Wife Number Seven

by Melissa Brown

  “You have this tough exterior, but for me . . . for me, you’re gentle, sweet.” His expression softened and he covered my hand with his own. “And no one, no one on this earth makes me light up like you can. No one makes me feel the way you make me feel. And I’m starting to think no one else ever could.”

  “Then why?” He paused and his brows drew together. “Why won’t you stay?”

  “I’m terrified, Porter. So terrified that if I stayed here with you, you’d grow tired of me, and then where would I be? All on my own. I’m not ready for that.”

  “What makes you think I could ever get tired of you?” His thumb traced the curve of my chin.

  I shrugged my shoulders and stared at the floor. “You’ve only known me for a few months. You might change your mind. You can have anyone you want . . . anyone without this,” I pulled on the end of my braid, “or this,” I yanked at the fabric of my dress. I choked back the tears, but they streamed down my cheeks. “What if you decide I’m not worth it? Then where will I be?”

  He was silent, and for a moment I worried that he’d agree with me. That I’d just given him a reason to turn his back on our time together, to turn away from us completely. But instead, he took me into his arms.

  “You’re right, Brin. I could have someone out here. I could. But that’s not what I want. I want you. Only you.”

  “Why? I don’t get it! All I do is mess up your life! You should be with someone from the outside world. Someone you won’t have to bend over backward for, someone you can hold in your arms as you sleep. Someone who doesn’t have a husband waiting for her! Someone who isn’t damned to hell!”

  I sobbed into his chest and he stroked my back.

  “God, you break my heart when you talk like that.” He stroked the top of my braid. “He’s not waiting for you. He doesn’t even notice when you’re gone. You know that, right?”

  “I do.”

  “And you’re not damned. If anybody’s damned to fucking hell, it’s the one everyone calls the prophet. He’s a sick fuck who plays with your lives for his own twisted purposes. He controls every single one of your lives. It’s disgusting.”

  “I-I’m starting to see that.”

  “We need to get away. Just the two of us. Somewhere where we can just be us, ya know? Where we can be alone and not worry about Cluff or the fucking prophet or any of that bullshit.”

  “That’s impossible,” I said.

  “No, it’s not. I told you before, there’s always a way.”

  Wriggling out of his embrace, I fought the panic that stirred within me. I needed air. I crossed the room, pulling at the latch of the window. The breeze streamed in and I inhaled deeply, feeling my pulse calm ever so slightly.

  Porter stood his ground, watching as I placed my hands on the rail of the window.

  Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

  “If Jorjina knows, if sh-she knows and sh-sh-she’s spying on me—” I couldn’t look at him. The panic inside me wouldn’t allow it. My stuttering had returned, and I was mortified.

  “Then what do you have to lose?” The plea in his voice demanded the proper response. But I didn’t have one.

  “Nothing?” I paused, finally making eye contact. “Everything?” I shook my head, not knowing the answer.

  Porter moved close behind me, placing one hand next to mine on the window ledge as the other gently caressed my waist. “You’re already on borrowed time. If she tells the prophet, there’s no way you’ll be able to stay. You have to know that.”

  I shuddered in response, my feet rocking slightly . . . back and forth, back and forth. I couldn’t soothe myself, couldn’t make my body calm.

  “Please, let’s go away. Just us, away from all of this bullshit. I know the place. Just trust me, please.”

  “I-I . . .” My limbs shook and it was difficult to swallow. I wanted to indulge my fantasy of being with Porter without worry, without my braid, my dress, my stifling long underwear. I wanted it so badly.

  Porter pressed himself against my back, tucking his chin into my neck. “I’ll protect you. Please believe me.”

  “I do, I—”

  “Just trust me. Please, I need you to trust me. If you can’t, then we’re over before we started.”

  I turned to face him. “My trust in you is not the problem. It’s them . . . all of them.”

  “Then let’s figure this out.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “They don’t deserve you, Brin. They don’t.”

