It killed him, is what it did, Fran reminded herself as she blinked away those tears and felt her jaw tighten at the memory of her dad going down in the backyard, a deadly combination of heatstroke and cardiac arrhythmia they said later. But it was the sense of powerlessness that had killed her father, Fran always thought. The powerlessness he felt for what happened to his daughter, for being away that evening when it happened, for being unable to afford the kind of lawyers that could have gotten those boys tried as adults and locked away for twenty years, the powerlessness of being unable to stop what was said about his daughter in those juvenile court hearings, the powerlessness of watching those boys walk away after a year, knowing that in a different day and age he might have actually bought a gun and dispensed justice like it was the wild west.
Of course, the Fullertons were not of frontier blood, and there were no guns in the home. Fran’s mom wouldn’t stand for it, not even after what happened to little Frannie.
“What good would a gun have been that night?” Fran’s mom would shout whenever the topic came up. “Most women are raped by family and friends, not strangers and outlaws. Those boys were here because Frannie trusted them, because we trusted them!”
“I already know it’s my fucking fault,” Fran’s dad would reply, his own frustration rising at those times when the house seemed to become unbearably hot as Fran heard them through the walls. “You don’t need to remind me.”
“Oh, God, honey,” Fran’s mom would answer. “It’s my fault as much as yours. It was my job to teach her about what it means to be a woman in a man’s world, that you need to be careful about how you act around men, how to make sure you don’t put yourself in a position where someone else has power over you, control over you. It’s my fault more than yours!”
“It’s my fault,” Frannie would whisper those nights when she touched her little round belly and curled up as she listened to her parents fumble their way through the twisted emotional maze that the incident had pushed the family down. It was all very well and good to say that it was those boys’ fault and no one else’s, but so much harder to believe it, to truly believe it. “I shouldn’t have smiled like that. I shouldn’t have laughed like that. I shouldn’t have invited them in. I shouldn’t have let them touch me. I shouldn’t have let them touch me.”
And now those lifeless tears rolled down as she tossed the old newspaper back into the plastic storage container and closed the lid even as the guilt poured in along with the memory, the most damning memory, the memory that confirmed that yes, it was her fault, that little Frannie deserved what she got because what kind of girl lets four boys come over when her parents are out, and what kind of girl giggles and turns red when they say she has great tits, and what kind of girl blinks and swallows and then finally nods shyly when they ask her if they can touch . . . just one touch, one feel, one squeeze, one pinch. Just one touch.
8
“Just a touch up. That’s all I need. Tomorrow? Sure, that’d be great. I’ll be at the clinic all day. You know where it is? Haha. Just testing! OK, great!”
Fran put down the large yellow land-line telephone that was shaped like a giraffe, with the receiver sitting atop the long neck and cute head, the stubby little giraffe-ears doubling as vaguely ergonomic holders for those long conversations where you needed to rest the receiver on your shoulder and cock your head to one side. God, was she that old that she remembered using a land-line for long conversations?
So the painters were going to come by tomorrow and re-touch the patches on the ceiling that Fran had thought looked uneven and perhaps a bit too shiny. Finicky, yes. But what the hell. She had budgeted a certain amount, and she was well within her spend. Thank God that strange man Zaal Al-Kirwaan had refused to accept the money from her, though she did feel kind of guilty for not pushing harder. Still, something about the man gave her the sense that money was like water to him, like free-flowing air, abundant and inexhaustible. It wasn’t just the fact that he had been carrying what must have been three or four grand in cash on him—though who the hell does that. No, it was the way he carried himself, that regal, untouchable air that seemed so in line with his controlled physical presence, the way he walked, the way he talked, the way he smiled, the way he . . .
Stop it, she thought as she blinked and shook away the smile and looked at the pastel-green hard-cushioned couches that had just been delivered that day and were sitting against the front wall of the clinic’s main space, the two three-seaters looking like they were listening intently, a wholly captive audience.
