Love So Dark: Billionaire Romance Duet

by Stasia Black

  “Tell us, whore, how much you want it.” Gentry’s voice. Only the bottom half of him is in the video’s range of vision.

  But me. All of me. There. Completely exposed. The worst day of my life.

  On screen, Gentry’s hand reaches around and grabs my ass.

  But it’s the words that next come out that have me covering my face in horror.

  “I want it,” says the girl on-screen even as she ducks her head in shame.

  “What was that?” Gentry asks.

  She repeats it louder, “I want it.”

  No. No no no no no no no no no no—

  “And what do you want, whore?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut.

  “Are you hungry for my cock?”

  “Yes.”

  NO!

  “Ah ah ah,” he chides, waving a finger in the air. “I want to hear you say it. Are you hungry for my cock?”

  There’s a long silence and I want to beg the girl in the video to get off that damn table and run for the door. Run. Run! Maybe she wouldn’t have made it, but at least she would have fucking tried.

  Instead, she replies in a stilted, monotone voice. “I’m hungry for your cock.”

  The video cuts and disgusting manly grunts and the slapping of flesh fills my earbuds. Of course Gentry edited out the part where I said no, where I said stop.

  I yank it away from my ear and then run for the toilets. I barely make it there in time before emptying the contents of my stomach. Just when I think I’m done, I’m reliving it again in my memories. All of them violating me. One after another, barely waiting for the last to finish before the next one grabs me.

  I throw up again even though there’s nothing left in my stomach except acid. It burns its way up my throat. My eyes and nose run. I flush the toilet and then slump back against the stall when I’m finished.

  I grab some toilet paper and wipe at my mouth and nose.

  My phone vibrates in my hand and I jolt at the feel of it. I drop the vile thing to the ground. I’m shocked I didn’t drop it back by my locker. I— I can’t—

  My mind blanks for a long minute.

  Just…

  Nothing.

  “You okay in there?”

  I blink hard and look up at a middle-aged woman peeking in the stall. It’s not like I locked the door behind me. I was just aiming for the toilet.

  My whole body is still shaking and I look down at myself. Thankfully there’s no vomit on me. I had good aim at least. But I’m hiding hunched in on myself on the floor of the bathroom stall in the women’s locker room.

  “Are you sick?” the kindly woman asks. She’s lean and looks to be in her mid-40s with short cropped brown hair that’s going gray. She looks down to the phone near my hand. “Is there someone I can call to help you home?”

  My hand shoots to the phone and I grab it before she can touch it. I click the button for the home screen without looking at it. “No,” I bark out too sharply. “I’m fine.”

  She looks a little taken aback, but her eyes are still soft. She reaches a hand down to help me up. Right. She’s just trying to help. I take her hand and attempt a smile. It probably comes out like a grimace.

  She walks with me back to my locker. I continue trying to assure her that I’m fine and in a strange way, it helps. Putting on a facade for her helps me pull myself back together. Enough so that when I finally convince her I’m okay, I have the strength to look at the new message that came through on my phone.

  God, please just let it be from Bonnie asking for something other than her normal caramel macchiato.

  It’s not from Bonnie.

  It’s another message from my rapist.

  GENTRY: Who is going to give custody of a child back to a woman who begs for cock and then fucks a room full of men? Message me back to meet or this goes viral.

  My legs threaten to give out all over again.

  Fucking bastard. He already stole my soul. Now he thinks he can take everything else? What the fuck does he even want from me?

  I want to ignore the message. I swore that man would never have any power over me ever again.

  But he has this video. Goddamn him. I think about what my sister said about hell and devils earlier. She has no idea. I’ve met the devil in person and his name is Bryce Gentry.

  There’s no other choice.

  Then I shake my head. No. I’ve fallen into Gentry’s traps by that logic too many times in the past. How many stupid decisions did I make because I convinced myself there was no other choice? I won’t do it again. I refuse. I fucking refuse.

  At the same time, I need to know what it is my enemy wants. It won’t do to be blind where he’s concerned. And so, although it makes me want to go throw up again, I text Gentry back.

