Chaos and Control

by Season Vining

  A casual gesture

  To claim this girl and

  It surprises us both

  He retreats and knows

  He has been beaten

  Another meal with her in my space

  She lays her hand on my thigh

  Like a secret between lovers

  A simmering kind of need bubbles

  Beneath my cool surface

  Irrational possession carves

  Holes through my resistance

  I keep my distance

  Until it is impossible to do so

  A casual conversation

  To discuss baseball and

  It surprises us both

  She retreats only when

  She knows she has won

  - Preston

  Chapter Fourteen

  Ready to Die

  We are in the hall between Bennie’s door and Preston’s. He is looking at me like he wants to devour me. I’m looking at him like I want to let him.

  “No one has ever been in my apartment,” he says.

  “Do you want me to come in?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’ll go slow,” I promise.

  Preston slides the key into the lock and turns it. He does the same with the deadbolt and pushes the door open. Before I can peek in, he grabs my hand and pulls me inside, slamming the door closed. I am pressed to the wall now, Preston holding me in place with his hard body while he secures the door. He slides the chain in place, then locks the doorknob. The deadbolt clicks and then unlocks. He turns it again and unlocks it once more. I can feel his frustration growing, his body tensing as he locks and re-locks the door. Sliding my hands around his waist, I lean forward and place a kiss at the base of his throat. The lock slides into place one final time, and Preston pulls away.

  “I’m sorry,” he says.

  “Don’t be. Do you want to have a drink?”

  “Just one,” he says.

  “Okay.”

  Preston walks to the kitchen. I watch him check the coffee pot twice, and then he pulls his whiskey from the cupboard. Now that I can look around, I’m amazed at what he’s done with my old apartment. It’s immaculate and minimalistic, a stark contrast from the hippie den next door. There are framed album covers in a grid pattern on one wall, while the others are bare. All his furniture looks new, and the floors shine like a wooden mirror.

  “Do you want one?” he asks, waving the bottle at me.

  “No, I’m good.”

  His shoulders move and flex as he pours the drink and replaces the bottle in the cabinet. Preston turns and finds me still pressed against the wall.

  “I’m a shitty host,” he says, gesturing to the sofa. “Come in.”

  I walk over, slip out of my heels, and line them up neatly next to my clutch on the floor. I take a seat at the end of the sofa while Preston puts on a record. I laugh when the intro starts and am blessed with a lopsided smirk from Preston.

  “Notorious B.I.G.? Is that your version of seduction music?”

  He takes a seat next to me, his glass of whiskey in one hand. The other hand smooths down the front of his shirt several times before coming to rest on the couch behind my head. He looks at me over the glass as he empties it in one swallow.

  “I wasn’t aware I needed the aid of seduction music.” This new confidence captivates me in the most effortless way. My willpower to take things slow is vanishing.

  “You’re right. I’m a sure thing.”

  Preston reaches out, one hand sliding behind my neck and urging me forward. I go willingly. With little effort, I am straddling his lap while he kisses me breathless. I slip my arms through each tiny strap holding my dress up so that it now sits low on my chest. Both of his hands drop to my thighs, pushing my dress up farther and farther until my purple panties are revealed. Preston stops now, dropping his gaze to that little scrap of material. His chest heaves, fighting for oxygen and, I think, restraint.

  I shift my hips and feel his hardness pressing beneath me. Preston groans, and his hands fly to my hips to stop my movements. He closes his eyes as the muscles in his jaw tighten. I run my fingers through his hair and rest them on his tense shoulders.

  “Are you okay?” I whisper.

  “I’m…” He blows out a breath toward the ceiling and opens his eyes. There is a desperation present that I haven’t seen before. “God, I’m a fucking mess.”

  I press my chest to his and place my lips at his ear. “Tell me what you need, Preston.”

  His hands slide up my sides, stopping on my ribs. His thumbs move in a sweeping arc below each breast.

  “I need to touch you, Wren. But I need…”

  “Control. I know. It’s yours. I’m yours.”