  “Maybe I don’t deserve you—”

  “Stop. Don’t even say that. That’s the biggest pile of horse shit I’ve ever heard. You’re the best part of my life. You’re the reason I wake up every day, the reason I get my ass to work. Hell, you’re the reason I haven’t gotten high in months. It’s all because of you.”

  “Oh,” I said, surprised at the effect I’d had on him.

  Porter placed his hands on each side of my face, angling my chin so that our eyes were locked in a steady gaze. “Don’t ever say that again, all right? I won’t tolerate it.”

  I nodded, tears running down my face and onto his knuckles. My mouth went dry as his blue eyes pierced mine. Relief coursed through me, and I relaxed at his touch.

  “I need to say something, and you have to hear me,” I begged.

  “Anything.” Porter’s lips formed a straight line, and I could feel his body stiffen.

  “Please don’t doubt my feelings. Ever. I’m not ready to leave, I’m not ready to be discovered, but that doesn’t change my feelings for you. You’re always on my mind, so much it’s unnerving.”

  He nodded as a sigh left his mouth. He pressed his lips to mine, his hands still gripping the sides of my face. “God, I can’t get enough of you.”

  Our kisses grew more urgent, his tongue stroking mine, his hands moving to the buttons of my dress. I brought up my hands to assist his and soon the dress and long underwear were tossed across the room. Porter hoisted my legs around his waist and backed me into the wall, the curtains blowing in the breeze. The slightly toxic smell of paint traveled through my sinuses and I flinched as the cool texture of the wall tickled the hot skin of my back. I linked my feet around Porter’s lower back as his lips traveled to the base of my neck, planting demanding kisses against my skin, sending me into a frenzy.

  I craved him, all of him.

  “I want to please you.” My hand cupped his hardness.

  “What? No—” he started to protest.

  I’d told Porter about my honeymoon, and because of that awful experience he hadn’t allowed me to pleasure him in that way. But today, I wasn’t taking no for an answer.

  “I want to try . . . for you. Don’t say no,” I said boldly, pressing a finger to his lips.

  He released me from his grip, slowly lowering me to the floor. We shifted our bodies, and I pressed his shoulders against the wall. Porter swallowed hard before releasing a sigh.

  Ever so slowly, I unzipped his jeans, tugging them to the floor. My eyes locked with Porter’s as I removed his boxer shorts. He was ready for me. Completely ready. Before he could protest, I’d taken him into my mouth, teasing his tip with my tongue.

  “Oh God . . .” Porter murmured.

  My eyes never left his as I moved up and down on his length, savoring the feel of him inside my mouth. Unlike my experience three years ago, I enjoyed this. The pulsing of my private area continued, and moisture collected in my panties. I was ready for him.

  Porter tugged at the base of my braid, pulling my mouth from him. “Not like this,” he said, his eyes dark.

  “But I—”

  “Shhh,” he whispered, pressing a finger to my lips and lifting me to my feet. “I need to be inside you.”

  I cracked a smile, knowing just how much my body craved its own release. But instead of walking me to the bed, as we’d always done in the past, Porter turned me so that I faced the open window. He tugged at the curtains, giving us privacy.

  “Hold on to the windowsill.”


  I did as I was told. Instead of his directions intimidating me, as Lehi’s always had, they excited me. Adrenaline created pathways through my system as Porter yanked my panties to the floor. He walked away for just a moment, but returned with a condom. After opening the package and sliding it down his length, he entered me from behind. My body tensed slightly, having never experienced anything like this position in the past.

  “I’ll go slow,” he assured me, gliding in and out of me in a gentle rhythm. “I’d never hurt you.”

  “I know,” I responded in a hushed tone. “Don’t hold back.”

  With that whispered invitation, Porter quickened his pace. He slipped one hand in front, his fingers circling my most sensitive spot as he pumped behind me, and I moaned at the touch of his fingertips. Pleasure built within me as I approached my release. Porter’s forehead pressed against my neck and the heat of his breath spurred my excitement.

  My knuckles turned a ghostly shade of white as I gripped the window frame, my body preparing for the orgasm building within me.

