by Brenda Novak
No. He just wanted a quick one-night stand. At least, he’d wanted one when she left. Maybe she’d wasted too much time since then. She could hear the television through the door. But that didn’t mean he hadn’t changed his mind or nodded off….
Shivering more from nerves than the cool air of the open walkway, she checked the time on her phone. Ten-thirty. Not too late, but ten-thirty wasn’t exactly early on a weeknight.
Knock! Don’t just stand here like a big chicken.
She turned off her phone. Then she squeezed her eyes shut and raised her hand. She’d tap once. If he didn’t answer, she’d leave and pretend she’d never returned. Tomorrow Kate would be home and she’d be Jane the Mother, Jane the Survivor, Jane the Victims’ Advocate. Tonight she was giving herself permission to be Jane the Woman.
She wasn’t sure she’d knocked at the door hard enough to be heard over the TV—until it opened.
Then he was there, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans, unbuttoned at the top as if he’d pulled them on just to be able to answer the door.
Oh, God…Jane’s mouth went dry as their eyes met.
“Hey.” He moved aside to let her in, but she couldn’t make her feet move. She stood where she was, clinging to her purse and the sack from the drugstore. Finally, without a word, she charged back in the direction from which she’d come. She was about to break into a run when Sebastian caught her by the arm. He didn’t grab very hard, but he managed to stop her.
“Whoa, you’re not even going to say hello?”
She didn’t have an answer and he didn’t insist.
“Come on,” he coaxed, leading her into his room.
“I—I just came to…” She let her words fall away. She’d been about to make up some silly excuse for her sudden appearance, something besides the obvious, but why pretend? He knew why she was here. Even if he didn’t, he’d soon find out. She was holding a sack full of condoms.
“Jeez, your hands are cold.” He covered them, his fingers curling around the fists she was making in order to hang on to everything, including her composure.
She swallowed hard. “It’s chilly out.”
“I can get you warm,” he whispered and leaned in to kiss her neck.
“Is this crazy?” she breathed as his lips moved over her skin. “Because it feels crazy. I—I can hardly breathe. And my heart’s pounding so hard….”
“It’s not crazy.”
Jane wanted to cast aside all her inhibition. She’d promised herself she would. What fun would this be if she held back the whole time? But as his mouth slid up toward hers, he paused ever so slightly on the scar that remained from Oliver’s knife, and she was suddenly terrified she’d fail.
“Relax,” he murmured. “I’m the one who’s supposed to be stiff.”
He was trying to tease her out of her discomfort. She knew that because he was smiling—but her self-esteem had suffered such a terrible blow the joke made her fear he’d find her inadequate.
“Are you?” she asked.
He guided her hand to the proof, and her heart pounded even harder.
“I won’t push you to do more than you want,” he whispered. “I promise. If you feel I’m being too aggressive, you just let me know.”
She released her breath, but she didn’t remove her hand. She couldn’t. She was too curious, too captivated. On some level, she was actually surprised she could affect him to that degree.
With his knuckle, he tilted up her chin and stared into her eyes. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”
No. She’d never been beautiful. At twenty or thirty pounds overweight, she’d been overlooked in high school. It wasn’t until recently that she’d begun to turn heads. She would’ve loved the attention she received now when she was younger. At this point, she couldn’t take it seriously. No matter how thin or toned she became, she saw herself as the pudgy girl with acne and a personality that was just a little too eager. “You don’t have to say things like that,” she said. “This will be easier for me if you’re honest.”
He seemed taken aback by her response. “I am being honest.”
Was he? Or was he trying to create a fantasy? Maybe based on what she’d written as BrownEyedGirl. Was he playing into it?
“If you say so.”
“You don’t believe me.”
She had no response. Her lack of confidence wasn’t something she wanted to admit, and yet she couldn’t deny it, either.
“Maybe it’s time you started to,” he said and touched his lips to hers. She expected him to use his tongue, to get right down to business. Her fingers were still tracing his erection through the denim of his jeans. But she couldn’t imagine he’d want to waste much of his night with her. Wasn’t this kind of hookup all about quick satisfaction?
If so, he didn’t seem to be taking things very fast. He made that one touch very innocent and brief, and he didn’t pull her into his arms. He stepped away, taking the sack she’d been carrying.
“What have you brought?”
Jane could feel the heat in her cheeks as he looked inside.
“Wow. Either you’re planning to stay a few days or you’re seriously overestimating my ability,” he said with a laugh.
“Don’t get the wrong idea. I know this is just a onetime gig. But I didn’t know what to buy. I—” she shook her head “—I’ve never bought them before. Oliver always…” She couldn’t finish the sentence.
“A selection is nice.” He tossed them onto the nightstand. Then he rested his hands on her shoulders, demanding her undivided attention. “I’m glad you mentioned Oliver because I want to tell you something. I’m not him, Jane. I’m not anything like him. I will never intentionally hurt you.”
Perhaps it was true, but as much as she’d changed in some respects, she hadn’t escaped the conditioning she’d received at Oliver’s hands. “I understand.”
