by C. R. Jane
I decide to go for a run. I need to run—run from the chaos in my head, run from the guys and the complications of not only their life, but the challenges knotted so indelibly into my own. I need to feel the freedom that only running can bring me.
Gentry’s psychotic need for me looking as good as possible had led to me taking up running. I was never comfortable doing tennis with the other wives or going to the gym where it felt like there were eyes on me all the time, but I did enjoy running.
With the guy’s obsession with security following my every move, and me not wanting to lug five humongous men behind me on a run, I hadn’t gone running once. That was going to change now.
I bite away the thought of the roses from the day before. I hadn’t heard from Gentry, there was no reason to think that he would be here in New York City following me around. Slipping on my sports bra, hoodie, leggings, and Nikes, I opened the door to the hallway and look out, expecting to see my usual team.
There is no one there. A small chill runs down my spine, but I’m so desperate to get out and explore that I ignore it. I slip to the elevator expecting one of the security team to call my name out at any time. There’s no one in the lobby either as I walk through it, and a few more steps and I’m out in the city.
It’s a gorgeous, crisp, perfect day, and I’m immediately entranced by the sights, smells, and people that I see. I decide to run through some of Central Park since it’s daylight and there’s a million people around to keep it safe.
My muscles strain at first from my efforts, but eventually I find myself in that zone that I’ve always loved. I pass children walking with their parents, other runners, and bloggers taking pictures by a bridge. There’s food stands set up, and I take a small break to scarf down a hotdog from one of the stands. It seemed like a very New York thing to do.
There are a herd of bicyclists coming towards me at one point, so I turn left down a less crowded path. After I’ve run a mile, I realize that there’s not very many people around this area and the trees are denser. I find myself running faster until the path spits me out and I find myself back on the bustling city sidewalk, the Park behind me.
I keep going, farther and farther until I have no idea where I am or where I’m going.
A shiver runs down my spine, even though I’m sweating. The sun hovers above the city skyline. Tall brown and gray buildings of varying heights line the streets. For blocks I run and free my mind, concentrating on the wind at my back, the tempo of my breath, and the pull of long-dormant muscles in my legs. It’s not long before the city becomes a blur and my thoughts stray to the guys, and how I fit into the intricate web of their life. I thought that our love could simplify the craziness of their life, but there’s no slowing down the most popular band in the world. Am I strong enough to endure the demands of their career? Will I forever be detached from the three of them in public? How is it we can work? They always act like they don’t have a single doubt that it will all work out, that we’ll find a way, but doubts to the validity of that statement, mainly from Miranda, are becoming harder to ignore.
How is a happy ending possible when the disparity between us is so great? I still have some secrets, ones that I want to take with me to the grave if possible. And I’m sure they do too. Everything seems so overwhelming.
And then I laugh, a bubble bursting from my chest with such freedom I stop in my tracks. I’m so overreacting. Leaning against a stop sign at a cross-section, I smile through my panted breath. I love them, more than I ever thought I was capable of loving anything or anyone. Their career isn’t going anywhere and worrying constantly about my place in it won’t strengthen our relationship.
I just need to find myself so that I can fit in with their life and not feel like such an interloper. I know it’s possible. Cutting across the street, I head in what I think is the direction of the hotel. Footsteps fall in line with mine; it must be another runner coming up behind me.
For the fun of it, I pick up my pace to make the runner work for it before he or she catches me. My breath spikes as I push myself faster, expecting for the person to pass me at any moment. I run into a side street without stopping for the possibility of traffic. Silence. There’s no one there. Glancing behind me doesn’t produce anything but the dingy brick of the building I just rounded. Footsteps echo in the narrow alley I use as a shortcut—first mine and then a second set. Driving harder, I propel myself the final few blocks to the hotel.
Shop doors blur as I streak by. Panic bursts in my already burning chest as I chance a look behind me. The shadow of a figure turns the corner. Lines are elongated into a grotesquely misshapen man by sun stretching across the buildings. I dart into the road. A horn blares, the car it belongs to screeches to a stop inches from my frozen form. Shit.
