by Jc Emery
And I turn the vibrator up to its highest setting, and without another thought, I reposition the toy so the silicone shaft is positioned against my wet, aching pussy. I shudder at the feeling of almost—just almost—having what I want.
What I need.
What I hate.
And there are no more straws. And in place of what used to be a beloved, well-worn hat is nothing. Just a pile of straws that have no purpose. That do nothing. And mean nothing.
And I’ve had enough.
Be brave.
I slam the vibrator into my core as hard as I can and fight the enclosing panic.
I can almost feel him punching me in the stomach and then in my nose. There’s so much blood. I hate the blood. It’s not really happening, I know that, but it feels like it is happening all over again. I pull the vibrator out and slam it in again. This time, the side extension presses against my clit. It’s exactly where I want it to be. Perfect. My legs shake and my eyes cross. It hurts in a way that feels right. Like I deserve to feel the pain again. I deserve a lot for throwing away my sobriety because of spite. The vibrator is bigger than they were. It’s bigger and more pleasurable and just the right amount of painful. I can’t focus on anything but the sweet ache and brilliant shocks that ripple through my body.
For a moment, I forget that I’m in bed. Instead, I’m bent over Eileen’s desk at Universal Ground and it’s not me touching myself. Every bone, every inch of flesh, and every muscle in my body hurts. Holly is across the room with the phone to her ear, forcing herself to tell Ian what they’re doing to me. How they’re enjoying it. She reaches forward and wraps her hand around mine, and it’s the absolute most important thing in my world. I can feel her hand on mine, like I really am still there. She holds on to me—the way she always has—fiercely and without fail. She doesn’t let go even when his thrusts are so hard that they slam me painfully into the edge of the desk. I nearly bite straight through my lip with how hard I’m biting down.
I’m here, Minds.
I love you, and I’m here.
And in an instant, I’m back in my bed, clearly, fucking myself. It’s nobody else and I’m safe.
And I’m come savagely, gasping, and bucking against the bed.
When it’s over, I can barely move. My body is so heavy that I feel like I did then—almost dead. The only difference is that now I’m not praying for death. I don’t welcome the blackness that will swallow me when it’s time. I don’t beg an invisible being I doubt exists for release from my torture.
No, instead I’m left with the bitter, desperate, hate-filled need for revenge. I’m tired of being a victim of rape, a dope-sick junkie, an alcoholic, a fucking failure. I won’t be a victim anymore. I refuse to be afraid.
If I can’t shake the monsters, then I’ll become one of them.
11 months to Mancuso’s downfall
Chapter 13
It’s been seventeen days since I last saw Ian. Seventeen days of bossy-ass text messages and his little warnings. Seventeen days of running harder and faster and longer. The first few times Ian disapproved of my responses, I was wary of pushing him further, but then he sent more texts. He checks up on me more regularly and about everything. He isn’t playing fair, with all his warnings and bullshit. I don’t care, though. He can only yell at me so much in text form. Eventually he’s going to have to face me.
I want him to face me more than I want him to like me. I can’t deal with his craziness without seeing his face or hearing his voice. The sound of his voice in my head pushes me to get to the house in record time. The more frustrated I get with him, the faster I am. I’ve shaved minutes off my loop around town by driving myself to be better. I don’t tell the asshole that, though. He wants to send me lame-ass texts that reek of obligation and his self-sacrificing bullshit, so I give him what he wants and nothing more. Sometimes I argue or don’t answer until I feel like it. Sometimes I answer right away because I can’t help myself. And sometimes, late at night, I have to put my phone across the room from me when I feel myself giving in to texting him first. I miss hearing his voice. I miss catching his eyes on me. I just miss him, but most of all, I miss his touch. By now, everybody else knows not to touch me. It’s isolating, not being touched—only I didn’t realize how isolating until I had his touch and then lost it. He doesn’t even have to talk to me. Maybe if even he could just hold my hand once in a while. That might be enough. It would still be too little, but I could settle for it.
