Rory wasn't just abused. She was raped. And I can't wrap my mind around it. How could someone do that to her? Her boyfriend. He was supposed to protect her. For him to violate her in the worst way… I just feel like my heart has been ripped out of my chest and run through a fucking shredder. I want so desperately to ask her about it, but I know I can't tonight, so I just lean down and press a soft kiss to her forehead, hoping that it's enough for her to know what she means to me, and that I'd never let anyone hurt her ever again.
"Goodnight, Ror. Look, if you wake up and you don't feel good, or you need something, anything, wake me up, okay? I mean it."
"Thanks," she breathes.
I smile. "I got you, Pine. What-"
"are friends for, I know."
****
The Way Things Should Have Been
I'm in love with Rory. I haven't told her, I may never have the balls to tell her, but I've finally admitted it to myself, and that's something. As we lay on the beach in the afternoon sun, her head resting on my stomach, I rest my eyes and try to make sense of the day.
I was up most of the night, my head reeling with Rory's admission, grappling between overwhelming fury and devastating grief. Witnessing another one of her nightmares didn't help, but holding her did, and by the time morning came, I knew how I felt about her. I think I've known it a while, but it's not an easy thing to admit, especially for someone who didn't believe the concept even existed a few months ago.
And I knew I had to know the truth. It took a whole lot of nerve I wasn't sure I had to ask her to tell me everything. I was terrified she would just shut down and run away. In truth, I was hoping that what I'd been imagining all night was worse than the reality. But Rory dashed those hopes with her story.
He beat her and raped her. Repeatedly. For months. And the last time… the last time he almost killed her. Nausea overtakes me every time I think of it, and I try to think of what I can do, how I can fucking punish him for what he's done. He can't be too hard to find. And her fucking father. I thought my father was a dick, and he is, but this… this is a different kind of betrayal. I hope I never meet the man, because I may have gotten better at handling my supposed anger issues, but fuck if I haven't fantasized about beating them both to a bloody pulp a hundred times since this morning…
I still don't have a good read on that best friend of hers. She's said a couple of times that every guy she ever cared about has only hurt or abandoned her, and today she said this Cam character would never hurt her. So why, if he was such a good friend, did he abandon her when she fucking needed him? Why would he let this happen to her? What kind of best friend just stands by and allows his best friend to get abused and assaulted? I grit my teeth and take a deep, settling breath, watching Rory rise and fall with it.
But I can't shake the feeling that there's more to the story than a platonic friendship. That now familiar jealousy rears its ugly head, and I have to force it back down. It was my arms she slept in last night, me she was kissing barely a couple of hours ago.
I open my eyes and peek down at Rory, resting peacefully with her eyes closed, face to the sun. She's grown tan in the two days we've been here, and small freckles have sprouted on her nose and cheeks. She somehow manages to get more beautiful every time I look at her, and my chest swells with what I now know is love.
I didn't make a conscious decision to kiss her this morning. After all of the horrors she'd just confided, it was hardly the appropriate thing to do, but it felt so natural – the only way to express what I was feeling for her. She seemed to agree, but still, I needed to know if it was me she wanted, or just a guy she trusted enough to be intimate with.
I have to believe that she cares for me. Whether or not she loves me, whether or not she's even capable of that after all she's been through, I have to believe that she knows that me and her – we're something real. Something more.
But I'm afraid to push her.
She sits up suddenly, yawning, and I wonder if she fell asleep.
Tucker and Carl argue over food, and I realize that Rory hasn't eaten anything substantial all day. Neither have I for that matter, and I suggest we all get smoothies.
We pack up our things from the beach and move to the pool deck. Tucker and Dave push three tables together for our group to sit, and I ask Rory what she wants.
She tells me to surprise her, and I smile at the irony. She's the one always surprising me.
I bring her a strawberry banana smoothie and she sips it quietly.
I regret our plans for tonight. The boys and girls are having separate dinners, and I hate being apart from her when we just got together this fucking morning.
