EVEN MONEY

by Torre, Alessandra

  She’d been unsuccessful.

  Halfway through dinner, I realized something was wrong. They were uncharacteristically quiet, their questions less invasive, their conversations more on food and weather and less on nosing around my personal life. I glanced at Mom, who carefully scooped up some corn. I moved to Dad, who eyed his tea as if he wished it were stronger. “What’s going on?”

  They looked at me with the wide-eyed innocence of the guilty.

  “What do you mean?” Mom took an unusually large bite of cornbread.

  “You guys are being weird. No one’s asked me who I’m dating, or if I’m on birth control, or how my exams are going.”

  “Well, why—how are your exams going?” She asked the question through the mouthful of cornbread, and little specks flew out and peppered the table.

  I waved her off and latched onto my father, a man who hid secrets as well as Rascal hid a bone. Which was to say that all you had to do was mention the item, and Rascal all but led you to it in an attempt to keep you away. “Dad. What’s going on?”

  He lifted his eyes from his drink to me, then they ricocheted off to the right. “John Wright and his son got into some trouble.”

  It was so unexpected that I sat back, a little of my breath lost with the impact of his name. “Another girl?”

  He shook his head. “No, no. Not that kind of trouble. Someone roughed him up. Roughed both of them up.”

  That wasn’t exactly a shock. The pair were assholes. They couldn’t walk into a place without offending someone, and they walked into a lot of places. I gave my best attempt at a casual shrug. “How’d you hear about it?”

  Mom cleared her throat and leaned forward, gripping my hand. “Let’s not talk about this at dinner. Especially, not the details.”

  Not the details? I pulled my hand from hers and stared at my father, willing the information out of him. “Can you just spit it out? What happened?”

  He sighed, sitting back in his seat. “They were castrated. Got their balls cut off. And were beaten almost to death, according to Jimmy.”

  Castrated? I unexpectedly laughed, the sound bursting out of me in a horrific bark of sound, something that startled both of my parents, as well as myself. I clapped a hand over my mouth, swallowing the cruel sound before it repeated itself.

  It wasn’t funny. It couldn’t be funny. But that’s how my mind handled it. I didn’t think about the look in John’s eyes as he had held me down. I didn’t think about the way they’d encouraged each other, the feel of their sweaty skin against mine, the smell of their breath, the painful invasion and my choked begs that only seemed to encourage them more.

  Someone had cut their balls off.

  My hysteria faded a little and I swallowed, trying to respect my mother and calm my emotions. “Who did it?”

  Dad shrugged. “They don’t know. No one had heard from them for a while, and John’s wife finally called the police. They found them on a dirt road, ten miles outside of town, covered in blood and dust. They were trying to walk home and didn’t make it.”

  “But they’re alive.”

  I’m surprised that mattered to me. After so many nights of wishing them dead, I was shocked to discover that it did matter to me. I liked the idea of a ball-less Johnny better than the idea of a dead one.

  He nodded. “Yep.”

  I examined his expression, then my mother’s. In prior mentions of my rape, they’d always carried the same looks—a mix of regret and guilt and pain. But now, they looked almost relieved that something—perhaps karma—had handed my monsters their punishment. I wondered what my own expression gave away. Did it show the relief I finally felt, knowing that they would never be able to rape another girl?

  After dinner, I curled up in one of Mom’s afghans and studied. I worked through two classes, then set aside the books and watched Andy Griffith with them, lasting through three episodes before I nodded off. I woke up to the smell of Dad’s brownies and struggled to sit upright. My father could cook three things, and brownies led the short list. I inhaled two and a half and a giant glass of milk, debated politics with Dad, then bagged some brownies to go and kissed them both goodbye.

  I was in my car, heading home and thinking over it all, when I first thought of Dario and the chance that he was behind John and Johnny’s incident. I hadn’t told him about it, and Google didn’t show any history of it when you searched my name. Dario shouldn’t even know about it, but by the time I pulled into my driveway, I’d convinced myself it was his handiwork. I picked up my new phone, scrolled to his number, and sent him a text.

  we need to talk

  Maybe I was wrong. But maybe, probably, I wasn’t.

  Twenty-Five

  I pulled into The Majestic with a sharp squeak of tires and didn’t pay attention to the woman in yoga pants who stretched against the entrance gate, her eyes recording everything about me by the time I inserted my gate card and pulled onto the car elevator.

  When I blew into the suite, Dario was waiting by the window, his cell in hand. He turned slowly, his head lifting, eyebrows raising, and I watched as he pushed the phone into his pocket.

  His gaze moved over my knee-high boots and thin sweater dress and his mouth curved upward in appreciation. “You needed me?” Three simple words he managed to make into a sexual invitation.

  I dropped my keys on the entry table and crossed my arms over my chest. “I went home today.”

  He nodded slowly, his head tilting to the side as if remembering something. “Right. For your dad’s … birthday?”