It’s the least he could do—to boss me around in person. And since I can’t irritate him into showing up, then I guess I’ll have to be the one doing the showing up, and the best way to do that is by finding a job with the club. If I’m at the clubhouse, he’ll have to talk to me. I intend to make sure of it.
Step one in getting a job with the club is talking to the person in charge, which according to Grady by way of Holly is Ruby. She says he’s always bitching about how much influence she has over Jim. I’ve done my best to try not to be too obvious with my questions. Holly’s made her feelings about me and Ian clear, and honestly, I can’t tolerate another round of judgment. Ian doesn’t deserve that after everything he’s done for her.
I let it sink in—my anger with Holly—and I focus in on it until I’m flying so fast down Sherwood Road that I’m barely making out anything around me. My muscles burn and my lungs ache from the strain of my speed. Three months of running as far and as fast as I can have given me a bit of an advantage. My body is used to the abuse, and my mind welcomes it. I’ve learned how to breathe through my mouth, not my nose. I’ve learned that when the aching starts is right when I’m hitting my stride. I’ve learned how much my body can take before it gives up. But most importantly, I’ve learned to take my life in my own hands.
The last quarter mile to Ruby and Jim’s house is on a slight incline that isn’t very noticeable if you’re in a car. Right now, miles from home and pushing myself to my limit, it makes all the difference. I try slowing down to make it to the driveway, but with every step, my body feels heavier and heavier. On weakened knees, I stumble into the weeds and brush that edge the paved road. My upper body is pulled forward, and just before I fall on hands and knees, I regain my footing and am able to come to a safe stop. With my hands on my bent knees, I keep my feet shoulder-width apart. I’m sucking in desperate breath after desperate breath, my eyes watering, and my chest heaving, sore from my maniacal sprint. My eyes cross, my vision blurs, and once again I nearly lose my balance. I shut my eyes and try to focus on regulating my breathing before I move. Losing track of time, I stay bent over like this until my lungs are no longer straining and I feel steady enough to continue my journey.
When I straighten I find a familiar figure at the end of the driveway. He’s standing in black jeans and a black short-sleeved shirt. His leather cut covers his broad chest, and his black hair gleams in the late-morning light that’s breaking through the redwoods. I’ve never spoken to him before, but I’d recognize Ryan Stone anywhere.
“Crazy bitch,” he mutters with a shake of his head.
I don’t respond and approach him. Getting in an argument with Ryan, or worse, being sent away, won’t do me any good. If he doesn’t let me see Ruby, then nearly passing out on the side of the road was all for naught.
“My brother know you’re here?” he asks. I’m close enough now that I can see the slight smirk on his lips.
“I’m not here for Ian.” I wipe the sweat pooling at my brow and straighten my back. He makes no move to stop me as I turn onto the long driveway and begin my walk to the house. “Is Ruby home?”
“You’re here for Ma?” He chuckles and catches up with me, then slows us down to a leisurely pace.
“Yeah,” I say. If I’ve learned anything from my time with Ian, it’s that these guys value directness.
“Wow. Tattling on the boyfriend to his mommy, huh? That’s cold, lady.” He’s nearly grinning at his own humor now. His casual suggestion that Ian’s my boyfriend nearly mak
es me blush. Fighting off the embarrassment makes me feel even more juvenile than I already do.
“Someone sounds like he’s afraid of his mommy.”
“Damn straight. The woman’s fucking insane,” he says with a scoff. I can’t help but laugh at that. Holly’s told me a few things about Ryan—mostly things she’s heard from club members in passing. Ryan is supposedly this grouchy, badass who likes to torment people. Holly says that the little bit she’s heard about him from when Grady thinks she’s not listening to his conversations with his brothers is that the only time they’ve ever seen Ryan vulnerable is when Alex was missing and then hurt. Until he met Alex, they all had pretty much given up on him ever opening himself up to a woman. Maybe love really has softened him up.