And now the wheels were turning in Fran’s head as she walked to her small office in the back, to the waist-high metal filing cabinet that she had picked up at a quaint garage sale yesterday and which was now being used as her desk since she didn’t have a desk. Her sticker-covered laptop and a coffee mug with a platypus on it sat atop the cabinet, which was painted a faded turquoise that was still quite bright.
Perhaps the bright turquoise is the only reason I bought this metal filing box, Fran thought in amusement as she flipped open her laptop and peeked into the coffee cup as she waited for her email to download. Her email came through now, and Fran clicked on the one from Macy titled “Hey!”:
Hey, your phone is off again so maybe you haven’t seen my messages or even Jason’s messages, but he’s on his way up there and should be at your apartment around six or seven. I told him what you said about how you’d understand if he just never wanted to see you again, but he’s coming up anyway. FWIW, I thought he handled it pretty well. Btw, I didn’t tell him you knew about the ring, because . . . well, just because. Call me, you weirdo! I’m worried about you! –M.
Shit, Fran thought as she stepped away from the laptop and sighed loudly and walked out into the main area, looking at the random pieces of new furniture scattered amongst half-opened boxes. Still so much needed to happen, and tomorrow would be shot because of the painters. She couldn’t afford to head back to her apartment and deal with Jason this evening! And she didn’t want to! Why couldn’t he just take the hint and leave her alone! Shit, shit, shit!
Screw it, Fran thought as she felt that comforting coldness rise up again and tell her it was all right and she didn’t need to do anything she didn’t want to do. There was a part of her that nagged that she was being childish and immature, selfish and silly, perhaps even downright cruel. But she had never actually asked Jason to move here with her. And hell, Jason had never asked her if she wanted him to move here. He had simply assumed that she was asking him! To hell with him. He didn’t own her.
Now she frowned and stood up close to the side window overlooking the hills, hands on her wide hips, chest pushed out, anger rising as she felt that claustrophobic sense of being under someone’s control rise up along with the anger. Wasn’t that what Jason was doing, whether he knew it or not? The presumptuousness was just a way of him saying that he owned her, that she was a possession, shackled to him by her agreement to be his girlfriend over the past year. But that was all she had agreed to, yeah, that they were boyfriend and girlfriend? All it meant was that they were exclusive for the time they mutually agreed to date. It was simple, wasn’t it? Going steady. He wouldn’t see another girl, and she wouldn’t see another guy.
Another guy. Another guy?
And now like a switch got flipped in her mind, Fran felt all thoughts of Jason just get swept aside so quickly she almost gasped, and it was Zaal Al-Kirwaan standing before her, tall and straight, broad and muscular, that strong jawline set firm in that cocky half-smile that seemed to say he was his own man and nobody owned him and nobody could own him. In a way she wanted what he had, perhaps even wanted to be him, if that made any sense. She could see those green eyes of his like they were staring out of the dark hills in the distance, staring right at her, speaking to her, to her body again.
Oh, God, that guy asked me out yesterday! On a date! After I told him I was married?! Who the hell does that? And he didn’t even flinch! Just totally said to bring
my husband along, Fran thought as she felt her frown turn into a smile, felt her body almost shiver in the bright sunlight as excitement raced through her, excitement that felt so clean, so fresh, so new, so . . . so innocent!
And then from the corners of her mind she could feel the claws of guilt curling around, trying to pull away that feeling of freshness, that tingle that made her feel like a teenager, a fresh flower, an unplucked rose. And the guilt was whispering in the distance, reminding her that she was an awful, cruel person, that she had just broken a guy’s heart without so much as bothering to tell him directly, that she was now thinking about some other guy, some guy she had just met in the parking lot of a strip mall. What kind of a person was she?! What kind of a woman was she?! Who does that?! Who acts like this?!
