Tight

by Alessandra Torre

  Every saved soul was a pebble into the stream that was my broken heart. I threw every pebble in and hoped the water would dam, hoped the hurt would fade, hoped the memories would fade. But the stream never dried, the hurt never ceased, and my pain never healed.

  Until I met Riley. I watched her blush and take the slippers. Felt the brush of her hand as we walked. Heard the gasp of her inhale as I thrust. Became lost in her face when she orgasmed around my cock, felt the warmth of her smile when we shared a joke. Felt alive from her enthusiasm for life and living. Enjoyed peace as I watched the sigh of her chest as she slept. I met Riley and - for the first time since Elyse’s disappearance—felt the first hint of something more, of a life outside of my rabid search for a woman who was already dead.

  “Why do you ask me so many questions?”

  “I’m gathering information.” He uncrossed and recrossed his legs, this time at the ankle, sitting back in his chair and folding his arms on his chest.

  I sat on my bed, the handcuffs and bindings removed some time ago. I had, in ways, lost my fight. Could be trusted to sit without attacking, to sleep without destroying my room or myself. There was only so much trouble I could get into in the room, the reason for the cuffs more about domination than anything. Thinking about and remembering the long hours, I rubbed my wrists.

  “Let’s play a game, Kitten.”

  “I don’t like your games.”

  “Well, this one is different. It has a prize.” He grinned widely, like he had just granted me my freedom.

  He wanted me to ask. I could feel the words what prize shoving my tongue down, lips apart but I stayed mute. Sat on my bed and examined my toenails. Punished him in the way that hurt him the most, silence - a withholding of reaction, of information, of content to write down in his fucking notebook. I clamped my lips shut and picked at a spot on my big toe.

  Seconds turned into a minute. I examined, he sat, seconds ticked. Finally he sighed, a big loud guttural sound that stretched out unnecessarily. I waited, not looking, not responding, my peripheral vision showing movement of some kind. Finally, I broke, turning to him, my eyes falling on a brightly colored gift.

  “You want this, Kitten?” he asked, lifting up the box and shaking it.

  “Is it a cell phone?” I asked, releasing my toe.

  “No.”

  “Then no. Unless it’s a cell phone, or a ‘Get Out of Jail Free’ card, I’m not interested.”

  “Make me happy, Kitten, and you can have this. It will be the only pretty thing in this room, the only thing that is yours.”

  “You call me Kitten so that I form an emotional connection to you, isn’t that what you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “You should probably know that every time you say that word I want to either punch you in the face or vomit.”

  That sentence earned me a line in his notebook, his pen scratching across the surface, the present wobbling a little on his knee. It was a hot pink rectangular box, the kind that men’s dress shirts come in. It’s probably clothes. What an idiot. I’d probably answer every question in his notebook for a TV with Netflix.

  “This could be a good step for us, Kitten. Movement forward. Let’s play, okay?”

  “No.”

  “So, you won’t help me to earn this gift?”

  “No.”

  “Have you ever studied dog training, Kitten?”

  I didn’t answer.

  “There is a body of opinion that training a dog should be all positive reinforcement, manipulation with praise and treats. I had a theory I wanted to put into practice and have done so with you, Kitten.”

  I stopped fidgeting.

  “You’ve successfully completed phase one with me, and given me a lot of information, Kitten. For that, I will give you this present. One last gift from me. But from now on, you will not eat well, or receive anything, unless you earn it. And anytime you disobey me, you will be punished. If you speak back, you will be punished. If you do not answer my questions, or please me, you will be punished. He stood, the soles of his shoes scraping the concrete as he walked over to me. I watched the package as he set it down softly on the bed before me. “Enjoy this, Kitten. Thank you for proving my hypothesis that positive reinforcement is not enough. Sleep well. Tomorrow is a big new day.”

  I stared at the wrapped gift as he walked out the door.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep. I stared at it, recounted every request of his that I had turned down. Every question I had refused. Every statement that I had given a sarcastic response to. A hundred mini-tests. All that I had failed.

