“I’ll make it work. The plane can pick you up Friday night and have you back late Sunday.”
“You sure?” I leaned back, closing the browser window. Picking up the robe, I ran my hand over the soft fleece. It would easily be the nicest thing I’d ever worn.
“Absolutely. Is it a date?”
I closed my eyes and rested my head against the back of the chair. “It’s a date.”
“Talk to you tonight?”
I smiled. “Yes.”
I didn’t realize until after I hung up the phone, a ridiculous smile still on my face, that I hadn’t thanked him for the slippers and robe. I repacked the box, tying the ribbon back into place, my bow not looking nearly as nice as the original one, and made a mental note to thank him during our phone call that night.
“Ooooh…” Tammy’s squeal could put a pig in heat. I widened my eyes at her, and she went silent, instead waving her hands in excitement. “That is so romantic!” she whispered loudly, leaning forward across the table at me.
“Good Lord, Tammy, he bought something, he didn’t slay a dragon and rescue her from a castle,” Jena grumbled, swatting my hands away from the onion ring appetizer she was refusing to share.
“Shut it, Jena. It’s romantic. When’s the last time Matt got you anything?”
Ouch. Low blow. My wide eyes turned to a warning glare, and I kicked at Tammy under the table. Matt worked on one of the Vance’s tobacco farms. They covered their bills, they didn’t spoil each other with gifts. But Jena only shrugged good-naturedly. “I’m just saying … it’s a phone. It’s not romantic. It’s random.”
“I think it’s thoughtful.” I didn’t bother pointing out the robe and slippers, which I thought were romantic, especially given our history with the items. If Jena wanted to think it was a dumb gift … whatever. She was a big girl with her own opinions, just like me.
“It’s weird. He probably just wants to control you. Be able to see who you call since his name’s on the bill. In fact … wait a minute.” She put down a half-eaten ring, and I swiped it. “Lemme see the phone?”
I raised an eyebrow at her, reaching into my bag and digging around for it. “I haven’t charged it yet. And it doesn’t have Bejeweled. I already checked.” Jena is, and she’ll let you know it early on, the county’s reigning champion at Bejeweled. We all play it; she dominates it. Her high score’s up in the twenty-million-point range.
She looked at the box, pulling out her own phone and searching for something on the Internet. “Ha!” she spat out the word like she’d found the cure for cancer.
“What?” Tammy took the bait, reaching for the box, which Jena held out of reach.
“The Iridium 9555 can be easily tracked, making it a favorite among survivalists and emergency personnel,” Jena read from her phone with loud authority, the entire right side of Ruby Tuesday hearing every syllable.
“Would you be quieter,” I hissed. “Between the two of you, Roy will kick us out.”
“Shut up, he will not.” Jena waved her hand in the general direction of the manager, her voice managing to drop to a more reasonable level as she set down her cell. “Did you hear me, Riley? His romantic gift is allowing him to track you.”
“I think half the restaurant heard you,” Tammy supplied the words before I could.
“Did you even listen to yourself?” I cut in. “The tracking isn’t for crazy boyfriends. It’s for emergency situations. Which is probably why most people have a satellite phone in the first place. I’m not using the thing walking around Quincy. I’m using it when I’m out of town. With him. To talk to you guys.”
“She’s right,” Tammy chimed in. “You’re being crazy, Jena.”
“I’m being cautious,” Jena growled. “Forgive me if I’m not jumping on the I-Love-Brett bandwagon that you all are intent on decorating.”
“Hey, you’re the one who told me to go to Aruba, remember?” I reached out, taking the last onion ring out of pure spite. “You stood in my living room and all but pushed me out the door.”
“For one trip! I didn’t think it would lead anywhere!” Jena glared at me, and I tried to figure out what she was really saying. Why she was against this … relationship, or whatever you wanted to call what Brett and I were doing. I stared back at her and her eyes softened. Then she slumped back in her booth. “I just don’t want you to get hurt, Ril. He does seem great. Too great. There’s got to be something wrong.”