  Three hours later, I have on the outfit that’s the closest thing I own to armor—a black turtleneck, some camo skinny jeans and my steel toed boots—and I go to meet my rapist. I called in sick to work earlier. Which in all fairness wasn’t even a lie.

  I went straight home after the gym and threw up again. Luckily, today was one of the rare occasions Shannon had a face-to-face meeting with a client who was in town. I have no idea how I would have answered her questions about why I looked so shell-shocked and pale.

  Since getting the message, I’ve been trying to physically and mentally prep myself for this meeting. It had to be today. I couldn’t handle putting it off and being tortured knowing it was coming. I’m a rip-off-the-Band-Aid kind of girl.

  So I armored up and here I am, walking into a busy open plaza at noon on a Thursday. Oh and of course I accessorized. There’s a knife strapped on the inside of my boot. This little lady rarely leaves home without one.

  In addition to the self-defense classes I’ve taken with Lydia, I signed up for a knife training course that a hiking and survivalist group was offering. It didn’t take much batting of my eyelashes to get the instructor to show me how to defend myself with the knife along with the survivalist stuff—I played the little woman all alone in the big city card.

  As I walk through the plaza and take a seat by the central fountain, I assure myself I’m safe. Perfectly safe. Even if I didn’t have the double-bladed knife in my boot, there are tons of people milling around. Gentry can’t do anything to me here. All I have to do is scream.

  My vocal cords almost vibrate in memory of all the times I’ve shouted NO! in Lydia’s self-defense classes. I might have officially graduated, but I still stop by from time to time to help out and brush up on my own skills.

  I’m ready for this. I can see the fuckhead face-to-face without pissing myself. Today is nothing like that June afternoon. Hell, I’m nothing like that pathetic woman I glimpsed on the video this morning.

  And Bryce Gentry can roast in hell if he thinks he’s going to somehow control me with it.

  But then, unbidden, I hear their grunts in my mind. I remember the bruising grip of Gentry holding me down. I remember how painful it was each time another man—

  “Miss Cruise, how delightful to see you again.”

  That voice. My eyes snap up and there the bastard is. That charming, easy-going grin. He’s wearing his expensive gray suit, the one with the slight silvery sheen to it.

  He sits down beside me. Too close. I can smell his cologne. Too heavy. Too much.

  Oh God, the smell. It takes me back there. I’m back there, choking. Choking on what he’s shoving in my mouth. I said no. I said red. I said stop.

  But he shoved himself in my mouth and the other man, he—

  I can’t breathe. I can’t—

  “Miss Cruise, is something wrong?” Gentry sounds so genuinely concerned. How can he do that? He’s a monster but he hides it so well. It’s terrifying. That he can just walk among the rest of us and it’s impossible to see before it’s too late.

  I scoot away from him on the bench to put as much distance between us as possible. I’m probably not doing a good job of hiding the horror on my face. I wouldn’t give a shit
, except I imagine he’s enjoying it.

  “You’re a sociopath,” I finally whisper.

  He tilts his head to one side as if contemplating my statement. “I don’t know about that. I just have certain…” He strums his fingers on his knees, “appetites. And particular goals. Which you are going to help me obtain.”

  I’m already shaking my head no. “You can go fuck yourself.”

  His hand slips out and grabs my forearm. “I’d be careful what came out of that mouth if I were you.” His voice is cold. He’s dropped the Mr. Congeniality act. “Or did you forget I hold your son’s future in my hands. I can ruin you with the click of a button.”

  I jerk my arm out of his grasp even though it takes so much force I know it’s going to leave a bruise. “And what exactly do you think I’m going to do for you?” I need to get this information and then get the fuck out of here.

  “You’re going to get me the navigation algorithms to Jackson Vale’s newest drone prototype.”

  For a second I’m speechless. As in, I genuinely can’t come up with any words. Soon enough though, I find my voice again. “You want me to commit corporate espionage for you?” I choke out. “No way.” I move to stand.