“I need help,” she said aloud, glancing at that turquoise filing cabinet in her office, now at the sheets of metal siding to plate the walls of her X-ray room, metal that wasn’t lead and so wouldn’t actually do a whole lot about radiation. Why was she even doing that?! Perhaps those metal plates were a sign of how far gone she was, it occurred to her as she spread her arms out wide and began to twirl in slow circles like a madwoman, an insane ballerina, an Arabian dervish driven wild by the rapture of her own dance.
And through her senseless twirling Fran felt a clarity come through, like if she really was insane then perhaps she should just go all the way, just fucking double down on her madness and see how far it would go before everything came crashing down, before the earth opened up and swallowed her whole, sending her down to hell, to the special section reserved for women who did inexplicably horrible things because they thought they were entitled.
Why not, she thought as the smile of that madwoman twisted her face into an expression that matched that strange perverseness whipping through her, the perverseness of a child who has done something wrong and just obstinately wants to make it worse by seeing how far she can go, that there’s no way back and so she might as well push forward and see if it buries her or if there’s an opening on the other side.
So she went to her computer and began to type his name in the search box: Zaal Al-Kirwaan. But then Fran stopped before hitting enter. It felt a bit stalker-ish to look for this guy’s number on the interwebs. But how else to call him and tell him that you know what, why not! I’ll bring my fiancé to dinner! Let’s see if you were serious, Mister Al-Kirwaan! Let’s see if you’re as insane as I feel right now, as reckless as I am right now, as . . . as . . . as excited as I am right now!
And as if the thought had been whispered to her by a strange swirl of air in the closed office space, Fran crinkled her brow and shook her head and walked over to that giraffe-telephone and dialed directory assistance, thinking that hey, what if this Arabian-sounding immigrant who carries thousands of dollars in his pocket is as weird as I am and has a land-line telephone which is listed in the directory, just like the old days.
“Zaal Al-Kirwaan,” she said to the operator, spelling it as best she could, feeling her heart pound as she waited for the operator to type, the blood thumping in her ears as the woman on the other end came back on and somehow, some way, in a voice that sounded like it was coming through a cosmic portal where space and time were compressed into a little ball of giraffe-fur that bounced and giggled and pointed and smiled, gave her a number.
And without stopping to think, without allowing herself to acknowledge the thought that she was certifiably insane, legally mad, cosmically cruel, Ms. Francine Fullerton looked at that yellow giraffe telephone and dialed the number for Mr. Zaal Al-Kirwaan.
9
The Sheikh put down the phone and rubbed his chin, smiling as he felt an uncharacteristic chill go through him. This woman had telephoned him and accepted his offer? Was she as mad as he? Was she playing some game that even Zaal did not understand?
The Sheikh frowned for a moment as he considered what he had read about Francine Fullerton in that old article. Was it the same woman? Phoenix was indeed in the desert, was it not? In the southwest, right where Francine had pointed when she told him she was a desert creature too.
Yes, it was the same woman, no doubt about it. He had seen it in her eyes, and it made sense now. It made sense that what he saw in Francine reminded him of what he saw in some of those married women who acted like they had never been touched before . . . never been touched in a way that felt good, that felt right, that felt like it was supposed to feel.
But could he be as forward with this woman as he had with the others, Zaal wondered. Could he be himself with her? Was it right to do so? Was it right to not do so?! After all, her past should not define her, certainly should not define his sense of what she wanted or did not want, yes? And what did she want? Did she know what she wanted? Or was she fumbling in the dark, reaching out for him to take her hand and lead her? Who the hell knew!
Yes, who the hell knew! The only thing certain was that this woman was coming over to his house for dinner tonight, her fiancé by her side, for what promised to be the strangest first date he had ever been on.
10
“Who the fuck is Zhaal Aliblahblah, Fran?” Jason said, his gray eyes flashing almost silver as he stared at Fran and shook his head like a dog at the beach.