  “Come for me, Brin,” Porter moaned. “You’re so close, I can feel it.”

  The gravelly tone of his voice, combined with the intoxicating strokes of his fingers pushed me over the edge. I seized around him in ecstasy, screaming his name out the open window before collapsing onto the ledge. Porter continued to thrust inside me before finding his release. He gripped my braid as he came, groaning through gritted teeth.

  Together, we fell to the floor, the heat from our bodies cooled by the breeze that billowed the curtain.

  “God, you’re amazing,” he said before kissing the top of my forehead. “Was that okay for you? Not scary or anything?”

  “Not at all.” I shook my head. “I liked it.”

  “Good.”

  We lay in silence for several minutes before, at my request, Porter played the mix of CDs he’d created with me in mind. Bob Dylan belted out “Shelter from the Storm,” and without even realizing it, I began to sing along. I loved that I was learning the lyrics—they were heartfelt, loving, and full of passion.

  They reminded me of Porter. He was my shelter from the storm that was my life.

  “I know what to tell them,” I muttered, finally hearing the answer inside my head.

  “What are you talking about?” Porter asked, obviously confused.

  I’d noticed over the weeks we’d been physically intimate that after we’d made love, my brain was on high alert. It was sharp and keen, full of ideas. Porter said his head was “mush” after making love to me. So I was used to conversations like this—me having a sudden idea or revelation, and Porter confused by my burst of self-proclaimed genius.

  “You wanted us to get away. For a weekend.”

  “Oh, right. Of course, yes.” He stroked my arm so lightly that goose bumps rose.

  “Jessa. I’ll tell them she needs me.”

  “She’s the sister who had the—”

  “Miscarriage, yes. I’ll tell them she had another, and that my mother is too sick to help.”

  “Is it safe? Will Lehi contact her husband or something?”

  “No,” I said, “that’s why it’ll work. Lehi doesn’t like Kurt and vice versa. It should work fine. Besides, what you said was true. If I’m on borrowed time, what does it matter? If Jorjina is spying on me and reporting back to the prophet, then my days are already numbered.”

  Porter pulled away, pushing up on his elbow and peering into my eyes. “Are. You. Sure?”

  “Yes. I want to be with you, and not just for a few stolen hours. I want to fall asleep in your arms, wake up the same way. I want, even if only for twenty-four hours, to feel like I’m really yours.”

  “You are mine. Always.” A single tear fell from Porter’s eye. Rather than wipe it away or get embarrassed as I’d expected, he simply pursed his lips and shrugged. There was nothing else to say.

  Chapter 21

  Jorjina was furious.

  And panicked.

  For just a moment, she knew the girl could see through her—see the truth. But not all of it. Not nearly all of it. Nevertheless, she worried that the damage was done. That she’d tipped her hand in a moment of vulnerability. She wanted to reassure her, to help her understand. To assure her that she had no intention of turning her back on Brinley for her son’s benefit.

  Those days were done.

  For four years, Jorjina had been forced to play a part in a ruse against the women of the compound. Each time a new helper would be assigned to her, Clarence would sit his mother down and explain the conflict at hand—what information was needed, what secrets were demanded. And for four years, she’d played her role.

  But not anymore.

  She was done being a pawn, done playing a part in the twisted games of her son. Done manipulating the innocent lives of those around her.

  Heavenly Father did not condone manipulation. Their god did not want her to lie, to exploit, to expose the weaknesses of others. In no way did her son’s methods exemplify the role of a true prophet.

  Her husband had been different. Walter Black was a true prophet, a leader who loved the members of their community and stayed true to his word, no matter the consequences to himself. He believed in the goodness of his people, in the path to celestial heaven. He walked the walk and talked the talk.

  He was truly a good man. A man you could believe in, a man you could follow through the gates of Heavenly Father.

  Clarence, however, was an entirely different story.

