As Tori headed down the hall, toward the stairs, his voice pursued her. “You sure you don’t want to put those in my room? I didn’t invite you out here for a celibate retreat. You know, Hon, no other man would put up with your shit the way I do.” She could tell by the tone of his voice, he thought he was manipulating and shaming her into compliance. If it was a few months ago, he would’ve been right.
Tori was done, she just wouldn’t be sharing that information with Richard until it was time to leave. She may be strong, but not strong enough to withstand him if he knew when she left, it wouldn’t just be Tennessee. He would get too intense for her to handle with her new-found fragile backbone where he was concerned. Plus, he scared her a little.
This is going to be a long forty-five days, she thought as she unpacked in her room.
It had been a week, and The Dick still hadn’t given up his quest to lure her back to his bed. He knew the parameters of their relationship, but he was thinking with his little head and wouldn’t give it a freaking rest. He’d been fine with it for what, about seven months or so now, but he thought her legs would spring open because he dared to give her a bit of attention and a vacation? Maybe the more insecure Tori would’ve been happy with the scraps he threw her, but not now.
Now, she knew exactly where she stood with him. This trip wasn’t even for her. He had family business and invited her along hoping to have someone to warm his bed while he was stuck out here. It was so clear now. Crystal fucking clear, she thought as she aggressively pulled on her second sports bra so she could run around the lake without giving herself a black eye.
The only time she could get space from Richard—room to breathe and think—was when she did something fitness related. He hated to exhaust himself—sure, he had a great body—but he didn’t work for it. Genetics and minimal gym time worked in his favor, lucky bastard. So, she popped in her earbuds, cranked up her “Running With The Hair Bands” playlist and headed out the door. She grabbed her bath bag and dropped it in front of the bathhouse by the other cabin she’d yet to explore, and took off around the lake.
Lost in the juxtaposition of hot sweat verses frigid air on her skin, and in the sounds of Winger, she was oblivious to her surroundings when reality intruded harshly into her adrenaline-fueled fantasy world, three quarters of the way around the lake.
Michael was in his zone. He’d taken off every piece of non-essential clothing, and then headed into the woods for a free run. Nothing got his heart racing like a run in extremes, and he wanted to experience the cold on as much skin as was legal. On his way back to the cabin to warm and clean up, he couldn’t stop his mind from dwelling on her; nor could he stop replaying what happened the other night. He hated himself for still thinking about her because she was partially to blame for what went down with that bitch waitress from town. If she hadn’t awakened that dormant part of him, he would’ve never went looking for a one-night stand, thus, he would’ve never ended up in a skeezy hotel room with that witch.
Yep, her fault. Better to blame a woman he would never see again than himself. But if he were to be honest, he still hoped to catch a glimpse of her around the lake. Somehow, he knew the sight of her would be a double-edged sword, and maybe he wanted the promise of the pain more than the pleasure of gazing upon her fucking hot form. That was part of the reason he ran in the woods instead on the trail. Just as he kind of wanted to run into her, he kind of didn’t either.
There were only so many cabins she could be at and all of them empty this time of year except for hers apparently. They all shared his family’s bathhouse, if the people she rented from explained that to her. If not, she was somewhere around here taking field baths. No one else bothered to plumb any of these old cabins.
It was a courtesy thing more than a requirement; they shared their state of the art—for the boondocks anyway—bath, and other cabins shared their boats, ATVs, food stores, and whatever else they had. They lived like a small vacation family more than a community. Yet, he’d not seen any sign of her.
What the fuck? He groaned aloud as he heard .38 Special strike the chord to start Fantasy Girl. He ripped his earbuds aggressively from his ears and continued his run with just the sounds of nature to urge him onward. Better than a song that reminded him of her.
Appreciating the music of the wind singing a mournful tune as it strummed the snow-covered branches, his eyes were taking in the sights. Snow was visible on the scrubs and willows that looped the lake. Birds were busy gathering the last berries of the year from the bushes that were woven along the edges of the woods. He was lost in watching them flitter back and forth across the trail when a movement on the other side of the lake caught his attention—a neon orange flash just visible every so often between the tree breaks.