It was sad that that was how we thought. I knew what she was saying. I felt the same way. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t be attracted to me. Still interested in me. Setting dates six weeks out. I felt like I was in a glass house and waiting for a giant to step on it. Crush my blissful happiness in a horrific moment that would feel, in small part, like a blessing. Because it would have finally arrived, and the waiting, the horrible anticipation would be over, finally I wouldn’t have to wonder, I would know, unequivocally, that this fairytale had ended, and my normal life could resume its plod through normalcy.
“You can’t protect me,” I said quietly. “I can’t even do that.”
“I know,” she said. “But I hate it.”
I leaned forward and gripped her hand. “And I love you for it.”
“And me?” Tammy piped in, worry lacing her words. Jena and I laughed, and she threw her arm around Tammy.
“And you,” I reassured her. “I love you guys.”
4 months, 2 weeks before
Puerto Vallarta, Mexico
We laid back to front, his leg wrapped around me, every inch of us touching, the dark room illuminated in waves from the images on the screen. Before us, the final scene of Romeo & Juliet.
“Have you ever loved someone like that? Where you’d have given your life for her?” I whispered the words through the dark, his arms around my waist, hands cupping my breasts from behind. I felt the rock of his body as he moved slightly, a gap in the mold of our bodies.
“Yeah. A long time ago.”
I hadn’t expected an affirmative response, the words catching me off guard, the raw pain in his voice making a long time ago seem not that long ago at all. I wanted to roll over, wanted to see his face, but his hands tightened, nailed me back to his chest, like he could see my thoughts and wanted to block them.
Jealousy prickled through me, foreign and ugly in my veins. I knew that there had to be others, relationships before me, lives lived before we met at that casino. He wasn’t a man afraid of commitment, seemed custom fit for a relationship, but he’d spoken so little about his past. I’d asked; he’d evaded. It really seemed like, prior to meeting me, he had worked and traveled, little else. But now, a break in his tone, a weakness revealed. He had loved someone enough to die for them. Had I ever loved someone that greatly? Would I one day love him that much? I could feel it coming, the possibilities behind the jump that my heart was taking, each trip, each phone conversation, each gift another chip in the wall of my heart. Soon, he’d break through, and I’d have fallen. I only had to hope, at that point, that he’d have fallen for me too. “What happened?” I whispered, struggling to keep my voice light.
“She died.” He retightened his arms, gripped me closer, the dead tone of the words more scary to me than the raw shake of the prior ones. We laid there in silence, past the roll of the credits, past the intro to the next film. We laid there in silence until, at some point in the night, I fell asleep.
4 months before
Riley Johnson
&
Brett Jacobs
The words were in perfect calligraphy, the letters glimmering off the cream envelope at me. Of course Chelsea redid the envelopes. Of course she sent me a duplicate invite, one to replace the ‘Riley Johnson & Guest’ that she’d sent four months earlier. Pushy had always been a quick word used to describe her. She wanted Brett there, the invite one more hint just in case I didn’t get the first five. It was her wedding, her big day, and, for some reason, her walking down the aisle was an act incomplete if not
paired with supreme discomfort on my end.
“I’m not bringing him,” I’d said, just three days earlier, our toes spread and perched upon pedicure benches, mine half-way on their way to becoming ‘Barefoot in Barcelona’ nude, while Chelsea went with a more appropriate ‘Señorita Rose-alita’ pink. “It’d be a disaster, trying to introduce him to all of Quincy at once. Plus, the focus and gossip should be on you and Jarad, not me and my weekend fling.”
“Seriously, shut up. It’s way past a weekend fling at this point. Stop assuming it’s gonna end and start looking at this like a serious relationship. It’d be an insult to that relationship to not bring him.”
