by Tasha Fawkes
"All right, I'll be there… I'll get there soon as I can, all right?"
Daniel disconnects the call and sits for several seconds, not moving.
"What is it? What's happened?"
When he turns around to face me, I feel the invisible punch to the gut. Just a moment ago, his face was flushed with exertion, his pupils dilated, his breathing raspy, his grin oh-so-sexy. It was some of the best sex I've ever had, and I hoped he felt the same way—
"It's Karen."
It takes a second for my brain to switch gears. "Karen?" Who is Karen? And then I remember. "Your fiancée… I mean, your ex-fiancée?"
He nods, standing to pull on his boxers. He doesn't look at me. I resist the urge to stare at his now limp dick, knowing that nothing will come of it. He’s leaving.
"My mom called to tell me that she’s in the hospital."
"Oh my God... what happened?"
"My mom says that she—Karen—called her a while ago, after I broke off the engagement. Karen sounded distraught, but she managed to get her calmed down. Just now, though, she learned that Karen had been admitted to the hospital."
"What happened?" I ask again, my voice faint and shaky. Oh my God, I hope the woman will be all right. When Daniel speaks, I barely recognize his voice.
"She tried to kill herself."
I stare at him, disbelieving. I scramble out of bed, looking for my clothes. "What can I do?"
He shoves his legs into his trousers, slips on his shoes, and then pushes his arms through the sleeves of his dress shirt. His hands shake slightly as he tries to button it. I start to move, to help him, and then freeze, especially when he looks up at me, his expression filled with what I can only construe as guilt. He gives me a look that doesn't need explaining. He mutters softly to himself, tugging at his collar even though it’s perfect. He stares down at his feet for a moment, then finally looks up at me.
That look washes all doubt away and triggers a feeling of intense disappointment. I know what he’s going to say before he says anything. He stands on one side of the bed, me on the other as he speaks.
"I have to go… you understand that, right?"
I don't answer, and he doesn't give me an opportunity. He continues, speaking quickly, as if he has to get it out all at once. "It's not really Karen's fault that my mom pressured the both of us to get engaged. The engagement was intended to provide benefits for both our families…"
Even before he finishes speaking, I know where this is going. I almost say no backsies, but I keep my mouth shut. I’m not going to beg. I’m not going to be weak.
"I have to go to the hospital to make sure she's okay. And I have to make things right. I’m sorry, Ashley, but I have to do the right thing here. I have to do the responsible thing."
I stand frozen, my body still tingling from the sensations those hands of his had invoked deep inside me. I stand naked, grasping the sheet to my body as he turns to leave the room.
He doesn't look back.
I hear the front door open and close, but I still stand there, staring down at the bed, the rumpled sheets, the smell of sex still permeating the room. My brain feels numb. Damn it! I sink down onto the bed, staring out the window, wondering how in the hell I had managed to do this to myself twice.
I got my hopes up, despite my own internal instincts and warnings not to. When he showed up at my door less than two hours ago, my heart leapt with excitement, and even more so when he told me he broke off the engagement. His words gave me hope that not only our 'downstairs' relationship wasn't over; but actually, it was just going to get better. It was validation, for me at least, that he did feel something for me, something that went beyond "playtime" and my foray into the world of bondage.
Why did I even feel that way? Why? When I first learned that he had a fiancée, I made the decision to give him up. I didn't want that kind of a relationship. I dealt with it, or was beginning to anyway. I made a logical decision to just let it go. You win some, you lose some. But when he showed up at my door… no, that was different. I’m only fooling myself.
Not that he said that he had chose me, no. All he implied was that he had not chosen Karen. I still don't expect any promises from Daniel, at least I don’t think so, but now, sitting here on my bed, in my room, naked, I find myself growing annoyed. And to be honest, I’m more upset than I was in his office when I first learned of his fiancée because I had—obviously subconsciously—let myself hope. Let myself hope that by his coming here, it might have meant something.