Michael’s first thought was hunter, but there wasn’t any hunting allowed this close to the lake. There it was again…he picked up his pace thinking he could sprint from the woods and be at that spot in about seven minutes if he pushed it. When he reached the turn leading in—only about ninety seconds from the thick spot the mystery person disappeared into—he noticed the flash of color on the other side of the lake already. It was maybe three quarters of a mile from the previous spot, and it was most certainly not a hunter.
It was her.
Holy crap, is he chasing me?
When she’d first caught a glimpse of her real-life wet dream jogging out of the woods and rounding the lake—with just his goodies covered—she thought she was hallucinating. There was no fucking way Wingman Michael was running around here where she was stuck until John came back with some supplies and her way out. Her emotions were a hot mess and her confusion was cranked up to eleven. Yes, eleven. Why, because eleven is one more than ten? Even in all my fucking confusion I can’t stop thinking in movie quotes, what the fuckity fuck is wrong with me?
Joking in her own head couldn’t erase the truth of what was running around the other side of the lake, Hotty McFuckmeplease is here. Tori wasn’t going to let that get to her though, at least that’s what she kept telling herself. Her plate was overflowing already without adding another serving of man trouble to it. She needed to straighten out everything with Richard, her business, and her desire to start a family before heaping on anything else, no matter how delicious-looking it was.
With that, she kicked into her finishing pace, fast forwarded to “Don’t Stop Running,” and forgot all about the man she wanted to be on her knees in front of, and just ran—ran out her sexual frustration, ran out her burning desire for a baby, ran out her wasted years with The Dick, ran out every fucking thing weighing on her.
She sweat it out through her pores and continued running for the Zen of it all. Finally, she arrived at the bathhouse that Richard told her about—not out of the goodness of his heart mind you, but because he didn’t want her coming back all sweaty and relaxing on any of his precious furniture before bathing in their microscopic shower again.
The other cabin was apparently where his brother was staying. Yet another thing she knew nothing about until right before this trip. He had a fucking brother and she didn’t have a clue. But according to Richard, the half-brother wouldn’t bother them; they didn’t get along. Richard blamed it on his “asshole” younger brother, but she wondered if it wasn’t the other way around. Richard had alluded to a secret he was chomping at the bit to spill, but couldn’t. At the time, he didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t ask. She was too blown away by the fact he even had a brother to care about the details.
Either way, she wasn’t going to let Richard, his brother, or the gorgeous man less than a mile from her, bring her down from her runner’s high. After grabbing her pack as she bound onto the porch, she entered the bathhouse for a long, hot soak.
Michael lost sight of her as she rounded the edge of the lake closest to his family’s cabins. The cabins around the bend from the one he was staying in belonged to the Simpkins and the Larsons. In all the years they’d been coming here, he’d never known the w
idow Larson to rent her cabin, so she must be staying up at the Simpkins’ place. That was a nice cabin. He’d been meaning to pop over and grab their snowmobile and take it out for a ride before the snow got too deep for his skill level. Now, he had a bit of extra motivation to do so, or not, depending on how he looked at it.
Slowing his pace, he used the time to think about her, while the air kept his body from reacting. That pissed him off, that he needed an outside influence to keep his dick from going rock hard and seeking her out like a divining rod. Besides, she had a boyfriend back at the Simpkins’ place, John saw him.
Lies, lies, lies. That’s what he was telling himself. Lies about why he wanted to see her seemed to be the only way to manage his anger and conflict over what’d happened. The only way he could accept it. He had to blame her, he just had to. If he didn’t, he’d have to accept the fact that he was sexually assaulted instead of just made a mistake, because of her. He was losing his shit. Why did she have to be so fucking perfect, so fucking…fuckable?
