by Juniper Bell
“But Andrew…” she whispered. Even though she had little idea of what wedding nights were supposed to be like, this kind of scenario had absolutely never entered her mind.
“Don’t worry. Burt’s an old friend. We’ve seen our share of strippers together, right, Burt?” The man in the sunglasses chuckled again. “Let’s see the rest of the package now.”
Andrew began pushing her sheath down over her hips. This time, she struggled, pushing hard against him. “No! Not like this!”
“Don’t I have a right to see what I just bought with that diamond wedding ring and half-million-dollar reception, Mrs. Andrew Garwood?”
“Yes, but…” She began crying, which sent him into an irritated rage.
“Are you really going to make this difficult? I won’t stand for it, Chloe. You’re my wife, and you have to know your place. Burt, pull over.”
The limo swerved to the side of the road and jerked to a stop. As Chloe watched in horrified bewilderment, Burt got out of the driver’s seat and slid in next to her on the back seat. His mirrored sunglasses and chauffeur’s cap made him look expressionless and intimidating.
“Hold her arms still,” said Andrew. Burt took her arms in a strong, unyielding grip and held them over her head. Even though she twisted and kicked at him, Andrew managed to pull the sheath off her body. Underneath, she wore flowered panties. These too quickly disappeared. Andrew ran his hands over her hips, over the blonde tuft of hair that was now the only thing shielding her innocence. He tried to pry her legs apart, but she held them closed in a death grip.
“You really want to play it this way,” he said. “Fine. You can leave right now. Okay?”
Crying, shaking, she nodded.
“Take her outside, Burt.” And before Chloe knew what was happening, Burt plucked her up and lifted her from the car. He stood her by the side of the road. A car zoomed past. She immediately dropped to her knees, hugging her arms around her. Burt pulled her back to her feet. He held her arms behind her. Exposed, naked, she stood, the world spinning around her.
“You got some body on you,” said Burt. “I thought you was kinda thin, but without your clothes, you’re freakin’ hot. Those boobs are world-class. And your ass is curved just right. I’d sure love to bend you over right now. But the boss don’t take things that far. Stick with the boss, you’ll be all right.”
Another car sped past, and gave a long honk of its horn. A rush of wind followed, and she felt it brush her nipples. They rose into hard points. Part of her felt completely disconnected from what was happening. She floated overhead, looking down at herself. She saw her vulnerable body, pale and shapely, adorning the side of the road like a statue of a nymph. She saw her nipples, dark-rose and erect, proclaiming a sexual readiness that seemed to have nothing to do with her.
Another part of her felt intensely present in the moment. She felt the hot asphalt against her feet. Burt’s scratchy uniform against her back. The buzzing of a gnat lazily circling her head. The universe would go on, no matter what happened to her helpless body. Something inside her melted and surrendered.
Burt continued. “That guy in the Chevy can’t believe he just saw what he saw. Guaranteed he’ll be back for that fresh little body of yours.”
Andrew called from inside the limo. “You know what’ll happen if we leave you here, Chloe. The first asshole who sees you will pull over and jump you. You don’t want that to happen, believe me. And I don’t either. If you come back in here, I’ll be nice and gentle. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want you to understand that I know best. I know what I need. I need you to do what I say. I’ll never harm you, I promise you that. But I’m a proud guy. I like showing off what belongs to me. I want Burt to see your beautiful body, and know it’s my property. You understand?”
Slowly the world steadied around her. He wasn’t going to hurt her. She clung to that promise. He was going to be nice and gentle. And she wouldn’t be harmed. From his tone, she knew he was telling the truth. Behind her, Burt stood impassively. What was he thinking? Maybe he didn’t think. He just did what he was told. That’s what all Andrew’s followers did. And that’s what she was expected to do too. She was Mrs. Andrew Garwood now. Her parents had raised her to be an obedient wife.
She pulled her arms from Burt’s hold, and slowly, holding herself with as much dignity as she could muster, walked back to the car. As Andrew waited, arms folded, she sat next to him. “I’ll do what you want. But, this time, let it be just you and me, Andrew. Please.”