"You're a stupid idiot."
I sigh. I’m bummed. No, I’m depressed. Such an emotional roller coaster. Who the hell needs it? I’m not heartbroken, and I’m not going to be. I don’t need any man in my life to validate who I am or what I want to be. I don't need Daniel, and I don't need Stewart. Let him have Karen. I don't wish ill on either one of them, and I certainly hope that Karen will be all right, but who needs that kind of drama?
I got my hopes up twice. What’s that saying? Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me? I stand, drop the sheet, and head for the shower. I’m stronger than that. Will I make the same mistake again? Maybe. I don't know. But I know one thing. If Daniel wants to let guilt rule his life, there is nothing I can do about it. I’m not going to be a part of it.
Standing in the shower with the water pouring over me, I feel slightly rejuvenated. I don't cry. Maybe that will come later, I’m not sure. Right now, I tell myself that what I have to do is focus on my own goals, which means getting my book finished and published with or without Daniel's help. And then, someday, I’ll find the right man, and then, just maybe, I just might consider settling down.
Twenty-Three
Daniel
I feel like a son of a bitch for even thinking it, but I can't help it. I’m miserable. It’s been a week since I got that phone call at Ashley's place that Karen tried to kill herself. I’d been guilt-ridden, and my mother's trembling voice affected me. I'd never heard her sound like that. I didn't… I didn't know how to feel. I didn't want to be cruel to Karen, but I broke off the engagement with the intention of sparing us both.
Karen apparently tried to overdose on Ambien, at least that's what I was told by the doctor at the hospital. At first, he didn't want to give me any information, stating that I wasn't a family member, but I told him that I was Karen's fiancé and he checked and saw that I was one of her emergency contacts. He gave me the rundown. Apparently, it was Karen herself who'd called 9-1-1. When the paramedics got to her apartment, they found a prescription bottle beside her on the bed. A half glass of Merlot was on the end table beside the bed. I frowned, confused. As far as I knew, Karen didn't take any medication. I just started to talk to the doctor about that when my mother appeared beside me. She clasped my arm tightly, and when I looked down at her, I felt a jolt.
Without her usual impeccable makeup, she looked older, pale, and yes, even frail. All I could think of is that I did this to her. It was the first time I had seen my mother in such an emotional state.
"She's going to be all right," I told her, wrapping an arm around her shoulder, holding her close to me. Her eyes filled with tears as she looked up at the doctor.
She turned to me, her eyes wide. "She sounded so funny when she called me, like she was slurring, but I thought she'd just had one too many. She sounded so drowsy and confused… then she told me she'd called 9-1-1, that she'd taken pills, tried to commit suicide…"
"The doctor said she took some pills and alcohol."
"She doesn't take pills, not even aspirin," she said.
"She's doing fine now," the doctor said. "We performed a gastric lavage, we pumped her stomach, and then gave her flumazenil as a precaution. Her cardiac and respiratory functions are fine. We'll keep her overnight for observation, but she should be able to go home tomorrow."
"But—"
"I would suggest you get her some psychiatric counseling to deal with the issues that triggered the overdose."
"Her paren
ts are traveling abroad for another week—I haven't been able to reach them."
"Does she live alone?"
"Yes," I replied.
"I would suggest that someone stay with her—"
"Daniel can stay with her at her apartment until her parents return."
I was about to object, and strongly, but didn't want to argue in front of the doctor. He simply nodded, and after notifying us that the nurses would keep us updated, he turned and left.
"Mother, I just broke up with her. She's not going to want to—"
"You know she's been under an enormous amount of stress, Daniel. And to just throw that out at her? That you're done?"
She gave me the look; the look she perfected over the years, since I was a teen. One that conveyed sad disappointment. I inhaled, counted to five, and then exhaled. I would give her this one.
"She intimated to me that you’d been seeing someone else, that you must have been because you haven't been particularly interested in… in personal time with her."
