by Dori Lavelle
Judson lowers me back to the cement floor. I open my drowsy eyes and moan, afraid he wants to stop.
“Don’t you dare,” I say, but only my lips move.
Judson grins as he pushes down his pants, leaving them bunched around his ankles. Then I’m in his arms again, back up the wall, my legs around his middle, as his dick forces itself between us, hard and thick and throbbing hot, the tip glistening in anticipation.
“I don’t think it—”
“—will fit?” His throat rumbles with the low chuckle. “Sweetheart, we are made for each other. I will fit perfectly inside you. You’ll swallow me whole—you’ll see.”
“But I’ve never done it before.”
“There’s nothing to worry about.” He covers my nipple with his warm mouth, encircling it with his tongue, and I moan, my worries melting away. “Unless you resist.”
He hoists me higher up the wall and then lowers me down gently onto his shaft. As he glides into me an inch at a time, I bite my lip hard and swallow a scream. I feel both uncomfortable and good, and he hasn’t even filled me up completely yet. He plunges deeper, until he’s halfway in. I force myself to relax my inner muscles, to give him an easy entry into the most sensitive part of me. The more he glides in and out of me, the more the pain melts away, turning into liquid ecstasy.
“That’s it, baby,” he whispers roughly into my ear, his sweat clinging to my skin. “Let me in.”
I do. I open up to him until he slides in smoothly without hindrance. Once he has filled me to the hilt, he stops moving, though I feel him pulsing inside me.
“Don’t you… Don’t stop.” My words are desperate. “I want you. I want you Judson… so bad.”
“Ivy, you have me. All of me.” With that, he moves his hips from side to side, shifting inside me, and then pulls out slowly. Before I can catch my next breath, he shoots into me so hard I slide higher up the wall and bounce back onto him. My screams refuse to be contained. They ricochet off the naked metal bars and concrete walls.
With my eyes closed, I don’t see anything, don’t allow myself to be distracted by anything outside of me, outside of this cell. Right now, only Judson and I exist. Right now, this jail cell is the most beautiful place on earth. Judson grunts as he moves inside me, pushing and pulling, deeper and deeper, grinding from side to side, up and down, driving me out of my mind.
My hands are in his hair, my nails scratching his scalp as I try to hold on to him. If he lets me go now, there’s no doubt in my mind that the fall will break me. He doesn’t let me fall, though, except onto him, over and over and over again. My breasts bounce against my ribs as I move to his rhythm. He’s teaching me to dance, and I’m following along just fine. Our dance becomes faster, following the beat of my screams, and his groans and grunts. I want to freeze the moment so it’ll last forever.
I tremble as he parts my butt cheeks so he can drive even deeper into me. I bury my face into his shoulder. Our sweat mixes, gluing us together. Then suddenly, a ball of fire builds inside the pit of my stomach, raging and spinning through everything in its path. A tornado I can’t slow down. I most certainly cannot stop it. It takes over my entire body before it finally breaks me into a million pieces.
Through the rush in my ears, I hear Judson getting louder, feel him moving faster, slamming deeper, ripping me apart. Then he moves me to the floor, the bumpy surface rubbing against my back as he grinds me into the dirt. He yanks my arms above my head and holds them together with one hand. As he pounds and pounds into me, the sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoes off the walls. Then the tornado inside my core comes to life again. This time, Judson and I explode at the same time, and a bell goes off.
16
The bell is my cell phone alarm. The harsh ringing drags me out of my erotic dream, and I groan with frustration as I reach for it under my pillow. My body is still quivering in the aftermath of Tornado Judson.
With my blurry eyes I check the screen. Unknown number.
“Hello.” I rest my spinning head onto my pillow, watching the morning light as it pours in through the thin curtain.
“Hi, ummm, is this Ivy Hollifield?”
I rub my tired eyes. “Yes, this is Ivy. May I ask who is calling?”
“This is... this is Jennifer. Jennifer Hanson.”
I snap to a sitting position so fast, I swear the contents of my brain shift out of place. “Jennifer?”
