“You don’t have to do that,” I assured him, shrugging on my jacket.
“Nonsense. I’m taking you, Heidi. You don’t know what kinda crazies are out there at this time of night.”
As we were making our way to the car, I began to wonder what motivation Patrick had for going out of his way to take me home. I mean, yeah, he was a nice guy and I considered him a friend. But it wasn’t that long of a walk, and he never offered before. I let him help me into his Honda, which was small, yet new and clean, considering he was a college student, and I pondered whether he felt this little act of chivalry would score him brownie points with me. Oh hell. What if he thought this meant something more than it did?
Patrick said he didn’t need directions to my dorm, which didn’t arouse any cause for concern. But when he started taking a detour, I knew something was up.
“Where are we going?” I asked when he missed the turn that led us straight to the other side of campus.
“Shortcut,” he said. But it was all wrong. His voice was all wrong. His face was all wrong. And he wouldn’t look at me.
Looking back, I knew I should have never gotten in that car. And when he turned onto a tiny dirt road, miles away from campus, I should have taken the opportunity to jump out of the car, moving or not.
You hear about rape. You read about it. You see it in movies and on TV. But you never truly know the brutality of it until it happens to you. You may tell yourself that you would never be stupid enough to be put in that situation. You may vow to kick and scream and fight within an inch of your life. But even if you take kickboxing three times a week and drink nasty ass wheatgrass shots, nothing will make you strong enough to fight off an attacker who’s sick enough to violate you.
I bled from almost every orifice for nearly a week. I had hypothermia from being dumped outside in the cold afterward, my nearly lifeless body too weak to even move for several hours. Some hikers found me trying to crawl to the priority road the next morning. I was told they saved my life, immediately wrapping me in their own coats and calling for help. According to the doctors, I probably would have only survived another couple hours in my condition.
The rape kit showed that I suffered severe vaginal and anal tearing, as well as three broken ribs, a fractured femur, a shattered cheekbone, broken nose, broken wrist, and wounds that required more stitches than I could count. Patrick had hoped he killed me or beat me badly enough that I wouldn’t survive long enough to tell. Wrong, motherfucker. I told the police everything, from the make and model of his car, to his class schedule. The cocky bastard didn’t even bother threatening me. He knew for sure he’d shut me up for good.
Patrick Keller was found guilty of first-degree sexual assault and received the maximum sentence in prison. I didn’t expect him to make it that long, and vehemently prayed for some gang member to make him his bitch.
Regardless of the scars I bore from the attack, I busted my ass to finish out my sophomore year through online correspondence. My instructors gave me extra time to finish assignments and some even visited me at my parents’ home while I healed. I had a long road ahead of me, but luckily, the reconstructive surgeries to fix my mess of a face and body were all sponsored by a foundation for rape victims. I was grateful; my parents could hardly afford my medical bills, even with insurance. I couldn’t even leave the house, let alone get a job to help out.
By the fall, I had earned a scholarship at a school in New York and was looking forward to a fresh start. People thought I was crazy; no one bounced back from such a violent attack like that. No. They were left riddled with fear and hatred. They dropped out of school and shut out the world. They cried for hours, wondering what they had done to deserve such brutality.
I did none of those things. I had accepted what happened to me, and I chose to be better for it. Patrick may have broken my body, but he couldn’t break my spirit. He couldn’t. It didn’t belong to him. And to prove that, I was more determined than ever to grow stronger—mentally and physically. After moving to New York—something I was deemed certifiable for—I buried myself in schoolwork. I didn’t make friends. I didn’t need them. However, my roommate, Keyanna, had worn me down, and I had to admit—I kinda liked having a girlfriend.
Keyanna, or Key, was completely different from me in every way. Where I was tall, thin, pale, and blonde, she was short, curvy, mocha-skinned, and wore her dark, curly mane au natural. But that’s where the differences stopped. Key became my best friend. My sista from anotha mista, as she would say. And I grew to love her.