  Hours later, emotionally exhausted, I tried to squeeze the gift through my bars. When it didn’t fit, I squashed it, punching on it until it popped through the bars and landed, unopened, on the other side, skittering to a stop next to a bag of mulch.

  It was Phase One’s final act of rebellion.

  3 weeks before

  I gripped the handles of my bag—a new one—purchased a month earlier in Cabo. Hefted it over my shoulder and stepped toward the plane, Abe nodding at me, the sun making his silver hair glint. “Good morning, ma’am.”

  “Good morning. Smooth weather?”

  “Yep. Clear skies.”

  I smiled tightly, passing him my bag and jogging up the steps, a paperback in hand. I’d flown with Abe fifteen times now. He certainly seemed competent, touching down in last week’s storm without disaster. But I still got nervous, stepping into the death trap, even if it did come complete with elegant trappings and a minibar.

  I texted Brett, let him know we were departing, and buckled in. Reclined my seat and tried to relax. In two hours, we would touch down in Lauderdale, where we’d pick up Brett, and fly another half hour to Jamaica. The next three days would be spent on the beach before returning home—Brett to his, me to mine. A long distance apart. Each separation was starting to get harder. I stayed on the plane when it landed at FLL, moving aside the curtain and watching as Brett jogged across the pavement, a leather bag in hand, a polo stretched across his strong shoulders, jeans hugging thighs that I’d soon be astride. He opened the door himself, the change in cabin pressure bringing a gust of fresh air and, minutes later, the tousled head of the man who I was in love with.

  “Hey babe.” He leaned over my seat, placing both hands on the armrest, and gave me a deep kiss. “I missed you.”

  I grinned. “It’s been four days.” Only four days since we were on the beach in Cancun. My skin was hitting a level of tan it’d never known in October. Note to single women everywhere: date a man who works in exotic locales. I didn’t know how I’d ever go back to the unexciting men of Quincy.

  “Four days felt like forever. How much trouble is this weekend getting you into at work?”

  I shrugged. “I’ll sort it out.” I’d have to. I’d left that afternoon to a glare from Anita, my manager. Being the town’s only FA could only get me so much leeway, and I had spoiled them by not taking a vacation day in two years. The initial support over my new relationship had quickly soured into polite disapproval over the last months.

  I glanced out the window, my hands tightening on the armrest as the plane accelerated down the runway.

  ***

  Before Brett, I would have called Jamaica paradise. Emerald blue water, white sand, palm-treed islands everywhere you turned. Stick a frozen margarita in front of me and I would have been in bliss.

  But now, with Brett-quality travel underneath my sarong’s belt, my eyes saw things differently. They picked up on the gaunt barefoot youth that scowled at our car. They noted the armed guards who stood before the Ritz Carlton’s gates, their machine guns and bulletproof vests sending a shiver of alarm through me.

  “Is this a bad area?” My eyes met one of the guards’, and he nodded curtly, no smile given. Our car continued on, a directional arrow for our hotel ahead. I wondered briefly why we weren’t staying at the Ritz. It seemed ridiculous to fly private and then skimp on hotel accommodations, especially for
Brett, a man who spent freely.

  He shrugged. “It’s Jamaica.” Like that answered it.

  “Why’d we come here?”

  “Business.” He leaned over, nuzzling a spot above my collarbone before moving to my lips and taking a long kiss.

  “Is that why we’re staying at Luchen?”

  He pulled back, studied my eyes, his mouth curving. “You’re stuck on the Ritz, right? You’d rather stay there?”

  I laughed, trying to play off my comment. “No, I don’t care where we stay. I was just asking.”

  “The men I’m meeting want girls. Luchen is where the college girls come to party. They are simple men, more interested in bikinis than thread count. I’m just following their wishes.”

  I frowned. “Great. Something for me to think about every time you are off on ‘business.’”