Waving a lame apology, I race into the hotel twenty feet away. Hands on my knees, I gulp in air. Through the window, I find a quiet street; no one is walking or running in my wake. But I didn’t imagine it. The heavy tread of falling feet still echoes in my ears. With one last look out the door I turn to the elevators and where hopefully the guys are waiting for me.
It’s not exactly the peaceful homecoming I was hoping for. Jensen is pacing the front room of the suite with his phone pressed to his ear. “Dan, this shit better not happen again.” His hard, almost frantic eyes find mine. “No excuses. I’ve been clear about my expectations, let me state them again—every minute, every day, your entire team, no exceptions.” His chest rises and falls as if he went for a jog, but that’s not the case because he’s in a very tight pair of boxer briefs and nothing else.
Something happened.
“No, I haven’t. Yes, I fucking understand you think you got a text from us, but that obviously wasn’t the case. We have people looking into how that happened as we speak. No matter what you think you get from us, unless you hear one of us say it out loud, you stay with her.” After a pause, Jensen says, “Don’t ever let this happen again.”
His eyes never leave mine as he ends the call and tosses his cell on the couch. I grab a water from the fridge and drink it down while watching his gaze streak over my sweaty body.
“I went for a run when your meetings got extended.” I admit the obvious.
“So I see,” he says in a strained voice. He picks up the phone again and presses the phone to his ear. “She’s back.” He pauses as he listens to someone who I think is Jesse yelling over the line. “She decided to go for a run.” He listens again. “Just get back here.” He tosses the phone down again angrily.
“I thought maybe I’d be back before you guys returned,” I say, not sure why I’m even bothering to defend myself when I did nothing wrong.
“You should have texted us. One of us, or your security team could have gone with you when we returned,” he growls and steps toward me. He’s angry and I can’t tell if he’s upset with me, or the something that happened.
“Are you mad at me?” I ask incredulously.
“Why would I be, Ariana?” His voice is calm, yet I know he’s not since he used my full name.
“You think I’m angry because you left alone,” he pauses for a shaking breath, “in a strange city, without telling anyone where you were going, or how long you would be….”
I realize that I am the something that has happened.
“That’s not true, I had my phone with me.”
“Did you bother to use it. Is it even on? Did you not think for a fucking second to at least send us a text?” His tone rises and his eyes flash a green I’ve never seen before. His anger is a cold, dark, menacing thing and it reminds me of those first couple of days when he acted like he couldn't stand the sight of me.
I pull my cell phone out of my sports bra and cringe when I see that it is indeed off. I had forgotten to charge it the night before and apparently it had died on my run. The look on my face confirms his accusations.
“I can’t find you in a city with millions of people if your damn cell phone isn’t on. A turned off cell
phone doesn’t tell me what fucking direction you went in, how long ago you left, what path you were on! Did you even stop to contemplate the crime rate in this city, the number of—” He stops and shudders.
“No, I didn’t,” I say weakly, remembering the footsteps following behind me at the end of my run. “I’m sorry. I was around tons of people in a public place. I didn’t think you would worry about me if I was just gone for a bit.”
His brow digs into three deep, angry lines. He moves so close I have to tilt my head back to hold eye contact. “Not worry?” The words fall from his tongue as if they’re poison. “Not worry?” he says again. “All we fucking do is worry about you, Ariana. Tanner and Jesse are out combing the city for you right now risking the likelihood that they are going to be mobbed by fans. I’ve been on the phone since we got back trying all of our contacts. Do you not know how much we need you? How much I need you?”
Comprehension barely sinks in before his mouth crushes mine. Melting into him, I dig my fingers into his hair and stay flush against his hard body. He holds my face with both hands so I can’t step away from the frustration he takes out on me with lashes of his tongue. I match his need, the danger of my apparently thoughtless run rolling off me in waves. He takes it, takes me until I can’t breathe but he doesn’t let me go, punishing my lips with his for the careless worry I caused. He rips away, panting. “Damn it, Ariana—don’t ever fucking do that again.” His mouth finds mine, this time in a tempered but passionate kiss that frankly has me breathing harder than the miles I’ve just run.
