Black Roses (A Mitchell Sisters Novel)

by Samantha Christy

  As my breathing regulates and I start to come down from the high, I find it hard not to look around at the hordes of runners, officials and bystanders without feeling anxiety creep back up. Instinctively, my right hand grasps my left wrist in search of the one thing that calms me.

  Panic strikes. My hand fumbles around my arm, searching frantically for the little straps of leather—my fingers needing to mindlessly trace the outline of the flower that has come to define me. But it’s not there. Instantly, my pulse shoots up when I realize it must have broken free from my wrist when I fell.

  I look down at the abrasions lining the arm that broke my fall. “Oh my God. No no no no no.” I couldn’t have lost it. Not that. Tears sting the backs of my eyes and threaten to fall at the thought of it. I don’t know if it’s the exhaustion from the race, or the face in the crowd, but for the first time in a long time, my throat tightens and I feel I may do something I haven’t done since April 25th—exactly five years ago this Saturday—cry.

  I turn around ready to sprint back to the spot of my fall when Mason grabs my arm, softly restraining me.

  “I have to go!” I yell, trying to break free of him.

  “Piper.” His grip is firm, yet gentle, as he keeps me from leaving. “It’s okay—look.” With his other hand, he unzips the small pocket of his shorts; the one meant for carrying identification or a car key. He pulls out my bracelet and holds it out to me.

  How did he even know that’s what I was looking for? “What? How?”

  “It must have come loose when you fell.” He examines it. “It doesn’t look any worse for wear. Here, let me tie it back on for you.”

  I hold out my arm, studying him as he carefully places it around my wrist. Sweat has darkened his hair, lengthening it so it touches his eyebrows. His blue irises become darker, reflecting the midday sky, focusing on the task as he struggles to tie the small bands of leather with his large fingers. The intoxicating pulses that result from his touch rouse something deep inside me. I stand here, exhausted from running, terrified of the monster I saw among the crowd, arms and legs scraped up and stinging from my sweaty skin, yet all I can think about is the man who is touching me.

  He smiles. I wonder if he’s feeling exactly the same thing. The way he glances up and holds my stare confirms my suspicions.

  When he finishes securing my bracelet, he examines my scraped up arm and knees. “Come on, let’s finish our cool down and get you to medical. Then we’ll find Griffin and your mom.”

  I almost forgot about them. Since the race is on a Monday, not everyone could spare an entire day to come see us run. I didn’t want my sisters lugging their tiny babies hours away just for a brief glimpse at me when I jogged by. But my mother insisted on coming, once again confirming her support in every choice I make.

  Hours later, after replenishing our food and water stores, we say goodbye to Mom and Griffin as they head back to New York.

  Most of the runners who aren’t local, choose to stay overnight to stave off the stiffness that would result in a long car ride home. Mason was generous enough to get me my own room and last night he even had room service prepare me a huge plate of pasta so I could carb-load before the race. He didn’t offer to join me. In fact, he didn’t contact me at all before the race. We even came separately; me on the train and he in his car.

  I thought for sure I’d scared him away after my behavior at the benefit. Not to mention the parting words I left him with. But his touch today told me a different story. And for the life of me, I’m not sure why he wants to waste his time on someone like me.

  I told Mason I wanted to turn in early. But I can’t relax and my muscles ache and burn, so I go for a walk to keep loose. The sun is just starting to set over the tall downtown buildings when I emerge from the hotel. Metropolitan Boston is much like New York except everyone doesn’t seem to be in as much of a hurry. People stroll leisurely down the sidewalks that seem quiet and not overcrowded with buskers.

  I stop and purchase a hot dog from a street vendor. As I eat, I pass by the Charles Playhouse, a place my mom used to bring me once a year to see smaller off-Broadway productions. Seeing the posters of upcoming shows causes me to lose my appetite. I throw the remains of my dinner into a trash bin and try not to feel sorry for myself. I reason that it’s better this way. If my name was up in lights or plastered in playbills on graffiti walls, it could make me a target. A victim. And that’s one thing I don’t intend on being ever again.

