Shut Out

by Liz Crowe

Where did Brody come from anyway? She replied as if they’d not ended their conversation the night before with a phone sex hand job for him and silence from her.

  Not even sure really. As long as I can remember, I’ve been Brody, although that makes for a bit of pain in the ass on legal docs. I do know one of my foster parents insisted on calling me Bobby Joe, which I fucking hated.

  Ah, so the J is for Joseph?

  Yep. Bobby Joe from the Tennessee hills, parentless, soccer-playing, straight-A student. With all my teeth.

  I love your accent, she replied, surprising him.

  He glanced around the bus at his teammates. Half of them slept with ear buds stuck in their ears, the other half tapped messages on phones or small computers, likely doing their marketing-department-required social networking for the day, reminding him he had not logged onto either Facebook or Twitter for over a week.

  Another message from her arrived. Were you treated badly in foster care?

  He took a breath, trying to decide how to relate that being shuttled around like a library book didn’t exactly constitute being treated well in the first place. And how much he should actually tell her about the dirty apartments, often drunk or high parents, sometimes abusive temporary brothers, and the general unwanted feeling he still lugged around with him, no matter how far into adulthood he got.

  No. It was no fun, but nothing overtly abusive, I don’t guess. He shifted and winced when pain shot up from his shoulder into the base of his skull. That damn shoulder needed therapy. The head-cracker he’d gotten from Nicco and Cody had forced him to focus on the condition of his brain pain long enough to neglect the long-standing injury he had sustained when his Mistress had shackled him overnight, arms over his head, claiming he had failed to service her properly. An event he’d only half-remembered until that very moment.

  God, she had really fucked with him. Three years, such a blur of intensity and discovery and emotional and physical abuse. Only the briefest full memories would emerge now, as if he’d been chipping away at the wall holding them back, and they’d started to drip, slowly, into his consciousness. The shoulder thing he had chalked up to falling too many times on it in goal. But it had been her, his Mistress, who had bestowed that on him as punishment. And he had let her. A shiver shot down his spine.

  Well, it must have been awful, not knowing where you’d be living month to month.

  He blinked at that. Then again when she sent a second message on top of it:

  I’m so sorry you had to go through it. It makes me mad, thinking of you as a little boy being tossed from house to house for the foster parent’s monetary benefit.

  Yeah. Well, I turned out all right, I guess. It made me flexible, emotionally speaking.

  He wasn’t even sure why he said such a thing, and wished he had the nerve to say what he wanted to right then: that it had been the worst sort of awful, terrible, and left him with a giant, empty hole in the middle of his chest most days. Mainly because he had zero frame of reference for what it meant to have a healthy relationship with another person.

  I know you did. See you soon…Bobby Joe.

  Don’t even think about calling me that…Sophie Lynn.

  WTF? How did you…never mind. Safe trip.

  He smiled and typed his final message before he lost his nerve. I miss you. Can we go out…maybe to dinner or something when I get back?

  Her response was nearly instantaneous. Probably not. He frowned then another message hit the screen. Maybe.

  Taking that at face value, he settled into sleep, hoping to ward off the creeping onset of another headache.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It started when he hit the ground from the West Coast tour, well, before that actually. She realized this as she opened her front door to discover a delivery boy clutching two-dozen red roses and a note:

  I won’t give up until you let me buy you dinner, RJV

  She scoffed and sent him a Skype message informing him of her rose allergy, but assuring him the ladies in the front office enjoyed the flowers. He ignored her a solid three days after that. Once she got over being impressed at his self-control, she forced away any sort of silly, girlie giddiness at the thought of a man sending her flowers.

  Hope equaled a recipe for disappointment, she reminded herself, touching her scar through her clothes nearly a hundred times a day keeping that mantra going. She had loved Him, her Dom, the man of her dreams. And while he had not abused her physically, at least any more than she would allow him to, he had been a lying, stealing SOB who had, in the end, nearly killed her. No, she would not go out with Robert Joseph Vaughn. She simply could not afford to risk her soul that way.

