I remembered the scene so well. Eddie saying, “I’m tired of arguing with you. We’re going to do it my way. Shut up and go get me a beer.”
“Eddie, I’m telling you it won’t work. We need to figure out another way.”
I didn’t even see the fist coming. In almost two years of abuse, of being raped and sold to other men to rape, he had never hit me. He knocked me off the bed, and I lay on the floor, confused more than hurt, trying to understand what had happened.
“Listen, bitch. You don’t tell me what to do. If I say, go get me a fucking beer, you go get me a beer. Do you understand me, you fucking cunt?”
“So I went to the kitchen and got him a beer,” I told Jake. “But I also brought back a chef’s knife. He was lying on his back, his head propped up with a pillow against the headboard. I put the beer on the nightstand, turned, and drove the knife into him with both hands.”
It entered just below his breastbone, and went all the way through to the mattress. Other than a loud gasp, he never said a thing. I left the knife where it was, wiped the handle and the beer bottle with the sheet, and went to take a shower. I discovered that even when you stab someone in the heart, there isn’t much blood if you don’t pull the knife out.
“All the abuse, everything he did to you, and you killed him because he hit you,” Jake said.
It wasn’t really a question, but I said, “Yes.”
“Good for you,” he said. “If every man who hit a woman got the same treatment, it wouldn’t bother me at all.”
I sat there waiting for something more. He reached out and cupped my face in his hand. Then he leaned forward and kissed me.
“I consider myself warned,” he said. “Never hit Cecily.” And then he took me in his arms and kissed me again, and again, and made love to me.
I lay in his arms later, listening to his breathing, with tears running down my face. Finally, I could allow myself to be happy.
The following day as I was getting dressed, Jake came into the bedroom and knelt in front of me. He pulled out the little box that held the diamond ring he bought when I was taken into protective custody. But when he opened his mouth, I put my hand over it. My heart was hammering as hard as it did when Alejandro stuck the gun in my chest. For an entirely different reason, of course. I was so elated that I thought I might float off the floor. But he was throwing a wrench into one of my dreams, my fondest fantasy.
“Are you going to ask me to marry you?”
He nodded.
“You really want to marry me? Do you want to have kids and all that?”
He nodded again.
My breath caught in my throat, and it took me twice to actually form the words, but I managed to keep my voice steady. “I’m not ready for that, Jake. You know I love you, but there’s something I want to do first. Something I have planned, but I’ve been too afraid to do it. I’ve always been afraid that being with you is just a dream, and that I’ll wake up some morning and you’ll tell me to leave.”
“How can you even think that?” he asked. “You know I love you. Cecily, this is real. We are real. There’s never going to be anyone for me except you.”
I leaned over and kissed him.
“Put the ring away, but not too far away, okay? Like I said, you’ve just given me the courage to do something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Please let me do it?”
He stood and put the ring back in his pocket. “You know I would do anything for you. Am I going to have to wait very long?”
Pulling his head down and kissing him, I said, “No, Jake, not very long at all. Let me play my little game and then I’m yours.”
We dressed and headed out with me driving. I had finally gone into town and paid for my learner’s permit. It took us twice as long to get there when I drove.
That evening at the bar, I played my normal two hours. When I finished, I pulled the microphone close and said, “Jake, can you come up here, please?”
He wiped his hands and came out from behind the bar. I put out my hand and pulled him onstage. Then I knelt down in front of him and began to play.
You tell me that you love me
And you show me every day
I’ve never been in love before
I never knew the way
I didn’t know the world could be
Such a lovely place
And I didn’t know that angels had
A handsome cowboy face
I never knew that being owned
Could set you truly free
Jacob Allen McGarrity
Will you marry me?
I pulled out a small box and opened it, showing him the ring I’d commissioned from a jeweler in London. He smiled and put out his hand and I slipped the ring on his finger, then he pulled me to my feet and kissed me. The whole bar was cheering. It was exactly the way I imagined it.
