by Sharon Page
Soft light plays on the walls, quaintly wall-papered with bouquets of roses. This is a girl’s room, with a four-poster bed, a dainty vanity table. It’s a huge room too, with a writing desk, and dainty chairs, and it looks like a room that Mr. Darcy’s younger sister might have used at Pemberley, in Pride and Prejudice.
The door opens and Jonathon comes in. This is the first time I’ve seen him in sweats. He’s wearing faded grey ones, and when he steps in, the golden light caresses the lines of his face.
“There’s a nightlight.” I just realized a small light clipped in the outlet is responsible for the soft glow that lets me see him. “I didn’t think one was there when I went to bed.”
Jonathon leans against the door, and says softly, “There wasn’t. I’d forgotten about it. Then I realized you wouldn’t want to wake up into darkness.”
Wow. My heart makes a skittering sensation. That was so sweet of him.
I really care about you.
I gaze into his green eyes, realizing how wrong and how prejudiced I was about him.
That night in September when I saw his BDSM room, I judged him. I thought he was a rich guy who was used to getting what he wanted and hurt women carelessly. I thought the same thing when we were at his club and I met Crystal, although that didn’t correlate with the kind of guy he was with me.
Now, I think I’ve seen the real Jonathon Powell.
He said he respected that I love another man. Jonathon Powell can’t be experiencing unrequited love for me, can he?
If he is, I don’t want to hurt him. He’s been one of the kindest, most amazing friends I’ve ever had. But is he my friend because he still hopes it will lead to something more?
I start to feel kind of sick. Guilty. Confused. And if I weren’t for Jonathon, I’d be lying cut up in the ravine, feeling all my blood drain out of me—
Oh God. If it weren’t for him, I would have died. What would it have been like? Pleading for my life. Crying for help? Fighting to not give in? Or by then, would I have wanted to give in to death because I didn’t want to be alive anymore?
My throat burns, my eyes feel like they’re full of sand. Then everything bursts. Tears wash down my face. They come and come and I can’t stop them.
Jonathon is across the room in an instant and the bed dips with his weight and he pulls me against him. Sitting on the edge of my bed, he puts his arms around me. I shouldn’t cry against him. This isn’t fair to him. I’m alive. I survived. None of that stuff happened.
But I’m crying as if it’s about to happen—as if I’m back there, in the ravine, realizing I’m going to know the torture of having this guy inside me, then I’m going to be dead—
Anger swamps me. The tears keep flowing and I’m blubbering and gasping for breath, but inside, a crackling rage is building.
“It’s okay,” Jonathon soothes. His hands move slowly over my back, stoking me gently. My head is pressed to his grey sweatshirt, and his heart thumps under my cheek.
It’s not okay. Not. Okay.
The rage is snapping in me like a torn-down hydro wire, arcing on the road. I pull away from him. It’s not fair. Not fair. God, why does every creep in the universe want to hurt me?
“I didn’t do anything,” I rage. “I don’t even know who this guy is. It isn’t like I encouraged him.” Fury boils in me. It’s like with my stepfather—I didn’t ask him to do things to me. I didn’t want to do it. I hated it. But I’m supposed to feel bad about it for the rest of my life.
Anger builds and builds, until it feels like the top of my head will blow off.
I scramble off the bed. Grab one of the pillows and throw it across the room. Do I deserve to have someone care about me? Don’t I deserve to die in a freaking ditch, because I’m too weak to fight for myself?
I tear at my hair. When I slap myself, Jonathon is in front of me and he takes hold of my hands. He holds them away from me. I’m about to scream or pull away, but I can’t get free and he makes me stand still. He’s tall enough, strong enough, to take charge of me. I’m shaking.
He doesn’t say anything. Just looks at me, meeting my gaze, his chest heaving under his sweatshirt. I look away because I can’t look into his eyes anymore.
“You must think I’m insane,” I mumble.
“No, I don’t. You’re angry.”
