by Carol Caiton
"How long did it take before you found out what happened to your mother? Did you go to the police?"
"No way." He gave a short laugh. "No police. I was young so I wasn't real street smart at the time, but I knew enough to stay out of the system. I found out because a friend of mine asked his mother to check it out."
"But . . . what did you do? Who took care of you?"
He shrugged. "I learned how to take care of myself pretty early. My job was to help with the food."
"I don't understand. How—" She broke off and he saw comprehension in her eyes. "You had to steal it, didn't you?"
"It kept me out of trouble—if you don't count stealing food as getting into trouble. There were other kids like me and we teamed up, sort of like a network. The little corner stores were easy. One kid distracted the clerk while the other lifted a loaf of bread or a couple cans of tuna fish. But you could only get away with one or two things in each store so it took all day to hit a bunch of places. You had to go unload and you always had to watch out for other kids who wanted what you had without doing the work."
"Did you go to school?"
"I went for a couple of years. Then the principle got me in his office and wanted to know where I lived. The kid I used to team up with got halfway through third grade before he almost got caught. During the school year, we only had a couple hours a day to gather what we could, so weekends were busy 'cause we tried to stock up. Like I said, it kept us out of trouble."
When he thought about those days it sometimes didn't seem so long ago. Other times, it was like he was looking at somebody else's childhood. "It was tough in the winter though," he told her. "I remember being so cold my feet cramped up. But if we didn't work, we didn't eat and our families didn't eat. It was stealing, but it taught us responsibility and it gave us a sense of self-worth. Twisted maybe, but because of us and what we did, everybody ate."
He paused for a minute to prepare himself. The stuff he'd told her so far was the good stuff. The happy times. He didn't mind going into detail about that. But those times came to a screeching stop.
"I went out by myself one night," he said. "To the park. It was summertime. Hot. And the moon was full. Most of the neighborhood kids were hanging out in the street 'cause it was too stuffy to be inside. But I wanted to go to the park because I'd seen a kid flying a kite that afternoon. He was with his father and the kite got caught in a tree, only his father wouldn't let the kid climb up and get it."
Rachel was still watching him, but he didn't want to meet her eyes now. There were a lot of things in his life he was ashamed of, but this was the one that set things in motion.
"I decided I wanted that kite," he told her. "I could've lifted one, no problem. But I wanted that one because it belonged to that kid. I wanted it because that kid had a father who took him to the park and it pissed me off. The kid looked over at me like he knew I could climb the tree and get it for him. But I looked back at him and grinned the kind of grin that told him he was right, but I was gonna get it for me."
Rachel took that moment to lean over and kiss his chest. He didn't know why. He sure as hell didn't deserve it.
"You were a child," she said. "You were already doing things your own father should have been doing for you and you resented that boy. It was a natural reaction. Human nature. So did you climb the tree and get the kite?"
"No." He looked away. "No I didn't. What I got was a face full of chloroform almost as soon as I got to the park. And when I woke up I was in the trunk of a car with my hands and feet tied."
This time she didn't say anything. For a second she went still and it was like she had to prepare herself too. She knew what had gone down. He didn't have to say it.
She reached across his stomach for his hand, brought it to her mouth, and kissed his knuckles. Some of the tension inside eased with that quiet support and he relaxed a little.
"I was eleven then. I told you that. It was a long ride. I could tell by the sound of the tires on the road that we were going fast—on a highway. I found out later that I was headed for North Carolina. And when we got there, I was carried into an old farmhouse, down to the cellar, and locked up in a ten-by-ten space without windows."
He looked across the room at the long wall of continuous sliding glass doors. The drapes were drawn over all of them right now, but he knew the outdoors was just on the other side. He hated telling her this shit. This filth. "It took me two years before I got away."
He looked down when he felt her palm cover one of his scars. There were five on his front and seven on his back. She still didn't ask any questions and he knew she wouldn't. She'd let him tell this, or not tell it, his own way.
