finals. After a while, I even stopped buying ibuprofen, because having an orgasm was better than taking pain killers any day.
I just hope I haven’t lost that forever.
Getting back into bed feels like a chore. Most of me doesn’t want to do this, but a small part of me is excited at the possibility that I can do this and maybe even enjoy it. I do it anyway. I crawl into bed and go about my actions mechanically, waiting for the sheer terror to creep into my lungs and make it impossible to breathe. If I were trying to seduce myself, I would start by running my hand down my chest to the apex of my thighs where I would lightly drag my nails along my inner thigh and then back up. My fingers would slide between my lips. It would be just enough to make my breath hitch. My fingers would pinch at my nipples, twisting just enough so that I whimper.
I would imagine Ian running his scruffy jaw along my inner thigh as he breathes heavily. His hot breath would wash over my wanting pussy. I would bring the side extension of the toy to my clit and turn it on the lowest setting. It wouldn’t be enough, but it would send a sweet little tingle down my spine. It would be delicious as I turned up the power to the second setting and made myself wait in agony as I deliberately intensify the vibrations and then lower them. I wouldn’t want to come too soon. I would want to draw it out just like Ian would. He would want me panting, I’m sure. So I would torture myself until I’m so needy that my swollen, wet pussy is begging for release. Then and only then would I slide the thick silicone-covered device into my core. In and out. In and out. It would be incredible. I would be breathless, wanton, crazy with need and desire. I would be high on the feeling of it rather than high because of the needle in my vein.
But I’m not trying to seduce myself. I’m simply trying to get over something I can barely name. I don’t run my hand down my abdomen. I don’t tease my inner thigh or my core. I just close my eyes and bring the still device to my clit, where I place the side extension, and suck in a terrified breath. I’m actually doing this, and as much as I know I want to, I’m scared of pressing the button and turning the fucking thing on. An orgasm shouldn’t be this scary. Nothing should be this scary.
But it is.
Tears slide down the sides of my face and pool in my ears. I hate the way the wetness tickles, but I don’t move to wipe it away. There’s so much about this—and about the entire world—that I hate, and I can’t wipe any of it away. Every terrible feeling, every awful moment, and every single fear refuses to be scrubbed away. I could peel off my own flesh, and the terror would still remain.
My lungs strain to breathe. It’s such a simple task, one we do several times a minute. Every day. For our entire lives. I tend to forget I’m breathing at times—I think we all do. It’s only when I can’t get my lungs to suck in air that I realize how important the simple act is. Focusing on the action, I manage to loosen up enough to get a little air in my lungs. And again. The discomfort in my chest lessens, slowly but surely, with every breath I take. I don’t move the toy from its position. If I do, I might not put it back and all these shot nerves will be for nothing.
Be brave.
I move the silicone piece in a slow circle on my clit. Even just being naked here like this is a little exciting. There’s a flutter of anticipation that gives me hope the memories will subside. I haven’t touched myself since well before that night. I’ve been too afraid to feel anything even remotely similar to what I felt then.
The barely there, pleasant hum shivers through me at the contact. They didn’t touch me here. They didn’t care about my comfort or pleasure. Actually, they tried to make it as painful as possible.
Shut up, whore. I didn’t say you could talk.
My body tenses at the memory. The hard plastic gun slams against face. Pain radiates out from my cheek, throbbing and crashing into my brain and neck and even down my spine. I don’t know how, but it does. It just hurts. Everything hurts. More tears fall from my eyes as I make another circle with the toy and then another. Every memory that hits me is more and more vicious than the last, just like that night.
His lips on mine hurt. He’s pressing into me so hard. I could bite him. I think about it, about biting him, but I’m too scared to do anything. He’s bucking against me, painfully squeezing my breasts. He’s so hateful, so violent, and so mean. I hate it. I hate every second of it. I’m crying so hard, still rubbing the toy against myself, and way too afraid to stop what I’m doing. I’m not entirely sure I know the difference between what’s happening now and what happened then. It’s blurring together in the most terrifying way. My head is slammed into the wall behind me. Ev
erything feels hot and painful and just . . . too much. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I know that this isn’t happening. I know I’m in my bedroom at my parents’ house. I know I’m naked in my bed and touching myself with this stupid silicone toy.
But it feels so real. Every time the memories surface, it feels like I’m right there. I’m feeling every hit, every excruciating thrust inside me. Every tiny movement. Skin against skin. Men I don’t know. Hands I’m unfamiliar with. They’re not Heath, and they won’t ever be Ian. And the smells. The putrid smell of hot, sweaty, dirty skin. A smell so vile, so distinct that I may never forget it. Even now, a lump forms in my throat.
I’m unexpectedly pulled from my thoughts by a slow but unmistakable pulsing in my core. My legs are tingling, my blood pumping faster now than before. I feel like I do when I’ve been running awhile and I’m about to give up and turn around. Only, my lungs aren’t straining for air, and my head is foggy. I can barely hear anything around me, and even though my eyes are open and my vision is fine, it’s like I can’t focus on any of it. Forcing myself to pay attention to my body, I realize what’s causing it.
In my anger at the surfaced memories, I’m rubbing my clit harder and faster, aided by the dampness between my legs. The memories have fueled something inside me that’s taken over. In this moment, I don’t feel like a broken down woman. I feel powerful.
Powerful.
So I turn the vibrator on its lowest setting and have to fight back a moan at how delicious it feels. My heart rate spikes. The increasing throbbing takes me back to that night when, despite all of the pain and abuse—and perhaps worst of all—when what they did felt less than awful. Good, even. Doctors tried to talk to me about it. They said it happens. Even if you don’t want it, sometimes your body responds anyway. And I hate myself for feeling something then. And part of me hates myself for feeling something now.
It gets old—feeling so inept and incapable of moving on. I’ve never met a person more resistant to letting go of awful memories than me. It’s just another thing to hate about myself. It’s the final straw in an intricately designed straw hat that’s too worn to really be useful. My complete refusal to let go of my bad memories is the only straw that’s holding the entire thing together. And when it breaks, I find myself unable to suck in a breath. With my lungs stalled and my nerves about to break, my legs shake and I open my mouth to scream. It’s a silent cry for help that jolts my entire body, but it’s not enough. I can’t make noise with anybody else at home—or any of my neighbors at home either. When I run out of breath, I gasp for what little air I can manage and let out another silent scream.