Such a quick study.
The urge to let him guide, to do as he asked, was uncanny. While I soaped my skin, I flashed back to Charlie bossing me around and telling me to do what he demanded in bed. Reminding me a good whore would shut her trap and take it deep.
I bit back a tremor and faced the water, trying to sort it all out in my mind. Charlie’s words had been angry, mean. Because he had been angry and mean. I remembered the jumble of emotions I’d felt every time he’d thrust into me, saying those cold words with my arms pinned and making me feel the rush of being submissive to him—but knowing how much it hurt with all he’d said or done around it, or how he’d follow up with something terrible, painful and cruel.
Charlie had never forced me sexually, but he’d hurt me countless other ways.
I rinsed my hair and turned off the water. The way Dean had worked his fingers in me in front of the window had drawn such pleasure from me, and yet he’d thrown me off with his control, with the pounding that let me know he was in charge and I was his to toy with.
But Dean was no Charlie. This wasn’t the same.
This was safe.
The phone rang. I wrapped a towel around me and dashed for it—it was probably Selby, calling to check on my date. I barely made it to my cell before the call went to voicemail.
Selby didn’t bother with a hello. “Well?”
“Well, what?” I said, snickering.
“Oh, come on!” she huffed through the phone. “How was it? How was Dean?” She practically cooed his name.
“It was good. He’s...” What was the correct word to use? It was Selby, for God’s sake. Serious editing was in order, and on top of that, my head hadn’t stopped spinning. “He’s fun and sweet. Kind of wild.”
“Do I want to know?”
I walked back to my room, rummaging in my drawer for loungewear. I had no hope of accomplishing anything today—not as weak as I was, or on this kind of high. “Probably not. We weren’t G-rated enough for you, I’m sure of it.”
“Wow, I deserved that. Did you at least enjoy yourself?”
“For sure.”
She stayed quiet for a minute, doing what she usually did and debating whether she wanted to know—but we’d had many years of practice on this. I knew better. Selby didn’t like these stories.
God, did I itch to tell her, though.
“Do you think you’ll see him again?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Did he say that, or do you want that?”
I could hear the trace of concern in her voice. Player, remember? “He said it. Multiple times. I’m not an idiot.”
“Huh,” she said.
“What?”
“Just checking. Trying to read Dean is nearly impossible.”
I rolled my eyes, though what she said was true. He hadn’t revealed much in the way of his dating style, but it didn’t matter this early. “Look, we haven’t set any claims on monogamy. And you know me. I don’t do serious. I’m not expecting anything...except a hell of a lot more sex.”
Selby clucked her tongue.
“Stop worrying. I’ll be careful.”
“Okay, okay. I just want to make sure.”
“I’m fine.”
Maya... Come out, come out wherever you are...
I sat down, the image of Dean coaxing me away from the pillow slipping into mind and sending a spray of goose bumps over my arms.
My reaction to him was unreal.
“Then I’m glad you had fun,” she said, bringing me back.
“Thanks. Me, too. What are you and Alex up to this weekend?”
“He’s working. He’s pumped for his contracts, prepping to buy supplies and all that. He mentioned a hardware store run. That’s our Saturday. Yippee.”
I had a swift flashback of one of Dean’s first texts to me—I’m at the hardware store...admiring rope and thinking of you. The memory and all that had followed it brought a grin to my face.
Selby would flip if she knew.
I pushed aside the thought and focused on her comment about Alex. “It’s nice for business though.”
“Yeah. He wants to work on the deck, too. It never ends, I swear.”
I was grateful to have a landlord versus the ongoing house project Alex and Selby had adopted when they’d bought their place near the coastline. “You love it.”
“I do. I love him.”
“Plus, think of how much you two have done with the place.”
“Well, he’s done most of it.”
“No. You helped with the garage. And that garden was all you!”
“That’s true,” she said. She and Alex had torn up the back part of their lot in the first month they’d been there, and after, Selby had set to work planting a spread of flowers, vines and a few vegetable and fruit beds, too. “I may work on that this afternoon after yoga. I think I might have a couple of tomatoes ready.”
“Yum,” I said.
“Do you want to come by?”
I curled my knees into my chest. “Thanks, but I’m probably going to pass. I’m thinking piano, reading and a nap are more the events of my day. Heck, my whole weekend. I’ve got that big appointment on Monday with my client.”
“Mmm. That’s going to be tough,” Selby uttered. I hadn’t shared specifics of Carrie’s case with her for confidentiality reasons, but she knew enough to understand it affected me more than usual. “Rest sounds like a great plan for you. Pound out those keys, baby.” Selby had been saying that phrase since my first piano performance as a preteen. She’d been my biggest supporter, even then.
“Thanks. Have fun with your tomatoes!”
“I will. Talk to you soon.”
Once we got off the phone, I balled myself up on the couch. The preteen version of me wouldn’t have envisioned thirty-two-year-old me, a woman into a far different kind of music.
This was what I told myself as I slipped into a well-earned nap.