After a long pause, he reluctantly nodded. “Since it’s our wedding night, doll. We’ll do it the way you want. Burt, take a walk,” he called to the driver, before reaching over her to close the door.
“Now, lie back, and let me see that luscious pussy.” Wincing at his crudeness, she did as he asked. As he spread open her legs, her head fell to the side, and she found herself looking at the crumpled pile of lilac silk on the limo floor. For the rest of that first encounter, as every inch of her body was explored and invaded, as she was turned every which way, posed in every possible embarrassing position, as her mouth was introduced to the thrusts of his penis, as her body was taught to relax and allow him inside, as she knew the first inklings of arousal, but no hint of release, she clung to the lilac silk as if to a lifeline.
By the time Burt got back into the limo, she was a new person, with a new role in life. She was Andrew’s possession. Andrew’s perfect little doll.
Chapter Three
A knock on the front door made Chloe jump and knock over a lamp. She looked around, dazed. It was almost a shock to find herself curled up in the safe cocoon of the cottage’s attic, not standing naked by the side of a dusty road in suburban Massachusetts. A spotlight of pale sunshine filtered through the round window, lighting up a column of dust motes. The comforting scent of lavender and cedar rose from the wardrobe. Her mother had always loved cedar to keep away the moths. As if moths were any kind of real threat.
Another knock on the door brought her up to her knees. Who could it possibly be? Probably a neighbor wondering why the lights were suddenly on. Well, they could keep wondering. She was in no shape to deal with nosy islanders. One more knock, and then the sound of footsteps striding down the front walkway. It was so quiet here. She heard the visitor’s feet crunching against the snow on the path, kicking a pinecone to the side. The quiet suited her, but it had always driven Andrew crazy. He needed noise, action, excitement. No wonder they hadn’t come here a single time since they’d gotten married.
Deciding she’d done enough traveling down memory lane for the moment, she shoved aside the boxes and made her way out of the attic. As she climbed the ladder into the faded living room, a feeling of peace came over her. The pale pinks and greens of the flowered couch, with its matching ottoman, the ubiquitous throw rugs her mother had crocheted were all so comforting. She remembered hopping from one throw rug to the next, as if they were lily pads. And—the fairies!
She walked over to the green hutch where her mother’s collection of white statuettes was displayed. The delicate girl fairy nestled in a lily. The man with a conch shell balanced on his shoulder. The mischievous boy with a trumpet. How could she have forgotten about the fairies? As a child, they’d been so real to her. She’d truly believed that the fairies came to life, but only on Bellhaven. As the only child of elderly parents, she’d spent hours playing with those statuettes as if they were dolls, giving them names, personalities, histories. And she’d always believed they watched out for her. They had magical powers, she was sure. She used to beg them to make sure she got strawberry ice cream for dessert, or to make her mother let her get her ears pierced.
Maybe they could conjure up a meal for her, she thought, trailing a finger across one of her favorites, the winged nymph perched on a clamshell. Lasagna would be nice. Or a burger and fries. Just then, something caught her eye. A note on the floor. Her unknown visitor must have pushed it under the door. She picked it up and read, “Saw you had no fo
od in the house. Didn’t want you to starve. They’re fresh today, Bellhaven’s best. D.” Outside the front door was a tin pail containing several fish fillets, layered with seaweed. It looked like mackerel.
Dustin had left her fish. He didn’t want her to starve. It was the sweetest thing anyone had done for her since her daughters had brought her French toast in bed on her birthday. She gave the shining white fairies a suspicious look. Had they been looking out for her after all? Had they whispered in Dustin’s ear? The fairies looked back at her with innocent blank faces.
She picked up the pail and brought it into the kitchen. The mackerel gleamed indigo and silver in the dim depths of the pail. They’d been filleted by an expert hand.