  “I’m hungry for your cock.”

  I looked down in fury to see he’s got his phone out and has pushed play on the despicable video. I smack it out of his hands and the phone clatters to the ground.

  Gentry laughs. “Oh I’ve got plenty more copies where that came from.”

  “Wait a minute,” I cut him off. Fury is warring with rationality right now, but I can still manage a bit of coherent thought. “Why is it so important to get Jackson’s drone anyway? You’ve already got your own under contract with the DoD. Unless…” I look back up at the man I despise and put two and two together. “Oh my God. Do you not have a working prototype?”

  The vein in Gentry’s forehead jumps and I know I’ve guessed right.

  “But how…?” I’m speechless for a moment, my brain spinning a mile a minute. “The DoD doesn’t just give out defense contracts without a demonstrated working model.” I feel my eyes open even wider. “Unless you blackmailed or bribed someone there just like you’re doing here.”

  Another vein jump. He did. Holy shit, he did. He has a who-knows-how-many-million-dollar deal on the line with the federal government and no product to show for it. Did he initially think he could develop it in time or did he plan on stealing it all along?

  “Holy shit,” I whisper, sitting back.

  Gentry’s ice-cold eyes fall on me. “Like I said, I hit send and that video goes viral. With copies specifically emailed directly to your ex, his lawyer, and the judge presiding over your case. Do you really think the judge is going to give precious Charlie to a mommy who participates so enthusiastically in gang bangs? After watching that, it’s not a stretch to argue you were involved in prostitution and—”

  I punch him.

  It’s not nearly as satisfying as I would’ve liked, but it does feel good. I used good form like Lydia taught me when making my fist so I’m only wincing a little as I shake out my hand. Gentry cries out like a little girl and grabs at his nose, bending over on the bench.

  When he pulls his hand away, it’s covered in blood. “You broke my nose, you cunt!”

  He moves like he’s going to grab for me but I’m up and off the bench, ready to scream my head off.

  The next second, a loud chuckle comes from Gentry. He’s gotten control of himself and settled his civilized mask firmly back in place. The brief glimpse of the real Gentry is buried once again.

  He stands up but keeps his distance from me. “I hope you enjoyed that, Calliope. It’s the last hit you’ll ever get because I own you now.”

  He waves the cell phone he picked up off the ground in my face. The disgusting video is still playing. I wince and avert my eyes from the screen. Gentry’s shark grin widens, white teeth bright in the sun.

  “I’ll expect regular reports at this phone number. You have two and a half weeks to deliver.” He holds a card up right underneath my nose. I jerk back from it and he laughs before tossing it at my feet.

  “Two and a half weeks, Miss Cruise, or you lose your son forever.”

  With that, he turns and walks away.

  I go home.

  I shower.

  I scrub.

  I scrub some more.

  “Hey,” Shannon bangs on the bathroom door. “Stop wasting all the hot water. You’ve been in there forever.”

  It’s not until I look down and see how red my forearm is from repeatedly brushing the loofa back and forth that I realize just how long I’ve been showering for.

  “Shit!” I throw the loofa against the far wall of the shower like it’s toxic.

  “What?” Shannon asks.

  I grit my teeth, then manage to call back in what I hope is a normal-ish tone, “Nothing. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  “’Kay, well hurry. I made lasagna and it’s getting cold.”

  “Yeah.”

  I listen and finally there’s just silence, which I hope to God means she’s left me alone. I lean back and bang my head against the shower wall as the spray of water hits my body. I haven’t been reduced to this in so long. Yet with one afternoon, one conversation with him, here I am again. Feeling as filthy and disgusting as right after it first happened.

  “No.” I shake my head back and forth, water droplets flying from my hair. “I’m stronger than this.” My tiny voice barely makes a sound in the spray of water.

  “I’m stronger than this!” I hiss and slap the wall tile for emphasis.

  I reach behind me and shut off the water, then fling back the curtain. The bathroom mirror is completely steamed up and now that I’m stopping to think clearly, I realize how hot it is in here. I can barely breathe.

