by Teresa Hill
Brian had a cooler full of beer on ice in his truck and pulled out one for her. Emma wasn't much of a drinker. Her birth father was an alcoholic, and while she wasn't one to excuse his behavior because of it, she knew it took his out-of-control personality up another notch into the danger zone. From what little she'd experienced of it, alcohol deadened her sense of self-control, and after the childhood she'd had, Emma placed a great deal of value on control in any situation.
But she was twenty-one, dammit. Rye hadn't even come to her party. He hardly knew she was alive, and he was probably going to marry Laine. She was going to give up on him, once and for all.
If there was ever a night to get drunk, this was it.
She took the beer and tried not to grimace at the taste.
"You're not really a beer drinker, are you?" Brian said.
"Not really."
He stopped at a liquor store along the way and came out with a bottle of champagne. "We'll try this. It's your birthday, after all."
She finished the beer anyway, and by the time they got to his friend's house, her head was spinning. She was determined to enjoy it. Images of Rye were fading. It didn't quite hurt as much to think of him. Maybe she could simply make her heart numb.
The party was a small one. Her and Brian, Todd and some girl Emma didn't know, and one other couple. They were crawling all over each other in one corner of the sofa.
"Hey." Todd nudged the guy. "Get a room, why don't you."
The guy grinned. "You've got one, right?"
"Yeah, sure." He nodded back toward what had to be the bedroom. "Make yourself at home."
That was that.
Emma caught Brian looking at her with a little smile that she knew probably should have made her nervous, but she really didn't care at the moment. He opened the champagne, which was sweet and bubbly, definitely much better than the beer. She had two glasses, and when she tried to stand up, she swayed on her feet.
"Careful." Brian slipped an arm around her waist. "We don't want you to fall down. You might want to hang on to me."
She might as well.
He steered her down the dark hallway, into what she finally realized was a bedroom. He closed the door, didn't turn on the lights, and then he kissed her.
Emma closed her eyes and tried to make herself feel something, anything.
The champagne helped. The darkness helped.
He put his hand on her breast. She thought about that, how it felt to have him touch her. It felt good, didn't it? She was a perfectly normal woman, a twenty-one-year-old woman, and she had the same basic need to be touched and kissed that any woman had.
It didn't have to be about love, did it? It didn't have to be about forever.
Why not just let him...
He worked on the buttons on her blouse, fumbling one and maybe snapping it off, but he got his hand inside, closing around her bare flesh.
Go ahead, she told herself. Let go. Let it happen. Let him do whatever he wants.
"Come on, Emma," he said.
It wasn't so bad like this. She wasn't sure if she was crazy about the way he kissed, and he sure seemed a bit impatient. She tensed up a bit and willed herself to relax, to feel, to like it.
Normal women did this. They liked it.
"What's wrong with you?" he asked.
What was wrong with her? She didn't know, but tears came to her eyes. She knew she couldn't go through with this.
"I'm sorry," she said, pulling away.
He didn't let go at first. He held on and ground his mouth against hers, his pelvis, too. It seemed he wasn't having any trouble getting into this.
"Brian, I'm sorry," she said, pushing him away.
"Sorry about what?" he asked, obviously angry.
"I thought this was what I wanted. I thought I could, but—"
"Just relax. Everything will be fine," he insisted. "Surely you're not still doing that little miss holier than thou thing you had going on in high school."
"What?" she asked.
"You know. Miss Untouchable."
She hadn't been. She'd had the same curiosity and the same interest in the opposite sex everyone else did. She was just more cautious than most people. Or maybe she was just a coward. Relationships between men and women could turn out so badly. Who knew what she really felt? She'd never been able to understand it, and maybe she never would.
She just knew now that he wasn't Rye, and that seemed to say it all.
"I have to go."
"Wait just a damned minute."
He grabbed for her, got mostly her blouse and hung on tight. She heard it rip, heard him swear. He'd been drinking, too. She pressed herself against the wall for support and held her hands up in front of her to keep him away. For a minute, she was thinking about Mark and how crazy guys could be.
"I'm not staying here. I'm not doing anything with you," she said, her voice shaking, her hands shaking, too.
"What? I'm not good enough for you or something?"
"No. It's not you. It's me. I'm sorry."
She found the doorknob, pulled it open, and slipped into the hallway, startling the couple in the living room. They looked at her like she was some kind of alien creature, her blouse torn, tears falling down her cheeks. She grabbed her coat and ran out the door and into the night.
Brian came after her. "Emma, wait a minute. I'm not some kind of monster, dammit. Emma, how are you even going to get home?"
She didn't care. She just wanted to get away. She ran down the street until she didn't hear anyone coming after her anymore, and then she leaned against a lamppost and cried. Her head was spinning. It was cold, and her blouse was torn. She pulled on her coat. In the deep pockets of her coat were her keys, her wallet, and her cell phone, thank goodness.
She pulled out the phone, calling three of her cousins and her roommate, but no one was home. Cell phones were either turned off or they were at a bar somewhere with music blaring. Or maybe they were in bed with their significant others, people with none of the hang-ups she had.