“No, I am crazy.” I have to admit it. I can’t hide it anymore. “I get like this. I burst into tears and I get furious for no reason.”
“Mia, love, you have a very good reason.”
“I’ve done it before tonight. I do it all the time. I’m okay for a while and then I can’t control it. I do everything wrong. I stand on my pride at the wrong time, and sacrifice it totally when I shouldn’t.”
“I understand how you feel, Mia.”
He’s being nice, but I still feel angry. For some reason, I’m annoyed that he’s not shocked, that he’s not judging me, and he’s saying I’m okay. Because I’m not.
“You understand? How could you? I get worse than this.”
“I do because I’ve been there.”
“Have you? My mom didn’t even understand it. All my anger. In my early teens, I was filled with rage almost all the time. It would explode for no reason. Mostly I directed it at myself. I loathed myself. Even when I did something well, I mocked my own achievements. Who did I think I was? I was dirty, grubby and gross for the things I’d let happen to me. I was ugly. And I bet that no one liked me because they could tell I’d had to do disgusting things.”
I stop and it feels as if my sharp, furious words are bouncing around the walls of the room. I can’t believe I snapped and said those things. Those things are supposed to stay inside.
I’ve said them to make him hate me. Despise me.
It probably worked.
His fingers are barely holding me now, but I sense if I try to break away and hit myself, he’d tighten his grip and stop me in a heartbeat. Tears dribble down my face, which is already sticky and itchy from the tearstains of the gallons of waterworks that came before. The cut on my jaw stings.
He saved my life and I shouted at him. He saved my life and got to see me act like a self-destructive lunatic.
That’s what I was. And whenever I think I can leave that disaster of a girl behind, I slide right back.
“I’m a failure,” I mumble. I bow my head. I didn’t want to do it in his club, didn’t want to play submissive. But now I can’t hold my head up in front of him. “I can’t even keep my mouth shut properly. I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone ever—”
“Stop it.” Jonathon releases my hands and takes a step closer to me. He doesn’t touch me but holds his hand out to me.
Shaking my head, I put my arms around me. I can’t put my hand in his. I can’t even look at him anymore. Shame paints my cheeks with hot flush.
“God, Mia, don’t hurt yourself like this. Please don’t.” With his fingers he tips up my chin, forcing my gaze to meet his. I try to slide it away but he whispers, “Look at me.”
When I do, I don’t see shock or anger or disgust. I see tenderness in his green eyes. It’s stunning.
“I know about your anger, Mia. I know about hating yourself. You were abused. I don’t mean just last night, but in your past. I can tell that’s what happened to you. I know because I was abused too. I’ve felt everything you have. I’ve wanted to explode in rage and hurt people.” He pauses, thick black lashes dipping over his eyes. He takes a deep breath. “I’ve wanted to hurt myself.”
“You—”
I can’t finish what I was going to say. Shock hit me first, but it dissolved. I remember the night we went to his club, Tied. I asked him who he was really hitting when he used a whip. He claimed he never ‘exorcised his personal demons’, but at first he didn’t say anything. Now I understand what my words touched within him. Memories. Brutal ones.
“Yeah. I’ve been beaten in my life. Subjected to years of physical abuse.”
He says it coolly but deep in his
eyes, I see the flicker of flames. The anger is still inside him. I don’t know how to put into words how badly I feel. It’s like a kick to my soul. He didn’t deserve that.
I’m struggling to find words and the wrong one comes out. “Who?”
“I can’t tell you, Mia. I assume you don’t want to tell me who abused you?”
“No. No—that’s something I don’t want to talk about.” I take a deep breath. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I just—I guess I just needed to know the identity of the person I want to hate with every fibre of my being.”
He sucks in a long breath of his own. Then a soft smile plays on his lips. “You are beautiful. Probably the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”
I can’t believe that.
“We’re a lot alike, Mia,” he says. “I can’t talk about that. I can say that it happened. I can talk about it in a detached kind of way. It’s just a thing that happened to me. It happens to lots of people. I was a kid.”