  Back in my room, a few Tylenol and an ice bath have me relaxing enough to fall asleep, hoping exhaustion will stave off the nightmares.

  ~ ~ ~

  Too many hands are touching me, each taking a piece of clothing off my languid body. I don’t fight them. I don’t want to fight them. What they are doing feels good. I recline on the massive bed and invite more. My body feels alive, like I’m floating on air. I look around the room at the drunken faces. Boys of different shapes and sizes, shouting and cheering me on. I randomly grab a hand and put it to my naked breast, relishing the razor sharp bolts going straight to my groin when fingers pinch my nipples. Rock hard penises are thrust at my face and onto my body, each one wanting a piece of my flesh. I reach out and rub the velvety steel length of one of them, unsure of the face it belongs to. I’m mesmerized by the silky softness of the erection as a small bulb of moisture exits the head.

  Fingers move within me, the initial burn turning into something else that causes my insides to ignite with need and desire. Every so often, I feel spurts of warm wetness on my stomach along with blissful-yet-agonizing shouts of release. Pleasure builds within me. Fingers pinch my nipples and rub my clitoris. Hands take turns kneading the tender flesh of my behind. My hips are elevated and my legs held wide open. I scream out in painful pleasure as I watch the face of one of the boys as he fills my tight walls with his shaft. I move someone’s hand aside and take over the punishing assault on my clit until I’m screaming out exaltations into the cheering crowd. Then the boy’s face becomes another. And then another. The faces all blur together and I start to feel faint, exhausted from the pain. From the pleasure.

  I don’t want to do this anymore. I try to push one of the boys away, needing to give my body a break from the punishing paces I’m putting it through.

  He doesn’t budge.

  Pain sears through me as he enters my raw channel. I try to throw him off me, but hands are restraining me. “No!” I scream. “Get off me!” I yell and lash out and kick my legs.

  A loud cracking noise fills the room and another person jumps onto the bed. “Piper! Piper, wake up!” a voice commands, much deeper than the other voices in the room. Someone grips my shoulders, shaking them. “Wake up, sweetheart.”

  I snap out of the nightmare, my blurry eyes frantically searching the room for the boys who were just here. But all I find is a half-naked Mason, holding me down in an attempt to keep me from kicking him.

  “Piper. It’s me, Mason. You’re okay. Look at me. It’s just me. Only me. You’re okay now.”

  As I wake further, he lightens his hold on me. He reassures me over and over and over, until I stop lashing out at him and collapse down onto the bed. I have no fight left in me as he turns me away from him, cradling me from behind, enveloping me with his comforting protection. “Shhhhhh,” his whisper sooths me as his breath rolls over my ear. The gentle rhythmic motion of his hand up and down my arm causes my eyelids to get heavy, sleep once again pulling me under as I hear him say, “I’m never going to let anyone hurt you again.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Eat up, Princess. And call me when you’re ready to collect your winnings.

  I rub the sleep from my eyes, staring at the note Mason left by the bed, right next to a large, domed tray reeking of heavenly breakfast food. Through the broken, splintered door to his connecting room, I can see that he’d packed up and vacated sometime after my nightmare.

  My heart races when it comes rushing back to me. The nightmare. Mason breaking down the door and hol
ding me until I went back to sleep. I can only imagine what he must think of me now. But then I recall the words he said as I fell asleep.

  Momentarily forgetting what I did yesterday, I attempt to hop out of bed when my screaming muscles vehemently protest. I rub and knead the knots in my legs until I can finally move myself from the bed to the floor, where I stretch until I can no longer ignore the alluring smell of breakfast. I salivate knowing what must be under the silver dome. American breakfast. I missed it almost as much as good barbeque.