  A growling kind of groan comes out of him as Preston stands with me still in his arms, my legs wrapped around his waist. He walks us to his bedroom and lays me on the bed, like I’m delicate, breakable. Then his weight is on me, and it’s amazing. Preston’s lips kiss and bite from my ear down to my shoulder while he rocks his hips against mine. I pull the top of my dress down so that it is now just a black band around my waist. His belt buckle is cold against my skin. One of his hands cups my left breast, and his thumb skims lightly over my nipple. I cry out, but his mouth covers mine, swallowing down the sound.

  “Preston, yes,” I say, because there is nothing coherent left.

  I am overwhelmed by the sounds he makes, the scent of him, and the possessiveness of his touch. Just when I think I’ll scream from frustration, Preston sits back on his heels. His fingers slide down each side of my ribcage before curling around the thin purple ribbons on my hips. His eyes meet mine, asking permission, and I nod. Too slowly, he pulls my panties down my legs and drops them onto the floor.

  If it were anyone else, I might feel self-conscious with the way he’s just sitting there, watching me. His eyes leave a trail across my body, and when I can’t take not touching anymore, my hands reach for him. Preston comes willingly, stretching out beside me. My hands slide over his arms and chest before I start unfastening the buttons on his shirt. He closes one hand over mine to stop me and shakes his head. He pulls both wrists over my head and holds them there.

  “Just let me,” he pleads.

  I nod, willing to give him anything. Preston walks the fingers of his free hand over my heated flesh. He moves between my breasts, over my dress, and past my belly button. When his large, warm hand slides between my legs, I let out a sigh. One finger slips in, and he drags it back and forth, circling where I need him most. It is the kind of torture that is equal parts pleasure and frustration.

  “You’re so wet for me, Wren,” that low voice whispers. I thought Preston’s voice was sexy before, but hearing him talk dirty is a whole new level of torment.

  I whimper and press my hips up, seeking more friction. Preston slides a finger inside me, then another. He has me writhing beneath his touch, moving in and out in a steady motion.

  “Yes. God, Preston.”

  We are a dance of stuttered breaths, kisses, and that unforgiving rhythm. My body bucks against his hand when he brings his thumb up to tease my clit. The feel of his clothes against my naked flesh, the press of his body into my side, only heightens every sense. Stretched out before him, I feel each nerve in my body come alive. The pressure inside builds and builds, until I can no longer contain it. I let out a cry, blinding lights dance beneath closed eyelids as my body bows up off the mattress. Preston keeps working me, keeps touching me until it’s torture to my overly sensitive body. When I get my voice back, I beg him to stop with a blissful smile. He releases my wrists and withdraws from my body. I am boneless and spent.

  Preston places a kiss on my lips, just two pecks before retreating. But I don’t let him go. Instead, my hands lock behind his neck and hold him to me. Our tongues tangle and taste and seek each other out until neither of us can breathe. I let him go, and he ends this with eight kisses to my swollen lips.

  A deep crease appears between his brows, th
e muscles in his neck pulled taut. I can tell that his steady rhythm of deep breaths is deliberate.

  “How are you?” I ask.

  Preston sighs and rolls onto his back. “I hate that you have to ask me that.”

  He hops up from the bed, adjusts his crotch, and slips into his bathroom. While he’s in there, I straighten my dress and slip my arms back through the straps. I hear him wash his hands twice before emerging. Preston leans against the doorframe and crosses his arms. I sit on the end of his bed, waiting.

  “You’re beautiful,” he says. A statement so simple it makes my heart thump against my chest. “You’re always beautiful. But right now, you’re stunning, perfect.”

  “Preston.”

  “It’s true, Wren.”

  “No one is perfect.”

  “But people can be perfect for each other. Don’t you think?”

  “I should get going,” I say. Standing, I straighten the material of my dress and step toward him. The strain beneath his zipper is obvious, and it’s the only thing I see. “Because if I stay, I’m going to need to take care of that for you.”

  I smooth my hand over his crotch, and his entire body jumps. Preston grips the door frame, his knuckles turning white, before he takes a step away.