  She had a Madame Katrina session scheduled for Saturday so she donned her usual garb and attitude and earned another nine hundred dollars. It had been a fairly predictable session, too, a relief; although part of her wished it had been Brody. Her disappointment, when she spotted her not-Brody client, made punishing the guy hard core like he requested, pretty damn easy.

  “Yo, that guy said he’ll be back next weekend.” Lance tossed her a towel when she emerged from the shower at two in the morning. “Nice work, Kat.”

  “Yeah,” she said, still a little wobbly coming down off her own Domme high. She did enjoy it. But the memory of Brody’s words spoken in that knee-melting, syrupy accent, I want to make love to you, Sophie, wafted across her brain. Damned men. She had to purge him. Big time.

  “Listen, I got a scary email from Frank,” she said, as casually as possible, tugging her hair up into a ponytail.

  Lance’s eyes narrowed. “Oh?”

  “Yeah, so just be aware that if I text you 911, it’s a Frank sighting.”

  “Sure.” He kept it simple, but there was power in his words. Lance would never let Frank hurt her.

  “Thanks.” She gave him a hug, and he hung onto her for a few extra minutes.

  ****

  Sunday she slept in, relishing the rest, but missed her Brody fix, even if just the sound of his voice or the sight of his words on her phone screen, no strings attached. The doorbell rang at noon, surprising her as she finished up some laundry. She’d been pondering whether to read or watch a movie while eating a pint of ice cream and had just discovered she had nothing worthwhile in her freezer.

  She opened her front door without thinking and came face to face with a delivery kid holding a small cooler. He consulted a piece of paper then handed it to her. A small truck, with the words Washtenaw Dairy emblazoned on the side, her favorite local ice cream place, sat on the street. Unable to suppress a grin, she pulled the cooler open to find three pints of her very favorites, including Double Mackinac Island fudge. She found a small envelope tucked down between the containers.

  Round two: me bribing you with your favorite treat. Dinner? Monday? RJV

  Sophie opened her laptop and sent him an email, a slower method of delivery than their usual text messages, but she wanted to put her carefully considered thoughts into words. As she composed the message, she ate the decadently sweet frozen treat, letting it melt in her mouth and slide down her throat.

  Dear RJV

  Thanks for your valiant efforts, especially with the ice cream. Good job remembering my one vice, after too much coffee.

  I think that you and I need to ponder whether or not we should see each other socially. I’m not sure I am ready to date, and you really ought to focus on girls your own age. I enjoy being your friend. And it would be sad if our friendship faded because I won’t go out on a date with you.

  So the answer is no. But thank you,

  SLH

  She hit send, and turned the thing off, getting lost in a day of classic movies and dessert.

  ****

  After that, she got the silent treatment for a solid two weeks. When he finally emerged, sort of by accident into her line of vision, she’d been reduced to a twitchy, pissed off mess.

  Frank had indeed been sending her emails, and he’d called once, leaving a message she d
eleted before listening to a single word. She should call the police, but she notified Lance instead, every time.

  She’d been sitting on her office ledge sipping an afternoon decaf latte and enjoying the Brody view from afar. She made it a point to watch the team practices, always willing him not to work so hard, not to leap for balls and put his head so near the feet, knees, and skulls of other players. Being a near-professional Brody-stalker by this point, she knew Kelli had faded. Her photo had not appeared anywhere near his public online presence for weeks, and she’d heard through the grapevine the girl had been making a bit of a fool of herself, hanging around, begging Brody to pay attention to her.

  “But for the grace of god…or something,” she muttered, half sympathetic with the poor little rich girl who no longer got her way with the sexy soccer star. Just as she went back to work, a hulking presence appeared in her doorway. She glanced up on autopilot assuming the man there had come from marketing with some reports she’d requested.

  “Sophie, my sweet, my darling, just look at you….”