If she’d had only been a plain-faced thirty-something, he would have never been in that position. Oh yeah, asshole, you’d be so much better off with a dick that didn’t work and depression that no amount of alcohol or roaring crowds could fix.
What a confused fucking gnarly mess he was. He should be thanking her instead of cursing her, but he just couldn’t. Fuck if he didn’t want to though. Thank her, whisk her away from the asshole she was mixed up with and show her how a woman like her should be treated. Somehow, in the back of his mind, he knew if he got her into his bed, there would definitely be encores. There was just something about his dream jockey that made him want to knock her up and watch his baby grow in that gorgeous body of hers. Then, move them into his place and keep her barefoot and pregnant for as long as she’d let him.
Where the fuck did that come from? No fucking way, he was in no way, shape or form, ready to settle down. And babies? No thanks.
But as he pushed the thought away, a piece of him knew it was somewhat true. She’d triggered something in him—that dormant part in men that turns them into family guys when they come into contact with the one.
Michal didn’t want a one, nor did he want her to be it, instead, he wanted to hurt her—for what she’d done, and what she didn’t do. That was the truly fucked up part, he knew he’d end up hurting her and she’d end up healing him if they ever got together. There was nothing he could do about it but let it play out the way the universe seemed to want.
For now, damn the universe and the sisters of fate and anyone else who had it out for him. All that mattered right now was a steaming hot shower and an ice-cold beer. Michael ascended the steps to his cabin feeling a touch lighter. Once he decided to let the chips fall where they may, it was slightly freeing, no more stressing about it. He grabbed a beer from the fridge, popping the top and taking a healthy swig before he reached for his bag. Clothes in one hand and half-drank bottle in the other, Michael turned and headed back out the door. Sure, his dad had piped small showers in the cabins years ago, but, it didn’t have the oomph or the amount of hot water as the one at the bathhouse. And if any day called for a double dose of oomph, it was today.
He arrived at the bathhouse and tried to enter. The door was locked; it was in use; he’d wait. He plopped down on the step and the cold shocked him as soon as his sweaty shorts made contact. He finished his beer and waited.
And waited.
Geez, what was going on in there? No one took that long to bathe unless they were high maintenance to the extreme, or a teenage boy discovering the joys of shower time. Michael rose to beat a hasty retreat. The possibility it was his brother was pretty good, since he was one of the only four people apparently at the lake. No way in Hell did he want to run into him. The only other possibility was…
A sound, very much like his name drifted on the curls of vanilla mint-scented steam floating through the high, but slightly-opened vent window, on the side of the cabin, interrupting his thoughts.
That voice.
He knew that voice.
Her. His dream jockey. And, oh, my God, the sounds she was making. Shit, was she having sex with her boyfriend in there? No, wait. There were no grunts or moans, not masculine ones anyway.
No, it couldn’t be, could it? Could she…
Runners high only went so far. Now that she was coming down, she was more knotted than ever. She knew she had to end it with Richard. There was nothing there—no future, no shot at love. It took her a long time, and way too many tears to finally say the words to herself, to admit the shame of failure.
Richard did not, and had never, loved her. At first, it had been about sex; they used each other. They had itches that needed scratched, and they fit each other’s bill. Consenting adults engaged in mutual pleasure, but it had never really been that way. Richard always finished first, and would complain and blame her when she didn’t reach orgasm.
Many nights he’d lie on his back panting, disengaged from her, both physically and mentally, and act like it was a chore to even bring her off with his hand while not even looking at her. Ninety nine percent of the time, she faked it because she felt dirty and used by that point.
It hadn’t always been that way. In the beginning, he worshipped her body, acting like simply touching her was enough to set him afire. But that wore off rather quickly. In no time, it was a task, a chore he had to do just to grunt above her until he found his physical release, then he acted like touching her was borderline repulsive.
That’s when the “thick thighs” comments started and escalated to attacks on her ability to even turn him on. Nothing she did was good enough, and he let it be known that she was lucky he’d even touch her.