I cling to him, arms around his neck as he maneuvers us to the bathroom, turning the shower on hot before he strips me. My hoodie is first, up and over my head; my bra follows it to the floor. He drops to his knees, eyes on mine as he licks below my navel and removes my shoes one at a time. I’m on to his game as he pulls my pants to the floor, so slow I’m panting with need by the time he’s done.
He kisses up my leg, runs his nose along the lace of my underwear as he breathes me in. I grab his hair and moan at the movement. I spread my legs. Slowly, so damn slow, he peels my underwear off and the warm air tickles my skin. I whimper when his breath fans over me.
“Please,” I beg.
He stands.
Um, excuse me? I want to scream, back to your knees, but then his boxer briefs are off and I sigh with relief because he steps into me. I hiss as my bare chest meets his chest. My arms are around his neck and I lift to find his mouth, but he turns his head and navigates us into the streaming water. Shampoo is first. Every tender stroke dissolves his anger and fear and works me into a bigger ball of need. It’s delicious, but so is what’s jutting into my stomach. I reach for him and he’s quick to knock my hand away. I groan and he smiles, tipping my head into the water to rinse and then repeat with conditioner.
My body is next. He soaps up every available inch. Collarbone and arms; my breasts he takes on one at a time, tugging on the tips. I gasp and arch into him. But he moves to my back and butt, around to my stomach and then, achingly slowly, he moves between my legs. Parting me with his fingers, he rubs. I drop my forehead to his chest, rolling my hips with the rhythm of his hand. I’m so close.
“Jensen,” I breathe into his neck. My nails sink into his shoulder as he does it again. He stops and drops to his knees. Yes, I love his mouth. I fist his hair, but he washes my feet.
No!
“Your little run left us little time for anything but to dress and leave before our reservations this evening.” He smiles—the bastard smiles.
“That’s not fair.”
I jerk away from him as he stands, and I slip my hand between my thighs. If he won’t do it, I’ll make him watch as I do. His nostrils flare and he’s on me in a second. In the next my arms are above my head and I’m cold, pressed against the tile.
“Don’t you dare,” he snarls. “You made a choice, suffer with it until one of us has time to work the pleasure out of you. It’s ours.”
“I didn’t know it was dangerous,” I hiss.
“And now you do,” he replies.
He wants to be mad, fine. Rage simmers beneath my skin and out of my mouth one word at a time. “Let go of me.”
Understanding flickers in his eyes. He’s pushed me too far. As soon as his grip loosens, I fly from the shower and on my way out of the room I grab two towels. One I wrap around my aching and heavy breasts. Damn that man. I don’t know how to do angry with Jensen.
Everything’s new for us: I mean we’re for all intents and purposes living together when we haven’t seen each other for five years. Everything about our relationship is on warp speed. At times that speed is too much.
I take it out on my hair, scrubbing it with a towel until it’s sticking up all over the place. When he appears in the doorway, naked as a jaybird, I turn away. My movements are staccato and when he sighs my name, I start the hair drier and hum “Girl in the White Dress” because it’s stuck in my head from the concert last night. It infuriates me more. Everything I do is out of spite. My hair in a high ponytail to bare my neck, the smallest thong I own slips into place. The tightest dress the stylist gave me follows it and note to self: add extra sway to my ass at every possible moment. I add dramatic makeup as my final fuck-you. I look good. Slipping into four-inch heels, I add that hip-sway and saunter into the suite. For a second, I feel like a little girl playing dress-up of something that she’s not, but I push through and pretend I’m all that.
He’s on the phone by the window, a replay of when I came home from my run. I bypass his eyes, yet notice that he’s wearing the white shirt I like that shows off his deep tan. It may be his surrender flag, but too bad. Battle on. I do good mad and I’m ferocious. I turn away to throw some things into my black clutch.