###
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Author’s note:
In most, if not all, states in the U.S., a 200-pound man can beat and rape a 100-pound woman and she is not allowed to defend herself using lethal force. The normal standard is: A person may use non-deadly force to prevent imminent injury; however, a person may not use deadly force unless that person is in reasonable fear of serious injury or death.
Many courts (usually male judges) have ruled that rape is not a “serious injury”. She can’t shoot her rapist or stab him or hit him in the head with a rock unless he is trying to kill her. And if she does kill him, she must prove her innocence and his intent.
Since most such crimes have no witnesses, such proof often is difficult. As a result, of the men Cecily killed, only Alejandro would qualify as a “justified homicide”, since he had a weapon and threatened to kill her in the presence of a witness. If such laws seem insane, then public pressure should be brought to change the laws concerning violence against women.
~~~
An excerpt from Trust: a truly modern romance, now available at all eBook outlets.
Chapter 4
The Friday night of finals week was bat-shit crazy at the bar. We were full from noon, and by dinnertime, it was standing room only. By the time I dragged myself into bed, I was as exhausted as I could ever remember.
The next day, I took a shower and washed my hair, put my clothes together and drove over to Marcie’s with my hair still wet. We curled and styled each other’s hair, made sure our makeup was perfect for pictures, then went to meet our parents and Pat for lunch.
The graduation ceremony started at one. As Pat and I sat through the speeches, I thought at one point that something inside me was going to explode. It was as though this huge bubble of emotion—joy, elation, trepidation, accomplishment, nostalgia, and a dozen different emotions—was forming in my chest. I almost felt as though I was having trouble breathing.
But then it was over. I had my diploma, and mom and dad were taking pictures of us, and classmates were trying to find each other to share one last hug.
Marcie had a job with one of the international accounting firms in their Denver office. God knows how that woman partied for five years and still managed grades in the top one percent. She was keeping her apartment in Fort Collins, at least for the summer, but would be traveling a lot. I had to admit I was a bit jealous. Even though she wouldn’t be traveling to exotic places, at least she was traveling.
Dar was on the waiting list at five different medical schools, but had no immediate plans. She said that she’d been told her entry was almost guaranteed at two schools a year from that fall. Sheila, of course, had another year of grad school, but she was planning on going to Europe for the summer.
And I had to go to work.
As the dinner crowd wound down later, the bar sta
rted to fill up, and I felt like I was running a marathon.
Dar stopped by the bar. “Ashley, it doesn’t look like I’m going to get into med school this year,” she said. “I’ve decided I’m going to just stay here and find a job. Do you need another waitress?”
I was stunned. I had a quick vision of her standing in front of a man, trying to take his order, blushing like crazy, and not being able to talk.
“Stop by and we’ll talk about it,” I said, and was immediately sorry. Her face lit up with a big smile. I should have said we didn’t have an opening. To my knowledge, other than work-study jobs in a couple of research labs, Dar had never worked a day in her life. Actually, none of my close friends had.
As she walked out the door, the preppy frat boy who had been in the previous week sat down at the bar. Good looking, with perfect hair and teeth, he looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of GQ. He was the kind of guy I always thought Sheila would date, but she never did.
“What beers do you have?” he asked. I told him the list of beers on tap and he shook his head. “What about bottles?”
I took a beer list from under the bar and slapped it down in front of him, then went to take care of a couple of other customers. When I came back, he said, “Vanilla porter.”
I walked away, and bent down to get his beer out of the fridge against the wall. I didn’t need to look back to know he was watching my ass. Ed called it my ‘money maker’ and I couldn’t disagree.
Attractive women make more tips than men or plain women. I was tall and slender with an athletic body, but since high school, guys and girls had told me I had ‘a great ass’. That and long legs. The rest of me was okay, but while DJ always told me I had ‘lovely breasts’ and Marcie said I had ‘nice boobs’, no one had ever told me I had a ‘great rack’. Marcie received those compliments, whether she appreciated them or not.