"How's your smoothie, Ror?" I ask. I'll get her another one if she doesn't like it. I'll get her one of every kind to try.
She nods and smiles, and continues sipping.
"Ha, Ror, do you call her that 'cause that's what she makes you do when you fuck her? Ha! Roar! Get it?" Dave spits, and I lose my fucking mind.
That motherfucker!
I jump over the table, pushing an empty chair out of my way, and grab the fucking moron by his shirt, shoving him up against the wall behind him.
My blood is on fire, every muscle tense with rage.
How dare he talk about Rory like that, again?! I fucking warned him!
She's been through enough! And I will not have this goddamned idiot, who's supposed to be my fucking friend, insulting my girl.
No fucking way.
"I told you to show her some fucking respect!" He wanted to know if I roar? Well now he's hearing me fucking roar! I am heaving with fury, and I need to let it out.
Vaguely I hear Tucker say my name, but he's so far in the background he may as well not exist.
"Dude, I was just fucking kidding. She can take a damn joke!" Dave says in his own pathetic defense.
But he barely even knows Rory. How dare he presume what kind of joke she can and can't take? He could send her into a panic! I won't have him hurting her, not in any fucking way.
I tremble with anger, my rage flowing through each limb, back and forth and back again, with no outlet, except the one in front of me.
I need to teach this fucker a lesson.
Tucker says something else, I think, but the time for words is over. This time, Dave will fucking heed my warning. My jaw clenches shut, and my hand fists and rears back…
"Sam!"
I freeze.
Her voice slips through the fog of rage clouding my mind, making me take pause. I open my fist, and my arm falls limply to my side, but the other doesn't release Dave. Fuck, I was about to knock him the fuck out.
I take a deep breath, and the anger dissipates marginally.
"You will watch how you fucking talk about her." I tell him, but I don't bother taking in the fearful expression on the face of someone who is supposed to be my friend.
I need to calm the fuck down. Because Rory's seen enough violence in her life. I can't be another loose cannon. I need to get the fuck out of here.
I stalk off, taking deep breaths as I go. I make my way to the elevator bank, and when I catch sight of the red-faced, tense muscled man in the mirror, I finally realize that I made a mistake.
Rory thinks she's the one who's fucked up, but look at me.
I make my way to my hotel room, drowning in shame. I hate that she saw me lose it like that. I feel only the smallest guilt for Dave, because he's a guy, he can take it, and frankly, I'm still not sure he didn't deserve it. But it's me – my relationship with Rory, even if no one actually knows the true extent of it – that gave Dave his opening to target her for another one of his juvenile fucking jokes.
I sit on my hotel room balcony, just watching the ocean. This is what I'm supposed to do when I get angry – walk away, take some time for myself, calm down and think. Dr. Schall's voice lectures me inside my head, and I tell him to go fuck himself.
I calm down eventually, but anger has always been like a high for me, and the comedown always b
rings a kind of melancholy. I fixate on the negatives. On Rory's past, on my flaws – the violence I have in common with her ex. Because even though I know without even a whisper of a doubt that I would never lay a hand on her, on any girl, I wonder if she drew a connection between the two of us at seeing me lose it like that.
It's times like this that I remind myself of my own father, except even he only ever stooped to violence when he was drunk, and only rarely, and I don't even have that excuse. I wallow in self-loathing, because I love Rory. I love her, but I don't deserve her.
"Sam."
I hide my startle, not moving so much as a muscle.
"Sorry about that, Ror-y". Fuck, now all I hear is Dave's stupid joke at the sound of her nickname. "I just need a few minutes, okay?" I don't want her to see me like this.
"Yeah, okay," she murmurs dejectedly, and I hate the tone in her perfect voice. She makes to leave, but turns back, and I watch her cautiously out of the corner of my eye, terrified of her judgment. "But… don't just stop calling me 'Ror' because of some stupid comment Dave made, okay?"