She’d been right. I knew that. I was playing goalie with my heart, running around after it with a stick and whacking it into place whenever it got happy or hopeful, whacking extra hard when words like I love you threatened to spill out. Could a relationship survive in that environment? Could it thrive? When had I gotten so afraid of love and hope that I strangled it to death with my insecurity? Maybe it was easier to date an ugly man, one with obvious flaws, one who belched and couldn’t dress, and wasn’t so damn perfectly tempting. At least then I’d feel confident.
I tapped the envelope against my palm and checked out the postmark as I walked up the driveway. Three days earlier. That was what I got for not checking my mail every day. She must have left the nail salon and driven straight home, her fresh nails pulling out a new invite before the polish had even set.
I threw the invite, along with the rest of my mail, on the kitchen counter, fed Miller, and flipped on the bathroom light. Ran a hot bath and lit a candle. Submerged myself in bubbles and dozed a little, contemplating the idea of Brett as a wedding date.
It’d be horrible. Our bridesmaid dresses were coral for God’s sake.
My parents would be there. As would my ex. As would all of the girls. As would my boss. As would almost every other person in Quincy.
It’d put pressure on our relationship. Didn’t all weddings? I’m pretty sure I read that in Cosmo once. “Never Take a Man to a Wedding” … Something like that was the title. The article had had bullet points and everything. Something about how we’d look needy, and they’d feel pressured to flee.
Plus … this was Quincy. Not a five-star resort or a private beach home, or a steak restaurant with candles and champagne. I didn’t even know if our relationship would work in the light of an average day. Brett might be some finery vampire, whose skin might eat away in the presence of polyester, rednecks, and American beer.
By the time the water was cool, my toe thumbing the drain before stepping out, my mind had all but decided. I would, damn the consequences, invite him. Warn him of the perils involved, and let him make his own decision. He was a big boy. And if Chelsea McCrory’s wedding ended up being the demise of our relationship, then it wasn’t built to last anyway.
I dried off, got in pajamas, and found my phone, seeing a new text from him, a photo. I opened up the pic while sticking popcorn in the microwave—my dinner that evening. It took my mind an extra second to process the photo, the cream invitation in his hand identical to my own, just a few feet away on my counter.
Chelsea McCrory. That little witch. She’d sent him his own invite, my name casually beside his own in that damn perfect calligraphy script.
And … just like that, I lost all credit for making my own decision to invite Brett. Just like that I had to call him and explain that I really did want him to come to my best friend’s wedding, which was in two weeks … and I hadn’t made any previous mention of.
My hands tightened on the phone, and I seriously contemplated throwing the damn thing against the wall. Instead, I took a deep breath, collected my thoughts, and called Brett.
“Today’s lesson is about removal of hope. The strongest slaves hold out for an idea of release, of rescue. That makes it infinitely harder for them to adjust to and enjoy life as a slave.” He picked up his pen.
I will never adjust to this. I will never enjoy this.
“Do you have hope, Kitten?”
“No.” Yes.
“Is there someone that you envision rescuing you?”
“No.” Brett.
“I’ve told you about this cell. About the ten pounds of concrete that surround each of your bars. About the fact that, should you somehow escape this cell, that you will still be locked in the basement, a windowless space whose door has four deadbolts. The closest house is a half-mile away. I live alone. Your screams don’t carry past this room. Your hope for escape, or for rescue, should be dead.”
“It is.” Brett will save me. He will look for me. He will find me.
“No...” He stood and walked in a small circle around me, my knees on the hard concrete, my hands on my thighs, my eyes closed. I was so tired. “I don’t believe it is. I believe you still have hope, Kitten.”
I didn’t know what that meant - his belief in my hope - but when he pulled my chin up and I stared into his eyes, I knew that it was bad. I knew I had failed another test.
My hardest day was not the first time I was raped. Or when I spent unknown hours handcuffed in my own defecation. Or when I was whipped. My hardest day was that one, when I lost my teeth. Four of them, molars taken out with a tool that looked like expensive pliers.