“Can I pour you a glass of wine?” It was another attempt to put her at ease. She appreciated the effort, but she wasn’t sure even wine would work. Entering his room with a sack full of rubbers made her feel as if she’d just jumped out of an airplane—without a parachute.
Only she did have a parachute, she told herself. The fact that Sebastian was leaving town as soon as he’d solved the mystery of Malcolm Turner’s faked death was her parachute. This wasn’t a relationship. This didn’t require the deep consideration a relationship would. Her future didn’t figure into it, and neither did Kate’s. Which meant she could relax. It was just for tonight.
“No, thank you.”
He’d already picked up the bottle. “It might help,” he said, lifting it higher.
“I’d rather not miss anything. The next hour might have to last me for a few years,” she teased, but he didn’t laugh at her words. Apparently, he knew it wasn’t a joke.
He put down the bottle. “How about some music?” he said and turned the television to a music station. “Classical okay?”
She’d never made love to classical music, never listened to it at all, but the emotion surging through the piece appealed to her. She could relate to it. And she liked that it was different, that the music evoked no associations, no memories. “That’s…good.”
Draping an arm over the corner of the TV, he leaned against the dresser. “Is there anything I should know?”
She glanced nervously at the bed. Maybe now they were getting down to business. “Are you asking about STDs? Because I’m clean.”
This evoked a smile. “I can’t say I’m not happy to hear it. For the record, you don’t have to worry about me in that area, either. But I was referring to phobias. Are you afraid of the dark? Afraid of feeling cornered? Afraid of being overpowered?”
Images from the last time she’d made love with Oliver flashed through Jane’s mind, but she threw up as much of a mental barricade as she could. “I want the lights off.”
He reached around her for the switch and plunged the room into darkness. “Anything else?”
“Don
’t restrict my movement.”
“In what way?”
“Don’t tie me up—or hold me down.”
“You don’t have to worry about that. I’d rather be with someone who can respond.” He stepped closer. She could sense the warmth of his body—but he didn’t touch her. “I’ve got an idea,” he said. “Why don’t you take control? Why don’t you make love to me?”
Thinking she’d be in charge made her feel safer. But it’d been so long. And she didn’t know Sebastian very well. How did she initiate such intimacy? Did she simply…stand up on tiptoe and start kissing him?
“It’s not difficult,” he whispered as if she’d asked the question aloud. Bending his head, he met her mouth, but he didn’t put his arms around her until she slipped her arms around him. And she was the first one to part her lips.
Sebastian would’ve preferred the lights on. Jane was far prettier than she realized; he wanted to see the athletic female body beneath that sweat suit. But he wasn’t calling the shots. He had to remind himself of that over and over as habit and natural desire prompted him to take control. With every flick of her tongue against his neck, his nipple, his stomach, his desire increased.
And then she moved lower….
His muscles bunched as he struggled to keep himself in check. He longed to roll her onto her back, to use his mouth and hands until she was moaning and bucking against him, begging for the fulfillment he already craved. But he was afraid he’d frighten her. He’d known from the beginning that making love to Jane would be different, would require more restraint.
He’d expected to have no problem exercising that restraint, but it wasn’t easy. It’d stopped being easy thirty minutes ago, when she’d taken off her clothes and her flesh had touched his. She’d been so tentative it was as if she was making love for the first time. There was a powerful eroticism in her rediscovery. Going so slowly wound him that much tighter.
“Jane.” His voice was hoarse, almost unrecognizable even to him.
“What?” she breathed.
“I can’t take any more.”
She hesitated. “You want me to stop?”
“Will it freak you out if I get on top? I’ll bear my own weight. It’s just until we get settled. Then we’ll switch.”
“Okay.”
Thank God. Shifting her onto her back, he held himself above her so she wouldn’t feel trapped and lowered his body until he could rub his chest against hers. There was so much he wanted to do to her and with her, but she didn’t know how to guide him to what she most enjoyed. Every time he thought he found something that pleased her, she stopped him. He couldn’t insist for fear it would send her into a panic—she’d nearly bolted when she’d first arrived—but she seemed to be thwarting her own enjoyment. Why?
He guessed the man she’d married had used her terribly. It made him angry, but he couldn’t undo all the damage in one night. And because she felt more comfortable touching him than letting him touch her, he was so far gone he’d blow it completely if he didn’t salvage what he could.
“That’s it.” Just easing into her almost pushed him over the edge.
When her legs went around his waist, drawing him deeper, he wanted to thrust. But he’d promised her she could call the shots, so he rolled over and let her straddle him instead. “You okay?” he whispered.
“I’m okay,” she said and began to rock against him.
Sebastian hung on for as long as he could, but it wasn’t long enough. When it was over, he was pretty sure she hadn’t experienced the same completion.
She lay beside him until she recovered her breath, then started to slide away. “That was nice,” she said. “Thanks.”
“You’re leaving?” he asked in surprise. “It’s barely eleven-thirty.”
“I’ve got work in the morning.”
He didn’t want her to go, not like this. She was being polite about it, but he knew she had to be disappointed. “Stay. Next time will be better. I was afraid of scaring you. I was trying to be too gentle. Now that you know you don’t have to worry about me, I can have more confidence in—”
“It’s not you, it’s me,” she interrupted.