“How old?” Should I ask that? Am I pushing in with more questions I have no right to ask?
“I never knew anything different until I was big enough to stand up for myself.”
“It happened all your life. When you were a child. Even a—a toddler?” My voice rises in shock and pain. I put my hand to my mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to speak so loud. I’m just—so angry for you.”
“But I never experienced what you did tonight. Some sick, sadistic bastard attacking you. You’ve been through a frightening experience. Don’t get angry at yourself for feeling fear, or rage, or horror. You are a strong woman—”
“I don’t think so.”
“You are. Since I have an idea what you’ve been through, I know how strong you are. Do not ever deny what a courageous and good person you are, Mia.”
“I don’t know about good. How can you think that about me? All I ever do is complain to you. You’re always there for me.”
“I can tell you care about other people. Even me.”
“Especially you.” Then I hesitate. I didn’t mean it quite the way it sounded. I love Ryan more than anything. This is so strange. I always thought love would be black and white. That once you loved the right guy, you wouldn’t feel it for anyone else.
But I do care about Jonathon. I do love him. Just not…not as much as Ryan.
I want to cry again, but not out of fear or anger. I want to cry because someone cares about me, and I want to cry because bad things happened to Jonathon and he deserved so much better than that.
***
I’m good for a couple of hours, then I start to cry again. Lara’s at class, so Jonathon and I are in his house alone. He has his driver take her to Yardley. He’s vowed that he’s going to ensure we are both protected.
Jonathon and I are making lunch in his huge kitchen. Normally he has a cook to handle his meals, but it’s her day off. I am chopping red peppers when out of nowhere I lose it.
He takes the knife from my hands. Probably a good idea since I can’t see for tears and I’d probably cut my finger off. Or drop the thing through my toe.
“What’s wrong?” he asks softly.
I manage a weak smile. “I was actually thinking about you. I know what I went through and it was bad enough. But to survive being beaten?” The thought terrifies me. To have gone through physical pain and injury seems terrible. The damage done to me was just to my psyche. To have that on top of bruises, maybe broken bones…how does any kid survive that? How does a kid survive it and become as strong as Jonathon?
He wraps his arm around me. Then he makes me coffee and we sit at the granite counter, drinking it.
“I’ve never told anyone what happened to me,” he says. “I never knew anyone who would understand.”
“Not even a past girlfriend? I think Lara would have.”
“She would have felt pity for me. Sorry for me. You’re different—you hurt for me, but you also feel anger. I saw you before you started to cry. You gripped the knife like you wanted to break it, and you were killing that innocent red pepper. Your tears came out of an explosion of anger.”
“And that’s better?”
“To me it is,” he says.
I sense he wants to talk. I sip my coffee and stay quiet. He has to make the decision what to say next. I can’t make it for him. I can’t even help him.
Then he tells me about his past…
He does it in the way I think about my past—detached, like he’s watched it happen to someone else. Or maybe like someone who has been hurt by it so many times, he can’t feel anything anymore.
“It’s funny because you start out thinking you can stop it,” he says, softly. “But after a while you submit to it, because you figure it will be worse if you don’t. That you’re smarter to let yourself get punched or kicked or hit with a belt or—or whatever in hell happens to be around that can do damage. You figure if you be a victim willingly, you’re a good boy and you’ll make them happy.”
I really wonder who ‘them’ is. His parents? It must have been at least one of them. Someone he trusted, someone who should have loved him.
My heart aches for him, but I know he didn’t want pity. He shouldn’t be pitied. Should I be pitied for what happened to me? No, because I don’t want to need pity.
Maybe that doesn’t quite make sense, but I do understand what Jonathon means. I didn’t want to be a victim—not of my stepfather, not of my deadly stalker.
The things he tells me…God, they’re horrifying.
He was beaten once with a spatula around his buttocks and legs. Burned once, behind the ear, with a cigarette. He was almost drowned. Slapped. I’m shaking when he stops talking, horrified to my soul by what he’s revealed.