  Even at the age of seven, Clarence showed signs of being selfish, manipulative, and untrustworthy. Jorjina remembered the lies he told on a daily basis, all self-serving, of course. He’d lie to his siblings and about them. He’d lie to make himself look better in his father’s eyes. And no matter the punishment, no matter how red his little bottom became from the spankings Jorjina was forced to give him, he never repented. He never learned his lesson.

  He felt entitled to his lies, to his abhorrent behavior . . . after all, he was the oldest son of the prophet. And at an early age, the very bright boy had learned that he would, in time, take over that role for his father. In time, the entire compound of ten thousand residents would be under his advisement, under his control.

  When Clarence turned twelve years old, Jorjina discovered that he’d been stealing from not only his parents, but from the other sister wives and children as well. While completing routine house cleaning, Jorjina had decided to rearrange the storage in her sons’ bedroom. Clarence shared a room with two of his younger brothers, but had claimed the majority of the closet as his own. When Jorjina accidentally dropped a pair of socks on the floor of the closet, the lid of a large shoebox was nudged open, and her eyes widened in disbelief.

  When she knelt down and opened the box fully, she discovered hundreds of dollars in cash, house keys, watches, prayer books, and several small diaries stolen from his sisters. Jorjina was aghast at the selfish and sneaky behavior of her son. The thought of him becoming prophet ran chills down her spine. And so she confronted Walter.

  “He can’t be your successor. He just can’t.” She held the open box for Walter to inspect. After sifting through the stolen belongings, he closed his eyes tightly and sighed.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing to be done. He’s the oldest. It’s the way of our community. My hands are tied.”

  “What about Paul? He’s a good boy. Or Joseph . . . either one of them would be adequate for the job.”

  Walter’s forehead wrinkled in consternation. Jorjina knew he agreed with her, that Clarence was not capable of truly leading the people of their faith. But he expected her to keep sweet, to force her emotions down below the surface. He told her that when the time came, he would confer with Heavenly Father and make the proper decision.

  Ten years later, however, he died suddenly without ever telling his sons, or Jorjina, who his successor would be.

  In accordance with tradition, Clarence had assumed the role of prophet a mere two minutes after
his father was pronounced dead at the local hospital. Jorjina had wailed as she clutched her husband, taken entirely too soon. But when she looked up at Clarence, tears clouding her eyes, she didn’t see any sign that her son was in mourning. Instead she saw a twitch of satisfaction in his expression. It didn’t surprise her, but it sickened her just the same.

  That was more than ten years prior to the present day in her kitchen, where the young Brinley had turned a ghostly pale and closed herself off to Jorjina. Her heart ached, knowing that the friendship she had attempted to build with the girl was in jeopardy, knowing there was absolutely nothing she could say to make Brinley trust her intentions.

  None of the other young women had recognized, or even suspected, that the prophet was using Jorjina to learn their secrets. After several weeks, each of them had become comfortable enough to entrust Jorjina with their deepest private thoughts and emotions. And each time, it pained Jorjina to then share that information with her son.

  Luckily, many instances were minor—nothing to cause a reassignment or discipline of any kind. Because of this, Jorjina and the prophet had been able to continue the underground method of retrieving information about families in question. She thought for sure when Burt Jameson’s wife, the girl who constantly burned her eggs, was reassigned to the Cluff household, that this job of hers would come to a screeching halt. She’d assumed that Rebecca would inform her new sister wives that Jorjina was, in fact, the person who had revealed her secrets to the prophet. But that hadn’t happened.

  Rebecca, a tall woman with a full head of auburn hair, had been kind and well-intentioned with Jorjina, and they’d built a friendship on the surface. For some reason, Jorjina never felt fully comfortable with Elder Jameson’s third wife. But regardless of that, she’d done her best to fulfill her duties to her son by encouraging Rebecca to share the details of her life while they walked through the vacant park on a lonely Wednesday afternoon. Rebecca had arrived that morning with bloodshot eyes, her vulnerability hanging from her sleeve. Over the years, Jorjina had developed quite the “poker face,” as her late husband had called it. Rebecca, however, had none.