“Jane—”
“Good night.” She gathered her things in the dark and he heard the door click as she went out.
Eleven
Tears streamed down Jane’s face as she sat in the parking lot of the motel. She started the car so she could turn on the heat, but she didn’t leave. She couldn’t stop shaking and wasn’t sure she could drive.
What the hell was wrong with her? How could she have thought sex with a total stranger would help anything?
She rested her forehead on the steering wheel. “Because I’m an idiot. I can never get anything right that has to do with men.”
Sebastian had been the perfect gentleman. She had no complaints. But their session hadn’t carried her away as she’d hoped. Not even for a moment. She hadn’t been able to let go, to enjoy their lovemaking the way she’d imagined. Oliver had made that impossible. Just when she thought she’d be able to escape the past, he seemed to reach out from the grave….
“You bastard,” she said. “You cruel, selfish bastard.”
If only she’d never met Oliver. If only she’d been able to have Kate with someone else. But—her fingers sought the tattoo on her breast—Oliver wasn’t all that was holding her back.
A knock on the window startled her. She grabbed her throat as if fending off Oliver’s knife before she realized there was no threat.
“It’s just me.” Sebastian stepped back and held up something. “You left your wallet.”
She looked more closely at the object he’d brought. It definitely was her wallet. How had she lost it?
Then she remembered. They’d made a mess of the bedding and knocked her purse to the floor. It must’ve fallen out.
Shit! If she’d dropped anything else, she would’ve told him to keep it. She didn’t want to speak to him right now, didn’t want to let him know she’d been crying. But her wallet contained all her money and credit cards, as well as her driver’s license. She had to get it back, and the sooner the better.
Great way to top off the evening, Jane.
Lowering the window, she kept her face averted while he handed it to her. “Thank you,” she said, but she knew her voice sounded far too polite. She added a “Sorry” that only made it worse as she began to roll the window back up. She wanted to get out of the lot before he noticed her tears. But a quick glance showed his stricken expression: it was already too late.
She wondered if she should try to explain. She would’ve tried, but she wasn’t sure she could. He hadn’t done anything wrong. These were her issues, issues she’d been dealing with for years. He couldn’t take the blame for that. Anyway, she had no business crying. At least she was alive. At least she had Kate. That was enough. Plenty of other victims weren’t so lucky. She should be grateful, not wallowing in self-pity because she didn’t know how to act like a normal human being anymore.
Determined to put this behind her, to forge ahead as she’d done since Oliver’s death, she shifted into reverse. Forget and move on. That was the name of the game. Don’t look back. Those who did never escaped.
“Jane, wait a minute! I’m sorry,” he called after her, but she didn’t stop. She backed out of the parking space and drove away.
Malcolm had given Marcie and Latisha some sleeping pills so he wouldn’t have to hear from them tonight. It was a relief to know they’d be out for a good twelve hours, that they wouldn’t wake and start scheming against him. Maybe kidnapping had taken the thrill of wielding his badge to greater heights—they’d done most everything he told them to with a “Yes, sir”—but he should’ve let them go after scaring them senseless. That was what he usually did. Playing cop made for an enjoyable evening. He could order people around, act like the Big Man, and no one ever questioned him. The prostitutes on Franklin Boulevard were especially impressed when he told them he was underc
over, so impressed they often gave him whatever he wanted for free. Officer Boss. Hearing people call him that cracked Malcolm up, which was why he’d chosen the name.
But he’d taken things too far with Marcie and Latisha. Now that he’d have to kill them, it was no longer a game.
After lowering the volume on the TV, Malcolm dialed the cell phone number he’d kept in his wallet. It rang once before he got a recording: “Please enjoy the music while your party is reached.”
A country song came on.
Trying to quell his impatience, Malcolm tapped the arm of the couch. He’d have some answers soon, he told himself. It was the middle of the night. Pam Wartle had to be home.
But Pam didn’t pick up. From “You Look Good in My Shirt” he was transferred to voice mail.
With a curse, he hung up and dialed again. Not only was it late, it was during the work week and she had a family as well as a regular nine-to-five job. Where the hell was she?
Finally he heard a sleepy voice. “Hello?”
He tried to gauge whether he had the right person. It was definitely a female—but was it Pam or her daughter?
“Hello?”
Malcolm let his breath go. It was Pam. “Hey.”
He could sense the tension in her breathing, even though she spoke only two words. “Hang on.”
“Pam?”
Silence.
“Pam!”
At last she responded, but this time her voice was soft and low and he assumed she was hiding in a closet or a bathroom—somewhere her husband wouldn’t be able to hear her. “This had better not be who I think it is,” she hissed.
“If you’re having an illicit affair, it’s not your lover. Does that help?”
“No! What the hell are you doing calling me? You swore you’d never contact me again!”
He straightened his uniform. He rarely wore it out of the house—regular clothes and a Kojak light worked better since he no longer had a cop car—but he’d wanted to wear it tonight. It gave him a chance to relive the good times he’d had in the past, reminded him of the power he’d once legitimately held. “Calm down. I blocked my number.”