Reaching over, he rested his palm on the scar at the top of her arm. He always told other women he'd been part of a gang when he was a punk kid. But with Rachel he said, "I got all but two of them the same way you got yours, baby. And those two I got in a knife fight after I got away."
So now she knew. He'd never have to talk about them again. At least not with her. "When I got free . . . ."
He let the words drift away. There were things he couldn't tell her. Not because she wouldn't understand. He knew down to his soul that she would. But he'd never, not to anyone, utter the words that could put him in another sort of cage for the rest of his life. Because he'd gone back to that farmhouse. He'd waited in the dark. And when the time was right, when he was ready, he'd made sure the maggot who had kept him locked up like an animal, tortured, and used him, had died the kind of death that soothed his soul. Afterward, he'd thrown up twice, gagging when there was nothing left. Then he'd dragged the lifeless carcass out to the woods and dumped it in a hole he'd dug while waiting for night to fall.
It was premeditated murder—thought out, planned, and executed. But that hideous, vengeful act had given him closure in a way nothing else could ever have done and had probably saved his sanity. To this day he felt no remorse for it and because of that, he kept a close check on himself and the kind of damage he could do now with a simple laptop computer. No one, no one at all, knew the extent of his ability. It was an easy matter to destroy a life, to ruin a corporation, or throw a government agency into chaos. Because there wasn't an encryption code in existence that didn't read like a child's math equation to him.
Pulling his thoughts back to the present, he started again. "When I got free . . . ." But once more he couldn't go on. He lifted his arm from around her and boosted himself up so that she had to move away. The life he'd led after leaving that farmhouse was so dirty and repulsive, he didn't even want to touch her.
"I did what I had to do to survive, baby. I roamed neighborhoods like the one you live in, cased out a house here and there, and stole what I needed. And at night, if I was hungry because things hadn't gone too good during the day, there was always a city park nearby. And there was always a men's restroom in every park. And eventually some horny guy would show up and part with a few bucks in exchange for sex."
He took a deep breath and waited, but she didn't say anything. Not a word. He couldn't see her expression because she was looking down and her hair hid most of her face. So he watched to see if she started inching away from him. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Rachel? I was big for thirteen, and I lived like that for two goddamn years."
Finally she looked up and her face was wet with tears. "Are you bisexual, Michael?"
He stared at her.
"What the hell kind of question is that? I can't believe you even asked it."
"Then why did you pull away from me? Why won't you touch me?"
He couldn't move.
And then he couldn't not move.
Reaching for her, he pulled her up onto his chest and sank his face in her neck. "Rachel . . . . Damn it, Rachel."
She started to really cry then. "I thought you were trying to tell me . . . there was another side of yourself and you wanted . . . to keep it separate from me."
He shut his eyes. "No, baby. No separate side. I just . . . ." He
shook his head.
She lifted up and looked him right in the eye. She was angry now. But tears poured down her cheeks and when she scolded him, what he heard instead was her unconditional acceptance.
"Don't ever . . . do that again. To either of us. Did you think I'd blame you? Turn my back and walk away? Some monster brutalized you. Over and over again. But the things he did . . . it gave you a way to live from one day to the next. Do you think I don't see that?"
He searched her eyes. The mounds of her breasts pressed against his chest, the soft triangle of hair between her legs tickled his cock, and the warmth of her, of who she was, spread over him like a blanket on a long cold night.
Little by little, he thought, since the day he first laid eyes on her, just being with her had been wiping away some of the shame, cleaning off some of the filth that was smeared on his soul. She'd known from the minute he opened his mouth that he'd been raped as a kid, yet she'd walked right up to his table in the food court and flirted with him like the putrid stink and degradation of that didn't make him any less a man. She'd said yes when he'd asked her out on a date, then fucking cried when he'd kissed her because he'd given her that. He was the only man alive who could give her what she needed, the touches she yearned for. And in return she understood what he came from, accepted him without judgment, and fed his need for self-respect. She was healing him, he realized. From the inside out she was healing him. And even if he knew what it was he wanted to say right now, he couldn't have spoken a word.