One night, after one too many shots of Fireball while watching old reruns of Fresh Prince, she asked me about my life back in Indiana. I frowned, not knowing what she meant by that. She had met my parents and siblings during a rare visit. I told her about my pathetic love life. Hell, she’d even seen baby pictures when I was once a cute, chubby kid. I couldn’t say I understood where she was coming from.
“What did you leave behind?” she asked me. “Or better yet, what were you running away from?”
And right there, in her twin-size bed, I sobbed as I regurgitated memories of the most horrific night of my life. She held me and smoothed my thin blonde hair over my head. She didn’t ask questions or interrupt me. If it weren’t for the trickles of moisture that had wet my scalp, I would have thought that awful story hadn’t affected her at all.
When I was all cried out and exhausted, she looked at me and smiled, but not out of happiness. It was the kind of smile someone gives you when they try to break some really bad news to you.
“You need to talk to someone,” she said.
“I just talked to you.”
“No,” she replied, shaking her head. Pretty ringlets whipped at her damp cheeks. “You need to talk to someone that can help you through this. To help you make peace with what’s been done to you.”
I frowned. “I have made peace with it.”
She shook her head again. “No. You haven’t, Heidi. You keep people at arm’s length. You never go out. All you do is study. Outside of me, you have no connection to the outside world.” She grasped my shoulders, aligning her teary gaze with mine. “That fucker took something from you. I get that. But he didn’t take everything. Not the very best parts. Don’t let him have anything else.”
Those words did something to me. They woke me up. They made me see that I had let Patrick win. I thought picking up where I left off proved that he hadn’t completely ripped me to shreds, but in fact, I was letting this bastard dictate every freakin’ day of my life. I didn’t date; hell, I didn’t even look at guys. I stayed away from parties and social events. And I rarely went out after dark. He was winning. And I had let him.
That week, Key talked me into seeing someone at our campus crisis center. They had shrinks come in on three month rotations—part of a local hospital’s program for unlicensed doctors to gain more field experience. I figured, what the hell . . . what could it hurt? I wasn’t tied to the program. There wouldn’t be any note of this in my school records. And after three months, that doctor would be gone and someone new would come in. And honestly, I wanted to do this for Key. I couldn’t stand her worrying about me. She was my only friend, and I didn’t need her looking at me like I would wither away and die at any minute.
That’s how I met Dr. Tucker DuCane. Young, ambitious, smart. He really is a good doctor. But more than that, I can tell he’s a good man.
The first thing I noticed about him was his lips. They were the fullest lips I had ever seen on a Caucasian man. He later told me that he’s from Louisiana and his great grandmother was Creole. Explains that sexy, southern twang. Every word he spoke sounded like jazz.
After I got over the shock of those enviable lips, not to mention those gorgeous, blue eyes that shone with wisdom and sincerity, I realized something. I was attracted to him. Huh. Go figure.
But attraction didn’t mean anything, considering I was there for him to assess what a train wreck I was. Who in their right mind would choose to take
on that type of obligation? And once he heard my story, he was sure to look at me the way everyone else did: with pity. And I honestly couldn’t stand that shit.
However, Tucker never did. He never made me feel like an escaped mental patient. And when I told him about what had been done to me, and how I chose to overcome it, he didn’t try to tell me how I should feel. My healing was mine alone. And he respected that.
Even if Patrick hadn’t made me a victim and I wasn’t his patient—let’s face it—the chances of Tucker and me hooking up were pretty slim. I’ve read enough romance books during my seclusion to know that I don’t fit the profile. Guys like Tucker—gorgeous, smart, kind, warm—were the heroes. And I am anything but a heroine. I’m not quirky, or awkward. I’m not beautiful without knowing it. I don’t listen to classical music or have some tragic backstory. I don’t need to be saved. I don’t need a hero. I can fare just fine on my own, fuck you very much. And Tucker is most definitely the kind of guy—man—that needs to save someone. No thanks, I’ll pass.