I poured his beer and said, “If you like porters, the Cutthroat Porter we have on tap is made here in Fort Collins. We also have Sam Smith’s Taddy Porter, and a Russian porter, Baltika Six.” I pointed to them on the menu. “They’re a little more expensive, but the Baltika comes in twenty-ounce bombers.”
“Do you like porters?” he asked.
“Yeah, but I mostly drink them in the winter. For summer, I like something lighter, either wheat beers, or we carry a selection of ciders.” I was proud of our beer list. We had a selection that went far beyond the watery pilsners most campus bars poured by the vat-full.
Looking down the list, he said, “You do have a nice selection.” He looked up and flashed me a smile. His eyes were hazel, a mixture of gray and blue and light brown. Very pretty. “I guess I’ll have to come here more often. I’m Jeff.”
Returning the smile, I extended my hand and shook his. “I remember. I’m Ashley.”
“What shifts do you work?”
“I work a lot of different shifts,” I responded. “I’m the manager.”
“Really?” He cocked his head and gave me the once over. As though a young woman couldn’t manage a bar. As though I didn’t fit into his preconception of a young woman working in a bar.
On the other hand, he was Gawd-blessed good looking. Rather than take offense, I decided he wouldn’t be a bad customer to have. Eye candy is always appreciated, unless they’re total assholes.
When he finished his beer, I stopped by to ask if he wanted another.
“I’ll try one of those Russian porters,” he said. “And can I see a menu?”
I handed him the menu and the specials’ sheet, then went to get his beer. I glanced over my shoulder before I bent down to get the beer, and his eyes were riveted on my butt. Yep, he was normal. And it’s always nice to get a little validation.
I realized suddenly that I was back on the market. Not that I’d really ever been off the market. I’d gone out with a couple of guys during the time since I met DJ, but I hadn’t been looking for dates. I usually turned them down. I tried to think of the last time I’d been on a date, and it had been in January, when DJ was off on a road trip.
“Anything the matter?” Monica said, leaning over the bar. I realized I was standing with Jeff’s beer in my hand, staring off into space. I wondered how long I had stood there.
“No,” I answered. “What do you need?”
“Two Cosmos, a gin and tonic, three Bud Lights, and a partridge in a pear tree,” she said, grinning at me. She shot a look down the bar at Jeff. “Nice stuff. Haven’t seen him in here before.”
I realized she thought I was staring at him. I took him his beer, rustled up Monica’s drinks, and went back to see if he wanted to order.
“What’s good?” he asked.
“Everything, or I’d fire the cook.” I chuckled. “We do have some specials this evening, and they’re really good. We also have one of the best burgers in town, and the cheesy fries are one of my favorites.”
He nodded, then ordered the trout. “Good choice,” I said. “It’s my mom’s recipe.”
About an hour later, I bussed his plates and asked, “Dessert? Another drink?”
He looked at his watch, and said, “Yeah, I’ll have another one. What would you recommend for an after-dinner drink?”
“I guess it depends on what you like. A coffee drink? We have a small selection of ports and sherries, or do you prefer cognac or perhaps a cordial?”
“Coffee and a cordial,” he said. “Surprise me with your favorite.”
“I didn’t say I liked cordials. Do you like Grand Marnier or Drambuie?”
He shrugged. “Then whatever your favorite is to go with coffee.”
I poured him coffee and a snifter of Irish Mist. It’s sweet, but most people like it. I love it. He wanted my favorite, so I gave it to him, and watched as he took his first sip.
“This is wonderful,” he said with a smile.
When he paid out, he left a thirty-percent tip. Definitely on the make. I wondered if I’d see him again.
Monica sidled up to me as I put the tip money in the jar. “How’d you do?” she asked.
I slapped my butt cheek and said, “The ol’ money maker is doin’ it tonight.”
She laughed. “He sure was good looking. I wouldn’t mind taking him home and eating him like an ice cream cone.”
“Have at it,” I replied. “I don’t think he’s the kind of guy that would say no.” Not that Monica was the kind of girl men said no to.
~~~
I'll Sing for my Dinner Page 18
