Second Shot

by Shandi Boyes

  Carey spent the last half hour answering my dad’s broad range of questions regarding the restoration of his pride and joy. I was shocked to discover Carey fully rebuilt his Camaro with his own two hands using nothing but spare parts from junkyards scattered around New York. That little snippet of information exposed a side to him I can’t wait to fully unearth. Knowing he had the patience to take something others had seen as worthless and restore it to its former beauty fills me with hope that he will do the same thing with me.

  After dropping his eyes to my teeth grazing over my bottom lip, Carey murmurs, “Thanks for the offer, but I wouldn’t want to put you out.”

  Every muscle in my body tightens in anticipation.

  “You wouldn’t be putting me out,” my dad fires back, his tone lowering to a depth he hasn’t used thus far tonight. “It will be my utmost pleasure.”

  “Daddy,” I whisper when I hear the silent statement in his reply. He pretty much just told Carey he isn’t leaving until he does.

  “I understand your concerns, Sir, but you don’t need to be worried,” Carey assures him.

  Disappointment slashes me open.

  Blood stops gushing from my invisible wounds when Carey adds on, “Gemma is a very respectable woman. You can be assured I won’t do anything to taint that.”

  Time stands still when my dad assesses Carey’s soul from the inside out with his worldly eyes. I release the breath I'm holding in when several uncomfortable minutes later, he thrusts his hand out in offering.

  I fiercely suck it back in when my dad mutters, “You were an admirable young man twelve years ago; I can only hope time hasn’t changed you.” I shouldn’t be shocked my dad remembers Carey. He never forgets in general, let alone a man who has as much driving talent as Carey.

  Carey briefly nods his head before accepting my dad’s handshake. My pulse quickens when my dad pulls Carey in so they are standing eye to eye. Since I’ve always looked at my dad in a different light than I do Carey, I never realized he was so tall until now. The size of a man isn’t a concern to a child when all they can see is the heart of a lion.

  “But in saying that, if you hurt my daughter, they’ll never find your body,” my dad warns.

  Before I can reprimand my dad for his inappropriate threat, Carey says, “I understand. I don’t want to add to the pain in Gemma’s eyes.” I stop breathing when he swings his eyes to me and testifies, “I want to clear it away.”

  I expect Carey’s admission to cause a rush of panic in my veins. What I don’t expect is for it to bolster my excitement. That’s not something a man only interested in a night off from his grief would say. That’s a man laying foundations. A man who doesn’t just want to know my façade; he wants to know everything about me. That notion alone is equally terrifying and exhilarating.

  My mind snaps back to the present when my dad says, “I appreciate your honesty, but I don’t trust words. I trust actions.” He flicks his eyes to me. “In saying that, I trust you and your judgment.”

  My heart swells as sentimental tears prick my eyes. “Thank you, Daddy. I love you.” My dad may not have said the words, but he just gave Carey his seal of approval.

  “I love you too, sweetheart.” After pressing a kiss to the side of my cheek, my dad drifts his eyes to Carey. “Don’t let me down.”

  He waits for Carey to nod his head before he slides into the back of his chauffeur-driven SUV. Once his taillights disappear into the horizon, Carey encloses his hand over mine and guides us back toward the cabin. The sexual tension firing between us is great enough to spark a fire. I’m not shocked. There is nothing sexier than discovering someone wants you just as much as you want them.

  When we enter the living room, Wesley stops gathering the empty beer bottles and darts his eyes between Carey and me. “I’m going to call it a night. I have an early recording session tomorrow.”

  My excitement hits an all-time high. Not only did Carey just get my dad’s nod of approval, he also got Wesley’s.

  Pushing to his feet, Wesley paces into the kitchen. The clattering of beer bottles being dumped into the bin sounds through my ears shortly before he walks back into the living area. He awards my kiss blown through the air with a cheeky wink before spinning on his heels and ambling down the hall. The throb between my legs grows with every step he travels.

  The instant his door clicks closed, I pounce. My abrupt push on Carey’s chest sends him stumbling onto the couch and spreads a broad smile across his mouth. This day has been seven long hours of torturous foreplay. I could smell Carey and feel the heat of his body, but I wasn’t allowed to touch him. That was pure torture.