  I wrap the towel around myself and shove open the door that leads to my bedroom, letting in some needed cool air. I grab my clothes from the floor, hating even to touch what I wore in his presence. I shove them in the hamper and close the lid tight. I try to walk away, but feel a nervous tic in my jaw.

  It’s like I can still feel him on the clothes. He was sitting so close beside me on the bench. I swear the odor of his cologne seeped into the cloth and I can smell it even with the hamper lid closed. Which is ludicrous. I’m just making shit up now. Laundry day is on Sunday. That’s in two days. It’ll be fine just sitting there until then.

  I turn away but then pause. Because I know myself. Dealing with the clothes on Sunday would just mess up my head all over again.

  I open the hamper and grab my shirt and pants, holding them with the furthest tips of my fingers. As I head toward the washer and dryer at the back of the apartment, I hear his voice in my head.

  I own you now.

  Two and a half weeks to deliver.

  My hands shake and I overfill the laundry detergent cap. “Shit.” I pour it on top of the clothes and then slam the lid shut.

  Or lose your son forever.

  I jam the gooey lid back on the detergent container, shove it on the shelf over the washer, and press the button for wash.

  “What are you doing?” Shannon stands in the door to the tiny laundry room looking confused. “Sunday is laundry day.”

  I avoid her eyes as I squeeze past her through the door. “It had a stain. I didn’t want it to set.” I make a beeline for the bedroom but she follows.

  “Those weren’t your work clothes you came home in.”

  “So?” I keep walking. The blue detergent that overflowed the little cup is all over my hands. Dirty. I want to shower again. Just one more good scrub down. That would make me feel better. I just need to get clean.

  “So?” Shannon repeats, sounding offended. “So you came home at the same time as normal but you weren’t in your work clothes. Why?”

  I head into the bathroom and turn on the tap. I put my hands underneath and start scrubbing. I don’t know how long I’m doing it before Shannon grabs my elbow.<
br />
  “Are you even listening to me?” She sounds pissed until I try to pull away and she reaches down to my wrist. “God, Callie, are you bleeding?”

  I look down and see that I’ve been scrubbing my hands so hard together my nails scored the skin over my knuckles and indeed, little beads of blood are surfacing.

  My hands clench into fists and I squeeze my eyes shut.

  I just stand there, frozen in my bathroom like a frightened animal facing down an oncoming car. Damn it. Goddammit.

  I’m past this. I’m fucking past this.

  He doesn’t get to have control over me. There has to be a way. There has to be. I refuse to let that man force himself on me in any way ever again.

  I look up, straighten my back, and look at my sister. “Sorry, Shan. I spaced out for a second there.” I put my hands under the water one last time to rinse them, then grab a hand towel to hide the damage I’ve done. “I gotta get dressed now.

  She just stares at me for a long moment. “What’s going on?”

  I smile and shake my head. “Nothing. Just a stressful day at work. I changed clothes before I came home for a more comfortable commute. Grabbed a taco from a food truck and dripped hot sauce on my favorite top. Speaking of, I’m pretty full. I think I’ll skip out on lasagna. I’m going out. Save me some leftovers.”

  With that, I usher her out of the bathroom and then wave her from the bedroom too. “Skooch unless you wanna see the headlights up close and in all their glory.” I make like I’m going to drop my towel.

  Shannon covers her eyes and hurries out of the room. “You are so weird,” she mutters over her shoulder.

  As soon as the door shuts behind her, I let out a long breath and uncover my hands from the towel. They’re scratched up all to hell.

  Which fucking pisses me off. Because fuck that. Gentry doesn’t get to make me feel dirty and cower in the shower for hours on end. No. That’s not who I am anymore.

  No. The word is my fucking motto now.

  I head straight to my closet and push all the sensible office clothes to the side. Tonight is a back-of-the-closet kind of night. The secret stash of too tight, too short body-con dresses. I flip through them. There’s the plunging red spandex one, or the blue—