  His hand stole down, in between my thighs. “I don’t want those girls, Riley. This is the only thing I have on my mind.” He drew his hand up, cupping my panties, his fingers teasing me through the cloth. I exhaled, trying to maintain composure.

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.” He looked toward the driver. “How far away are we?”

  “Five minutes, Mr. Jacobs. Maybe less.”

  “Five minutes.” His eyes returned to mine as he threatened me with the time, a digit starting a steady roll back and forth over my clit. I closed my eyes, my back involuntarily curving against the seat, making me more available to his hand. “Five minutes and then I’ll fuck you so well you’ll never doubt that again.”

  Our second day in Jamaica, and I was alone in the hotel bed. I stared at the clock. 11:48 PM. We had gone to dinner. Then had drinks in the bar. Then Brett excused himself, heading downstairs to meet with clients.

  I was noticing a pattern.

  Every trip—one or two nights, Brett had business. Not the entire night, just for a few hours, at the time in which nothing good happened. I wasn’t used to this, the men of my town, of my upbringing, were the Southern gentlemen type. We didn’t have late night parties, didn’t return home at two AM. My town was too small for secrets or affairs. You farted in your living room, and folks in Ken’s Deli were talking about it the next morning. So I was out of my element with Brett’s activities.

  I understood that not all business dealings were the handshake-over-cow-fence transactions that I grew up with. I understood that Brett’s clients were flashy men who chased women and fished with equal vigor, thinking nothing of downing tequila before writing a five million dollar check. That didn’t mean this smelled right. Didn’t mean that—just one time—he couldn’t bring me along. I sat up, swung my feet off the bed and thought.

  I could just call him out on it. I’d come close multiple times. Made enough offhand remarks to understand that he wasn’t interested in discussing it. In our relationship, this was the only hitch. The only thing that gave me pause. Was it worth chasing down?

  I walked to the bathroom and looked into the mirror. Ran my fingers over my lips, the surface still tender from the rough passion that Brett exhibited. I was a pretty girl; I knew that. A little heavy, but Momma called it ‘curvy,’ so it worked. Brett had never made me feel anything but gorgeous. Never gave me any reason to doubt his loyalty or attraction. Yet there were these nights. History had taught me that he wouldn’t return for hours, his location unknown. I wondered if he had taken out a hotel car, or if he stayed on location. Given the apparent violence in Jamaica, I guessed he was still at the resort, especially since his clients were staying here. I opened the closet door and ran my hands across the hangers. All dresses I’d worn for him before. My glamorous outfit selection was pretty thin, my budget not big enough to expand it. Brett had tried to take me shopping, but I’d held him off. Maybe later. For now, these four dresses did the job. I tapped a finger along the fabric.

  I should go back to bed. Stare at the ceiling and let my mind explore all sorts of possibilities. Blink some. Maybe reward myself with some bottled water if I got through an hour without pulling any hair out.

  Instead I tugged at the closest hanger, withdrawing the red mini-dress. I stared at it for a moment, then hung it on the towel rod and pulled off my T-shirt.

  ***

  God, I was too old for this shit. I waved a hand before my face in an attempt to break through the smoke, a futile move, the smog parting only to re-attack. I coughed, stepping farther inside, and looked around. Tops of heads, that was all that I saw, crammed into this club like sardines. Behind me, a body brushed by, a male hand taking a liberal journey of my ass. I tried to spin, tried to glare, but the press of bodies fought against me, moving me deeper into the throng. Twentysomethings everywhere, all showing tan skin and carrying drinks, one bump sloshing half a beer across my wrist. I shook my hand and tried to look for an out. Didn’t they have fire codes in this country? Heaven forbid an emergency occurred. I felt a bit of claustrophobia at the thought, and took a few shallow breaths, counting to five and forcing myself forward. I can’t go back. Maybe I can go through.

  It didn’t make sense. Why, in the name of boat sales everywhere, would he meet with clients here? But I’d just walked through the other areas of the hotel, everything closed with the exception of this club. He had to be here, in this place where no conversation could be had, a place where sexuality and alcohol seemed to be the only game in town.