And the hardest part wasn’t the pain — it did exist, but he allowed me pills. The hardest part was when I was told the reason, Master stopping on his way out to deliver the news, my captured teeth in a Ziploc bag hanging from his hand. When I was told that it was for when the remains of my body were found.
“I’m sorry, Kitten. Your hope was keeping you too strong, making it too difficult. Later, you’ll understand, you’ll appreciate this.”
I did actually, some time later, appreciate it. Not for the loss of hope, but that he didn’t take a finger or toe to use to stage my death. The teeth hurt, but I wasn’t left with any deformities or outward scars. When I tested a smile at the dusty mirror above the sink, I looked normal. As normal as a girl in a basement cell could look. A girl who had a habitual black eye and split upper lip.
After he pulled my teeth, I struggled, through the haze of medication and pain, to speak, to ask intelligent questions. But he silenced me, laying a firm hand over my sore mouth, his lips coming down to my forehead with a soft press. “It’s only hard for a brief while,” he whispered against my hairline. “The quicker you let go, the better it will be.”
I had stilled, hating the weight of his hand, the heat of his breath, the brush of his lips. Had fallen into the role of dutiful slave, the one who pleased him, the one who limited the level of contact that was needed. I laid still, the fight going out of my features, my muscles falling limp, my questions disappearing, replaced by the simple thought that Iwillneverletgo. A tear leaked down my cheek when I closed my eyes, and I breathed easier when he released my mouth, his lips leaving my forehead in one wet smack, the creak of his shoes heard when he stood. I lay in place, my jaw aching, more tears streaming, and repeated the mantra.
I would never let go.
I loved Brett, and he would keep looking.
I would never let go.
I loved Brett, and he would keep...
The medication took me away.
“So you do want me to come.”
I swallowed a big gulp of Mountain Dew. “Yes. But I want you to understand what you’re getting into.”
“I’ve been to weddings before. I have a tux.”
“God no. Don’t wear a tux.” Yep, a definite disaster. Gargantuan.
He laughed. “Okay. You seem stressed about this.”
“I am. Terrified actually.”
“Then I won’t go.”
I took a deep breath. Jumped off the cliff. “I think you should. I will be a basket case and everything that can possibly go wrong will, but I think you should come. Really.”
“I don’t want you to feel forced into this.”
Now I laughed. “I don’t want to force you into it.”
>
“Anything involving you I’ll never have to be forced into. Trust me on that.”
I was losing this battle, my caution not strong enough to fight the fall of my heart. “Okay.”
“When should I arrive? This invitation says the wedding’s next Saturday night.”
“Are you working that weekend?” He seemed to work every weekend, our trips often interspersed with his meetings or functions. I didn’t mind. It gave me some alone time, a chance to visit the spa or catch up on my reading. Or more recently, catch up with the girls on my new phone.
“Nothing I can’t get someone else to handle.”
“Then come Friday. You can stay with me.” I felt suddenly shy, like the assumption of his lodging was forward – even though we’d left the separate rooms arrangement back in Aruba.
“And what about this weekend? Can I steal you for a few days? The Caribbean weather is supposed to be perfect.”
I groaned. “I can’t. Chelsea has us all working overtime. Saturday night we’re having a sleepover at her house and assembling the favors. She’ll kill me if I flake out.” It was true. She literally would. She’d already described to me how she’d do it (strangle me with her garter belt), and where she’d put my body (in Lake Talquin, weighted down with the party favors I so carelessly skipped out on). Plus, forgetting the imminent threat of death, there was the fact that I missed my friends.
“A sleepover?”
I lost a little of my stress in the giggle at his response. “Yes, a sleepover. What, you and your friends don’t have sleepovers?”
“Are hair braiding and naked pillow fights involved?”
“Oh yes,” I teased, dropping my voice lower while simultaneously shaking out the popcorn into a bowl. What could I say? I was a good multitasker. Could pull off sexy seductress and gourmet dinner preparer, all at the same time. “Naked pillow fights are right before skinny dipping and whipped cream wrestling.”
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