by M. S. Parker
Twenty-Three
Jake
It felt like it took a good hour for my heartbeat to slow back to its normal rhythm. I knew it didn't, but as tame as I'd kept things with Michelle, that was the most erotically charged bout of sex I'd ever experienced in my life.
She responded to being dominated like she'd been made for it, and I wondered just how much deeper we could have taken things if it wasn't for the nerves and fear that were still an intrinsic part of her. They might always be there too. After what had happened, why wouldn't she be leery of having a guy crowd in her?
She sighed against me and I looked down just as she stretched and opened her eyes. She'd been dozing, curled up next to me, and I'd loved every second of it.
Curling an arm around her waist, I brought her in closer, then lifted one of her wrists in my free hand. There were faint red marks from the restraints I'd used, a sign of how hard she'd jerked against them. "These might bruise a little," I said softly, rubbing my lips over one faint mark. I didn't like the idea. Seeing a mark on a woman bothered the shit out of me even if it had been done in play and it hadn't really hurt her at all.
She blushed, darting a look up at me from under her eyes. "It's okay. I...um...well, I kind of expected it might happen when you talked about tying me up. I bruise easily – always have." Her tongue slid out, causing the devil that seemed to live in my prick to stir, interest rising. "If I have to go out, I'll wear long sleeves so I don't have to deal with people staring."
She managed a shrug, but for all the casualness she tried to put into it, it still came off as self-conscious. "I know it's nobody's business what I do with my sex life, but I'm not as casual about things as some are."
"You do you, Michelle." I pulled her on top of me and locked my arms around her, loving the press of her curves against me. "I don't need you to explain any of that to me."
"Okay." Another one of those pretty blushes, then she smiled at me. "You're kind of wonderful, you know that?"
Now it was my turn to feel self-conscious. I would have squirmed if I'd been in any position to do so, so instead, I shrugged and glanced away. "It's kind of required. Who's going to mess with a guy like me if I'm anything less?"
I didn't think about how it sounded until the words were already out of my mouth, when it was too late to yank them back, but to my surprise, all Michelle did was lay a hand on my cheek. "You don't have to be...on...or whatever in the hell you call it when you work for me. You've told me to just do me. I guess that means be me. So why don't you be you? I think for the most part you are, and I like that guy. That's all you need to do."
Fighting the urge to tense up, to spill her onto her back so I could climb off the bed and get away from those penetrating eyes, I made myself smile instead. "Sure thing, Michelle." Keeping the movement as casual as I could, I rolled her onto her back, with me facing the wall so I could slip out of the bed easily.
Distance.
I needed some distance.
How had she figured out that I hadn't been doing some lame-ass acting bit with her? I didn't know, but it wasn't good.
How did she seem to just get the fact that I needed to just be me around her?
Yet another thing I didn't get.
But I couldn't afford to be me around her, or anybody else.
"I'm going to grab something to drink," I said, dropping a kiss on her nose. Nice. Casual.
Rolling over, the blanket pooled around my waist as I sat up. I'd been sitting there less than a second when she spoke again.
"Thank you," she said quietly.
"For what?" I squeezed my eyes closed, almost afraid to even know what.
"For believing me," she replied simply. "Not everybody would have, but you did. So...thank you."
Fuck. How could I put distance between us when she kept doing things like that? I had no idea. Rolling back to her, I cupped her face in one hand, using the other to draw her closer. "You tell me something like that, why wouldn't I believe you?"
A shuttered look entered her eyes, and she shifted her gaze. "Some people don't. Sometimes, the victim isn't believed."
I don't know what drove me to say it, but I found myself saying something that just...hell. It came out. "A woman I know was attacked when she was in high school. Whitley. Hell, this jock raped her when she was sixteen. When she tried to tell the cops, they basically brushed it off as her having enticed him into sex since he was a star and she was a nobody. Her parents didn't want to pursue things because they were in politics and it would mess things up for them. So she just pretends it never happened, hides from it. She...hasn't healed. Probably because of that. The fact that people didn't believe her, or you, is their fault, their problem. It sucks that it becomes yours as well and makes your healing harder...but it never occurred to me not to believe you."
"Thank you." She reached up and closed her hands behind my neck, tugging my face down until she could kiss me. "I can tell by the way you're looking at me that you're not real comfortable with me saying that, but...thank you. Not just for me either, but for your friend."
Wrapping her in my arms, I pulled her in close and confessed something I'd been holding in deep and tight. "I want to kill him, Michelle. That bastard uncle of yours. I want to hunt him down, find him, make him hurt in ways he never imagined, then I want to kill him, slow and painful."
"Don't talk like that, Jake. It's..." She sucked in a deep breath that made her entire body shudder. "I've dreamed about it before, but it would just bring it all back, and I'm almost level now. So just...don't. Even if thinking about it makes you feel better."
"I won't." Kissing her brow, I rubbed my cheek against hers. "But yeah...imagining it makes me feel a hell of a lot better."