“So, tell me what he did,” he prods.
“Why do you assume Ian’s done something wrong?”
“Nobody runs like that if they’re not pissed.”
“I’m pissed, all right,” I say. I don’t intend to be that honest with him, but it just flies out, and now I’m left to deal with the consequences. We’re only halfway to the house, and with how surprisingly chatty he’s being, I have no doubt I’ll be singing like a canary by the time we get there. Best defense is a good offense. “I’m pissed because I threw away four years of sobriety on a revenge plan that didn’t pan out. I’m pissed because I have nothing better to do all day than to wallow in my own sorrows. I’m pissed because everybody’s moving on with their lives and I’m not, and now I’m pissed because you’re supposed to be the strong, silent type and you’re anything but silent.”
“Damn, you are pissed,” he says. He’s still finding humor in our conversation that I don’t see.
My face is heating for a whole different reason now. I pick up my pace and force him to catch up. Not that I want him catching up. I’d be perfectly happy if he were to stay where he is. I don’t want to ask Ruby for a favor when I’m in a bad mood, and all Ryan’s doing is antagonizing me.
“What in the hell is so funny?” I snap.
“You got this vein,” he says and gestures to my neck. “It’s popping out.”
“How is it possible that nobody has smothered you yet?”
We’re close to the house now. So fucking close to the house and to me losing my shit. I can’t figure out what’s pissing me off more—the fact that Ian isn’t my boyfriend and Ryan’s casual comment just throws that in my face, or if it’s my fried nerves at over explaining myself to him.
“I’m too charming to smother,” he says with a shrug. “But you’re not. Good thing you got yourself hooked up with my brother, or I might take your attitude personally.”
“I am not hooked up with Ian!” I turn and end up yelling the words. And once I start, I find it impossible to stop. “He’s not my boyfriend. I haven’t even seen him in a couple of weeks.”
“But you want to,” he says. Ryan doesn’t even so much as shrug his shoulders or raise a brow. He looks totally calm and in control. I know better than to think his relaxed appearance means he can’t or won’t snap at any minute.
Instead of responding, I fold my arms over my chest and huff. It’s the most mature thing I can manage to do at this point. Why in the hell is he even talking to me, anyway?
“Good,” he says with a nod and strides toward the house. Now I’m the one working to keep up with him, utterly confused by the sudden turn and annoyed at myself for even caring for an explanation.
“I didn’t even say anything.”
“Didn’t have to.” He stops at the deck, just feet from the front door. I have to back up a step to keep from literally stepping on his toes. “You get away with a lot with me because of shit you don’t even understand. I’ll tolerate whatever crap you want to throw my way as long as you remember your place with the club and with my brother.”
“I don’t understand.” I feel like I’ve been dropped into the conversation halfway through, because I’m pretty much lost now.
“He likes you,” is his blunt explanation. When my eyebrows pull together in confusion, he shakes his head and purses his lips like he’s thinking about what he wants to say. “More than likes you. Don’t take it for granted, and don’t fuck it up. He chose you and I respect that, but make no mistake about it, babe—you do him dirty and you’ll answer to me.” I narrow my eyes, and he leans in closer. His rank breath washes over my face.
“I won’t hesitate to slit your fucking throat if you fuck my brother over.”
I tilt my chin up, closer to his ear and lean in so we’re chest to chest. He’s taller than me by several inches, but I don’t care. He’s going to hear what I have to say, and that’s all that matters.
“Threatening somebody with death only works if they’re afraid of dying.” I say the words slowly and with purpose, meaning every single one. If he wanted to scare me, he should have threatened to take away something that matters to me—like Ian.