Dustin MacDougal. A quick series of encounters came back to her like one of those old flipbooks. The time he’d saved her from the lobster traps, of course. And then there was the time when she was six and she’d crashed her bike, gashing her leg. Dustin’s father was on the island’s volunteer paramedic crew. Dustin had tagged along while Bunk MacDougal bandaged her leg. Dustin had been very sweet, and hadn’t made fun of her for crying. After it was over, he’d dug an old Bazooka bubble gum from his pocket and shared it with her. She didn’t tell him she wasn’t allowed to chew gum.
She could still remember her mother’s appalled face when Bunk and Dustin had brought her back to the cottage. Dustin’s cheerful chatter in the truck had made her forget about the pain in her leg, and at first she’d thought her mother was shocked by the sight of her daughter chewing gum. Quickly, she’d stuck it behind her ear. Later, she’d parked it behind her headboard. She liked having it there, a reminder of the kindness of the boy with dark blue eyes.
Now, kind as ever, Dustin had brought her fresh fish. She looked through the cupboards for something to cook it with. No breadcrumbs. No spices. No lemon. It didn’t take much to fry fish. Just a little oil in a pan. At the back of a cupboard, she finally located a small, dusty bottle of safflower oil. She had all she needed for a tasty dinner. In five to ten minutes, she could be eating fried mackerel right here in her lonely, still-chilly kitchen. Maybe she could bring in a few fairy statuettes to keep her company.
On the other hand, at his house, Dustin probably had lemons, or at least some salt and pepper. Maybe some potatoes or salad greens. It would be a perfectly nice, normal gesture to show her appreciation by sharing the fish with him.
Before she could think better of it, she pulled on her coat, grabbed the pail of fish, and marched out of the house. Instantly the wind whipped her ponytail hard against her cheek. The sun had set, and darkness was taking over the sky. Big clouds raced overhead, and the temperature had dropped a good ten degrees. The wind made the pail clank against her legs as she bent into the gusts and headed down the road.
The gravel road was deserted. On either side loomed thick stands of pine trees. When she was little, she’d always held one of her parents’ hands when she’d walked around the island at night. Funny. The woods didn’t scare her now, even though the rising wind made the trees sway and whistle eerily. On Bellhaven, she felt safe. For the first time in a long time, she felt safe.
The MacDougal house, one of the oldest on the island, stood out with its cedar shingles and widow’s walk. The small turret was famous on the island for its spectacular three-hundred-and-sixty-degree views of the island and surrounding ocean. As she drew closer, she wondered what this oncoming storm would look like from that vantage point. The house faced the ocean side of the island. The only thing between it and the open Atlantic was a lighthouse smack in the middle of the bay. It was a big house, built for the extended MacDougal clan who had first settled Bellhaven over a hundred years ago. She wondered if Dustin was lonely, living in it all by himself. He probably had a girlfriend, she told herself. He’d always had girls after him, with those amazing blue eyes and that dry sense of humor.
When he opened the door, those amazing blue eyes were the first things she saw. They had a strange effect on her, an effect she didn’t recognize. She felt slightly dizzy.
“Chloe. Is everything okay?”
Dragging her eyes away from his, she saw he wore a black cable-knit sweater and jeans. Stocking feet. Dark hair that seemed to have some twigs stuck in it. And was that pinesap?
“Something wrong?” he asked, his hand darting to his head. He found the sap, and made a rueful face. “I’ve been out in the wood shed. I see you found the fish. Let me guess. You’re vegetarian now.”
“No, no. I was just…well, I couldn’t find any decent cooking oil.” Just a little white lie. “I thought it would be easier to cook it here, if you wouldn’t mind. I mean, for both of us. If you haven’t eaten.” She winced. Was that the most awkward invitation ever issued? “Oh, and my girls get gum stuck in their hair all the time. If you want me to get that stuff out, I’ll see what I can do.”
“I’m not too worried about it. Come on in.” He stepped aside to let her into the house, which was filled with flickering warmth from the big stone fireplace. Chloe took a few steps inside and looked around, dazed by the sudden quiet, away from the blustery wind. The house was cluttered with the accumulated décor of generations. Lamps made of shells, old lobster buoys as doorstops, framed needlework on the walls and, everywhere, handmade quilts.