I finally turn to her, and she takes a step toward me instead of away from me.
"It pissed me off that he said that about you," I admit what she already knows. I hate the idea of a guy disrespecting her… or worse. "That douchebag in the elevator pissed me of too," I add. Because I'd also wanted to hit him. He also deserved it.
Rory nods. "I know. But you do know Dave is just an idiot. That he means no harm, right?" Her voice is sweet and gentle. Of course I know that. I think I knew that even when I was about to slam my fist into his jaw. But his intentions mattered very little to me in that moment, only the fact that he might have upset Rory mattered at all.
"I almost hit him," I mutter.
"But you didn't," she reminds me.
I take a deep breath. She doesn't get it. "But I wanted to... I'm no different than him."
She needs to understand who I am.
"Than who?" she asks, but I don't answer. "Sam, you're nothing like him," Rory says meaningfully. "So you got pissed off and wanted to hit someone? That happens to everyone. You didn't do it."
"But I wanted to," I say again. Just because I stopped myself – or rather, Rory stopped me – doesn't mean I'm any different than any other violent asshole, including the one who hurt her.
Rory covers the small distance still between us and reaches up to stroke my jaw. It's affectionate and sweet, and it speaks right to the fullness in my chest – the love. I want to pull her into my arms. I want to taste her incredible mouth again. I want to be as close to her as possibly, always. Her touch calms me.
"But you didn't," she repeats. "Violence is a choice. Like survival, remember? Everyone has those impulses when they get angry, just like we have the impulse to give up when we're, you know, hurting."
Rory's using my own logic against me. Because this morning, when I tried to tell her how remarkable she was, and she said she was only surviving, that there was no other choice, I couldn't help but think of Bits, and the other choice she tried to make last summer.
"You made the right choice, Sam. You're a good man. Nothing like him. I know the difference, Sam, trust me," she says intently.
And maybe she's right. Even if she was the only reason I didn't hit him. I didn't hit him, and that's got to count for something, right?
I grab the hand that's still touching my jaw, and press it to my cheek, turning into her soft touch before pressing a kiss to her palm. She never ceases to amaze me.
I gaze down at her, unable to think of anything other than her beauty, both inside and out, and I trace the delicate line of her jaw, brushing my fingers up her cheek and into her loose hair, messy from our afternoon on the beach.
"I'm sorry I overreacted," I tell her.
But she shakes her head. "Don't apologize to me. You didn't do anything to me. You were just being protective, and honestly, I'm grateful. For a long time I needed that, and I didn't have it. But Dave isn't a threat to either of us, you know that."
I nod. "I know. You're right. Of course you're right." It was a protective instinct that launched me at Dave. I didn't just want to hurt him. I wanted to protect Rory from his big mouth. But she's right, it wasn't rational. It wasn't the right response, but that doesn't mean it didn't come from the right place, and for the first time, I think maybe that's what really matters. But it doesn't mean my behavior is excusable either.
"It's my fault," Rory murmurs, "for dumping all my crap on you earlier. It rattled you, I'm sorry. I'm so used to it that I forget how crazy it all was and—“
"Stop it, Ror. Never be sorry for talking to me. I want you to talk to me," I insist. She's right, her story did rattle me, how could it not? But my behavior is not her fault. I am responsible for my own damn actions. And I won't have her feel as if she needs to hold back from telling me things because I can't control myself. I want her to feel like she can tell me anything. She can tell me anything.
My fingers continue to comb through her hair, and I just stare down at her, completely riveted.
"And I want you… to kiss me," she whispers.
Fuck, yes.
I kiss her like I've been starving for it all day – all my fucking life. And I have. Because I was right not to believe in love before. It didn't exist. Not until the day she walked into my life. And now, it's all I can think of, all I can feel. It's in the ocean breeze that wafts around us, in the intense slide of our tongues, in each heavy breath that passes between us.