  “Yes.” I snapped out the response and moved into the kitchen, wrapping a hand around the fridge handle and yanking open the stainless-steel door. The shelves were fully stocked, tiny clear cases holding a variety of fruit, salads and sandwiches. My hackles rose at the convenience of it all.

  “Want to guess what I found out?” I bent over and pulled out the drink drawer, grabbing a bottle of beer and using the edge of the counter to pop off the top.

  He gave me a slow grin, the sort that burned cities and broke hearts, the sort that almost crumbled my resolve. “No idea.”

  “Really?” I tilted back the beer and finished half of it. Swallowing, I scrunched up my face and tilted my head to the side. “Absolutely no idea?”

  I walked over to him and walked my fingers up his chest.

  He trapped my hand with his and looked down at me. “If you have a question, just ask it.”

  “Cut the balls off anyone lately?” I almost said their names and what they’d done to me. But if I was wrong, this wasn’t a story I wanted to tell. And if I was right…

  “Yeah.” His face hardened, but those eyes softened, a push-pull of emotion that ran my emotions through a grinder. “And I’d do it again.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged and gently pulled my beer from my hand, finishing it off. He was so big, so strong. I was close enough I could feel the warmth of his body, near enough that we brushed against each other when we moved. With him, I felt untouchable. Protected. Loved.

  I should have been afraid, but I only felt comfort.

  “They hurt you.” He set down the empty bottle and leaned back against the counter, pulling me to him, his hands running over my hair and then curling against my back. He spread his stance and gathered me close. “I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.”

  “You can’t promise me that.”

  He dipped his head, his lips pressing against mine. He moved closer and his kiss grew stronger, greedier.

  “Dario.” I gasped his name in between two kisses, my hands tightening on his bright blue button-up. He ignored it, his hands sliding around to grip my ass before pulling up my dress.

  “Dario.” I pushed hard on his chest and he stopped, pulling away. “We have to talk about this. I didn’t tell you about what they did, you shouldn’t have…” The sentence trembled, then stopped, my emotions too clogged to finish.

  “You really want to talk about it?” He stepped back
and lifted his hands from my body. “Fine. I have connections in Mohave. I read the police reports. Your statement and theirs. I saw the photos.”

  I closed my eyes, thinking of the photos. I’d had to strip naked. There was the flash of bulbs and the blank face of the police officer, her methodical examination done with latex gloves and quick movements that had contained little care. She hadn’t believed my story. I’d seen it in her eyes, their disinterested movements over my scrapes.

  Dario’s voice deepened. “They got off back then. You got fucked over and they went free.”

  He was right. I had gotten fucked over. That was life in a small town, for a white-trash girl raped by one of the richest families in town. Johnny told them that it had just been me and him, behind the barn—and that I’d been after him for weeks. I hadn’t helped matters by showering, scrubbing my skin so hard I’d practically bruised myself. That loss of evidence had been compounded by my drunk father, who’d taken two hours to sober up before he’d driven me to the police station. Our trip had been delayed further when he’d run off the road and into a ditch.

  John and Johnny Wright had gone free. I had lost everything.

  He carefully brushed a tear off my cheek. “I should have gutted them and left them in the desert for the vultures. I let them off easy.”

  I stepped away before I let out everything I held inside. I could feel the swell of emotions, the hot flare of tears, and swallowed it all. I made it to the fridge, found a second bottle of beer, and popped it open. “It wasn’t your fight to take up. It wasn’t your business to get into.” I turned and met his eyes. “It was invasive for you to read that report, see those photos, track them down and speak to them.”

  “Trust me when I say that little speaking went on.” He smiled, and it lit a fuse in me.

  “You think this is funny?” I threw the bottle of beer without thinking, my arm rearing back, liquid flinging, and when I let go off the glass, it was intended for his head. He ducked to one side, and there was the loud sound of glass breaking. I flinched and didn’t look to see the damage.

  “I told you before. I needed to know what I was getting into with you.”

  “And?” I gestured to the situation in general and heard the thick clog of tears in my voice. “I’m a mess. Is that what you wanted? Someone with that in their past?”

  “I didn’t expect to find that when I looked into the police records of your town. Fuck, I don’t know what I expected. But when I saw that, read that…” He looked down, considered his words, and then back at me. “I can’t love you and not protect you. I can’t love you and not fight for you.”

  The words rocked me. I didn’t move, I stayed strong in my stance, kept my eyes on him, but inside … the words swam through my bloodstream and fortified it. I swallowed as his words filled in the gaps, strengthened my core, and offered me something I’d never known before. I felt renewed yet betrayed at the same time. He fought for me because I’d been hurt. He saw the photos, the girl who had been brutalized. The girl who’d lost every ounce of dignity. His last words echoing through my mind. I can’t love you and not fight for you.

  I broke away from his gaze and tried to find my bearings. “This fight was already over.”

