The Girl Who Wasn't

by Heather Hildenbrand

  “Raven, darling, you look lovely this morning,” he says as I take a seat and fold my napkin primly across my lap.

  “Thank you,” I say. The compliment makes my skin crawl because it has come from his mouth.

  My satin blouse is thin but more than that, his gaze roaming over me make me feel exposed in a way that disgusts me to my core. I remember what Linc said about mind and body affecting a person’s reaction to another. It must be true because I am filled with a distinct passion to damage both of those parts of Titus so badly he can never recover.

  I smile and sip my gourmet coffee.

  The entire meal is Titus fawning over me and telling me what a great job I’m doing. By the end, my nails have torn the skin in my palms where I’ve curled my hands into fists. Titus doesn’t notice, or pretends not to.

  “You should take a day off from all this constant exercise, darling,” Titus says when the dishes have been cleared. “It’s Sunday, a day for rest. You should get out, get some fresh air.”

  I almost choke on my coffee. “Excuse me?”

  He smiles. He is fully aware of what he’s suggested—a reprieve from my prison—and I’m not sure if he’s teasing me just yet. Still, my heart thuds against my chest at the prospect of being allowed to walk out the front door.

  “I mean it,” he says. “Go for a walk or something. This will all be here when you get back.” He waves a dismissive hand.

  I hesitate. I know there is something he isn’t telling me, like the fact that I will never be without a camera on me, no matter where I go. And of course there’s my GPS. But the offer is too good to pass up and I rise to my feet, half expecting him to laugh at me and tell me it’s a joke. He doesn’t. Instead, he smiles a knowing smile and watches me leave.

  “See you later, daughter,” he calls out behind me.

  I don’t turn.

  My steps are methodical as I wind around the circular hallway to the elevator. I don’t bother stopping at my room to change or dab on more makeup. I’m too afraid Titus will change his mind and lock me away after all. I make it into the elevator without seeing a single security guard. The door closes and in this moment, freedom—however contrived—is so close I can taste it.

  The elevator stops and the doors open to the lobby. My boots echo against the hard floor, a fast-paced click-click as I hurry toward fresh air. The doorman sees me coming, tips his hat, and pulls open the door for me. I pass through and relish the feel of the air as it hits my face and legs. I hold my skirt down to keep it from blowing up around me.

  Three steps onto the sidewalk, I stop. I have no idea where to go from here. My familiarity of the city ends at the curb, where I’ve only ever been ushered into a waiting car and swept away. Now, with the entire city at my fingertips, I have absolutely no clue what to do next. The thought of escape cloys at the back of my thoughts but I don’t plan to try. For one thing, I know it’s what Titus expects. I am not so naïve that I don’t recognize this as a test. But more importantly, I promised Linc.

  I am also very aware that I appear alone. And though I don’t doubt Titus is somehow watching, I feel like bait dangling from a hook. Whoever wants me will no doubt come for me should I attempt a tour through the city on my own.

  Car engines groan and whine as they whir past me. The smell of exhaust is everywhere, mixing with the expensive colognes of passersby in a way that makes me wrinkle my nose. I shift my weight, looking this way and that, trying to pick the least dangerous direction to wander.

  The longer I stand here, the more I feel like a target.

  An engine sounds from behind, louder than the passing cars. It dies off as it reaches me and I turn. It’s a motorcycle, shiny black. I cannot see the rider’s face through his reflective helmet but I know him by the shape of his body. I think I would know him anywhere. Linc.

  He flips the front of his helmet up, exposing the top half of his face. “Wanna ride?” he asks over the sound of traffic.

  We haven’t spoken since he walked away from me on the rooftop, but if he’s offering me a ride, I suspect some sort of truce is in effect. I decide to go with it, especially if it means getting back on the motorcycle.

  I start to tell him yes, then glance over my shoulder at Rogen Tower. The windows feel like pupils: cold, unblinking, always watching. I hesitate. He looks at the building, as if guessing my reluctance. His hand rolls forward on the throttle and the engine revs. Throaty. Loud. Convincing.