I didn't even know how to respond to that without divulging anything about Ashley. "Mother, I am not going to discuss my sex life with you." At the same time, I realized that continuing a relationship with Ashley at this point would be unfair to her.
Upon hearing the news of Karen's hospitalization, my guilt weighed so heavily on me that I decided I would take responsibility, that I would try to make things work between us, that I would continue with the plans for marriage. Did I want to? No, but I certainly didn't want someone's suicide attempt resting on my shoulders.
That was nearly a week ago. A week during which I realized, once again, that I actually feel stuck between a rock and a hard place. Stuck with a woman I don't care about. Oh, I’ve done my part, telling her she has to rest in bed the day after she got discharged from the hospital. Tried to show concern, tried to listen to her crying—no tears—about how devastated she was when I broke it off with her, and how she didn't think she could go on.
She didn't seem much worse for the wear to me. She got clingy, fast. Every time I tried to leave her bedroom she started to weep, sniffling into her Kleenex as if it were the end of the world. She was a drama queen before. Now? This was getting ridiculous.
I know one thing that would definitely soothe my own stress and increasing aggravation, but I can't bring myself to look for a random sub to have sex with in my basement. I resolve that I definitely won’t call Ashley. Especially not after I told her that I wanted a different relationship with her. She hasn’t called and I haven’t called her either—not yet, anyway. I don't think she will reach out to me. I will call her, but not until I get everything figured out.
At the moment, I’m in the kitchen of Karen's apartment, preparing soup for lunch. Not really preparing it, just warming it up. She had a shitload of groceries delivered to the apartment a couple of days ago, which I had a feeling was more to keep me in the apartment rather than having me be inconvenienced—her words, not mine—by going shopping for groceries on my own.
I need to get the hell out of here, if only for a little while. She’s driving me nuts.
"Daniel…"
Speak of the devil. I glance up from the open kitchen area as Karen sweeps into the room in a loose-fitting silk pantsuit. She carries a sheaf of papers with her and brings them to the table in her dining room. Crap. More wedding plans. What now?
Shaking my head, striving for patience, telling myself that I can do this, I dish a serving of soup into a bowl, grab a spoon, and venture from the kitchen into the dining area. Placing the bowl and spoon down on the table, I notice her smiling.
She glances up and reaches for my hand. I can barely tolerate her touch. That's how bad it’s gotten. A week straight with Karen has pushed me to the point where I can barely look at her. Is this my future? Last night, she hinted about sex, and I demurred, not even counting on the negative response with an oh, you're not well enough yet comment. The fact is, I don't want to have sex with Karen. I don't want to have sex with any of my subs. I want to have sex with Ashley. That’s it, bottom line.
Her words startle me, spoken so abruptly.
"I realize that on occasion you see other women, Daniel, but that's all over now. Isn't it?"
Her eyes on mine, I look down at her. I heave a mental sigh, realizing that I can't say what I truly want to say, at least not yet. Her parents are due back tomorrow. I don't want to leave her alone, afraid that she might attempt another suicide. I hate that she’s literally holding me as a mental hostage. I just don't know what to do about it. I feel responsible and disgusted at the same time. If I don't do as she asks, will she threaten a repeat performance? And if she does, what will I do? She did it once, I came to the rescue, so what will prevent her from doing it again?
"This is the way it's going to be, Karen?"
"What? I don't understand." She shrugs and glances at the papers on the table. "What do you think about the seating arrangement your mother helped me with?"
How can she continue to pretend that everything is fine? Seriously? How can she pretend that she’s happy about the upcoming wedding, which apparently is on again. Doesn’t she understand? Doesn’t she comprehend? Resentment flows. I'm not sure if it’s the smug smile on her face or the fact that I’m so frustrated, unable to get out of this apartment for even a couple of hours in the past week that has me snapping at her.
"And if I don't like something, or if I do something you don't like, are you going to try and kill yourself again?"