* * *
Would it be wrong to tell you I’ve thought of you all afternoon?
The text tone of my phone had stirred me from sleep, and after opening Dean’s message and smiling at his words, I checked the time.
Somehow, I’d slept for three hours.
It wasn’t like me to nap, but it wasn’t like me to play all night as we had, either. Or all morning, for that matter.
I started to type back, but changed my mind and dialed his number.
Dean’s voice came out a husky purr that woke me fully. “Hi there. You got my text, I see.”
“I did. What type of woman would complain about a man who thinks of her all afternoon?”
Dean chuckled.
“I think it’s sweet.”
“I’m glad to hear it...though I have to admit, my thoughts weren’t all of the sweet kind,” he said.
I tapped my fingers on my thigh, an instant heat filling my chest. How to respond to that?
“I keep picturing you against the window, you know. Your face on the glass, your legs spread wide for me. The way you felt...you’re amazing, Maya.”
Three brief sentences, and I was transported back in time. I didn’t picture it—I felt it. I wrapped an arm around my waist, trying not to notice the throb that started at the apex of my thighs with the bluntness he used to describe our night. My entire body tingled with the memory. “The whole night was mind-blowing.”
“Definitely. I’ve been floating since I saw you.”
His words were so charming. I rubbed my eyes, trying to comprehend the emotions coursing through me. I was warmed, exhausted and...aroused. But I couldn’t tell him that. Could I?
I muttered, “Are you having a nice day floating?”
“Very much, but I’m working. I’m stuck in the o
ffice most of the day, and tomorrow I’m sailing with my brothers.”
“All three of them?”
“Yes.”
“That sounds fun.”
“It will be. They’re rascals, but we always have a good time.”
I smiled.
“What if I call you Monday? I’d like to tell you your next assignment. Are you open?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Because you, open, might be the most delectable thing I’ve ever seen.”
I chomped down on my tongue before he continued.
“I’ve got to run. Until then, have a good weekend, okay?”
“I will. You, too.”
I was wide awake once I hung up, my heart racing out of control.
* * *
I arrived at the office on Monday rested and a little less scattered. Thoughts of Dean—or more specifically, of Dean inside me—had wafted around my brain for much of the weekend. I’d ended up heading to Selby’s house for most of Sunday after all, offering to help with the deck out of sheer desire to stop obsessing over my date.
Because that was what it felt like: obsession paired with intoxication. It was much too soon for that sort of mindset.
Alex had brought my date up a couple of times, most of them when Selby had run into the house to prepare lunch or make iced tea. One comment had floored me, though—a half-hearted mumble out of the corner of his mouth that had reminded me how much he’d picked up listening to our conversations from afar.
“I have a feeling you’re going to get all fucked up over this one, and so is he.”
“What the hell does that mean?” I’d snapped, albeit with a hearty laugh.
Alex had scrounged in his toolbox, eclipsing my twenty-five-year friendship with Selby in a statement that showed he got more of me than she fully comprehended. “It means,” he’d said, walking between the boards we’d spread over the grass, each of them fresh cedar wood to replace the marred pieces of the deck the previous owner left in disrepair, “you two are going to set fire to some bed sheets, but, spectacular or not, fire burns. That’s all I’ll say.”
“Alex—”
“Eh, eh, eh,” he’d said. He’d stood and held up his fingers. “Just hear it. It’s not a bad thing. It is what it is.”
Selby had popped onto the deck a minute later and our conversation had ceased—but that didn’t mean it hadn’t whirred about in my head for most of the day and all the way along my drive to work on Monday.
But that was then, and I had no choice but to shove the thoughts away when I reached my desk. I revved myself up for the day ahead, but Maddie came barreling over, her cheeks flushed and her thin, pink lips spread in a huge grin.
“Sneaky little bitch.” She winked and rested against my filing cabinet, her arms folded under her chin. “You thought you’d get by my desk without telling me about your date?”
I stifled a chuckle, and Maddie bobbed her head. “I thought you were in the break room getting coffee! I knew you’d come by. How was the roller rink?”
“It was great.” Her face glowed. “But come on. You first. Spill it.”
“I can’t yet. I’ve got my appointment in an hour, and I have to prep. But I will say, wow. Definitely a big fat wow.”
Maddie clapped her hands together. “That’s my girl. How about lunch?”
“That works.”
She nearly skipped back to her desk.
The phone on my desk rang, its blare disrupting my thoughts. I stooped to answer it and booted my computer, ready to begin my day and happy to hear from the director of the Center for Women’s Alternatives with whom I’d been playing phone tag. We’d needed to confirm details of our upcoming July fundraiser, an eight-agency collaboration that promoted domestic violence awareness and brought in a bevy of donations. The event boasted a heavy roster of guest artists, so we were on the phone for almost an hour, and once I hung up, I had thirty minutes until my appointment with Carrie Pents. I needed to review in advance of our meeting, and as I often did for cases like these, I crossed my fingers that she would, indeed, show up.
