Toying With Her

by Prescott Lane

  “Because men are assholes,” she snaps, shaking me off. “Dammit, I hate that I cry when I’m mad.”

  “What the hell happened?” I ask.

  “The usual,” she says. “Why do men think they can just grab our asses? Do they really think that’s a compliment?”

  In case you’ve never experienced it, it’s true. I actually see red. Some switch flips in me. I don’t care how evolved we’ve become. A man feels his woman is threatened and all progress and civilization fly out the window. The only thing I want is to make him bleed. The only thing keeping me from beginning my hunt for this asshole is my need to make sure Sterling’s okay.

  Running my hands along her face and body, I ask, “Are you hurt? What happened? And don’t tell me the usual.”

  She releases a deep breath. “I was saying goodbye to the last of the guests. You know, smiling, a few hugs. And one of the guys just squeezed my ass.” She twists her hair a little. “Why when something like this happens do I always freeze? I should’ve hit him or something. Instead, I just freeze up.”

  My chest hurts, wishing she had kneed him in the groin, but mostly because there’s something in her voice, a twinge of self-blame. And it wouldn’t matter how she reacted, something tells me it would still be there. As if these kinds of things happening to you are just par for the course of being a woman. Is that true? Has this happened to every woman at some point?

  “Who the fuck was it?” There were dozens of men at the party, some guests, some workers. It could be anyone. She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, either trying to remember his name or preparing to lie to me.

  “I don’t know.”

  Lie! “Who was it?”

  “Rorke, let it go.”

  “The fuck I will. Now tell me who!”

  “It doesn’t matter. Because he isn’t the first and won’t be the last.”

  Now this is the perfect example of one bad apple spoiling things for the rest of us. “I’m so sorry, baby.”

  “I should’ve known that just because I’m at home, in a small town, that doesn’t change anything. Men like that are everywhere. I should’ve had security just like I do in New York.”

  My head lifts slowly. “You have security? Has this kind of thing happened before?”

  “Not exactly,” she says. “I get some creepy mail. I’ve had guys follow me before.”

  “What’s the worst of it?”

  I feel her body tremble. “Almost two years ago, there was this one creep. He stalked me on social media. I blocked him, and he started showing up at my office. I tried to get a restraining order, but once they found out who I was, they practically laughed in my face. Said it was an unintended consequence of my profession. Like I asked for that kind of attention.”

  What the hell? I’m not sure who I’m pissed at. The world, maybe. Because if this is the way it works, we are in deep shit.

  “What happened with the guy?”

  “He broke into my apartment. This was before I moved into my place by the park.”

  “Were you home? Did he hurt you?”

  “I wasn’t home. He . . .” Her head shakes. “He jerked off on my bed.”

  “Jesus Christ, that sick motherfucker,” I curse, pulling her tighter to my chest. “Thank God, you weren’t there.”

  “I never went back inside,” she cries. “Momma and Daddy came up. Got what I needed out of my place, and I left the rest. I didn’t want any of it. I didn’t know what he’d touched. Where he’d been. I just left it all.”

  “Oh, baby.” I gently kiss the top of her head. “I remember your parents being gone off and on for months, but they never shared why.”

  “One of them was with me for about four solid months after.”

  “What happened to the guy? They catch him?”

  “He’s dead. He resisted arrest and was shot and killed.”

  I push all the hair out of her face, tilting her chin up. She’s been through entirely too much. No wonder she’s shut herself off. No wonder she doesn’t trust easily.

  “Police found all kinds of pictures of me, articles taped to the walls of his bedroom. He knew my schedule. My dry cleaner, my favorite restaurants, my dentist. Every little detail.” She draws a deep breath. “I’m okay. But that’s why I’m extra careful, usually.”

  The worst part of this is that Sterling expected that reaction. This is exactly what she expects from the male species.

  “Rorke,” she says softly. “You should go home. I mean, why are you still here?”

  “Where else would I be? I love you,” I say.

  “You can’t handle this,” she says. “I saw it in your eyes.”