But if anybody else ever hurt her, I wasn't sure how I'd react. The fact that Parker Nestor was in Chicago and I wasn't likely to run into him provided him with some protection, but I didn't know what I'd do if I were to ever meet him face to face.
I'd just have to make sure it wouldn't happen.
As Michelle said, it would just bring everything back for her, and the last thing I wanted to do was bring her more pain.
Twenty-Four
Michelle
My room was a disaster.
I'd made it home just that morning, still glowing and warm from the two nights I'd spent with Jake, and I'd made up my mind. It was time to stop hiding from life.
That meant I needed to do some shopping. Desperately.
A look inside my closet was mostly a dismal one, revealing more gray and black, kind of like the New York streets – although not as messy. I had some color in there, but most of it was tucked off into the back, all the pretty things I'd picked up from end of the season clearance sales and had never worn.
Those pieces provided a decent start, but I needed more, plus some other basic pieces, like blue jeans that didn't require a belt to stay up.
I had to stop hiding inside my clothes. Just because I was plump didn't mean I had to dress like I did.
Bringing up one of my favorite sites on my phone, I studied some of the outfits I was always pinning, but never trying and then did some detective work. I was too organized to just go out and hope for the best. Besides, I hadn't dressed in any sort of recognizable style in years – I wasn't even sure if I'd know how.
Maybe what I needed was a personal shopper.
"Hmmm..."
A couple of phone calls netted me exactly what I needed. A cancellation at Saks had me an appointment, and I had just enough time to shower and dress and make it there – I could even take the subway. I knew how to get there now. I'd been studying subway maps in preparation of my next excursion.
I just hadn't expected it to be so soon...or to replenish my soon-to-be-depleted wardrobe.
"You have a great figure," the older woman said in a delighted tone. "Oh, there are so many pieces we have that are going to look darling on you."
"Okay." I gave her a game smile and returned the iPad, hoping it would se
rve some purpose. I'd filled out a questionnaire that asked me my color preferences, personal style – did I prefer casual or dressy? – fabrics, and on and on. Hopefully, it would steer the woman to helping me made the right kind of choices.
I didn't want to leave here looking like my mother had dressed me. Nothing against my mother, but she was a few years older.
Her sense of style reflected it too.
My personal shopper's name was Alice, and she beamed at me before offering me a glass of wine. Knowing I might need it, I accepted and a few minutes later, sat there sipping while she went out to do her thing.
It didn't take me more than five minutes to realize I'd been worrying about nothing. Alice, grandma looks aside, knew her stuff.
I now possessed boho-styled peasant skirts, jeans that went up high enough up that, when I bent over, my butt wasn't hanging out. There were also poet blouses, sweaters that followed my figure without being tight, and others that were fuller but stopped just a bit lower than my waist line, allowing those curves she was so delighted with to shine, as she'd described it.
I went into the dressing room with my first armful and came out with eight different pieces I wanted.
"Excellent!" she said, clapping her hands. "That gives me a direction!"
That might not have been a good thing, I realized over an hour later. I signed the slip for my purchases, gamely not agonizing over how much I'd spent – after so many years of buying blah – and very little of it – I smiled up at Alice. "You are a wonder," I told her.
"It has been a pleasure, Michelle." She beamed at me before pulling me in for a hug.
I delighted in the fact that I was able to tolerate it. Once upon a time, I'd been a hugger myself. Impulsively, I squeezed her back before turning to look at all the stuff I somehow had to transport back to my loft.
"This is going to be...fun," I said dryly.
"We can get you a car, if that would make it easier," she offered.
"A car. An elephant...maybe a couple of them. They could probably carry a lot of this," I replied with a sigh.
She laughed and picked up her phone. "One elephant coming up."
It wasn't an elephant, but the town car was a welcome treat. It was another hour before I reached home and only a quarter of that before I stood in front of the mirror in my bathroom, trying on the outfit that would probably become one of my favorites. It was a little chilly for it still, with the temperature hovering in the twenties, but what the hell...all I planned on doing was taking my laptop and finding some place to eat and write for a little while. I'd wear my coat while I was outside, so what did it matter if the sweater had a cutout design on the sleeves?
It was ruby red, a color I never wore, not with my hair color, but Alice had told me if I had it, I should flaunt it and damn it, I was going to do just that. I even bought a red dress I planned on wearing the next time I saw Jake.
The cutouts revealed my upper arms and my forearms in a whimsical, appealing fashion, while the hemline ended just below the waistband of my jeans. And the jeans were excellent. When a girl had a set of hips and a butt like mine, those hip hugger jeans were one of the worst designs imaginable, sliding too low and gaping at the worst places. But these jeans went up just high enough to avoid that, all without being those ugly old mom-jeans that had been a meme for a while on the internet.
They skimmed my curves, calling attention to them without being so tight that it made it clear I was...well, very curvy. In other words, plump.
The ankle booties done in the same shade of red as the sweater topped it all off and left me feeling like I really was the new Michelle my Aunt Blair had teased me about being. With my hair left hanging loose and a pair of gold dangles in my ears, I looked better than I had in...hell, years.