Whoever did this to him should be arrested. But I can understand why he might not want that.
He looks right into my eyes when he’s finished, and I think I know what he’s looking for. He wants to see if I look at him differently now. I don’t intend to, but I know fury is burning n my eyes.
“I think you had it worse than me.” I say it angrily.
His strong hands are wrapped around his coffee mug, and he looks down at them. Gorgeous hands with long fingers. Like Ryan’s hands, except Jonathon’s fingernails are neat and manicured and Ryan’s used to have staining of black from grease that even his gritty, orange-smelling cleanser wouldn’t remove.
“It’s not a competition.” His voice is soft. He sounds younger.
“I know.”
“And if it was, I don’t know if I’d have the winning hand,” he says. “Sexual assault is a different thing. Something that intimate…it’s just different.”
Silence hangs between us. With Ryan, I pretended I was normal, happy, that I’d never been touched by anything bad, sordid, wrong. I liked being that person. Being honest hurts. It brings back memories I want to bury forever. It twists my heart in knots.
But in a weird way, it feels good, too.
“You think this explains why I built my club, why I have the room upstairs, why I want to tie up my sexual partners, why I’m into bondage and domination, why I need to take pleasure to the edge.”
“You said it isn’t the reason.”
“You don’t believe me. But everything I said is the truth. Not every victim of abuse is into BDSM. Not every practitioner has been a victim. Brains are programmed differently for pleasure and mine just happens to be made this way. I don’t deliberately hurt someone when I act as a Dom. It’s a mutual act. It’s shared pleasure that is heightened by an incredible sexual experience. But my past has hurt me. Shaped me. I don’t trust many people—actually, I don’t trust most people. I’ve never told anyone about what happened to me. Honestly, Mia. You’re the first person I realize I’ve trusted. I must trust you—why else would I open up to you so much?”
“You can trust me.”
“I’ve never loved anyone,” he says softly. “I don’t know if I’m capable of it.”
I thought he was experiencing un
requited love for me. Apparently not. What he feels must be a very deep, strong sense of friendship. And trust. I have that with Ryan, but enhanced by love.
I try hard to hide it from Jonathon but what he said makes my heart fracture. He’s a good guy and he deserves to have love.
I want him to know his trust is not misplaced. And I guess I want to talk. “I was sexually abused,” I say softly. “You were right. It was my stepfather. It happened…it started before I hit puberty. It went on for years. I didn’t stop it. I let it happen. I could have told on him, or called the police, or run away, but I didn’t.”
“It’s not your fault. It’s all on him.”
“I did…stuff. Everything. There isn’t anything I don’t know about.” I say it glumly. I wish so much it wasn’t true. “My mom found out eventually. She…caught him. It was bad. Gross. I can’t explain it. But we stayed with him. I had the choice—” I look up at him. “I was scared I’d be throwing us into poverty and all I wanted was for it to stop. That was all. It did stop. They broke up anyway. I guess…I assume it changed things between them. So you were right about everything. Everything you’ve said to me has been totally true.”
“Do you want revenge?”
“No. No one else knows. I don’t want anyone else to know. As long as he’s changed. As long as he never does it again.”
I start to cry. I didn’t know I could anymore. I thought at a certain point I would be all cried out.
Jonathon holds me. “You’ve carried a lot on your shoulders alone. You don’t have to do that anymore.”
***
It keeps happening over the next couple of days. I think I’m okay, then something happens and I smell something that reminds me of the wet grass of the ravine, or I have a sudden flashback into being grabbed or having the guy on top of me, and I freak out.
Completely.
Jonathon is there for me all the time. He hugs me when I burst into waterfalls of tears. He doesn’t care when I fly into a rage over stupid things—running out of toilet paper, messing up my mascara, deciding I hate the sketch I just did for my project. I keep working. Otherwise, what am I going to do? Play over what could have happened again and again in my head?