  “You’re right,” I say firmly. “I will not handle you being treated like this. You may have accepted this as a symptom of your profession. But I will not. I understand why you don’t fight it anymore. Why you’ve just locked yourself away. I imagine that’s a difficult thing to try to fight all by yourself, and you were so young when it started.”

  “You can’t fight this,” she says. “What are you going to do? Beat everyone up?”

  “I can’t if you don’t tell me who it was.” She shakes her head. She’s not going to tell me, and I doubt she ever will. I lean down, holding her eyes. “I love you.” She nods a little. It’s not very convincing, but I’ll take it. “Where’s your suitcase?” I ask.

  “Why?”

  “Because you aren’t staying here alone.”

  “I’ll get Daddy’s shotgun, and I’ll keep the lights on.”

  “When’s the last time you shot a gun?”

  “It’s been awhile. But Momma and Daddy are gone for a month. I promised to watch the place.”

  “We’ll check on it tomorrow,” I say, leaning in, my eyes on her mouth. “You’re staying with me. Do you think you can handle that?”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  STERLING

  Why did I agree to this? No way can I handle staying at his place. But I know how stubborn he is. I know he wouldn’t let this go. And the truth of the matter is—after what happened, I didn’t want to be alone.

  I thought for sure when I looked into his eyes during the fireworks that we were over before we even started. But he stayed. He’s heard and seen the worst of it and didn’t run for the hills.

  He pulls up in front of his house, getting out of the Jeep, just as lightning strikes high in the clouds, but there’s no noise, no rain. Southerners call this heat lightning. Rorke looks up at the horizon, opening my door. “Better get inside. Probably headed for a storm.”

  He takes my hand and my bag, leading me to his porch. I’m hoping for a second to prepare myself to step back inside there, to control the onslaught of memories I’m sure are coming. But Rorke slides the door right open.

  He walks right in, tossing my bag down beside the bed. Yep, the bed is right there, clearly visible from any spot. And it doesn’t look like there’s another bedroom. It’s in the exact spot where Rorke and I had sex for the first time. How am I supposed to sleep there? I’m not a good sleeper under the best of circumstances.

  I take a step, hovering in the doorway. Faintly, the words of Rihanna ring in my ears, “Love on the Brain.”

  “I know it needs some work,” he says, eyeing me.

  “It’s beautiful,” I say, bravely taking one more step. “I can’t believe you did all this yourself.”

  “It’s taken forever.”

  He starts talking about what he has left to do, mostly kitchen work. I take a few more cautious steps inside, our memories playing out before me like an old movie. His teenage voice echoing in my head, “We should’ve done this sooner.” The look on his face when I told him I was on the pill—surprised and grateful. Teenage Rorke didn’t carry condoms around.

  But I bet the man does.

  *

  Rorke’s in the shower, and I’m in his bed, trying not to think about what we did in this spot, but I can’t seem to control my thoughts, which are all over the place—from Rorke’s
hands on me, to that asshole’s hands tonight, to how happy my parents looked. Usually, I’m good at controlling my emotions, but not when I’m tired, and right now, I’m exhausted. The rain has arrived, battering against the windows, but I still hear the shower turn off, and shut my eyes tightly. It seems childish to pretend to be asleep, but I’m hoping the pretending will turn into the real thing.

  A faint light spreads across the ceiling as the bathroom door cracks open. He clicks off the light, and I feel him sit down on the edge of the bed, pausing for a second before lying down, rolling to his side, and pulling me close. “Stop faking,” he whispers. “I know what you sound like when you sleep.”

  “You slept with me one time,” I whisper.

  “And I stayed awake listening to you the whole time,” he says. “The slow crawl of your breath, the cutest little snore.”

  “I don’t snore!” I cry, rolling over to face him.

  Smiling through the darkness, he cups my face. “You alright?”

  I nod. “Me being here again. It’s weird. It’s almost like I never left. Like a part of me has always been trapped in these four walls.”

  “Not trapped,” he says. “Maybe that part of you never wanted to leave.”

  “Maybe you took too good care of it,” I whisper.