I almost called Jake up to see if he wanted to join me for dinner. It seemed a shame to waste this on just me, but the second the thought crossed my mind, I decided that was exactly why I should go out, just me. Why was it wasting it to look cute for myself?
With that thought in mind, I grabbed one of my coats from the closet and a hat, lingering just long enough to get my laptop before I headed out.
I was afraid if I lingered too long, I'd change my mind, but actually, as I rode the elevator down, I realized that I was excited.
It had been forever since I'd felt this confident.
It was turning out to be one hell of a weekend.
And it actually was getting better.
The little Indian restaurant I'd chosen for dinner was packed, always wall to wall, so close that I turned my screen down to the lowest level of brightness it could be on, just to keep people from reading over my shoulder.
Not that I was working on an assignment at the moment.
I was working on one of my pieces, a short story I'd put off way too long.
I loved my job, but writing for me was a pleasure I didn't engage in often enough.
As my food came out, I closed the top of my computer and tucked it into my purse to protect it while I ate. As I bit into a piece of naan, a woman settled into the recently vacated table to my right and asked for a glass of wine. As I sipped from mine, she flipped open a magazine – one with a layout that had become very familiar to me.
She was reading Coterie. Not only that, she was reading one of my articles!
"Oh, man...you're reading Chasing the O!" I said, trying not to squeal.
Her cheeks flaming, she whipped her head around to look at me.
"I'm sorry," I said, clapping a hand over my mouth when I realized how loud – and obnoxious – that had sounded. "I just...I-I've enjoyed that series a lot."
In so many ways...
"Me, too," she whispered conspiratorially. She leaned over and said, "I've already tried a few things out with my guy. Whoever the writer is, if I ever meet her, I'm gonna kiss her right on the mouth. This stuff is pure gold."
"I...um...wow, yeah. Isn't it?" Now my cheeks were flaming, and I hoped the dim light hid it somewhat. I doubted it though. I'd managed to catch her blush.
"Have you read the whole series?" she asked, apparently unaware of the fact that her last comment had both delighted and discomfited me. "There was one online..."
"I've read them." Nodding, I reached for my water and took a sip, putting it down and deciding it might be best to stick with it instead of wine for the time being. "She comes up with some...ideas, huh?"
"Hot ones, that's for sure. I mean, it's not like I haven't appreciated the other pieces Coterie has written about stuff like this, but this woman, it's like she's got insider knowledge or something." She grinned at me. "Know what I mean?"
I grinned back. "Absolutely."
The server appeared at that very moment with her glass of wine and she accepted before tipping the glass slightly in my direction. "Cheers! I'm going back to my reading. Enjoy your meal," she said happily after the first sip.
"Same to you." Feeling a little lightheaded, I reached for my own wine. Wow. That had been my first live reader interaction. Not that I'd even told her I was the author. I wasn't sure my nerves could handle that.
But still...wow.
I was so going to have to tell Jake about this.
And Aunt Blair, of course.
Twenty-Five
Jake
The cold air burned my lungs as I finished up the last quarter mile of my run.
I hated running in the cold.
Hated it with a passion.
Sometimes, I just plain hated the winters here in New York City period, but this was home now. I'd have to suck it up and deal with it.
At least until the five miles was done, and I could get my ass somewhere warm and shower and put on some clothes. Maybe a sweater about four inches thick.
I had to delay the plan for the shower about five minutes though. I'd known I'd have to. I'd planned on hitting the store at some point this weekend, but a winter storm, then the one between Michelle and me, had put an end to those plans and I didn't ever make
it out. Since I was down to the dregs as far as food went, I swung north so I could hit the bodega just up from my apartment.
If I had gone in there two minutes sooner or two minutes later, I wouldn't have heard the newsflash. Maybe I could have carried on my day without knowing a damn thing.
But life liked to kick me in the teeth, and instead of passing the day in a comfortable haze and thinking about Michelle, I stood there listening to the on-air reporter as she detailed private information about a woman I cared for.
Standing in line with a gallon of milk and some juice, I clenched my jaw and fought to keep from going nuclear. This was bad. No other way around it, it was fucking bad, in a manner of epic proportions.
The chyron lit up with her name, and every time I blinked, it seemed to flare and glow on the inside of my eyelids, a brilliant white mockery.
Whitley McCrane.
Whitley.
As the on-air reporter prattled on, I focused on the screen so hard that the guy behind me tapped me on the shoulder. "Hey, it's your turn," he said, the Bronx thick in his voice.
"Sorry," I said more out of habit than really meaning it, Moving forward, I dumped my stuff on the counter and pulled a ten out of my pocket to pay for everything all without taking my eyes off the screen.
As soon as I had my change, I moved to the background and kept on watching the TV over the counter
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
Had Whitley seen this? Had her husband?
This was going to devastate her. She never talked about the attack, her rape. Or what happened after. Just having the cops in the small town where she grew up brush it off as a girl changing her own mind after the fact had been bad enough, but when her parents had practically done the same and gone on to talk about how bad it would be for them politically if they were to pursue charges...it had all devastated her.