  Two hours later, after the bellman insisted he accompany me to the train station, I’m riding the train back to New York, the soft side-to-side motion lulling my tired body until I drift off to sleep, still holding his note.

  I startle awake, looking around to gauge if anyone heard me call out in my dream. And then I realize something momentous happened. I had a dream. A dream—not a nightmare. I was with Mason and he was walking me down the aisle at Skylar’s wedding. Everyone was there, my sisters, my family, friends and neighbors. Even Charlie was there. But when we got to the altar, we didn’t part ways to stand in our respective places to the sides of the bride and groom—we were the bride and groom. I was wearing a virginal white dress, the train extending back to the first row of pews. Mason was in the tuxedo he wore to the benefit. We recited our vows and then everyone cheered as we ran out of the church and right into our reception that was teeming with activity. The gorgeous three-tiered cake was cut, the pale-blue garter belt was slung, and the beautiful bouquet of black and white roses was thrown into the air to be caught by Charlie. It’s then when I shrieked in excitement, waking myself up.

  I shake off the dream, writing it off as a product of all the wedding planning Skylar and I have been doing lately. But in the back of my mind, I wonder if deep down in my subconscious, it’s something I want. Over five years I’ve gone without having anything but nightmares. Five years! And the star of my first regular dream is none other than the author of the note I’m still clutching.

  I stare at it. Who is this man? I’ve done nothing but push him away, despite his innumerable selfless deeds. And then after everything else he’s done for me, he finds my bracelet. I swear to God, if knights in shining armor do exist, I guess that would make him mine. I mean, he broke down a damn door for me.

  I’m tired of letting the past define me. I’m tired of living in fear every single day. I look around at the men on the train. Surely not all of them are bad. I think of Gavin and Griffin and the happiness they’ve brought to my sisters’ lives. I think of the Playhouse and the show posters in illuminated cases. I realize for the first time, that if I don’t let myself have a life, I’m letting them take it away from me. They’ve already taken so much. They made me a victim long ago. But maybe I’m the only person who is forcing me to continue to be one.

  I make a split-second decision and take out my phone to compose a text.

  Me: I know what I want.

  Mason: Anything, Princess. You name it.

  Me: I want you to stop calling me Princess.

  Mason: You beat me in the Boston Marathon and that’s all you can come up with?

  Me: Actually, there was one more thing.

  I hesitate so long, he texts me three more times asking what it is. I’ve already typed the words into my phone. I just haven’t had the courage to hit ‘send.’

  Mason: Are you still there?

  I think back to the dream I had earlier. I can’t ever remember having an honest-to-God dream that was all hearts and flowers and not some twisted version of that night. I grasp onto this one sliver of hope and take the leap.

  Me: I want to go on that date with you.

  chapter twelve

  mason

  I occasionally throw a football in front of seventy-eight thousand people. I’ve given a dozen speeches at middle schools and high schools in the Tri-State area. I sometimes get to mingle with the rich and famous. But, this—walking up Griffin’s porch steps to fetch Piper for a date—this has my nerves so far on edge that I feel sick to my stomach.

  I’m not sure I’ll get another chance. I’ve got one shot at this. She’s fragile. Broken by some horrible event that haunts her in her sleep. Fractured to the point of sheer panic at both the benefit and the marathon.

  I haven’t seen her since her nightmare after the race. That night was both incredible and awful at the same time. When I heard her blood-curdling screams come from the room next to mine, I thought she was being attacked. I didn’t even think twice about breaking down the door. And when I got to her, I was relieved yet gutted watching her relive something from her past.

  I was able to calm her down, and to my surprise, she even let me hold her until she fell asleep. I lay there watching her for hours. My body was begging for sleep, my muscles exhausted and my energy stores depleted, but I couldn’t rip my eyes from her beautiful face. I’ll admit, I took liberties she may not have given me if she were conscious. I brushed her hair aside and touched the small tattoo behind her right ear. I nuzzled my head into her hair, inhaling the flowery scent of her shampoo. I put her small hand in mine and held it for dear life—I’m just not certain for whose, hers or mine.