She was miles from anyone she knew. She could try to walk, but where would she go? After fifteen minutes of racking her brain for some alternative, she called home. She'd just tell them she had a misunderstanding with Brian. If she could dry her tears and keep her coat buttoned, they wouldn't know anything different. Emma hoped Rachel would answer the phone. The line cracked with static, but she could tell right away she'd gotten Sam.
Damn.
"Sam, let me just tell you this, and try not to say anything, okay? I'm all right, but I need you to come and get me. Please?" Her voice broke there. He had to hear that. She gave him the address, not telling him she was outside in the cold, just telling the number of the house closest by.
"What the hell are you doing in that part of town at this hour?"
"Sam, please? Please just come and get me. Please hurry."
"I'll be right there," he said.
* * *
It seemed like forever before she saw the Suburban moving slowly down the street. She waited until it was nearly even with her before she stepped out of the shadows and onto the sidewalk.
Her stomach had turned queasy. She was afraid she was going to be sick. It was one of the most miserable nights in her life, and that was saying something.
Then she realized this wasn't Sam's Suburban.
It was a truck. A big, black truck.
It stopped in the middle of the deserted street, and Rye climbed out. He walked over to her, his gaze raking over her from head to toe. "What happened?"
She just stood there for a minute, thinking if her humiliation weren't complete before, it surely was now. "What are you doing here?"
"Dammit, Emma—"
"I called Sam," she said, wanting to weep again.
"And you got me. Sam and I were watching a ball game. I happened to pick up the phone when he went to grab a beer. Now what the hell happened?"
He put one hand on the side of her face, tilting it this way and that in
the light, making sure she was in once piece, she realized. The hand against her cheek was trembling, whether in anger or in fear, she couldn't tell.
"Nothing happened," she said, a totally ineffectual lie given the circumstances, but it was all that came to mind at the moment. No way was she telling him the truth.
"Tell me another one." He stepped closer, his gaze even harder. "You've been drinking?"
"What if I have?" she said. "It's my birthday. I'm celebrating."
"All by yourself? In the street in the middle of the night, in a bad part of town?"
"This is none of your business. Nothing I do is any of your business."
"I'm making it my business tonight. Get in the truck, Emma," he ordered, his voice growing dangerously quiet.
"Rye—"
"Get in."
He wrenched open the door for her, and she climbed in. He got inside himself and closed the door, then cranked up the heat. She couldn't stop shaking, didn't say so much as a word, and thankfully, neither did he. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, staying as far away from him as the confines of the truck would allow.
Could this night possibly get any worse? She didn't see how.
The truck finally turned into the driveway and stopped.
"Please, don't bother to get out. I can get myself inside." She scrambled out of the seat belt and out the door.
Rye didn't listen, dammit. He turned off the engine and climbed out, too. She was coming around the front of his truck, trying to figure out how to get rid of him, when she looked up and realized she wasn't home.
He'd brought her to his house.
She knew it was his because there were times when she knew he wasn't home that she'd driven by, parked in the driveway, gone up on the porch and peeked in the windows, walked through the backyard. She knew as much as she could about his house without ever having been inside, and she was such a fool for even wanting to know about it.
He took her by the arm, in a grip that was unbreakable. "We're going inside, and you're going to tell me what happened tonight."
She thought about fighting him, about screaming at him, at the whole entire world. But he was moving quickly, all but dragging her along. They were inside before she knew it. She scarcely even noticed her surroundings. She was just trying to figure out how to get away when her stomach lurched painfully.
Oh, damn.
"Rye," she began, clamping a hand over her mouth. "I think I'm—"
"Come on. Over here."
He dragged her into the bathroom. She made it with a split second to spare, falling to her knees in front of the toilet. Even then, she tried to get away from him, tried to shove him out of the tiny bathroom, but he wouldn't go, damn him. He just wouldn't go. When she was done, feeling as if she'd coughed up half her insides, she leaned, weak and miserable, against the wall by her side. He handed her a hand towel, damp on one end. She wiped her face, then pressed the towel against her forehead.
Of all the nights for him to pick to stop ignoring her... Could she just roll over and die right now? At least she wouldn't have to face him.
"How much did you have to drink?" he growled.
"What does it matter?" It was out of her system now, wasn't it?
"Emma—"
"I had a beer and three glasses of cheap champagne," she said.
He frowned down at her. "Not much of a drinker, are you?"
"I'm thinking about taking it up as a pastime. God, would you just leave me alone?"
"No," he said. "You think you're done in here?"
"With any luck at all."
"Then come on. We can try to sober you up. Then you can tell me what the hell you thought you were doing."
He dragged her upstairs and into a huge bathroom. The light hurt her eyes, and she started to protest at that, then realized she had a bigger problem. He was tugging her coat off her.
"Don't," she said.
"We're inside. You don't need the coat. Unless..."