  “Gus cleared it,” he adds.

  My lips curve upward at that, and I take the helmet he offers. When it’s fastened, I slide in behind him, loving the way my body tingles where it touches his back. I tuck my skirt in around me and slide my hands around his midsection, the gesture at once both new and familiar.

  “Where are we going?” I call out as his foot works the gears and we ease into traffic.

  “Where do you want to go?” he shouts back.

  I try to think of an area in the city I want to see again but there’s nothing. Everywhere I’ve been seems coated with either desperate poverty or blood money, and I have no desire to see either.

  “Is there somewhere with no people around? No city?” I ask.

  “Mother Nature in the raw? Of course.”

  His hand slides on the throttle and we’re off. He veers left, then right, weaving in and out of traffic, missing bumpers by inches. I gasp, my fear turning quickly to awe that we can move like this.

  The city flies by on either side. I let it all blur together and revel in the way every heavy thought dissolves as we pick up speed. Wind rushes by and after a few moments, I feel a chill on my thighs. It is a comfortable cold, a windy, freeing, delicious cold. I love it.

  The engine hums with vibrations beneath me. I can feel it building toward a need but I push it aside for now in favor of the feel of my arms around Linc. He doesn’t offer his hand on my leg and I don’t want to take any more liberties than he’s already given.

  The city disappears gradually. First, the nicer buildings devolve into more dilapidated versions. Boarded-up windows eventually turn into empty frames and walls emblazoned with graffiti. Trash litters the sidewalks. It blows across the road in front of us, giving off a feeling of loneliness so strong that I blink back tears for all of the people who see this every day—and know the extravagance that exists five miles northward.

  I see a few faces peeking out from a sheltered storefront. No one stumbles through the streets here. Even in daylight, it feels dangerous. Desperate.

  Finally, the buildings and cracked sidewalks give way to fields. Far in the distance to my left, I see thick forest. Between me and the trees, it is only open fields with grass so tall I think it might cover my head were I to wade in. It is white and feathery. Wheat, maybe.

  Ida once called my hair that color. I’ve never seen anything like it outside of a television screen or textbook but it is beautiful as it sways under the weight of the breeze.

  The road narrows and the double-yellow line becomes a single line of dashes. I don’t know what this means, though there isn’t any traffic here. My hands tighten around Linc as he increases our speed. In front of us the road stretches as far as I can see.

  In this moment, with the wind whipping my hair, the view endless and open, I experience joyful abandon for the first time in my existence. It is sweet and sharp in my mouth. I want to memorize it, store it up, so that when I need it most, I can recall that this feeling does actually exist—and it is every inch worth living for.

  The clean air, devoid of the scent of exhaust and oil, is refreshing. Linc leans in for a turn. We dip lower and lower until we’re almost parallel to the ground. My heart accelerates. My hands squeeze. The fear and adrenaline are delicious. I grin as the turn rounds out and the road straightens again.

  It is a rare moment when I allow myself to feel like me. Ven. An Imitation. And while that is something I used to despise, I know now that I would take it over Authentic Raven. She is shallow and easy and meaningless. I am deep an
d complicated and appreciative of the simple experience of a single moment of pleasure.

  My desire to be all of those things and human is a pain that never dulls no matter how many times I think it. This time, I push the thought away, determined to live in the right now.

  Linc downshifts and takes a fast corner. His shoulder eases us into a deep lean. When we straighten, I shift so that every inch of my torso is pressed to his back. My thighs squeeze against his and I jut my hips forward, pushing against him. His fist flies off the throttle hard enough that the bike bucks. I smile to myself, braver now that I know my touch has an effect on him. I pull my skirt free from where I’ve tucked it, eliminating at least one layer of fabric between us. It teases and tickles against my hips.

  Linc adjusts his grip on the gas until the speedometer gives a steady read and makes some other adjustment alongside of his handlebar. He flips a small switch near the throttle and then, without warning, both of his hands reach back and grip my legs.