After reading her letters, invading her privacy, I feel as though we know each other on a certain level. She’s like an old friend… whose boyfriend I stole. “How did you—”
“Paulette Stevens, your guidance counselor, gave me your number. She asked me to reach out to you. I hope you don’t mind me calling so early.”
So Paulette lied to me. She said she didn’t know where Jennifer was.
I glance at the clock above Chelsea’s bed. Six-thirty. The alarm clock on my phone is scheduled to ring in about twenty-five minutes. “I’m sorry, Jennifer, but why are you calling?” My cheeks heat. Why would Paulette hand out my number? I draw my knees to my chest and hug them. As my legs press together, the post-orgasm hum between them reminds me of my dirty dream. “I found your letters. I gave them to Paulette.”
“I know. She told me.” A breathy pause. “She also said last time you went to see her, you seemed troubled. She suspects you’re in touch with Professor Devereux. You don’t know me, and you might not want to listen to a word I have to say, but I won’t forgive myself if I don’t warn you against him. He’s really bad news.”
I let out a stream of air to slow my heart rate down. “Sorry, I don’t understand. Why do you feel I need to be warned against him?”
“Because he’s dangerous, Ivy. I… we had a thing last semester.” There’s a crackle on the line, but her voice is clear again almost immediately. “He seemed harmless at first.” Her voice lowers. “Everything was really great, but then he turned into a jealous, controlling jerk.”
“And why do I need to know this?” I scratch my brow, damp with sweat.
“I’m warning you before he gets under your skin. He can be really charming. He can make you feel like you’re the only girl, you know, in the world.”
“I’m not dating Professor Devereux.” Though I’m not even sure whether that’s the truth.
“I’m sure you heard the… the rape story.”
I nod but don’t say anything. My heart squeezes.
“It wasn’t.” She takes a deep breath. “It wasn’t rape. Oliver Banes was my on-again, off-again boyfriend. We broke up briefly, and that’s when...” Her voice drifts off. “Anyway, when I broke things off with Judson, Oliver and I got back together. I loved him. Judson was a mistake.” Her voice is thicker now. Is she crying? “One night Judson let himself into my room. He found me and Oliver in bed together. He went off the rails, accused Oliver of raping me. Two days later, Oliver was dead. I know Judson did it. I said as much to the district attorney.”
“How do you know for sure he did it?”
“His jealousy got the best of him. He refused to let me go.”
I drop my head onto my knees. It feels as though it’s full of heavy rocks. The air I breathe seems to be getting thicker. “I—I’m sorry.” I have no idea what I’m apologizing for. My head is a mess.
“It’s okay. I’ll be fine. I just called to tell you to be careful. He’s incredibly dangerous and possessive. He said he owns me… and tried talking me into moving away with him.”
“He’s in prison. He can’t hurt anyone.” He can’t hurt me.
“Don’t let the prison walls fool you.” She breathes out. “He has money and connections, and he’s persistent. I doubt anything will keep him from getting whatever he wants. That’s why I had to go far away from Oaklow. After his arrest, I thought it was over, but I never felt safe. He wrote me almost every day. And I felt like I was being watched.”
My blood freezes as I think of the letters, the package on my doorstep, the cell phone he’s been using
to contact me. Someone must be working for him.
I shut my eyes, forcing myself to banish Judson’s face from my mind. Somehow he has invaded every part of my life.
“Thanks for the warning, Jennifer.” I pause. “But I don’t need it.”
“I don’t know if you’re really in touch with him, Ivy, but if you are, you really should break it off. He’s a ticking time bomb. You don’t want to become his next obsession.”
“Where are you now, Jennifer?” I ask, ignoring her warning.
“I’d rather not say. Goodbye, Ivy. Please be careful. If you want to get a clearer picture of how dangerous an obsessed man can be, read the book Amour Toxique.”