His voice trailed off. Looking down, she saw that her blouse was torn and gaping open. He swore softly. She went to pull the ends of her coat back together, but he wouldn't let her. He held it open and studied her once more, as he'd studied her face earlier. Looking for bruises, she realized.
"Nobody hit me," she said.
"No? Somebody just got you drunk and tried to rip your clothes off?"
"Not exactly," she said.
"Try again, Emma. Exactly what happened?"
"I got drunk and thought I'd go to bed with this guy, okay? That's what happened. And then I decided maybe that wasn't the best idea after all. He ripped my blouse, and I left."
Rye might as well have been carved of stone. He didn't so much as blink. Just stared down at her as if he couldn't believe what he was hearing. As if he might explode at any moment.
Finally, quietly, he said, "He didn't hurt you?"
"No."
Then he yelled again. "Why the hell would you do something like that? Get drunk. Climb into bed with some guy you barely knew."
"Why wouldn't I?" she said.
"Why wouldn't you?" The words blasted out of his mouth. They echoed back and forth in the small room. "What the hell is the matter with you?"
"You," she screamed right back. "You're what's wrong with me. You're everything that's wrong with my life, and I'm sick of it, do you hear me? I want you out of my head. I want to forget I ever met you. I want to do away with any hold you have over me."
"I'm not a part of your life anymore."
"I know," she cried.
He never would be. She saw that now. Nothing else seemed to matter.
He stood there for the longest time, started three different times to say something, and then changed his mind. What was there to say? This had been impossible from the very beginning.
Finally, he turned and pulled clean towels from the cabinet, then turned on the shower full blast. "Get in there," he said. "Keep the water as cold as you can stand it at first. It might help clear your head. I'll find you something to wear when you get out."
He walked out of the room, and Emma went to lock the door, but realized there was no lock. There wasn't even a doorknob. The floor was plywood only, the cabinets freshly sanded but without any stain or finishing. Obviously, his house wasn't quite done.
Which struck her as ridiculous to notice under the circumstances, but she was mad about the lock. Or the lack of one. Not that he was going to come in while she was in the shower. Why the hell would he do that? He didn't care about her. She just liked the idea of being able to put a locked door between him and her. She didn't want to ever have to face him again.
Her head was aching. She had a horrible taste in her mouth. Her stomach clenched and released, clenched and released, until she couldn't tell what it was going to do next. The room was still spinning, and the lights were horrible. Why had he used such hideously bright lights?
She finally stripped off her clothes and climbed into the shower. The cold seemed to blast right through her. She gasped, then swore, sat down in the corner, curled up into a ball, and cried once again.
If she ever got through this night, she would never cry over this man again. Not ever. This was the end. She was done. There had to be a way to forget him. She promised herself she'd find it. So what if that's what had gotten her into this mess in the first place.
* * *
He was waiting for her when she finally came out of the bathroom. She'd stayed there in the cold water for as long as she could, and then switched to scalding hot water, to try to stop herself from shivering. She'd found a spare toothbrush in a drawer and used it. He would keep one on hand. He probably bought them in bulk for the parade of women he had coming through here.
He'd left her some clothes in the bathroom. A big white T-shirt of his that hung halfway down her thighs and a pair of sweatpants that were huge on her but had a drawstring waist.
She put those on and dried her hair as best she could, then stopped to say
a little prayer that he wouldn't be right there on the other side of the door, but nothing was going her way tonight. He was there.
Her cheeks burned with shame, and there was no way she could even look at him. Not after what she'd admitted to him.
"Are Sam and Rachel expecting you home tonight?" he asked.
"No. I told them Brian was giving me a ride back to school."
"Brian?" he asked. "Just how well do you know Brian?"
"Well enough," she said.
"Well enough to climb into bed with him?"
"We didn't exactly make it that far."
"Dammit, Emma! He could have really hurt you. You know that, don't you? You know how stupid a thing that was to do? Do you have so little respect for yourself and your body that you'd just go off with some guy and—"
"And you're so picky about the women you take to your bed?" she yelled right back, then looked around the room, plain as can be and empty, except for the bed. "This bed, right? I'm surprised you haven't installed a revolving door to handle all the traffic."
"What the hell does that mean?" he yelled.
"You and all those women parading in and out of here. It's what people call a double standard, Rye. You can sleep with as many women as you want, and it's fine, but if I go to bed with a guy, there's something wrong with that?"
"I wasn't questioning your morals, Emma, just your incredible stupidity. You could have been hurt so badly. Do you know anything about this guy?"
"We went to high school together."
"And you were close?"
"Not exactly."
"Have you seen him at all since then?"
"No," she said.
"So you just thought, What the hell? Have a few drinks and hop in bed with him."
"That was my plan," she admitted.
"You make a habit of doing things like that?"
"No, I was thinking if I got drunk, I might be able to go through with it."
He just got madder. "Why would you ever want to force yourself to have sex with a guy you barely know?"
"Because he was there, okay? Because he poured champagne down my throat, and because it's my birthday."
"So this is some kind of ritual? You have sex with strangers on your birthday? Jesus, Emma, what the hell are you doing?"