  I scream but it’s lost on the wind. Somehow, our speed is maintained. He’s engaged an auto-pilot of sorts. Without hands to steer us, the motorcycle drifts slightly left until our front tire rides the yellow line in the center of the road. Linc lifts his arms out at his sides and leans right. I squeeze his midsection, certain we’re going to veer too far. We curve a couple of feet to the right and he straightens his stance, balancing with his arms. When we stay put in our own lane, he lowers his arms and grip my legs again.

  I laugh out loud even though he can’t hear me. He’s driving a motorcycle with no hands. The rush of heat and exhilarating excitement from his trick is dizzying. It fuels my desire and suddenly it’s no longer a want but a need.

  When my hips rock forward again, Linc’s hands tighten against my thighs. He pulls on my legs, encouraging me to increase my efforts.

  I rock harder.

  Linc’s left hand drifts higher up my thigh. My skirt blows against his hand and he knocks it out of his way. When the angle gets tough, he leans forward, returning his right hand to the handlebar and reaching around with his left. His fingers graze my hip and dip lower, pressing into the soft spot between my legs. My panties offer a thin barrier but it’s already the most intense form of touch I have ever experienced.

  I whimper and every inch of me sparks with electricity. More. I’d demand it from him if he could hear me, but the wind and the engine make it impossible. I use my hips instead, thrusting forward against the massaging of his fingers. It’s a delicious agony of tension and need.

  He stops long enough to move my panties aside. When his fingers touch my bare skin, I shiver. He slips a finger inside me in a long, slow thrust. I move faster against the force of his hand. He presses back, still facing forward, still maintaining speed with one hand curled around the throttle.

  With every back and forth of his finger, I spiral closer to the edge. My hands unclasp and roam over his chest. Through his shirt, I trace the curvature of his pecs and abs. His muscles tighten underneath my fingers. He likes my touch.

  My fingers graze his nipple. I lick my lips, wondering what the hardened tip would feel like against my mouth.

  His hand moves faster. Presses harder. The speedometer inches upward. The wind licks at my thighs. Linc’s touch is a lightning storm of sensation. I want to be struck by it.

  My legs tremble as the pressure inside me coils tight. My breathing is raspy and sharp. I can’t feel a single thing beyond his finger stroking my insides and the wet heat he sparks within me.

  When my release comes, I throw my head back and cry out. My shoulders convulse as a shudder courses through me. When it subsides, Linc’s strokes become smaller and he withdraws his hand and lets my panties cover me again. He massages small circles with his fingertips and I squeeze him in a one-sided embrace.

  Not once in all of my daydreaming did I ever imagine it could be anything like this. Aside from Linc’s, I never want another person’s hands on me again.

  A moment later, Linc slows the motorcycle and pulls onto the dirt shoulder. He cuts the engine and the silence is beautiful and nerve-wracking after what I’ve just experienced. I’m still caught in the afterglow as he says, “Let’s take a walk and stretch our legs.”

  I dismount and stand beside him, relieved he’s not suggesting that we head back. I know the time will come but I’m not ready yet.

  I slide my helmet off, hanging it on the bike where Linc shows me, and follow him into the grass. It is shorter here but still reaches above my waist. I wade in and before long, the road and the motorcycle have disappeared behind me.

  The moment we’re obscured by the grass, Linc’s hand slips around my waist. He lifts me clear off my feet and into his arms. I slide against him until our eyes and mouths are parallel. His grip tightens, holding me there. Even without his arms around me, the desire reflected in his eyes is tangible. “I want to touch you,” he says softly.

  “So touch me,” I tell him.

  “I don’t want anyone else to touch you but me.”

  “I don’t either.”

  He frowns and I can’t help but wonder what he expected me to say. But then there’s no time to wonder anything as his mouth lands hot and fervent on mine. I wrap my arms around his neck and hold on, breathless, already burning all over again.

