She moved her grip from my fingers to my upper arms and kept her eyes locked on mine. “But hon, you will. I see it in you. You will make it through.”
Then she hugged me. Here was this woman who was all but a stranger to me, saying the exact words I hadn’t known I needed to hear. Emotion churned in the dark lake, and it took several hiccupping breaths to keep the tide back. I couldn’t afford it. I wouldn’t let it all loose simply because I’d found a kindred spirit. I just couldn’t.
When I pulled back from Lydia, head nodding hard, jaw clenched, her smile was compassionate, as if she understood exactly what I was trying to do. If it had been any other person, I think I would’ve resented it. But she knew. It was a knowing I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. But there it was, something neither of us could change. A tie of battered bodies and spilt blood that made us sisters more than blood ties ever could.
“Callie,” Lydia’s sharp voice calls me back to the present. “You’re up!”
I blink and realize the whole class is looking expectantly at me. Right. I hurry and jog up to the front of the class. The padded ‘attacker’ is much more intimidating up close than he was when Lydia was so easily tossing him around a moment ago.
Lydia grins at me when I join her side. “You got this.”
She sounds so confident.
I stretch my neck and shake out my hands. I got this. I got this. I glance up again at the volunteer. Mike, was that what she said his name was at the start of class?
He’s smiling in what I can only assume he feels is a non-threatening manner. But all I can feel is the prickling sensation that he is way the fuck too close to me.
“All right, Callie. What are the steps to take if he grabs you?” Lydia asks.
For a second, my mind is a complete blank. Hands. Men grabbing me. Sweaty hands holding me down. Fuck. One, two, three, four, five, six—
“Remember the steps,” Lydia’s voice breaks in.
I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly through my teeth. The steps. Remember the steps. “Vocalize. Disengage. Run.”
“Excellent.”
We’ve practiced the moves involved in different attacker holds so many times they’re supposed to ingrain themselves in muscle memory. That way if an attack actually happens, my body should take over without thinking. Then again, I’ve only been at this for three weeks. How much muscle memory can I have really built up in three weeks?
“Are you ready for Mike?”
I take another breath to center myself and then nod. I know in a real life scenario I wouldn’t have time to prepare for an attacker, but Lydia is adamant that class feel like a safe space for every student. The whole idea of this is to prepare us. And that means working at our own pace. Some of the more advanced students allow surprise attacks, but I’m not there yet.
Mike doesn’t move until I drop my hand in the prearranged signal.
And even though I know it’s coming, God, I’m expecting it, that’s the whole fucking point of this—there’s still a moment when his arms drop in a hold around my neck that my body just absolutely shuts down.
I’m back there. I’m fucking back there. I can’t breathe. Oh God, I can’t breathe. Say you’re hungry for my cock. It’s the nightmare, but the nightmare is real. There’s a man’s body at my back. His heavy arms around my body.
Oh God, no—
No, no, no—
“NO!”
Someone is shouting in my ear. Lydia. It’s Lydia. I open my eyes and see my friend. And then my whole class. They’re all shouting no. Lydia’s eyes are on me, eyebrows raised in encouragement.
“NO!” she shouts again and this time I join her.
“NO!” I shriek. When the word rings through my vocal chords and echoes off the walls of the room, I feel the power of it. The attacker has his arm around my neck in what would be a chokehold if he were pressing any harder, but in a sudden rush of adrenaline, I realize I know what to do.
I turn my neck to the side so my throat won’t be crushed and I can take full breaths again. Then I raise my elbow and jam it as hard as I can into the attacker’s stomach. I hit the soft padding of the safety suit, but I’m too in the zone to care.
Get him off me! Get him off. That’s all I can think or care about. Get his fucking hands off my body. I lift my foot and slam it down on his instep. Again, the stupid protective padding stops it from doing any real damage.
So then I go for the move I know this lesson is all about. God, I don’t know if I can do it, but I’ll fucking try, because I know it will get me free of his hold. I could call stop and the exercise would be over. In this room stop means stop—but damn it, what if this was real life?
Because I fucking know that outside this room, words don’t stop anyone. Instead of paralyzing like it normally might, the thought only propels me.
I scream, “NOOOOOOOOOOOO!” then reach behind me, grab the top of the attacker’s safety suit at the collar, lever him at my hip, and flip him over my body.
I barely even register it, but he’s spun and on the mat at my feet. Just like that. His weight wasn’t even an issue. I don’t get how. But it worked. It fucking worked.
I start laughing as the class claps. Lydia puts her fingers between her lips and lets out an appreciative whistle like we’re at a ballgame or something. I take several steps away from the man groaning on the floor, a little disbelieving. For the first time since all those weeks ago when Lydia grabbed my arms and told me I was going to make it through this shit stronger than ever, I believe her.
I wrap my arms around myself and laugh. I look to the ceiling and think of my son, of how my lawyers have worked it so tomorrow I go in for a new drug screening. It’s a much more accurate follicle test this time which can prove I haven’t done drugs over the past ninety days. In addition to retesting the original urine sample at a lab that can discern street drugs from other substances that can cause false positives.