  “It was already over, and you lost.” He pushed off the counter and approached me, my body stiffening as he grew closer, as he pulled at my wrists and dragged me away from the fridge and against his chest. “You’re never going to lose again. You’re going to be fucking Queen of this town and anyone who so much as sneezes in your direction will pay hell for it.”

  “That’s a nice speech Dario, but it’s all bullshit.” I pulled, and he kept me in place, pinned against him. “Mistresses are never Queens.”

  “Don’t call yourself that.” He moved his hands to my waist, gripped and lifted me onto the counter, my hands finding his shoulders for support. I looked down at him from my new position and he slid his palms up my legs, sliding the bottom of my sweater dress up and exposing my thighs. “You’re more than that.”

  His fingers reached my hips and his eyes dropped. Maybe it was cruel of me to have pulled off my underwear in the car, to have left them in my center console and waltzed into the suite bare and ready for him. Maybe. Or maybe, with everything else, he deserved it.

  “Fuck.” He hissed out the curse.

  I’d waxed, the area smooth, only a thin line of hair just above my clit. He slid his hands inward, until he could reach out one thumb and run it over the sensitive flesh. I spread my thighs wider and he groaned deep in his throat.

  “You’re torturing me.”

  “Just fuck me. Right here.” I sat back on the counter, my elbows supporting my weight, and challenged him with my eyes.

  “I want to take things slow with you.”

  “Please.” My voice broke a little with the word, my weakness showing, but I needed him. Right now, I felt too confused, too lost, too conflicted. I was grateful to him, but also mad. I swooned at his protection, but struggled with the realities of it. I needed to be grounded, I needed to feel loved, and I wanted, more than anything on this earth, to feel a physical connection with him. “I need it. You want it. Please.”

  “I’m worried…” His thumb, which had been gently swiping over my wet slit, pushed its way inside.

  I almost came off the counter and saw the way his eyes darkened, his need as greedy as mine. How was he controlling himself? It’d been a month since he walked into The House. A month, a dozen orgasms, and I needed more. I can’t love you and not protect you. That’s what he’d said. “Worried about what?” I gasped, my nails digging into his shoulder, and this needed to happen right now. I needed to have this moment to right my sails, calm my emotions, and comfort my body.

  When our eyes met, I saw his pull of emotion, saw the depth of his feelings. He destroyed their lives. For me. It didn’t make sense, it was too early, we didn’t know each other well enough, but fuck his I think I’m falling in love with you. He loved me. I loved him. Whether he put his dick in me or not—those facts weren’t changing.

  He dropped his gaze, concentrating on my pussy, and he crouched and lowered his mouth to the spot, his eyes closing as he ran his tongue along the folds, circled my clit, then gently sucked it as if he was a man desperate of thirst. He dipped his tongue inside of me, his hands biting into my thighs, and I let out a quiet moan as he straightened, his gaze still stuck to my open legs.

  I spread them wider. “Please.”

  Had I ever begged for it before? I didn’t think so. I didn’t think I had ever needed it like this before. It was a craving that hummed through my entire body, one that had my ass gently grinding against the counter the minute his hand settled in between my legs. He pushed a finger inside of me and I almost bucked off the surface. He pushed a second in, and I grabbed at the air, found his tie, and yanked the silk-blend fabric toward me.

  His lips came down on mine, he curved his fingers inside of me, and I saw stars—the sort that brought orgasms in their wake, the kind that exploded pleasure centers and made me pant against his kiss, a low moan coming from my throat.

  “If I have you, I’ll never be able to let you go.”

  I babbled his name and clawed at his hair, his fingers gently massaging my g-spot, a smooth in and out and ohmygod motion that had me losing everything but the taste of his kiss, the feel of his touch, a need that was spiraling out of control and into something more.

  If he didn’t give me something, if he didn’t pull out his cock and push this giant ache of want, I’d go crazy. I yanked at his belt, cursed against his kiss, and lost all reason when he quickened the motion of his fingers. “Oh my god, don’t stop. Please. Please. Fuck. I. I. I….”

  He yanked me to the counter’s edge and worked a third wet finger inside. It took just the pressure, the wide stretch of entry, and I broke.

  My hips furiously bucked against his hand.

  His name rained from my lips, a mad chant of love and need and desire.

&
nbsp; My vision blurred, fingers dug into his skin, clawed at his clothes, and found nothing but rigid muscle and heat.

  I came in an avalanche of blinding, gripping glory, and I swore allegiance to him in the final moments of the blast.

  I broke. I fell. I surrendered it all.

  Twenty-Six

  DARIO

  Gwen was curled into a ball on the chaise lounge, a cup of coffee in hand. He stopped before her, holding out his hand. “Help me with these links?”

  She carefully set down the cup of steaming coffee and reached forward, fastening the buttons and cufflinks with quick efficiency.

  He nodded at the clock. “Shouldn’t you be heading out to lunch?”

  She made a face before settling back against the padded upholstery. “I’m just putting it off as long as I can.”