  After straddling Carey’s lap, I slide one of my hands beneath his shirt as the other yanks on the drawstring of his shorts. Not in my wildest dreams have I ever been so forward, but I can’t wait any longer to feel his skin against mine.

  “Seriously. You need to get naked, like now,” I demand, my voice husky and crammed with need.

  My frantic movements stop the instant Carey grasps the hem of his shirt and yanks it over his head. My god. . . I’m speechless. I’m certain even seeing his perfect body in the flesh for the hundredth time won’t dampen its appeal the slightest. Broad shoulders, defined and smooth pecs, and hard slabs of muscles jutted in six tight bumps on his stomach, the man is a work of art, one I’d happily spend hours perusing every single brush stroke.

  My eyes divert from absorbing Carey’s magnificent torso when I feel him growing beneath me. His cock is hard and extended, stretching the material of his shorts as they struggle to hold in his impressive package. Spirals of pleasure twist in my core when I rock against him. He grows even more, getting thicker and longer with every grind.

  I love this. I love how all the insecurities I’ve been harboring since my attack disappear when I’m with Carey. I’m not evaluating every look that passes his eyes or striving to be the dominant one in our partnership. Nothing is on my mind but enjoying every second of our unique connection. That’s a real rarity for a victim of assault. I never thought I’d have these types of feelings again during sexual contact. But just like every moment I spend with him, I’m discovering sides of me I haven’t seen in years. . . and sides that are completely brand new.

  I increase the pressure of my grinding, ignoring the fact my rampant horniness has driven me back to my teen years where dry humping was perfectly acceptable. Carey doesn’t seem to mind. He curls his fingers around my backside, strengthening his grip before he rocks his hips forward, meeting my grinds stroke for stroke. I’m so turned on, I’m certain I’m going to have a wet patch on the front of my jeans by the time this is over, but for the first time in my life, I don’t care.

  Carey’s fingers flex against my backside when I mumble, “More. Oh, god, I need more.”

  Drawing me in closer, he sways his hips upwards in long, sensual strokes, adding to the cluster of lust surging through my core. I love that he can drive me wild with desire all while being gentle and passionate. Don’t get me wrong, Carey knows how to fuck. The night we shared together weeks ago proves that without a doubt, but I appreciate his gentleness.

  I sling my arms around Carey’s shoulders to tether myself down as my breathing switches to low, shallow pants. The coils of my womb tighten as a wave of pleasure vibrates through every inch of my skin.

  “Fuck, Gem. Are you about to come?” Carey grates out, his words raspy.

  I should be ashamed. I should feel embarrassed. But I’m not. I’ve floated too far into orgasmic bliss to be ashamed.

  The spark of lust in Carey’s eyes ignites when I briefly nod my head. His thrusts become firmer and more precise, demonstrating he has no qualms about satisfying me while I’m still fully clothed.

  With the rim of his mouthwatering cock pressed against my throbbing clit, and his eyes void of a single ounce of guilt, it doesn’t take long for my climax to hit fruition. I come with a breathless moan that adds to the passion firing between us. My orgasm is long and welcome
d, fully clearing away any haunted memories lingering in the back of my mind.

  Carey slowly brings me down from orgasmic bliss by slowing his strokes. My body is acutely aware of every inch of his glorious cock rocking against me, but his leisured pace slowly drags me from a lust-filled haze to reality.

  Any chance of stepping back into reality vanishes when I lock my eyes with Carey. For the first time in months, his eyes aren’t carrying his usual level of guilt. Don’t get me wrong, they still hold both remorse and guilt, but they are nowhere near as strong as normal.

  A girly laugh topples from my lips when Carey stands from the couch, taking me with him.

  “Time for round two,” he mutters, pacing toward my bedroom with my limp, sexually drained body flopped over his shoulder.

  Chapter 33

  Two weeks later. . .