  “I think I might have always been waiting for you to come back.”

  A few tears fall from my eyes, and he leans in, his lips softly landing on mine. But I’m careful not to encourage anything more.

  He flashes me a devilish grin and teases, “Think I’ll make you wait.”

  My eyes shoot open. “Why would you do that?”

  “Until you admit you love me.”

  “You wouldn’t?”

  He chuckles. “You’re right. I’m too weak. Even though it worked for the kiss.”

  My jaw drops as I giggle and playfully swat his bicep. “You jerk. That was dirty.”

  He rolls over, pinning me beneath him. “We both know you like to play dirty.”

  *

  RORKE

  It’s barely nine in the morning, but it’s hot as hell. And the rain from last night has left a heap of mud. But that didn’t stop my dad. I’d promised him days ago I’d help get the fence repaired. I was so busy with Sterling’s parents’ party, I kept putting him off.

  This morning he wasn’t taking “no” for an answer. And I wasn’t going to tell him I had a woman asleep in my bed. At almost thirty, I don’t need those lectures. Still, I hated leaving her alone under my covers. The first night we spent together, I didn’t sleep at all. Last night, all we did was sleep. There’s something about sharing a bed with a woman. Something about waking up next to her. Like so many things about Sterling, I can’t explain it. There is no guidebook for loving her.

  Squatting down, I hold the board in place for my dad, hoping Sterling got the text I left for her explaining my absence this morning. No way was I going to wake her. She’s the world’s worst sleeper. Plus, I’d actually hoped we’d get this done before she woke up, but the mud is making things more challenging.

  Suddenly, the board drops, mud splashing up. I look towards my dad, wondering why he dropped his end. He’s on his feet, looking behind me. “Son, is there something you need to tell me?”

  Turning around, I see Sterling giving a little wave out of the window of my Jeep. What the hell is she doing?

  She opens the door, and I can see her trying to decide what to do about the mud. I doubt she packed or even owns the right kind of boots for this. Biting her bottom lip, she just shrugs and hops out, pushing the door closed with her ass because her hands are full with a sack and cooler.

  She trudges through the mud in her cowboy boots, wearing cutoff jean shorts and a white button up shirt, tied into a knot at the waist, showing off just a hint of skin on her stomach. Her brown hair is up in a high ponytail, and my dick is just as high. Female mud wrestling is a thing, and some guys find that hot. I wasn’t one of them, but Sterling might convert me.

  I start towards her, and she holds up her hands. “I brought snacks.”

  My dad starts laughing, thinking she’s just as adorable and charming as I do. I hold up my hands, showing her how filthy I am. “A white shirt might not have been a good call,” I say, acting like I’m going to wrap my arms around her. She jumps back, giggling. “City girl!”

  She cocks her head a little, her hip popping out. “A city girl with sweet tea and biscuits.”

  “Perfect timing,” my dad says. “Thanks.”

  Sterling starts to set things out on the hood of my Jeep, and then something occurs to me. “I don’t have a kitchen. How did you bake?”

  “Your mom,” she says, giving me a sideways glance.

  Oh shit! There will be no way to avoid the lecture now. My dad raises an eyebrow at me. He knows it, too. Sterling hands us each a little wipe for our hands. The hood of my Jeep looks like a picnic. She’s got a cloth set out, the food on top, our drinks poured in little cups.

  My dad makes quick work of his snack, flashing me another look, before heading back over to the fence, obviously knowing Sterling and I could use a moment alone.

  “My mom?” I ask.

  “Yeah, she just waltzed right in. She said she was leaving you some breakfast.”

  “I’ll talk to her,” I say. “She usually doesn’t just barge in. I guess she knew I was out here.”

  “You don’t need to talk to her,” Sterling says. “I got the whole sit down.”

  “She didn’t?”

  “Oh, she did,” Sterling says. “Everything from ‘don’t break his heart’ to ‘if you’re not staying in Alabama, don’t lead him on.’ Then there was ‘please don’t take my baby all the way to New York.’ And let’s not forget ‘Rorke is a good boy, works hard, and it would be a shame if a baby came before a wedding’.”