And aside from being too cynical to be considered pleasant and as stubborn as an ox, I’m just not interested in dating. I think.
Yet, here I am, putting on my favorite jeans that make my ass look fabulous and spending more time with the flat iron than I usually do. For Tucker. The man that I absolutely don’t want to date.
I think.
Chapter Eight
NOW. . .
We sit across from each other at the breakfast bistro made for two, like we do every morning. Tucker has his usual: steel cut oats, a drizzle of honey, and freshly squeezed orange juice that our housekeeper, Lucia, prepares for him daily. I’m having my breakfast of choice: coffee and half of a grapefruit. We are creatures of habit. And while we may smile at each other from over the rims of beverages and newspapers, what’s really on our minds is completely a break from the norm.
Friday night. The night I slept with another man, while my husband watched as he pleasured himself.
It was . . . intense. Exhilarating. Wrong.
And while we can both agree that it was totally not something that should ever happen again, we can’t deny the impact it’s had on our sex life.
When we left the Royal hotel in the wee hours of the morning, we didn’t speak. I don’t even remember us looking at each other. I was ashamed, I was scared. I didn’t know if Tucker would hate me forever for what I had done. And more than ever, I knew that I loved him. That I needed him. And there was no way I could survive losing him.
The cab ride was silent. When the morning doorman smiled and lifted a brow at our disheveled appearance, I was too embarrassed to even cast him a greeting. Every step toward our home felt like a death sentence. Every breath felt like I was already dying.
Silently, Tucker let us into our condo, stepping back so I could enter. I walked in tentatively, awaiting the shouts, screams, tears. But they never came. Instead, I heard the front door slam shut behind me, causing me to flinch. And in the next second, I was pressed against the wall and my clothes were being ripped from my body. My already soiled panties were next to go.
I groaned with shock and relief as I realized what was happening. And when I felt the hard tip of my husband pushing at my still sore sex, the groan became one of desire.
He didn’t kiss me. He didn’t tell me he loved me or that I was beautiful. I don’t even think he looked at me.
Tucker took me. He took back what belonged to him. And with my cheek pressed against the wall, my knees trembling with exhaustion and ecstasy, I let him have me.
I look across the table as I take a small teaspoonful of grapefruit to find that he’s staring at me. His gaze is hot, molten lava sliding down my lips and neck before slipping between the crevice of my breasts. His tongue snakes out to lick his bottom lip and I imagine that tongue laving my already hardening nipples. I want them between his teeth, as he applies the perfect pressure to make me squirm. It would sting so good. Good enough to cause wetness to dampen my French lace panties. And when I’m hot and ready for him, he’d slip a hand between my thighs and paint music notes with those long, callused fingers. Then I’d sing for him, just like he wanted me to . . .
I blink rapidly, tearing myself from the trance of my fantasies. I shouldn’t be thinking like that. I shouldn’t be looking at my husband while imagining Ransom’s hand between my legs, his skilled fingers caressing my silken folds while I hit every note in every octave. I shouldn’t still be able to feel the tug of his teeth on my nipples. I shouldn’t still be craving the taste of his kiss—so sweet and tender, yet viciously hungry—or the scent of sex and sweat on his skin.
Jesus, what has gotten into me? Wasn’t that why we did what we did? For me to get this ridiculous fantasy out of my system? It was supposed to be a good time. Something we’d look back at and laugh about when we’re old and gray, reminiscing about the days when we were young and beautiful. But my body just won’t let it die. It’s not ready for Ransom to become merely a memory.
Relieving me from my reverie, Lucia comes to refill my cup of coffee before I even have to ask. She’s been with us for a little more than a year now, and I honestly don’t know how we ever made it without her.
“So how was your weekend? Do anything fun and exciting?” she asks like she does every Monday morning when she comes back to work. She expects us to answer politely as we always do, reciting the recent events of our mundane life as we always do.
Tucker and I share a glance and a secret smile. And we say nothing at all.