  “I’m not ready.” He groans and bangs his forehead once against the wall. “Listen to me, I sound like some teenager trying to protect my fucking virtue.” Preston takes a deep breath, holds it for a few seconds and releases it. “I’m fine, Wren. I’ll, uh, handle it.”

  “Hmm. Thanks for that visual,” I say before strolling into the main room.

  I slip into my shoes and grab my clutch from the floor while Preston unlocks the door.

  “I had a great time,” he says.

  “Yeah?” He nods, his eyes still filled with hunger. “And you weren’t intoxicated,” I point out.

  “Nope.”

  “You starting to feel differently about baseball?”

  “You’ve definitely made me a fan.”

  I laugh and place two kisses on his smiling lips. “Good night, Preston-who-handles-it-himself.”

  He chuckles and looks away before his eyes come back to me. “Good night, Wren.”

  Out in the hall, I lean against the wall and listen as he locks the doorknob, slides the chain into place, and clicks the deadbolt only once.

  …

  In the morning, I wake feeling refreshed and alive in all the right places. There’s a smile on my face, and the boy next door put it there. It’s early, so Bennie is getting ready for work when I enter the kitchen and pour a bowl of cereal and milk. As I eat, I flip through a stack of mail there and find a postcard. It shows the Buffalo Botanical Gardens on the front. Only my name and this address are on the back.

  My heart leaps into my throat as my eyes focus on the handwriting; the lazy slant of the letters is unmistakable. I hear his voice in my head, not the soothing one, the one that was always followed by violence. It rattles me to my core.

  “What was he doing here, Wren?”

  “He was waiting for you to get off work, Dylan. I swear.”

  “In my apartment. With my girl. And you think I believe nothing happened?”

  That memory makes the cereal in my stomach want to revolt. I squash down my nausea and jump from the table. The postcard sits heavy in my grip. It feels like a cement brick instead of paper. I stand over the trashcan and rip it in half. And then I rip those pieces in half. My shaking fingers keep ripping until there is nothing but tiny squares of confetti that trickle through my fingers. My chest heaves with needed breaths as I stand over the garbage, wanting to light it on fire. But I know that won’t change anything.

  He knows where I am.

  A loud thumping sound echoes in my head. I search the room before realizing it’s my own pulse, my heart rattling its cage. Tears blur my vision as I try to reel in my emotions. Dylan has my phone number and now my address. The realization of those things sends me to my knees, as if the earth has vanished from beneath me. A choking sob escapes before I slap my hand over my mouth.

  Bennie races in and drags me off the floor.

  “Baby girl, what is it?” she says, gripping my shoulders. “Talk to me.”

  All I can do is continue to cry as she moves me to the couch and sits me down. Bennie grabs a cool, wet towel and dabs at my cheeks. I chew on my lip while she waits expectantly.

  “What’s going on, Wren? The truth.”

  I spot a photo of the two of us hanging across the room. It’s the day of my high school graduation. We are both smiling at the camera, blissfully unaware of how much our lives would change. I swallow down my emotions and give Bennie what she’s asking for.

  “The last city I spent time in was Buffalo, New York. I wasn’t there long before I met Dylan. He was so gorgeous and a badass—the kind of guy most girls are warned to stay away from. He liked me, and I was fascinated.”

  Bennie strokes my hair and nods for me to continue.

  “At first Dylan’s possessiveness was hot. I loved that he wanted me so much. He took me places and showed me things I hadn’t experienced yet. Some of them were good, some of them weren’t.

  “After a couple months, I was ready to move on. His control over me seemed to get worse by the day. I never stayed in one place long. And even though I told him that from the beginning, he wasn’t willing to let me go.”

  “Wren, did he hurt you?” she asks, more angry than scared.

  I look away and ignore her question, but there’s affirmation in my silence. “I packed my stuff and tried to leave one night. The look on his face is one I’ll never forget. It was a clear warning, like my whole life flashing before my eyes. He threatened to kill me. I believed him, so I stayed.”