It doesn't even matter that I can't say the words. It's so much more than words, and I tell her with every brush of my fingers on her skin, every slide of our lips, every stroke of our tongues.
Her fingers grip my hair, and I groan at her desperation. I need her. I need to show her how I feel about her, and there's only one way I can think of to do that.
My hands slide from her perfectly flat, bare stomach to her soft thighs and I grab her, lifting her, and she wraps her legs around my waist.
Yes.
She kisses me with equal intensity, and I know she wants the same thing I do. She wanted it this morning, and if Tucker hadn't interrupted us, she'd have gotten it.
She has a way of obliterating any restraint I might possess, and her lust for me is the biggest fucking turn-on.
I move us through the suite, into the bedroom, because as much as I want to set her down on the first convenient surface we pass, Rory deserves a goddamned bed. She deserves to be fucking worshipped.
The door slams open and I barely even hear it, the blood rushing in my ears muffles anything but her soft moans and heavy breathing.
I have to get a grip, though, because I want to take my time, to make her feel as fucking incredible as she makes me feel every time I look at her, and if I don't slow this down, it will be over in a few minutes.
I lay her gently onto the mattress, unable to bring myself to pull my mouth from hers. I feel her fingers at the hem of my shirt and I pull back just enough to let her get it off me. I take the moment we're apart to make sure this is what she wants. Because whatever happens right now, I won't be able to live with myself if she regrets it afterward.
"You sure about this, Ror?" I ask her.
She nods fiercely, and it's impossible to doubt her. Her eyes are fervent and amorous, and the way she looks at my shirtless form almost makes me lose control.
Calm the fuck down, Cap.
"You know what to say if you change your mind?" I ask, reminding her that she has our safe word. That it's all-powerful, and just it's softest utterance will stop me dead in my tracks, no matter how badly I need her.
She nods, but it's not enough. I need certainty. I need her to know that this is her call, and that it's going to stay her call.
"Say it. Say the word," I demand, but my hands slide over her stomach, addicted to her soft, tight skin.
"Calculus," she breathes, and I smile in approval.
My eyes rake the perfection before me, and I can't help but think of
how lucky I am, how I don't deserve this, but that no man ever really could.
My mouth crashes back to hers, needing a constant connection, and I drag my mouth across her jaw and down the soft skin of her neck. She tastes amazing. I could completely consume her.
"Oh God," she breathes.
Well, fuck. I've never heard a hotter sound. I grin with unimaginable pride. I'm doing this to her. I'm turning her on this way. It's the headiest feeling in the world.
"Just so you know," I tell her, "'stop', 'no', or any other variant will also work. Any time, no matter what, okay baby?" Because as much as it feels like I couldn't stop if I wanted to, I know I could. I would. If she gave the slightest implication this wasn't what she wanted, I would endure any amount of torture to give her what she wants, whatever that might be.
She sighs the sexiest fucking sound, and my dick jumps in my shorts. I press my lips to her collarbone and finally press my hand to those round, plump tits I've fantasized about touching for months. I resent the fabric between us, and I reach around to undo the knot of her swimsuit top.
"I think you wore this bathing suit to torment me," I growl. "To punish me for stopping it last night." She had to know it would drive me crazy all day seeing her in something so damn sexy. She can be a devious little thing, it turns out, and I make a mental note to remember that. She's been torturing me all day with this little body of hers, and I love that she's confident enough to know the effect it would have on me.
She laughs as I take in her bare breasts for the first time, and my mouth takes full advantage, tasting and sucking. Rory throws her head back and moans loudly. It sets me on fire. I watch her carefully, taking in her reactions, figuring out what she likes, imprinting it in my mind.
I push my hand between her thighs, and revel in the way her hips move in rhythm with it, and it’s all I can do not to tear the denim shorts right off of her. Instead, I make quick work of the button and zipper, and the sound she makes when I move my hand so I can remove her shorts – like she needs me there – it almost dissolves my patience.
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