He slid his palms up her back until he cupped her head with both hands. Then he brought her mouth to his and tried to show her what he felt inside, how deeply he drank in everything she'd said . . . everything she was coming to mean to him.
Her hair fell like a waterfall of wavy silk against his stomach. He tasted her tears, wet and salty, and he wanted to take away the hurt he'd caused and absorb it into himself.
Slowly he pulled back. He opened his eyes and watched her open hers. She wasn't crying anymore and he wiped her cheek with his thumb, rubbing her tears between his fingers. "Let me finish this, okay?"
Wiping her other cheek, she nodded. "Okay."
This time, he didn't make the mistake of letting her go. He wrapped both arms around her, kept her where she was on top of him, and waited while she adjusted herself so she could see him while he talked.
"I got sick one winter," he said "It was a few days after that knife fight I told you about. One of the places where I got cut got infected."
"Were you still in North Carolina?"
"No, baby. I'd made my way up to Washington, D.C. I was fifteen then. It was raining and freezing outside, but the restrooms in the park were all locked up. So I sat down under the eaves and tried to stay dry."
He paused for a second, noticing that he wasn't tense anymore. "A couple of hours after dark, this old guy came up and sat down under the eaves beside me. He started talking—the usual lead-in kind of stuff. But this guy was wearing one of those nice wool overcoats and he smelled like expensive cologne. So I was sitting there thinking maybe I could get more than the usual amount out of him. Only he kept talking. I wanted to get it over and done with, then maybe see about finding a vacant house somewhere so I could get dry. But he was goin' on and on about how a man in his position could lose his whole life's work if his sexual preferences became known."
He shook his head, remembering. "So there I am, coughing, freezing my ass off, and wondering who the hell this guy is and why anyone would care about his sexual preferences. And he's talking about how he's getting older now and how taking a stroll through the park at night isn't safe. —Turns out he had a plan. Something along the lines of a permanent arrangement. For a while I didn't know the guy's real name. But he put me up in a motel, got me bandaged up and on antibiotics, and I figured hey, I had a warm roof over my head and a running tab at I-Hop . . . I was hoping it would last through the winter."
He smiled wryly, still awed by the way things ended up. "I got a lot more than winter out of the deal. After a couple of months, the guy made me another offer—a permanent home in exchange for a relationship and my silence. Hell, I didn't even need a minute to think about it. I agreed right away 'cause it was better than going back out on the streets."
"Yes, it was," she agreed.
"It turns out the guy was a United States senator. John Rawson. He was known for supporting homeless shelters and opening two soup kitchens in the D.C. area, so it wasn't so odd when he took in a homeless kid off the streets. He brought in tutors, and man did I make them earn what he was paying them. Eventually we found out I had a pretty high IQ. And when they put a computer in front of me, baby, that was it. I found my place in the world."
Absently he smoothed his thumb along her upper arm. "When I turned sixteen, Rawson legally adopted me. That was part of the image. There were conditions—a lot of them—but I wasn't gonna screw up. Rawson had money. He wasn't a stingy man and I knew that was as good as my life was ever gonna get.
"When I got my GED, he made it so I had a clear path to a plum job with the government. Me—a street kid from the slums—and you wouldn't believe the security clearance I had." He gave a short laugh. "I could have moved out right then and left him if I'd wanted to. But a couple of weeks after I landed that job, he had a stroke. It was a bad one and he could hardly talk. I thought about leaving. I wanted my own life. But sex wasn't part of the deal anymore 'cause half his body was paralyzed. So I stayed. The guy had been good to me. Hell, baby, he'd given me a life. So I stuck by him. And I felt good about upholding my end of things and being there for him."
That had been a tough time for them both, Michael wanting to leave, knowing he had the skills and financial wherewithal to take care of himself . . . . He'd wanted his life back, wanted to figure out his own path. But the gratitude and affection in the old man's eyes held him back. There was no other family the guy could turn to and it had been up to Michael to hire caregivers and keep the household going.