  Basking in the glory of a wonderful summer morning and waking up without the aftereffects of a nightmare for the sixth night in a row, I pace towards the warehouse my studio is set up in. I'm teeming with excitement. Today I get to reveal the cover Cormack has chosen for Rise Up’s commemorative CD. It is also an opportunity to show the band the photos I’ve captured of them. I'm in love with them. I can only hope they feel the same way. They are a set of images that showcase the band in a light the public has not yet seen. It displays that they are brothers and men of high integrity, not just handsome musicians with extensive musical talent.

  My mood is also riding the crest of euphoria as the past two weeks with Carey have been staggering. Our time together has taught me that intimacy is not just purely physical. It’s a deep and powerful connection between two people. His kisses alone reap a more intense connection than any man I’ve slept with, making me realize every encounter I’ve had before him was nothing but an emotionless transaction. With Carey’s help, I intend to change that.

  My brisk pace slows when the early morning sun unveils a man standing under the awning of the warehouse. He is wearing a dark blue suit and black polished dress shoes. Although a majority of his face is hidden, I don’t feel as uneasy about him as I normally do when I’m confronted by a stranger alone. He has that humble Boy Scout look that places my usual concerns on the back burner. . . or perhaps last night’s libido-bolstering orgasms are playing havoc with my perception?

  “Can I help you?” I ask, my voice coming out with a faint quiver.

  The blonde gentleman stops peering into the window of the warehouse and spins around to face me. Even with his eyes shrouded by concern, miraculously, my panic stays at bay.

  “Hello, Gemma, my name is Brandon James. I’m a local FBI agent in Ravenshoe,” he greets me.

  Masking my shock that he knows my name, I drop my eyes to his identification he is holding out for my perusal. I take my time checking its authenticity. Years of weariness have ensured I don’t take people just on face value anymore. Carey is the only man who has broken that firm habit of mine the past six years.

  Happy his identification looks legitimate, I return my eyes to his face. “What can I help you with, Brandon?”

  His hazel eyes peer past my shoulder to a group of young teens mingling in the parking lot. “Is there somewhere private we can talk?” he enquires. His voice is calm and neutral, but it doesn’t stop my panic from slowly climbing.

  “Sure, umm… we could talk inside?” I suggest.

  Brandon smiles as he timidly nods his head. I return his gesture while digging my hand into my bag. To Brandon it looks like I'm rummaging for my keys, where, in reality, I'm speed dialing Wesley’s cell phone number and activating my speaker phone.

  When the screen on my cell illuminates that the timer has begun, I pull out my keys and act surprised. “There they are.”

  Remaining quiet, Brandon shadows me to the entrance of the warehouse. His closeness doesn’t conjure any thoughts—negative or positive. I don’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, how did you know to find me here? This warehouse isn’t registered in my name, and I haven’t publicly announced I'm in Ravenshoe.” I keep my voice loud enough to ensure Wesley can hear me, but not overly loud to raise suspicion from Brandon.

  “I have a lot of resources at my disposal,” he chuckles.

  His charming laugh soothes some of the agitation twisting my stomach, but it isn’t enough to stop me from protecting myself.

  After sliding open the double glass doors, I gesture for Brandon to enter before me. You can protect yourself better if you face your attacker head on rather than having them sneak up on you unaware.

  “Is this a personal visit or business-related?” I query.

  Brandon’s brows tack. “I guess you could say personal.” The ricketiness of his words exposes his unsureness.

  “Do I need my lawyer present?” The hammering of my heart can be heard in my voice.

  Brandon shakes his head. “I’m not here representing the FBI,” he informs me.

  Dread washes over me. “Then why are you here?”

  My hand delves into my handbag to seek my canister of pepper spray. This time, I don’t attempt to conceal my intent to protect myself.

  “I know Hugo. I'm a friend of his. I’m here on his behalf,” Brandon adds on quickly, no doubt reading the panicked expression on my face.

  I stop rummaging in my bag. “You know Hugo?” I ask, surprise lacing my voice. I shouldn’t be surprised though. Everyone knows Hugo.

  The dizziness plaguing me dulls when Brandon curtly nods his head. I don’t know why, but his aura is telling me that I can trust him, but not his motives.