MONDAYS ARE LIKE a weekly reoccurring nightmare for publicists. All of our clients have behaved like fucking snot-nosed children over the weekend and left a burning, brown paper bag of shit on our doorsteps to deal with. I’ve got Betty Ford on speed dial and most of the staff at the Post knows my home number by heart. So, I’m at my desk, starving because I’ve had to skip lunch, trying to put out some media firestorm revolving around my attention whore of a client and her arrogant prick of a musician husband. Oh, and her bubbalicious ass, which coincidently, is my biggest client of all.
“The photos were doctored. How can you prove that some horny little shit in his parents’ basement in Connecticut didn’t just Photoshop their heads onto some random porn stars? You can’t, can you? Therefore, you’re just spitting vitriol into the ether, in hopes that some sex-starved moron will actually be dumb and desperate enough to believe you,” I say into the receiver of my office phone, while simultaneously tapping on the keys of my cell. Get rid of the original photos!!!! Wipe every fucking phone & computer NOW!
The journalist—which I say with sarcasm because no one at TMZ gives a fuck about journalism—snickers and pulls a trusted source out of his ass. I call his bluff, challenging him to reveal this close family friend that supposedly has proof. At that, he stammers an empty threat and I hang up on him.
I rub the bridge of my nose, feeling the first pricks of a migraine creep into my temples. I really should’ve grabbed something to eat. God only knows how long I’ll be here at the office, which usually isn’t a problem, considering it’s my home away from home.
My office is fashioned much like my luxury high-rise condo. The walls are coated in a clean dove white, as is the upholstery, with just a touch of metallic color lent by stainless-steel accents. It’s modern, chic, and painfully orderly, yet somehow it exudes warmth. That could be attributed to the massive windows that make way for brilliant bursts of sunlight to peek through, and for me to indulge in a killer view of the city.
I love my life. However, on days like this, I have to constantly remind myself of that fact.
There’s a soft rap at my door and it opens before I can muster up an answer. I look up to see my assistant, Tamara (formerly Thomas, but that’s neither here nor there), sashay in with a small stack of papers. She juts out a narrow hip and rests it on the edge of my desk, before gazing down at me with pursed lips.
“Mmmm hmmm. Honey, I told you about working these long hours without taking a break. What happen
ed to that yogurt and granola parfait I brought you?”
I arch a slender brow and flick my gaze to a side table a few feet away where my now warm yogurt and soggy granola begins to decompose. Tamara rolls her mink-lashed eyes.
“It is three in the afternoon. No wonder you ain’t but a tiny, little twig. Girl, that fine husband of yours wants to knock boots. Not knock bones. If he wanted little chicken wings, he would go to KFC, ok?”
She goes full on sista girl, complete with a neck roll and Z-formation snaps, leaving me in a fit of weak giggles. “Ok, ok. Have one of the interns run down to the deli on the corner and grab me a half turkey sandwich on rye and a banana. And someone needs to make a Starbucks run too.”
“Done. Now, after you get some food between them ribs of yours, People needs a comment on the Allison Elliot pregnancy rumors, Page Six wants you to verify some info that surfaced about a potential Destiny’s Child reunion album, Bravo needs an answer about you joining the cast of Real Housewives of NYC next season by the end of the week, and Caleb Berke had some documents delivered by messenger.”
She sets the hand written messages on my glass-topped desk, along with a standard-size manila envelope. I go for that one first. The first thing I notice is my company’s header. Then I realize what I’m looking at.
A contract.
Signed by Ransom Reed.
My trembling fingertips let the contract tumble from my grip and then float to the ground like paper parachutes. Tamara gives me a narrowed look before scurrying to pick them up as I sit wide-eyed and speechless.
He signed them. Ransom wants me to represent him. Even after what went down between us. I can’t deny that it is a complicated conflict of interest, but it’s not like I can explain the whys of that decision. And even if I did take him on as a client, how could we ever work together without it getting awkward?
Tryst Page 7