  But then I left. I know how embarrassed she gets after her panic attacks. And no matter how much I wanted to stay and have breakfast with her—no matter how much I wanted her to trust me and open up to me about what happened to her—I knew it wasn’t the right time. I needed to give her some space. So I packed my things and tipped the bellman to keep her safe.

  The hair on my arms prickles when I recall getting the text from her. Of all the things she could’ve asked for, she asked for a date. Maybe she felt bad because I let her win.

  She had second thoughts when I told her Saturday was my only free night. She tried to convince me to go any other night. But this is the first week of conditioning, and that comes with a lot of meetings and engagements. And even though I want this woman more than I’ve ever wanted anyone, I’m not about to give up a part of myself to get her. Everything I do at work is for one specific purpose, to show my value as a team player, potential leader and top-notch quarterback who is deserving of the starting position.

  She cancelled twice on me already, and I suspect her sisters have put the pressure on. I don’t really care why she’s doing this or how we got here because I’ve only got twenty days. Twenty days before the wedding. Twenty days before she packs her bags and heads back to her nomadic life.

  Twenty days to convince her to stay.

  I ring the bell and look through the sidelight in anticipation. I see the indecision when Piper comes from the kitchen. She hesitates. She exchanges words with someone I can’t see. She even shakes her head and starts towards the stairs to her room. Then something causes her to turn around. It’s then she catches me watching her through the small window.

  Her eyes close. Her chest expands before I see her blow out a long breath.

  One chance, my head screams. Don’t fuck this up.

  Skylar comes into view, handing Piper her phone and giving her a nudge in my direction. My eyes are trained on her as she slowly walks across the hardwood floor. She may be nervous. She may not even want to do this. But that doesn’t keep her from looking heart-stoppingly gorgeous. As in, my heart genuinely skipped a beat. In twenty-two years, that’s never happened to me. Not even when I was drafted by the Giants.

  It must have actually skipped a hell of a lot more than that, because I feel weak. And completely out of my mind at the thought of this petite, remarkable creature being capable of bringing me to my knees easier than a three-hundred-pound linebacker.

  She opens the door and I drink her in. Her hair is soft and wavy, like she just came from a day at the beach, looking casual as if she hadn’t taken any time on it whatsoever, yet it’s perfect. Her emerald eyes reflect the rich color of her blouse, making them an even deeper shade of green than usual. Tasteful makeup accentuates her eyes and I break out in a smile, knowing she took the time to get ready for o
ur date after all.

  “What’s that?” She nods her head at what I completely forgot I was holding.

  I put my proverbial tongue back in my mouth and extend my arm, offering her the ‘bouquet’ of candy bars I had the chocolate shop down the street put together. “I heard you say you missed American candy while you were away.”

  “You brought me a bouquet. Of candy?” she says in amusement, her mouth easing into a grin she can’t control.

  “Well, I wanted to be original and not bring flowers like your other dates.”

  “I don’t date,” she says with the lift of her eyebrow.

  “Except tonight,” I remind her.

  “Don’t get cocky. I’m just honoring our bet.” She tries to sound bitchy, but I can see right through it. She’s as transparent to me as if we’d been twins separated at birth. I can see through the façade she puts up to make her appear stronger than she thinks she is.

  I don’t know what happened to her to make her this way. What I do know is that I work day in and day out with some of the biggest, beefiest, most muscular guys in the country. And I own a gym that gets used by a few of the world’s elite athletes. But this girl—this broken, flawed, extraordinary woman—I think she just might be the strongest person I know.

  ~ ~ ~

  “What can I get you to drink, Miss?” the waiter asks.

  Piper hides behind the menu, putting it between us and the prying eyes of our attendant. She whispers, “Is this one of those places that will bring a bottle of wine and open it right here at the table?”