  Hoping to ease the swirling of my stomach, I ask, “Does Hugo know you’re here?”

  I clutch my handbag close to my chest when Brandon reluctantly shakes his head. My chin quivers as he murmurs, “I’m not going to hurt you, Gemma.”

  “Y-you know what happened to me?” I don’t know why I'm stuttering, but something about this doesn’t feel right. My intuition is telling me something bad is about to happen.

  Glancing into my eyes so I can see the truth beaming from his remorseful gaze, Brandon mutters, “Yes.”

  “How? You can’t. No one knows. It’s sealed. All my files are sealed.” I stare him straight in the eyes. “Only those involved know what happened.”

  Sick gloom spreads through me as every nightmare I’ve had the last six years hits fruition. I haven’t seen the faces of the men who attacked me since we had our day in court years ago. But even with Brandon having no recognizable features of my attackers, I’m still wary. The circumstances of my assault mean my recollection of the people involved are best described as hazy, so I can’t one hundred percent testify Brandon isn’t one of them.

  I take a retreating step when Brandon paces closer to me. Spotting the panic flaring in my eyes, he stops and shoves his hands into his pocket. “You can trust me, Gemma. I’m only here trying to help Hugo.”

  I point to my office on my right. “I-I’m going to call Hugo. You s-stay right there. I’m going to call Hugo.” My words are hoarse and sound like they were dragged through gravel.

  My brisk pace to my office stops when Brandon says, “If you do that, you’re only going to make matters worse for him.”

  I grit my teeth before spinning around. “If you truly know what happened to me, you’d know things couldn’t get any worse than they already are.”

  The remorse in Brandon’s eyes triples. “Madden has photos of your attack.”

  My stomach lurches into my throat. I shake my head, refusing to acknowledge the truth glowing from Brandon’s wholesome eyes. “That’s not true. Madden wouldn’t disclose that information to anyone. I don’t believe you.”

  Brandon takes a step closer to me. I wave my hands in front of my body, begging for him to stop.

  He stops pacing midstride before disclosing, “My name is Brandon James McGee. I'm the youngest brother of Madden McGee.”

  My bag crashes onto the ground as tears I swore would never spill down my c
heeks again roll out of my eyes unchecked. I can barely breathe through the tightness clutching my neck as my lungs wheeze to fill with air. Closing my eyes, I count backwards from ten, utilizing one of the tricks Dr. McKay recommended when I’m trapped in the midst of a nightmare. This can’t be real. This can’t be happening. Not here. Not now. Not while I'm alone.

  When I open my eyes and am confronted with the same pair of hazel eyes that frequent my nightmares, I scream, “Get out!” My loud voice bellows off the isolated warehouse walls and shrills into my ears.

  “Get out!” I scream again at the top of my lungs when Brandon fails to comply.

  “I’m not going to hurt you, Gemma. I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to help Hugo.” His pleading eyes add strength to his admission, but I can’t hear him. I can’t hear anything through the blood roaring to my ears.

  Overcome with a rage I’ve been harboring for six years, I charge for Brandon. My nails claw his arms before I raise my fists to pound his chest. “You ruined everything! You took everything away from me. I hate you. I HATE you!”

  My face heats with anger as I put in the same effort I did when I fought my attackers six years ago. This time, I’m not outnumbered. This time, I’m not going to let them win.

  Tears fling off my cheeks as I continually pummel my fists onto Brandon’s chest. He takes everything I’m giving, not once attempting to protect himself. “You might have thought you got the better of me, but you didn’t! You’ll never win!”

  “That’s right, Gemma. He didn’t win. Make him pay.”

  Tears streaming down my face hamper my vision, but they don’t stop my vicious onslaught. My pain will never end, so why should his?

  With my mind stuck in the haze of the past and the present, the pounds of my fist become sluggish as my knees weaken. When the effort of my heaving lungs becomes too great for me to ignore, I fall onto my knees and gasp in ragged breaths. The pain of my knees hitting the concrete is nothing compared to the torrent of pain tearing through my chest. I can barely breathe as it hurts so much.