I found Carrie’s file and opened the cover. Her case was fresh, since I’d acted as both her social worker and intake counselor, but I flipped through all the papers, scanning the blocks of text I’d typed in her records over the past couple of months. My stomach knotted while I reviewed her intake assessment. When I met her, Carrie Pents had been a healthy, bright, vibrant nineteen-year-old student at Chabot College, who’d reported that her boyfriend, J, had hit her three times in the last year. The first encounter had required no hospitalization or treatment, but Carrie believed there might have been a rib fracture. The second event had resulted in a broken toe, which she’d described happening after “turning and running” from J after a series of antagonizing and violent threats. She’d had a neighbor escort her to the hospital and later stayed overnight with the woman before returning to J the next morning.
It was the third and last incident that had brought Carrie to Women Organized for Change. She’d presented with a large bruise on her left temple—which she’d explained happened when J had thrown a book at her head—and there was a mark around her right wrist reminiscent of rope ties. She’d been open about the abuse but not the wrist abrasions, and had gone on to explain that things were complicated because J was her financial provider. She’d exhibited a sense of obligation and passivity with him, and was also deeply in love with him. At the time, she’d believed the risk level was low and that the incident was a “flare-up” of his work stress, and thus wished to stay in his home. Thankfully, she continued to seek biweekly counseling with me on coping, possible future resources and potential interventions.
But even now, I frowned while I reread her notes.
Carrie could just as easily have been the twenty-year-old version of me.
There had been no further attacks since Carrie and I met, and eventually she’d grown more open to providing further details about past incidents. Yet, when I’d asked her again about the circles on her wrist, she’d avoided the topic.
“That was just play,” she’d said, her cheeks scarlet when she’d spread her fingers to hide the marks.
Recalling the conversations, I cringed. It was familiar, close. I thought of the way Charlie had mixed play with his own inflictions of pain, and while my impression was that J didn’t incorporate sex into the actual abuse, their sexual experiences seemed fueled by a level of control and dominance Carrie found difficult to separate from the rest of their problems.
It was a concern I understood well, something that still pricked at me sometimes.
My evening with Dean crossed my mind. We’d agreed to explore this thing, this dynamic. The balance of power and the way it could shift at any given moment sent a jolt up my spine. It was different than the times with Charlie. If Dean were to bind my hands, controlling everything in the scene, my power would remain—but for some reason, the element of giving up that control felt like a direct contradiction to what I’d worked against all these years. All the memories I’d strived so hard to bury.
And forget.
“Maya.”
I closed the folder. Our front desk secretary, Tania, walked toward my desk.
“Miss Pents is here for her appointment. Should I send her to you or to a room?”
I glanced over at the row of private offices. “I’ll meet her in room three,” I said, gathering a pad and pen.
When I stood up, I spotted Carrie. She waved from the front desk, her sandy blond hair bundled up in a high ponytail and her shoulders rounding out of her tank top with a rich spring glow. I pointed at the room and she smiled before heading over to meet me.
“Hi, Maya!” She adjusted her purple bag on her arm as she stood by the door. I propped it open and gave her a peek over. No marks, no bruises. She look
ed as healthy as ever when she walked through the doorway and plopped down on the couch.
“Hello, Carrie.” I shut the door and sat across from her in a leather chair, shuffling my notepad and her file. “It’s good to see you. I remind you that everything we discuss is confidential.” Carrie waited, patient while I followed routine. “So, how are things going?”
“Good, I think.” She scooted her bag away, getting more comfortable on the couch and fondling the hem of her shirt. “It’s almost summer break, so I’ll have more free time. I’m getting all As this semester!”
“That’s wonderful. Good for you!”
She beamed with pride. Carrie had shared on a previous visit that math and science fascinated her, and when she’d admitted she discovered her aptitude for both in her placement tests at the start of the semester, she’d squealed in delight. “I have no idea what I’ll do with it yet, but I’m enjoying taking classes. I might take one or two over the summer. I also told J I’d like to get a job.”
“I see.” I scribbled this down on my tablet. My responsibilities with Carrie now involved checking in, assessing her safety and offering her resources when she asked for them. Despite any inclinations or wishes I might have to talk her out of her situation, we followed strict protocol.
“How did he take it? Was he supportive?”
“Kind of. As usual, he wants to control all the finances.”
“Do you think he’ll bar you from getting a job?”
She thought a moment. “He said he’s open to it, but that he expects to see my checks so I can contribute my share.”
One of the struggles in Carrie’s case was her financial obstacle. Without her parents, and with the difficulties she’d had in the foster system, she depended on J and the grants she’d applied for in order to get into Chabot. Fortunately, she’d used school as her support system in her teen years; she not only earned stellar grades but got scholarships to prove it, and had a strong desire to learn more.
I took more notes while she continued describing her worries. She thought there was a possibility she could get away with J not seeing every check, and though I wasn’t sure how she’d manage this, I remained supportive. “Okay. This sounds great, Carrie. How would you say you’re doing emotionally? Have you felt threatened or in danger lately?”
The Assignment Page 9