“My grandmother was a champion quilter,” explained Dustin, clearing a pile of fishing magazines off the armchair for her. “She terrorized us into promising never to throw any of them out. Come sit by the fire. You look frozen. It’s really picking up out there, isn’t it?”
“This wind is wild. A big storm’s coming, I guess.”
He looked amused. “It’s pretty typical March weather, actually. Blowing about twenty knots. If we get up to forty, you can start talking about a storm. Glass of wine? Hot cocoa? Anti-freeze?”
“Just water, thanks.” She perched on the armchair, and let him take the bucket from her cold hand. He walked into the kitchen, and she found her gaze wandering to his backside. What was she doing, ogling him? The thought shocked her. She never did that sort of thing. And yet, she watched him move into the kitchen. With his long stride, it took only a few steps for him to reach it. He bent over to set down the bucket, and Chloe’s mouth went dry.
What was going on? She couldn’t remember ever watching a man in this way, ever feeling this kind of spark of response. Not since—no, not even with Andrew when she’d first fallen in love with him. That had been a rosy-eyed, schoolgirl crush. Was this how normal people felt when they were attracted to someone? She tore her eyes away and fastened her gaze on the picture window that looked out over the bay. By now, it was too dark to see anything, but at least she wasn’t making a fool of herself.
“Have you been over here before?” She jumped. He’d returned from the kitchen and was standing next to her, handing her a glass of water.
She cleared her throat. “I don’t think so. I’ve been by here about a million times, of course. But never inside.”
“Year-rounders and summer people. Apples and oranges. Oil and water.” Dustin settled into an armchair kitty-corner to hers, and stretched his legs toward the fire.
“Not always. I remember when we were little, one afternoon on the beach, we built sandcastles together.” Chloe smiled at the memory. “There were a bunch of us, and only a few were summer kids.”
“Right. You put yellow and purple flowers all over yours. And pink sea glass.”
“You remember that?”
Dustin snorted. “I remember thinking I’d never set foot in a pink castle. Especially one with flowers.”
She giggled and ran a finger around the edge of her water glass. “You were always such a boy. Didn’t yours have a big wall of rocks around it? And some kind of gangplank?”
“Sure it did. Every sandcastle has to be able to defend itself. I had a moat, an outer wall, towers for the archers. I even had a stockpile of clamshells to dump on anyone who messed with me. I was ready to rumble. There was only one thing I forgot about.”
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“The tide?”
“Pretty lame, for an island boy. My dad ribbed me about that one for weeks.” He leaned forward to throw another log on the fire. Chloe watched the way his sweater pulled away from the waistband of his jeans, revealing a tempting ridge of muscles along his spine. She had a sudden, head-spinning urge to put her hands on that patch of bare skin. How smooth and hard would his back feel against the palm of her hand if she slid it up under his sweater? Would his skin shiver at her touch? Would he freeze in surprise, and let her hands roam where they wanted? Her hands began to sweat.
She drained her water glass, and set it on a rickety little end table with a click.
“Thirsty?”
You have no idea, she thought. “I didn’t think so, but apparently I am. Don’t worry, I’ll get it.” She went into the kitchen and turned on the faucet. There was a window above the sink, and in it she could see the living room reflected. Which told her two things—first, that Dustin’s head was turned to watch her. And second, that he must have seen her checking him out before.
She could feel her face turn pink. Being visually explored and devoured was nothing new to her. But the way Dustin was looking at her, with friendly speculation tinged with lustful appreciation, was different. Exciting. And she certainly wasn’t used to checking men out. After all, the divorce process had just begun. And even though her marriage had been a painful farce, she’d taken her vows seriously.
But now, she was almost free. It had been a full year and a half since Andrew had so much as touched her. She suspected he’d acquired a mistress. It would explain why Andrew had agreed to the divorce. They just had to work out the details. So there was nothing wrong with these strange new feelings running through her body.
“So, how’s the future Senator doing?”