The flush of energy is my first clue he’s behind me and then the heat radiating from his chest confirms it. His hand lands on my hip, as if to turn me toward him, but I stiffen and stand my ground.
“This is how it’s going to be?” he asks. Anger burns below my skin and I almost scream it out of me and at him.
“This is how you decided it needed to be.” I swallow and turn. His eyes show how he hurts, but he crossed a line with me just then. He needs to know and understand the consequences that follow a stunt like his in the shower. I hear the door open and close and I know that Jesse and Tanner have just arrived.
“Jensen, I’m sure you can figure out that when you’re in an abusive relationship like I have been in for the past three years, there’s a lot of “withholding” that occurs. I will not let that happen in this relationship.”
Shame crosses his features and he takes a step towards me. I hold up my hand. “Don’t do it again,” I tell him, my voice shaking as I try to hold in the tears. Turning I look at Jesse and Tanner who are both standing there, obviously relieved to see me, but obviously unsure of what to say at the moment after what they just walked in on.
“Shall we go?” I say in a false, bright voice that makes everyone in the room cringe. Jesse nods and holds out his hand. And away we go...
We end up going to see Wicked on Broadway after a delicious dinner at a restaurant that had people waiting in a line around the corner to try and get in. It should have been amazing, but the fight after my run stayed with me, dampening everything else. We were all quiet in the elevator riding up to our suite, and when we arrived at the suite, I immediately head to one of the spare bedrooms where I’ve been storing my stuff for some alone time. I wouldn’t be sleeping with any of them tonight.
Pulling open the doors to the bedroom, I expect the giant bed I spied in here yesterday, but I don’t expect the giant red wrapped package sitting in the middle of the bed….
The gorgeous golden and white room fades around me as my attention focuses on the package. Somehow there’s something inside of me that tells me that it’s not from one of the guys. Even knowing that I’m being stupid, I open the top of the package with trembling hands. Inside there are black and white photographs and pa
pers with type-written words.
I pick up one of the pieces of paper. My hands shake as I realize what I’m looking at. It’s a hospital record. My hospital record. Of a night and the weeks afterwards that I have done everything I can to forget. I’m rooted to the spot, the paper dangling in my hand. Unable to step away—unable to speak, just staring. The photographs are of me, some with the guys, but others just of me. I recognize some of them from my time with Gentry, pictures of me sleeping or the black and blue on my body after Gentry hit me, but there’s also pictures since the tour. Ones of me in the audience watching the guys, of me singing on stage, of me singing during sound check. It’s a timeline of my time with the guys so far. There’s picture after picture, ending with me walking into the hotel last night with Jensen.
The piece de résistance waits for me at the bottom of the box. It’s a shot of me that the police must have taken that night so long ago. I’m in my hospital bed, exposed and broken. There’s a message scrawled in red below the picture. “Found you,” it says.
I look away quickly noticing that all of my beautiful new clothes have been torn off my hangers and are laying ripped into pieces on the floor. They’re drenched in a bloody red paint and there’s a dried white substance intermixed with the red paint. Bile rises, my hand flying up to my mouth to hold it in at the sight of a solitary violet flower placed on the pillow where my head would lie. Fear takes over and my heart races. I step backwards until I’m standing in the entry of the room, my eyes glued on the box.
When my knees give out, I grab the doorframe to catch myself, and choke on a cry. The weight pressing in on my chest is suffocating as my eyes dart back to that picture. A picture that I didn’t even know existed.
Short, jagged breaths are lodged in my throat. Help, I think, but it doesn’t seem like any words come out.
“Princess? What’s wrong?” Tanner is a small hint of sound, barely recognizable while I’m in my faraway space. I try to respond, I do, but words won’t form. The best I can offer is a mournful whimper, which sounds dejected as it echoes against the walls. He walks past me and confusedly looks at the contents of the box. Another pair of hands reach me before Tanner’s harsh and much louder expletive of “Holy fuck” sounds across the room.