The moment the words are out of my mouth, I regret it. What a horrible thing to say. To my surprise, she merely smiles and turns to look through her paperwork.
"You came back, didn't you?" She waves a hand at me. "Besides, it was only a couple of pills."
It takes several seconds for her words to sink in. I’m rendered speechless. "What?"
She freezes, then glances quickly at me, then back down at her papers. She clears her throat. "All’s well that end’s well, isn’t that right?" She shakes her head. "It was an accident—"
I stiffen. "My mother told me that you said that you wanted to die. Do you remember that, Karen?"
Again, she waves a hand and looks up at me, a pout forming on her lips, blinking rapidly as if she’s trying to create tears. "I can't talk about it, Daniel," she says, her voice soft and trembling. "It was… it was just a foolish accident."
I frown down at her. What the hell? I turn and begin to walk away from the table.
"Aren't you going to eat lunch with me?"
"I have to go to the bathroom."
"When you get back, we'll talk about these, all right?"
I don't answer but continue down the short hallway to the bathroom, closing the door softly behind me. The bathroom has become my temporary—very temporary—refuge. I lean against the wall, staring at my reflection in the mirror. I look angry. I feel angry. But what can I do? I just can't make myself walk out. What I want to do and what I’m obligated to do are two different things.
I step to the sink and turn on the water, cupping my hands underneath the faucet as cold water runs through my fingers. I splash some water on my face, trying to calm my annoyance at the turn my life has taken. When did things spin so completely out of control? I lift my head, looking again at my reflection in the mirror. Time to ask myself a question. Would I have felt this way about Karen and the upcoming marriage if it wasn’t for Ashley? If I hadn't read that snippet of her hot, sexy manuscript on her laptop? If she hadn't agreed to my suggestion that she explore the world of bondage with me as her mentor, ostensibly to bring her prose to life?
I don’t blame Ashley. No. I blame myself. And why didn’t I put my foot down and just refuse to marry Karen when it was first brought up? Since when did I go around trying to please everybody, trying to keep everyone happy?
A headache blossoms behind my eyes. I open the medicine cabinet, thinking to take an aspirin. Amidst the makeup, the Band-Aids, and perfume bottles and lipsticks, I see a bottle of aspirin. I r
each for it, then look up at the top shelf. Half-hidden behind some cold medicine I see a orange-brown prescription bottle. Frowning, I move aside the cold medicine and reach for the bottle. I turn it only to find that parts of the label have been smudged, as if it had been held under water and the ink rubbed off.
I read the prescription label and can only make out Amb…I look at the name on the prescription, what little I can see of it, and stare. All I can make out of the first and last name is Car— Que—.
I frown, not quite sure what I’m looking at, and then it clicks. The Ambien bottle doesn't belong to Karen; it belongs to her mother, Carol. The label was damaged, probably deliberately. The doctor told me that the paramedics found an empty prescription bottle next to Karen on the bed. From there it isn't difficult to come to the conclusion that Karen didn’t down the entire bottle. Does she have more of these? Why?
Fury engulfs me as the truth hits me. She faked it. There’s nothing in this bottle. There might have been a pill or two or none at all in the bottle the paramedics found, but it was hard to know for sure. It looks to me as if Karen had stolen her mother's empty prescription bottle, perhaps more than one. Then again, for all I know, Karen downed a recently filled prescription, again stolen from her mother. I grasp the prescription bottle in my hand, resisting the urge to crush it in my anger. Only one way to find out.
I open the bathroom door and walk down the hallway and into the dining room. Karen hasn't touched her soup, embroiled in tapping figures out on her calculator. She doesn't even look up. I slam the prescription bottle down onto the table right next to her calculator. She freezes, then slowly looks up at me.
"Tell me the truth, and I mean the fucking truth.” I point at the bottle. "The Ambien belongs to your mother. Are you stealing her medication?"
She sputters, "I don't have to steal anything, Daniel, and I certainly don't like your tone."