“Amour what?” I rub my forearms. When I was thirteen, my mother tried to force me into French lessons, insisting that one day when my modeling career took me to Paris, I’d thank her. She hired a private tutor, but after three lessons, he threw in the towel, saying in his thick French accent, “Mrs. Hollifield, I’m sorry, but your daughter has no passion for the French language.” In my mind’s eye I can clearly picture him making a steeple of his fingers, his eyes flickering with disappointment as though I had personally let him down. “No passion, no French.”
“Amour Toxique by Adrien Moreau. It’s a popular French novel I once read. I’m sure you’ll be able to find an English version somewhere.”
As we say goodbye, I scribble the name of the book on an old napkin.
As soon as Jennifer hangs up, I text Judson, demanding the truth. I want to know if he’s really as innocent as he claims. I’m so torn between believing him and believing Jennifer. Deep down I know who I should believe, but still I resist.
I switch off my phone, because I don’t even know if I’m ready to hear the truth yet. I start my day with a hot shower and a glass of milk, and go to lectures. At two, I head to town for an interview at Millie’s Book Corner. I have some money saved up, but I don’t want to use it all on day-to-day living. I have to think of the future. The interview is a bright spot in my day. Millie likes me so much, she gives me a part-time bookseller job on the spot. I agree to work on Wednesday and Friday afternoons, and all day on Saturdays. During the holidays, I’ll be able to work full-time.
My good mood collapses when I return to my dorm and find three large boxes addressed to me. My stomach lurches as I haul them inside. I take a deep breath and open the first one.
I shake my head as I pull out belongings from home. Books, photos of me with my mother inside our house in Boston, photos of me and Dad, snapshots of my life. There are pieces of clothing, too, and a few other bits and pieces that are special to me, items that link me to my childhood, to my home. There’s a single note underneath them all.
Here are some of your things. I’m putting the rest in storage. I’m disowning you, Ivy. As of this moment, I no longer have a daughter. Have a nice life. Lenora
I call my mother’s phone, but the number has been disconnected.
17
As soon as Chelsea walks through the door, I jump on her, wanting to talk about my problems—the ones involving my mother.
After my long day, I’m desperately in need of a friend. But Chelsea’s face is flushed with rage. She has problems of her own—the usual, I suspect.
“Hey, are you okay?” I ask.
She throws her handbag onto her bed, followed by herself. “No. Neil is such an idiot. He doesn’t see what’s in front of him. You know, I thought things would change after I took him back.”
Disappointed that I won’t be getting the attention I need, I nevertheless slump onto the couch and listen to my friend’s despair. Maybe afterward we can talk about me.
She tells me Neil started crying again after sex last night, that he proposed to her again, and she rejected him yet again.
“He’s such a fool.” Chelsea laughs bitterly. “He thinks getting engaged will diminish all this guilt. It’s the closest thing to being married, he says. I don’t believe that for a moment. Unless we get married—which I’m so not ready for—he’ll always feel guilty about sleeping with me. And I won’t get engaged or married before I’m ready.”
“Slow down, Chelsea. Take a breath.” I go to her bed and place a comforting hand on her shoulder.
She covers her face with both her hands and takes several deep breaths. When she removes her hands, there are tears in her eyes. All I can do is be there for her, wait while she sorts things out for herself and makes a decision she’s happy with, no matter how long it takes for her to get to the place she wants to be.
For the next hour, I let her cry on my shoulder until she feels lighter. Then she wipes her eyes and blows her nose. She digs inside her bag for her phone, and disappears with it inside the bathroom. I know she’s talking to Neil, because I can hear her side of an argument through the thin walls.
She walks out ten minutes later with red, puffy eyes. She’s seriously hurting. I don’t have the heart to trouble her with my own problems right now.
Chelsea kisses me on the cheek and grabs her bag again before storming out of the room.
For dinner, I eat my takeout Chinese noodles and chicken alone. Then I finally switch on my phone.
There are six messages from Judson, all saying the same thing:
Where the hell are you? We need to talk.
He sounds desperate and worried at once.