What does all this mean?
I’m going to survive what was done to me.
I’m going to get my son back.
Life is a shit storm. Still, it’s one I’m going to make it through. I might come out battered, tarnished, and more than a little bit bruised. But no fucking way am I going to let it crush me.
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The epic conclusion to Callie, Jackson, and Gentry’s story is coming in PLEASE ME, releasing on March 9th. Continue on for a sneak peek after the acknowledgements!
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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
First and foremost, I have to thank my amazing husband, probably in every book I’ll ever write. You give me the support and love and cheerleading that keeps me going. Love you, babe.
My Minnesota writer’s group gals helped this book get off the ground. Thanks so much, I miss you fabulous ladies! Then I had a group of tremendous beta readers for this book that gave me amazing feedback: Karina (love that you’ve read all my books, past and present, hugs babe!), Belinda (your quick feedback was SO amazing!), Amanda (the very first person to read Crush Me, thank you so much!), Lindsay Johnston (gah, your feedback was so super duper wicked helpful!) and last but not least, Kristin Leigh Jones (you always kick my butt in the best way!).
Thank you to Nicki at Swish Design and Editing for her proofreading pass.
And thank you, beautiful readers! Without you literally none of this would be possible. Thanks for taking a chance on a new author :) If you want to continue discovering sexy romantic stories that ride the motherf#@ing edge, I’ve got several more books coming out in the coming months.
ABOUT STASIA
Stasia Black is an author who’s drawn t
o romantic stories that don’t take the easy way out. She wants to see beneath people’s veneer and into their dark places, their twisted motives, and their deepest desires. She likes to toss her characters into the tempest and watch them hurt, fight, bleed, and then find out what, if anything, comes out the other side. Come along for the journey because it’s one helluva ride.
Sneak Peek of PLEASE ME
Coming End of February 2017
CHAPTER 1
The bass of the club beat vibrates through my feet and up to my ribcage. Oh hell yeah. I close my eyes for a moment, reveling and letting my body start to move in time with the rhythm. There’s that delicious electricity in the air. Bodies are thick on the dark, crowded dance floor. The music is so loud it drowns out every other thought. My body wants to sway and lose itself in the music.
My eyes snap open again. Because no, I’m not here to lose myself. I’ve done enough of that over the last four months.
For most of June and July, I barely left the house except for work. Then I went out, very reluctantly, with some coworkers for happy hour one night and discovered something amazing. It’s the same thing that’s drawn me out tonight. I’m here to fucking feel alive again. Or as alive as I can with the most vital part of myself amputated from my life—my son.
Not thinking about that right now. Not thinking about any of it.
Several people enter the club behind me and I finally move forward. The stiletto heels I’m wearing force me to walk in a certain way. Back straight. Hips swaying. If I’m honest, I’m fucking strutting.
I own it. This is my catwalk. The club’s so crowded, I doubt anyone’s looking at me particularly, but I imagine they are. I’m commanding every eye in this place. They are all at my fucking beck and call. I revel in it, the power I have in this moment.
It’s not all in my head, either. When I sit at the bar and cross my legs, casually fluffing the wild shoulder-length red hair of the wig I splurged on last month, I don’t just feel like a queen on her throne.
The people in the sphere around me respond to me as if I am one. A couple of women look down at their own dresses self-consciously. The man sitting beside me immediately angles his body toward me and away from the woman he was flirting with moments before.
I hide a smile as the bartender, also a man, notices me among several people vying for his attention. He leans in as he asks what I’d like to drink.
“Vodka tonic, please.”
“Put it on my tab,” says the guy sitting beside me.
I only spare a cursory glance in his direction. He looks to be in his mid-thirties. Far from old but a little out of place for this particular club scene in his business shirt with his tie loose and askew. Yeah, it’s a Thursday night, but it’s eleven o’clock. He couldn’t change into something a little more club appropriate?
I smile at him charmingly but shake my head with a strong no. Number one, it’s my firm policy never to accept drinks from men. I’ll never be indebted to any guy in any way, shape or form. And number two, he’s just a little too eager for me.
“I got it,” I say to the bartender and slide some cash over the table. “Keep the tip.”
The bartender grins at me, bright white teeth against ebony skin. I perk up. Now he on the other hand could be a possibility. I’m a sucker for a great smile.
He grabs a mid-shelf vodka and pours some in my glass. I lean in, elbows on the bar top, cleavage unabashedly on display in the form-hugging electric blue dress that I’m wearing.
“How’s your night going, handsome?” I ask, elevating my voice to be heard over the noise.
His grin widens, though I wouldn’t have thought that possible a moment ago. My eyes zero in on his lips. They’re so inviting and thick, luscious is the only word that comes to mind. Immediately, my mind pictures his big body underneath mine, those lips sucking on my nipple.
“Better and better since you walked up to my bar.”