  Her blood froze at the sound of his familiar voice. She gulped, and her knees trembled, but she stayed upright. “Get out of here, Frank, or whatever the fuck your name is.” Her voice sounded strong. A good thing since her brain had locked up in terror. Just the sight of him sent her programmed body into overdrive making her nearly drop to her knees and crawl toward him, ready to do anything he wanted. The distinct sound of her door closing and the snick of the lock brought tears to her eyes.

  “Oh, I’m just stopping by to check on you. To see your new life….” He ran his hand over a leather chair. She gritted her teeth with the urge to pour bleach over the damn thing to eliminate his germs.

  “I’m calling security.” She picked up the phone, but her head clanged, and her ears buzzed with a sickeningly familiar refrain of submit, be cowed, and be rewarded. At that split second she recalled the security call button located under her desk could be activated without his knowledge.

  His control over her, even after all she’d been through, fascinated and terrified her in equal measure. Not surprising, since he’d spent nearly two years training her in ways she still didn’t understand. His gray eyes pinned her like an ant, or a mouse. That flipped some switch in her head, rallying inner forces she didn’t realize she possessed. She refused to be a victim, no matter how strong the compulsion at that moment to drop to the floor and beg him to fuck her.

  Keeping her grip on the phone, she took a step to the left, putting her foot within reach of the alarm button. She cursed herself for recalling his lips on her skin, for remembering the sting of his palm, sometimes harsh with a smack to her ass, other times to her face when she made too much noise while they had sex. So firm, yet smooth, comforting, and gentle as he guided her through a door, or up a flight of steps, anywhere in public. In private, the man many times became a monster. She clenched her jaw, forcing the sensory-overloading memories away.

  As soon as she opened them she realized it as a near fatal mistake. Frank loomed into her space, his six-foot-six body towering over her. She shivered so violently, her teeth rattled. She tried to meet his gaze, gave it all she had, but her training took hold and would not allow it. His palm touched her face, tender now, his voice a smooth, deep rumble against her chest. She leaned into him while trying to maintain her foot’s pressure on the floor alarm without giving away her action.

  “Now, now, dear one. My best girl, my Sophie…you haven’t forgotten, have you? How you are when you’re with me?” His words lit a flame in her gut, and she responded by rote.

  “No. S-s-s-sir,” she said, eyes still lowered. “Please…don’t.”

  He rubbed her arm, tugging her ever closer, whispering, cooing, soothing like he always had. Calming her nerves before the storm, but drawing her away from the alarm, which she wasn’t certain had been activated.

  “Look at me,” he demanded, gripping her arm tight, now that their bodies touched. She sensed his erection, that giant, intimidating dick he’d use and abuse her with. Which she’d let him do, all the while convinced he had her best interests at heart.

  She shook her head, balling her hands into fists. Pulse pounding, heart racing, gut turning over, she kept her gaze on the floor. The slap sent her pin wheeling backward, tripping over her heels but didn’t surprise her. Frank loved smacking her around but always under the guise of discipline. She would forget his shirts at the laundry, and he would smile, pour her a glass of wine, help with dinner. Then later, in the bedroom, he would rip her clothes off and smack her face, repeatedly, his own face never betraying a lick of emotion. Leaving her alone to ponder her laziness, he’d return, flip her over on her stomach, and fuck her without preamble or pretext. And she would let him.

  Because the very next morning, he’d get up and fix her breakfast, feed it to her, then set the food aside and bring her to a shuddering, yelling climax. This passed as acceptable behavior for years. She’d been weakened by her near brush with true emotion with Evan Adams, had pushed it from her and then whirled around to find…Frank. So she continued thinking that he was The One. Until she found herself along the Huron River on Dexter-Ann Arbor Road with one leg pinned under a Harley and fighting for her life. Then shit got real.

  “Get out, Frank, before security gets here.”

  She made sure her voice remained free of fear or anger. Frank hated it when she got hysterical for any reason—if she showed anything more than a bare minimum of normal human reaction. He’d punish her for that too—for being unhappy over something at work or pissed off at the news of the world. He considered it his job to keep her calm, blasé, free from emotion other than those he demanded of her. And he did, too, smoothing off every single rough edge she possessed until she emerged polished like a stone at the bottom of a river and with just as much motivation to live. Oh, and minus a spleen, a kidney, and having to endure a year of punishing physical therapies so she could walk like a normal person.