And to think, I defended this asshole to my friends and family. They could see it; they all could see how he was slowly and methodically destroying her, tearing her down one comment at a time.
Then came the H-bomb of his marriage. Walker went ballistic and so did everyone else, but, if she was being truthful with herself, she’d somehow always suspected. But he’d programmed her to think she didn’t deserve better. So, she stayed in the relationship. There was a certain level of comfort in the familiarity of it all. The kibosh she’d put on sex months ago didn’t deter him and now she started to wonder why.
Why would a man with a healthy sexual appetite, who said she didn’t even turn him on, stay in a sexless relationship where they saw each other less and less? Then, it hit her. Right there in the spa tub, in a cabin in the middle of nowhere; the money.
Not just cash, which, yes, she gave him cash all the time, but the gifts—expensive gifts, designer gifts. Things most men wouldn’t buy for themselves. She showered him in thousands of dollars in gifts, like the watch. The one she was going to buy him but was sold. The same one the asshole bought for himself.
But did he ever just buy her little gifts? Hell no. Even when they went out, she paid. He was a fucking kept man. How did I not see this earlier? He used her for sex, just like she’d used him, but then, he strung her along for money. Fucking money.
That dick, that total fucking dickhead. He’d strung her along emotionally to keep her purse open. When she closed her legs, he’d guilted her into opening her purse wider. Now, he wasn’t even pretending, or blowing smoke up her ass. No compliments or sweet kisses to ply her with, Hell why should he, he didn’t need to.
God, she’d been so damned blind. As the realizations poured over her, their entire relationship played out in her mind like a middle school projection of a PSA. So much lucidity was fucking painful.
His ass was probably still married in more than name only. Now that she thought about it, that was almost a certainty. Not to mention the other clues she’d found in his car, the late night texts when he thought she was sleeping, the apartment that didn’t really seemed lived in—one that he’d never left her alone in. She always had to leave before him and he never gave her a key. He had one to her place and he’d slept over, had closet space and h
is own toothbrush there, but not her.
One night, after he’d taken a sleeping pill and fallen into a deep slumber, she got up to make a snack and got brave enough to snoop just a little, and found some things that didn’t add up at the time. Or at least she didn’t want to do the math. She was blissfully ignorant and tried valiantly to stay that way. There were six condoms missing from a pack she purchased, which he had flat out refused to use with her. Plus, a bag of new toothbrushes hidden away. Plus, feminine scented lotion. Equaled, a cheating asshole.
Still, she’d stayed. Now, she felt like a loser. A pathetic, willfully blind loser. No more. No. Fucking. More. Tori Reid was no one’s fool, well, not from this point on. Fool me once and all that. Tori waited for the wave of loss to wash over her, the panic she always felt at the thought of breaking it off with Richard, but it never came.
She waited and waited, but only a sense of peace flooded her. No loss, no guilt, no…nothing. Just peace. In that slip of time, she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, this was the absolute right decision. The only other times she’d felt this overwhelming rightness were when she met Melanie and Erika for the first time, when she and Mel had decided to go for it and open their business, when she decided to start her own family, and when Wingman Michael made eye contact with her in the plane.
Tori wasn’t sure why that last moment was included, but it was and she was raised not to question the weavings of fate, so it was there for a reason.
That sense of peace remained as she disengaged the hand wand and washed her hair with almost-too-hot water and vanilla mint shampoo. When her hair was squeaky clean, there was another overwhelming sense coursing through her body.
As clarity ruled, so did longing, sexual longing to be exact. Richard had never spoken to her the way John had and he’d sure as shit never made her feel tingly, the way Michael did. That, combined with the lightness in her heart and the heat of the water, well, she had a hand wand, a healthy imagination, and a mental picture of a sexy-as-fuck Michael. What’s a girl to do? No one around within shouting distance and horny as Hell, she let the wand drift below the minty bubbles swirling on the surface from her shampoo.
Brand Me (Imagine Ink Book 2) Page 4