  “Fuck, Sterling. I’m sorry.”

  “You haven’t heard the best part,” Sterling says. “She quoted scripture to me.” I lightly bang my head against my Jeep. Sterling starts laughing, cupping my face in her soft hands. “Then she hugged me and told me how happy she is for us. She said she felt obligated as your mom to say those things. And now that she had, she’d keep her mouth shut and promised to always call before stopping by.”

  Giving her a smile, I reach towards her, needing to touch her, but my hands are dirty, and she looks so pure that I can’t bring myself to. “You feeling better?”

  Before she can answer, my dad calls out, “Son, we’re burning daylight.”

  “Sorry,” I say to Sterling. “I shouldn’t be too much longer.”

  “Half-hour, tops,” my dad yells out, obviously eavesdropping on our entire conversation.

  “I’ll wait for you,” she says, leaning towards me, her eyes scanning my face, searching for a clean spot to kiss me.

  Impatient, I plant a quick peck on her lips then head back over to the fence. Every so often, I glance back at her, packing away the cooler and snacks, talking to her assistant on her cell phone, sitting in my Jeep with her feet dangling out. Her long legs are enough motivation to make me work double-time.

  “She fits out here,” my dad whispers to me.

  I nod. He’s right. I can’t imagine her in New York. But maybe that’s just my wishful thinking.

  “You know what you’re doing?”

  “No clue,” I admit.

  “After thirty years of marriage,” he says, “I still don’t know.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to have some fatherly wisdom?”

  He shrugs. “Your mom and I have been through hell together.”

  “Don’t think most marriages would survive what you and Mom did,” I say. “How’d you do it?”

  “By being stubborn,” he says, laughing. “She probably threw me out a half dozen times. I just refused to go.” He places a hand on my shoulder. “That’s the thing about women. When they push you away, it means you need to love them harder.”

  My dad’s not a man who reads the clas
sics. If it’s not in the local newspaper, then he’s not reading it. Our mom was the one that taught us to love books, but listening to his advice makes me think of Henry David Thoreau, “There is no remedy for love but to love more.”

  Dad gets to his feet. “Think we’re finished here.”

  I help him load the tools in his truck while he says goodbye to Sterling. Then she tosses me the keys, hopping in the passenger side. I’m a complete mess, but I have an idea. Something I haven’t done in forever. And I’m not at all prepared for this. It’s best to spray the undercarriage of your Jeep with a cooking spray like Pam before you go mudding, but what the hell.

  I catch her by surprise when I hit the gas, aiming for a mud hole. She’s laughing and screaming as the mud splatters up all over her window.

  There is actually a science to mudding. Most teenage boys don’t bother, but I’ve gotten myself stuck enough times to know better. Never go in water or mud over your headlights. It’s best to test a spot first to make sure, but I know our land, and we didn’t get that much rain last night. Still, if you’re going to do this, you will get stuck at some point. So invest in a winch.

  Sterling grabs the strap over her head, holding on as I hit one mud hole after another. I’m totally showing off, spinning my tires and making the mud really fly. Of course, I’m breaking one of the cardinal rules of mudding. A true mudder does it with the windows down and the top off. But I don’t think Sterling’s ready for that yet. By the time we make it back to my house, my stomach hurts from laughing so hard with her.

  Then the fun ends. Because any good mudding episode has to end with washing the vehicle off.

  “Go on inside,” I tell her. “I need to hose the mud off.”

  “I’ll help you wash her,” she says.

  “My Jeep is not a her,” I tease, grabbing the water hose.

  She rolls her eyes at me. “You got a bucket, some soap?”

  I hand her the hose, going to get the stuff. Okay, so we’ve all seen those cheap porn movies where the girl is washing the car, the water shooting out from the hose mimicking a man ejaculating. Or the one where the girl drinks from the hose all sexy. Yeah, this is not either of those moments. Instead, as soon as I round the corner, Sterling hits me with the spray at full blast, laughing hysterically the whole time.