Oh yeah. This guy is looking like a more attractive candidate every moment. I toss him a flirty smile along as well as an eye roll as he presses the spout to fill up the rest of my glass with soda.
“You know what, I don’t even care how often you’ve used that line,” I laugh, then take a sip of the vodka tonic. It’s a perfect mix. I nod at him approvingly. “You’re cute enough to pull it off.”
He puts a hand dramatically to his chest like he’s wounded. “Aw man, cute, that’s the kiss of death. I’ve been downgraded from handsome to cute?”
I’m about to respond back when he holds up a finger and says he’ll be right back. Unfortunately, the bar is swarmed with people wanting drinks as the club really hits its peak traffic. I finish up my vodka tonic, enjoying the slight warmth that settles under my skin from the alcohol. It’s the only drink I’ll have for the night, but it’s brought a lovely looseness to my limbs. I manage to catch Cute Bartender’s eye and toss him a finger wave as I head for the dance floor.
I slip, squeeze, and push my way through to the center of the dance floor. Being surrounded by so many people doesn’t make me feel claustrophobic. It’s actually one of the few places I feel safe.
A Lady Gaga classic blasts out of the speakers and again I soak up the beat through my feet. It’s so loud and enveloping, I can feel it throbbing in my ribs. My body can’t help but move and I lift my arms up over my head. My movements are barely just a hip sway at first but soon my whole body is in sync with the music. I roll my torso and then pop my hips back on every downbeat.
The song switches to a dark, industrial techno mix and I close my eyes and sink into it even more. It’s so awfully sensual. Erotic. My hand runs from my neck down the sides of my body. I feel my nipples pucker and the telltale slickness between my legs.
Yeah. Fuck yeah.
I drop down and then slide slowly back up, my hands rubbing the insides of my thighs as I go. Everyone around me is dancing similarly. Grinding. Sex and desire steams in the air around the floor as the dance goes on and on. My arms float back up into the air as I groove deep in the dirty rhythm.
The music swells as electric violins drop in on top of the techno, sending the melody through the roof. Goddamn, I feel like I might be having an out of body experience. My head goes loose on my neck as I drop it and continue dancing with the beat.
Until suddenly there’s a body at my back.
Invasive hands on my hips.
Someone grabbing me. Not letting go.
And in my head I’m back there. Always in that room. Always hearing his voice: I’m taking everything from you, you shit piece of nothing.
Oh God oh God.
Wearing out every hole—
I can’t breathe.
No no no no no no no no no no no NO!
The word galvanizes me into action. I swing around and bring down my arm in a t-bar action to knock his hands away from me.
The dude jumps back with an oof of surprise, rubbing his arm that got the brunt of my fist. “What the hell?” He looks at me like I’m nuts. A stranger. Not Gentry. He’s not Gentry.
“Crazy bitch.” He turns away from me and disappears into the crowd.
And then the noise and crush of bodies that seemed so comfortable and inviting moments ago is suddenly jarring and just way too much.
I gasp in a half breath and then choke it out again. I press my palm against my chest like I can force my lungs to expand correctly.
Dammit, I’m past this.
I’m stronger than this. Goddamn mother fuck shit cunt—
I manage another half a breath but it’s not enough. Not nearly enough.
I only feel more lightheaded. So goddamned weak. Something I swore I’d never be again.
I look around and see a couple people watching me. Most are too busy dancing, lost in their own worlds. Men with their hands on women and women grinding right back up against them. Normal. Not freaking out because a guy touched them. Fuck.
I stumble out of the center of the dance floor. I swallow, over and over. Sometimes
that helps me breathe again.
It’s not working tonight. The guy at my back— It was too much like—
It sent me immediately back to that place—
Hands grabbing me, all those hands.
Almost blindly, I keep stumbling forward. I’m still hiccupping for air. Shit. Fuck.
This is a panic attack. I haven’t had one in weeks. Goddammit. Why here? Why now?
Sweat soaks my forehead and I keep staggering forward until I make it to a wall. Somehow I’ve managed to stay on my feet in spite of these ridiculous heels. I have no fucking idea how. I sag against the wall and bend at the waist, trying to remember what the therapist chick said I’m supposed to do.
Step one: Acknowledge the attack. Right. I’m fucking having it. Got it. Then I wince. She talked about not just realizing it’s a panic attack, but acknowledging that there’s nothing to do but wait it out. There aren’t short-cuts. Damn it.
I. Hate. This.
I try to suck in more breath and fail.
Breathing techniques are next. Belly breathing. That’s what I’m supposed to do. I blink rapidly and try to slow down and breathe in the way she taught me. Not these quick shallow breaths from my chest, but breathing in deep from my diaphragm. That apparently means from your belly.
After another few hiccups, I manage a breath where my belly expands and I know I did it right. Now if I can just manage another one.
Try to remember your panic is based on a fear about something that’s not actually happening in the present. I remember the conversation in the counselor’s cozy little office like it was yesterday, even though it was actually several months ago.
Crush Me Page 29