  She turned, putting the door behind her, hoping to move toward it and escape. He kept coming at her, his lips pulled away from his teeth in a feral grimace. He seemed well put together in a suit and shiny shoes, but something important loomed under his surface—a slimy desperation. The man reeked of it. She used that to give her courage and to fuel her next words.

  “You are loser, Frank. A class-A, walking, talking douche bag posing as a man, a Dom. To me you were an abusive rapist, a useless waste of my personal space.”

  That stopped him. His eyes clouded over, sending a spike of primal fear through her body. She had taken a calculated risk, but a plan emerged, one that would only work if she had managed to trip the security alarm. She needed witnesses. No one believed her when she tried to tell them stories of her allowing this man to bind her arms and legs, to drop hot wax on her bare pussy, to clamp her nipples so hard they were distended for days. No one bought her story that she believed him to be a faker and abuser. She had allowed the “abuse” for too long, so she no longer had validity when she claimed it.

  Using every ounce of terror-tinged energy she possessed, she stepped in front of him. “That’s right, Sir.” She spit the word out. Then spit directly at him, her saliva dripping down his dark, stubbled cheek. That face she’d adored for so long had crushed her soul every way possible. “Fuck you…Sir.” She did it again while reaching back to unlock the door. He acted according to type as she expected, backhanding her so hard her body hit the door with the full force of the blow.

  The crunching sensation in the middle of her face shocked her into a scream. His long, strong fingers threaded in her hair using it to yank her to her feet. Nose throbbing, she struggled to breathe, her high-heeled shoes scrabbled against the floor. Something cold touched her neck. A knife? Fear bloomed in her chest, darkening her vision.

  “Shut up, cunt,” he growled. “You were about as useful to me as a blow-up doll with a couple of holes in it.” He shook her, ripping more hair from her head and pressing the knife close. “Give
me the money in the safe. Now. Then I’ll leave.”

  She sobbed, tried to suck in a breath but flooded her sinuses and throat with blood. “Safe?” she gurgled, trying to shy away from his blade. Her mind spun. What safe?

  “Don’t lie to me, you bitch…you whore. You stupid, ignorant cow.” He stopped and a sinister smile spread over his handsome, terrifying face. “Well, hello there. Who do have we here?”

  Sophie attempted to focus her streaming eyes on the man standing at the now-open door, dressed in the Black Jacks practice gear, his hands clenched into fists, flanked by the security guards. “Brody, get back. Don’t…ow….”

  Frank tightened his grip, and a sting at her neck indicated he’d nicked her skin. “Is this your handsome young boy toy now, my dearest? I know you are ever so fond of these youngsters. You really are getting on a bit, a little dried up perhaps for this stud?”

  Brody stepped into the room. “Let her go. The police are on their way,” he said, his voice low, in control.

  Frank laughed so loud she sensed it deep in her soul, along with the conviction that this could be her final moments on earth. He fully intended to kill her, perhaps right in front of these men.

  “Let me give you some advice about this old bitch. She,” he gave her a shake, “is hardly worth your effort, trust me. Sniveling, whining, and useless and…oof.”

  The air left Frank’s lungs in a great whoosh, filling Sophie’s ear with the sound and heat of it. Released, she dropped to her knees sobbing and choking.

  Brody came at him like a torpedo, barreling into his chest without regard to the fact he had a knife to her neck. They rolled across her office floor, fists flying. But Frank quickly learned a hard truth—that there were not many men in the world in as good a shape as Brody Vaughn. He had the asshole pinned with both arms yanked up behind his back in minutes. She crawled away and huddled against a chair, her face aching and neck bleeding from the superficial cut. The guards pulled Frank up and Brody stood over her, barely breathing hard, and holding out his hand. She rose to her feet and tried to stay that way, but when the room faded, she let it, willing Brody to catch her before she hit the floor again.