  Forget finding Brett. I couldn’t take another minute of this; it wasn’t worth it. I just wanted to be back in the quiet of our room, with a working remote and fresh air. I could do secret reconnaissance at another resort, at another time. Preferably in a place where the locals didn’t stare me down like my breasts were made of gold, equal parts hatred and interest in their eyes. I stopped being polite and started to push through the crowd, aiming for the closest wall, not hearing my name until it was screamed at close range.

  I tried to look, but could only crane my neck so far, my attempt ending when a strong hand wrapped around my wrist and yanked me right, through a dancing couple, and into the hard chest of Brett. His other arm wrapped around my back, holding me in place, tight to his body, the crowd closing in. I looked up into his face, his eyes glaring down at me as if I had done something wrong. He lowered his head to my ear, his words barely discernible. “What are you doing here?”

  “I was looking for you!” I shouted the words, the music’s beat stealing them away. He pulled back enough to see my eyes, then lowered his mouth back to my ear.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “Why?” This time I matched his glare. Fine. This was where this would happen.

  “It’s dangerous. Go back to the room.”

  I laughed. It may have been a mistake. His eyes flashed in a way I’d never seen. A new level of anger. A shriek of surprise came out when he picked me up, underneath my knees and arms, curling me against his chest and shouldering us through the crowd, my kicking heels bumping strangers, my left hand hooking around his neck to protect my head while I pounded on his chest with my other hand. “Let me down!” I yelled in his ear, his face unresponsive, dark stubbornness on it as he plowed through the crowd.

  Our combined bulk broke through the bodies and backed through a door set into the wall, the music muffled in the dark hall where we ended up. I was finally free, my legs released without warning, right before he pinned me against the wall, his other hand braced next to my head. He waited for the door to swing shut, the hall quieting to a level where shouting was not necessary.

  “Now,” he spoke slowly and tightly, “tell me what the fuck you planned to accomplish by coming here tonight.”

  I bristled, trying to straighten off the wall, his hand pressing against my chest and easily keeping me in place. “I didn’t think I needed a reason to come see my boyfriend.”

  “You think this is a game?” he thundered. “Girls disappear from this resort all the time. Just now, I carried you through that crowd, you were screaming bloody murder, and not one person gave it a second look. What if it
hadn’t been me? What if it had been someone else? Someone who carried you into this hall and raped you? Killed you?” His gaze moved down, my face flushing at the realization that my dress, due to his carry, had ridden up to almost my waist.

  “Jesus Christ, Riley,” he groaned, his voice softening, his hand leaving the wall to run up my thigh. “I can see your fucking panties.” He slipped his hand underneath the dress, caressing the skin of my hip before moving to the front, my hand grabbing his wrist before it moved lower. If he touched me, I was done. I knew it; it’d happened too many times before. He’d learned every button I had and just how to push them. If he wanted to, he could fuck me right here in this hall, and I wouldn’t be able to say a word to stop it. Despite being mad at him. Despite not wanting to want it.

  “Stop.” I pressed on his wrist, resisted its movement.

  His head came up, his eyes meeting mine. “Tell me you don’t want it.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  He stepped closer, sliding his fingers under the top of my panties, my fight against the movement futile, my strength no match for his, his eyes tight on mine as his fingers slid over the thin patch of hair and pressed inside of me. I closed my eyes, sank a little against the wall, my legs spreading slightly on their own accord.

  “Liar,” he whispered. “Open your eyes, beautiful. Open your eyes and tell me why you are here.”

  “I told you.”

  “Yeah, you also told me you don’t want this.”

  I opened my eyes, glared at him, the action muted by a push of his finger, my eyes dropping closed as I weakly tried to push against his hand, not even sure why I was bothering.

  “You’re here because you don’t trust me.” He unzipped his pants, my eyes widening at the action.