  His hands are everywhere, my back, my hips, my hair, and his mouth is greedy, taking from me in deep bursts. When his tongue enters my mouth, a small noise escapes me, and his hands tighten where they’ve dropped down to cup my ass.

  I bring my legs up, wrapping them around his waist and locking my ankles. He growls and adjusts his hands so that one holds my weight and the other is free to wander. His fingertips trail over my thigh and slip underneath the fabric of my panties. I shift to give him better access and bite down on his lower lip as his finger slips inside me.

  “Linc …” I say on a ragged breath.

  The fire inside me is already coiling, building toward a crescendo. It’s so much faster this time, as if my last release only served to leave me dangling at the edge.

  “God, you feel amazing.” Linc’s face is buried in my hair as he whispers, “I want you to come for me.”

  My legs shake and my arms tighten and then I’m flying. He steals my scream with a kiss. My mouth moves lazily over his. The tension in my muscles dissolves into a liquidy pool of contentment.

  Linc’s stroking doesn’t stop until my legs have stilled and I manage to exhale. When our eyes meet, his are soft and smiling. “Let’s take a break and maybe walk or something.”

  Reluctantly, I unwrap my legs from his waist and he sets me on my feet. With a final, lingering kiss, he laces his fingers through mine and leads me farther into the grass.

  “This is beautiful,” I say as we walk.

  “It beats the city.”

  “You don’t like the city?”

  “I don’t like the extremes,” he says after a moment.

  It’s not hard to guess what he means. I decide to ask the question that’s been haunting me since I first arrived. “The poor… why is it so bad when there’s so much money being spent everywhere else?”

  “You don’t remember?”

  I shake my head, hoping it’s enough of a reason for him to explain.

  “Fifteen years ago, there was an attack on our country. It was the largest terrorist act on record but it wasn’t just a single assault. The first wave was digital. They took out our computer systems. Planted viruses, hacked firewalls. Our stock market went first. Then the federal reserve crashed. Systems were wiped, money vanished. Banks were targeted next. People’s entire savings accounts erased.

  “The military went broke. It went downhill pretty fast after that. No one took responsibility. We suspected China—mainly because of the failed negotiations over our debt, but no one really knew for sure. Still don’t.

  “The chaos of it brought us to a civil war. The military took over the government for a while. Then the private sector gained control. The ones rich and
connected enough to garner the public’s support. They made empty promises. Spent money they’d never miss in all the right places. When the dust settled, there were two clear-cut classes of people: very rich and very poor. It’s been that way ever since.”

  While he speaks, I imagine this world before poverty struck. A world where everyone had money, houses, shoes. I don’t understand much of what he’s saying about viruses and firewalls, but I do understand one thing: despite a dark past, the people I’ve seen in the alleyways could have a future, if only people like Titus Rogen would give it to them.

  “And Titus—my father?”

  Linc shoots me another sideways glance that lets me know I’ve broken character again. “He’s smart. Like, genius smart. Had a degree in human biology and molecular science when he was thirteen.” He shrugs. “While we were all busy fighting each other, he was figuring out how to make people need him. He’s built his company and his fortune around doing other people favors. Whether he cashes them in or not, at this point, he’s immovable.”

  There is no small amount of bitterness in Linc’s words. I wonder how much of the devastation he’s experienced himself but I don’t ask. That story seems so much more personal. I have no right to it—not when I’m unwilling to share any truth of my own.

  “How long did the war last?” I ask instead.

  “About five years, if you believe the politicians. Not so much weapons and killing as taking land, evictions, government seizing. The military used things like eminent domain and repossessions to push people out. My father—he was killed in a protest march.” His voice takes on an edge. “Arrests were made, complaints were filed. My family got a settlement check. New-age war is so very civilized.”

  “And your mother?” I ask because I can’t help myself. The idea of family is so miraculous and foreign to me.

  “She lives in a small apartment on the edge of uptown. She cooks for a congressman.”