I don’t respond, but I leave the phone on as I get ready for bed. The moment my head hits the pillow, the phone rings. It’s him.
“Who told you I’m guilty?” His voice is quivering with fury.
“News websites.” I grip the phone tightly. I don’t know what he will do if I tell him about Jennifer. I won’t throw her under the bus for being kind enough to warn me.
“Why are you reading up on me? I don’t like it.”
My own rage rises to the surface. “Judson, in case you’re not aware, everyone is talking about you, about what happened. I hear about you whether I want to or not.”
“So you think I did it, do you? You believe what everyone is saying? I thought you didn’t listen to what people say.”
“I don’t know what to believe anymore. You never exactly told me you didn’t do it. You only said ‘the jury will decide.’ Tell me the truth, Judson. Tell me what I should believe. It’s a simple question. Did you kill Oliver Banes or not?”
“I am innocent. Is that what you want to hear? Does my answer satisfy you?”
I don’t respond. I’m so conflicted. Even though everyone is entitled to their own opinion, I have to admit that the only person who really knows the truth about what happened is Oliver Banes. Judson’s fingerprints were found at the crime scene—a lecture hall—but so were many other people’s.
“I didn’t do it, Ivy. But most people don’t believe me. I can only hope the jury does.” His voice is gentler now, sad. “Do you believe me?”
“For now.” What I want to say is I don’t know. I still feel as confused as I did before he called.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I sigh. “It means that right this minute, I believe what you’re saying. But in the next couple of days, I don’t know. I might read or hear something and change my mind.”
“Fair enough. Just don’t turn your back on me. It’s dark in this place, and the only thing keeping me sane is knowing someone cares—that you care.”
Tears fill my eyes as I glance at the boxes my mother sent. “I’m sorry. I have to go to bed. Let’s talk another time.”
“Are you okay?” Concern taints his voice. “You sound sad. What’s going on? Is it because of me?”
“No.” Not just you.
He continues pressing me to tell him what’s wrong. So I do. He listens to me talk tearfully about my mother without interrupting.
“Baby, I’m so sorry,” he says when I’m done. “Listen, I’m here. I swear to you I’m innocent. One day I’ll get out of this place, and we’ll be together for real. You don’t need your mother. I’ll take care of you. Do y
ou hear me? Do you need money? I can arrange for some to be wired to you.”
Jennifer’s words return to me. Don’t let the prison walls fool you.
As much as his concern touches me, I shake my head vigorously. Money would give him too much power over me. “No, no. I have enough to live on. Thanks for caring.”
“I always will. Now, don’t ever doubt my innocence, you hear? I love you.”
“I’ll try.”
Instead of going back to bed, I turn on my laptop and purchase an electronic copy of Toxic Love, the English version of Amour Toxique.
It’s a short book that completely draws me in from the first word. The main character is Delmar Petit, the son of an alcoholic prostitute in Paris, who grew up without a father. The only constant in his poverty-stricken life was his mother’s mental and physical abuse. At thirteen, his mother tried to poison him, but failed. That night he ran away. The streets of Paris became his new home, and there, at fifteen, he met Chantal, a stunning dancer. It was love at first sight for both of them, but after a whirlwind romance, his love overtook hers. When she withdrew from him, his love turned fatal. He refused to live even a second without her. He warned her that if she tried to leave, he’d send her to the grave. She eventually managed to escape him, and fell in love with someone else. On her wedding day, Delmar showed up and stabbed her to death in front of all the guests. Two days after his arrest, he hanged himself.
By the time I finish the book, my eyes are blurry with tears and exhaustion from staring at the screen for hours. It’s three in the morning, but my aching chest will never let me sleep. Jennifer had meant for the book to put me off Judson. But the story is pure fiction. Delmar and Chantal aren’t real, I tell myself.
With every ounce of me, I decide to believe what Judson has told me. Instead of fear, the feeling that spreads through my heart as I climb under my sheets and wrap my arms around my body is the hot desire to get to know Judson better, to peel back his layers and see beneath them.