"He died when I was twenty-two," Michael said, "and I mourned his death. I know that probably sounds twisted, but he was a good person. And then I found out the guy made me his sole beneficiary. It's because of him that I never had to go out on the streets again. It's because of him that I am who I am now."
And that was all there was to tell. She knew everything. This was who he was and he couldn't erase the past. If any of it came back to bite him in the ass one day, at least she'd be prepared. That is, if she hadn't changed her mind.
"So," he said. But he was only a little worried. She was still in his arms, her fingers woven into his chest hair. "Do you still wanna marry me?"
The soft look in her eyes told him it was gonna be okay. Then she turned and planted a kiss on his shoulder.
"I don't have words to describe how in awe I am of your strength. No, don't make a face. I know, remember? When your life is shattered . . . the pain, the anger . . . it's like a demon is eating away at your soul. Trying to find peace from your own thoughts, from remembering . . . . You focus everything on protecting yourself and there's nothing left over for anything else. You even have to re-learn how to care about other people." She shook her head. "For me it was only one incident. For you —I can't imagine what it was like for you. I just can't. I grieve for the boy who went after that kite and I grieve for the teenager who sold his body to put food in his stomach. I don't understand how you could have lived through so much for so long and kept your humanity, how you can even care and be sensitive to my issues. So yes, I'm in awe. And yes," she said quietly, looking into his eyes, "I still want to marry you. Very much."
She had him up on a goddamn pedestal. Yeah, he'd paid attention to her issues, but that was for purely selfish reasons. Because he wanted her. Hell, he adored her.
"I want us to get married as soon as we can get a license," he said. "A week. Two at the most."
She nodded and gave him a soft smile. "Okay."
No hesitation. No grumbling about wanting a big weddin
g.
He lifted his hand and stroked her cheek with the backs of his fingers. Then he cupped her chin and leaned over to kiss her. There wouldn't be any turning back now. He didn't even want to anymore. So he'd better have Ethan come over and do an upgrade to his security system like he'd been thinking about.
Rachel's stomach growled. Her mouth went still beneath his, then she grinned into their kiss.
"Would it be okay if I use your shower again?" she asked.
"Baby, it's your shower now, too."
She blinked, then smiled. "I guess it is, isn't it?" She eased out of his arms and climbed over him and off the bed.
He watched her tits sway until her hair brushed across his stomach and she stood up. Then she looked around his big empty bedroom and turned in a circle.
"How big is our house, Michael?"
Our house. She was gonna be his wife. "Six thousand square feet, give or take a few."
Her brows rose.
"Five bedrooms, six baths, a game room, media room, a study, and a really big garage. Big as in five-car." Then he thought of something. "So I guess you're gonna want to fill it with furniture, huh?"
He hadn't meant it to sound like a gloom-and-doom prospect but that's how it came out.
She tilted her head to the side and considered him. "No," she said. "Maybe just enough to soften the echo if that's all right."
He pushed up off the bed and went to her. "Rachel," he slid his arms around her and linked his hands behind her back, "you can do whatever the hell you want with the place." He rubbed his chest against her breasts just because she was right there and he could. "I didn't mean to be all negative about it. If it turns out you're a packrat, we'll just build a bigger place, that's all."
She ran her hands up his arms and smiled. "I'm not a packrat. I never have been." She got up on her toes and gave him a quick kiss. "I know you like a lot of space and now I understand why that's important."
While she was in the shower he tugged the sheets off the bed. He wasn't the best housekeeper on the planet, but he knew how to do his own laundry. He vacuumed and dusted once a month, too, and he kept the kitchen sparkling clean 'cause he never wanted to live in a house with rodents again. He ate most of his meals at RUSH anyway, so it was no big deal. But now that he thought about it, he wondered what it was gonna be like to have Rachel cook for him. That's what wives did, right? Dropping the sheets onto the floor for now, he decided to join her in the shower. But when he opened the bathroom door and saw her through the glass, her long hair all soapy with his shampoo, he stood for a while and watched. When she rinsed and opened her eyes again, he slid the door wide and stepped in.