  “How did you get away, sweetie?”

  Flashes of pain and fear shoot through my body, and I feel too vulnerable. I want to flee the room and disappear back onto the streets, but then I remember that this is Bennie. She is my rock and my everything.

  “He beat me one night after he found a friend of his in our apartment. We weren’t doing anything, I swear. He was just waiting on Dylan to get home. But it didn’t matter. After that, I made a plan. A few days later, I drugged him with his own sleeping pills. When he passed out, I knew I had to move fast. I grabbed his secret stash of cash and took off. I got here three days later.”

  Tears fall from Bennie’s eyes, and she pulls me in for a hug. I rest my head on her shoulder and wrap my arms around her waist. She smooths her hands over my back and holds me tighter. Suddenly, Bennie jerks back, her hands holding my face.

  “You should have called, Wren. You could have asked me for help. I would have come get you or something.”

  I shake my head as she drops her hands. “I couldn’t. I didn’t want to involve you, Bennie. Plus, I figured you were mad at me for leaving.”

  “You’re my Wrenie. I’d do anything for you,” she says with desperation in her voice.

  “I know,” I reassure her. “I know.”

  “Is Dylan the guy who called the other day?” she asks.

  “Yeah. And I got a postcard today. He must have known I would run, because I found a GPS device in my bag after I got here. It had to be him. I destroyed it, but he knows where we live, Bennie.”

  She sits back against a stack of throw pillows wringing her hands, and I’m hypnotized by black nail polish and pale skin. “Do you think he’ll do anything?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Seeing, feeling, touching, tasting

  She gives me the gift of sight

  Watching her fall apart

  Pulls me together

  The sweet aroma of

  Woman, lust, flowers, sweat

  Delivers a buzzing high

  I’ve never known

  She is my addiction,

  A kinder word for obsession

  So tempting in her willingness

  So promising in her words

  Still my internal struggle
<
br />   Prevails and she leaves me

  Hard and wanting

  What I cannot have

  - Preston

  Chapter Fifteen

  Exodus

  Though I want to tuck myself away and hide from the rest of the world, I want to see Preston more. After Bennie fusses over me and makes sure I’m okay, she heads downstairs. I take a long shower, standing beneath the spray until my skin is pink. When I’m finished, I swipe at the condensation on the mirror and study my reflection. The roots of my hair are showing, blonde fading into lavender. I’m okay with the way it looks. I’m back to my normal weight now, rounded curves where they should be, instead of jutting hip bones. It’s the first time in months that I’ve been completely bruise free. I push away the sadness and anger that accompanies that thought.

  I put on my blue-jean cutoffs, my Beastie Boys T-shirt, and my boots—feels like I’ll need them today. I know they’re only shoes, but sometimes they give me the power to face things I don’t want to. Sometimes the worn leather and frayed laces make me invincible.

  When I enter the store, Preston is helping a middle-aged lady with a vintage chair. Even though it is big and bulky, he has no problem picking it up and carrying it to the front of the store. Bob Marley sings of “Three Little Birds” as Bennie rings it up. Once the transaction is complete, Preston carries the chair outside to the woman’s waiting truck. He loads it in the back and straps it down for her. I stand next to the front counter and watch through the window as the woman offers him a cash tip for helping. He holds his hands up and shakes his head. She steps closer, holding the money out again. He says something to her, and she laughs. It’s not a that-was-really-funny laugh, it’s a throw-my-head-back-touch-my-cleavage kind of laugh. She’s flirting. Finally, she climbs in her truck and drives away.

  Preston reenters the store, and I’m rewarded with a big grin when he finds me there. My instinct is to rise up on my toes and kiss him, but I stop myself. Even though we’ve rounded second base, I still feel this shy, reserved vibe coming from him. We stand a couple of feet apart, just staring, the lyrics of “One Love” passing between us. My mind replays our time together last night, and by the look on his face, he’s doing the same thing. I can’t help myself when I mouth the words silently. Let’s get together and feel all right.