“He’s a guy who helped me out of a jam today,” Fran said, blinking but holding eye contact as she closed the front door of her clinic to cut off the cool air coming in with the Vermont dusk. “And I had already accepted his invitation when I heard you were coming up, so—”
“So call him and tell him something came up. Jesus Christ, Fran! Are you kidding me? I drive all the way up here and instead of talking you want to go to some dinner party?”
“It’s not a party, Jason. It’s just . . . well, it’s just us.”
“Just us? Hah!” squeaked Jason, throwing his hands up in the air as his face went red. He began to pace on the blue industrial carpet, meandering around those tools and aluminum poles and metal sheets, shaking his head and smiling in disbelief. “Just us? But I thought you didn’t even know I was going to be here, Fran. So it’s what . . . a . . . date?! Are you kidding me, Fran? Are you fucking kidding me?! Can you possibly disrespect me any more? Oh, shit, you are such a piece of work, you goddamn—”
“Say it,” Fran muttered through her teeth, that perverse feeling raging in her now, like she just didn’t give a fuck anymore, that if she was an awful person, a goddamn bitch, then so be it and she was just going to embrace it and yeah, fuck it, fuck it all, fuck it to hell! Now she sneered, almost at herself more than Jason, all the shame inside her powering her words as she spat onto the carpet and glared at him. “And you talk about disrespect when you just assume that I wanted you to move up here with me? I mean, how thick can you get, Jason? Were you that kid who couldn’t take a hint back in school? Where people would make fun of you and you wouldn’t get it and you’d just laugh along with them, thinking they actually liked you?”
Jason’s mouth hung open, the gaping hole matched only by how wide his eyes looked right then. “Fran, I . . . I . . . Fran, where is this coming from?! Listen, Fran, hey, I didn’t mean to assume that you wanted me to come with you. I mean, well . . .”
Fran could feel the disgust rise up in her throat. Disgust and disbelief swirling into one, disgust at the way Jason was cringing and whining, disbelief at the way she was lashing out at him when she knew that some of it should be directed inwards, at herself, at her own behavior, her own inability to grow the fuck up, to handle her shit like a strong woman, to not use what happened as an excuse to just treat people like crap. She wanted to stop it but she couldn’t, and now she wouldn’t, and now that sneer was back, that snarl was back, that smirk was back, and she just looked at Jason with all the venom she had, and she thought he was a weak and pathetic excuse for a man, the thought coming along with a whisper that perhaps Fran could only attract weak and pathetic men because she herself was weak and pathetic. God, and now Fran could see her own weakness, couldn’t she . . . in the way Jaso
n’s lower jaw was trembling, the way he couldn’t hold steady eye contact, couldn’t stand up for himself, and he was just a reflection of her, she thought, of her own weakness, her own lack of character.
“You make me sick,” she spat out, for no goddamn reason, no reason other than she wanted to say it to herself but was now at a place where that psychic wall had come down, closing off her inner world from everything outside, and she could feel herself egging him on, like that shameful woman inside who knew that she deserved this, deserved what was going to happen, what she was bringing on herself, deserved it because she was still that little slut Frannie, that little sixteen-year-old whore who let those boys touch her boobs, pinch her nipples, who led them on and then screamed stop when it was too much, screamed no when they had already heard yes, screamed in pain when they slammed her body against that metal dryer, screamed in fear when they pulled off her panties and fingered her, tasted her, teased her, took her.
And now those cold dead tears rolled down Frannie’s smooth round cheeks as she let that deepest, darkest, most damaging secret come through, the secret she had never told her therapist, never even told herself really, the secret that had been hidden inside one of those screams from that night, that one scream of ecstasy that came through even though she didn’t want it to come through, didn’t want her body to let it through . . . the one secret scream that proved she was a whore and a slut, a filthy girl who deserved what she got, still deserved no more than to be dragged down to a basement and thrown over a dryer and used.
“Do it,” she snarled as those tears rolled down her cheeks. “Do it if you have the balls.”
Untouched for the Sheikh: A Royal Billionaire Romance Novel (Curves for Sheikhs Series Book 6) Page 6