The front door opens just as I shove past Ryan, clipping him with my shoulder as I make my way to greet Ruby. She’s got on a faded black shirt and cutoff jean shorts. Her hair is up in a messy bun, and she’s holding a coffee mug in her hands. She narrows her eyes at Ryan but then redirects her attention to me. She softens her gaze as I approach and ushers me inside, shutting the door behind us.
Chapter 14
Every car sounds the same. Either that or I’m half-deaf, because as I’ve been standing at the edge of my parents’ front lawn, I’ve mistaken a pickup truck, a Harley, a Prius, and a minivan for Ruby’s SUV. Well, in all fairness, I didn’t really hear the Prius. Those things are damn quiet, but when it drove by, I had a moment when I thought it was Ruby. It didn’t matter that the Prius is less than half the size of the damn Suburban.
I should have told Ruby that I’d drive myself to the clubhouse. I can drive. I just usually choose not to. After that night, it was more or less because the idea of having the ability to drive off a cliff was far too tempting. Everybody said the feeling would pass. And I guess it has. I no longer want to find a way to end the pain. Now I just feel too uncomfortable with the disturbing thoughts that invade my brain.
Somebody didn’t use their blinker the other day, and I had to fight back the knee-jerk reaction to slam into their bumper. A man honked his horn at me when I was on my way to the grocery store yesterday because I’d taken too long responding to the light that had just turned from red to green. I flipped him off and sat there, refusing to move. He had to back up because he was so close up my ass and then moved around me to make the light before it turned back to red. He screamed a few obscenities at me, but I couldn’t bring myself to get angry. So I smiled as he glared at me, red-faced and nearly out of breath with his anger. My anger may have been hidden beneath the surface, but it scares me.
It terrifies me how easy it is now. The terror and frustration gave way to sadness and self-pity at some point. The self-pity and fright were all-consuming. Once I fought my way through it, I thought I could level out. I thought that maybe I could be normal again. But that hasn’t happened. Sometimes I don’t like what I see. I’m spiraling out, becoming somebody I don’t recognize, and she’s not somebody my mother would be proud of. But when I have those thoughts, it’s never my voice in my head. It’s my mom’s voice. Other times, I feel empowered by my anger. I don’t recognize myself, but that just excites me even more.
It’s freeing, being so angry, so fed up. In those times, when I can’t bring myself to give a single fuck, I find myself thinking more clearly than I ever have before. All of life’s little gray areas either darken or lighten, and everything is black and white. There is right and wrong, but none of it matters. The only things that matter are what matters to me. It’s selfish and hateful. And I love it. I want more of it.
So I choose not to drive. Because one day, I’m afraid of really hurting somebody. And I’m afraid when I do, I won’t care. And when that happens, who am I? So I accepted Ruby’s offer to drive me to the clubhouse for my first day of work. It’s no
t like she gave me much choice in the matter. Our entire conversation consisted of her giving me a single line of advice and then asking what I wanted. I don’t know that she was happy to see me. I couldn’t tell. It was just awkward.
From the corner of my eye, I see the red Suburban pulling up. Ruby’s in the passenger seat with Aaron behind the wheel. She’s got her caramel-brown hair held back in a butterfly clip, and she’s smoking a cigarette with the window down. She doesn’t smile or wave, even though her eyes are fixated on me. Instead, she just finishes her cigarette and rolls up her window. I open the back passenger door and climb in.
“Thanks for picking me up,” I say. Maybe Ruby’s in a mood and it has nothing to do with me. In the seat next to mine is Alex, who has a big smile on her face. I return the gesture and settle in.
“No worries. You’re on the way,” Alex offers. I attempt to shrug off Ruby’s silence, but it’s difficult to do. Alex’s eyes meet the back of her mother’s head, and even though she’s not saying anything, the action says everything. Something’s going on that I’m not aware of. Or maybe—just maybe—Ruby doesn’t like me.
Ugh. Perfect. Ruby disliking me is so not the thing I need. She doesn’t have to love me, I guess. I have enough issues to work through without Ian’s mom hating me on top of it.