Stripped 2

by H. M. Ward

“I’ve realized that, which is why this bothers me. If you mentioned the mistresses, you would have said it in passing, right?” I nod. “So how’d he know about the details of my parents’ relationship?”

  “Another source?”

  “Right, which means he flew down to Mississippi to find you.”

  “That doesn't make sense either," I say, shaking my head. "This guy followed me for weeks, trying to convince me to talk about you. From what I could tell at the time, he seemed to be a local. At the very least, he was from the South.”

  Jon stares off, thinking. His hands are on the table, pressing his fingertips against the fabric. He sighs and runs his hands through his hair. “He had to get the information somewhere.”

  “If not from me, then from where? What are you thinking?”

  “I’m thinking there was a pissing match going on between Luke and Mom, and I got in the way.”

  I want to say no, that it’s not possible, but his uncle, though crazy, would not be unjustified in blasting his sister. “Did you ask him?”

  Jon’s gaze doesn’t lift to meet mine. “No. When it first happened, I thought you leaked part of my family stuff on purpose. I kept waiting for you to drop the rest, but you didn’t. Luke knew everything. He must have disclosed the parts most damaging to Mom and left out the rest.”

  His voice sounds lost. His fingers have turned white from pressing them against the table so hard for so long. There’s something he thinks I know, something bad, but I don’t have any clue what it is. “Jon, I don't think I talked about the mistresses. It was my fault the entire thing happened—I won’t say it’s not. It is. I did it, and the story wouldn’t have appeared without me, but I’m not sure what you’re talking about now. You think I figured out something that I don’t know.”

  Jon’s gaze lifts and locks with mine. He takes a small breath and watches me, wondering if he should trust me. He thinks I already know some dark secret, but I can’t fathom what it could be.

  The silence stretches between us, so I say, “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

  He considers it, sits back in his chair, and folds his arms over his chest. “I want honesty. I want all the crap between us gone. I’m tired of assuming you did this when it's possible you didn’t. And if you did do it, I want to know. As for my secrets, if you don’t know them already, you should.” He swallows hard and holds my gaze with an unnerving intensity.

  “Some things are hard to talk about.”

  “I know.” He doesn’t bark the words, but he doesn’t sound too pleasant either.

  “Be patient with me, okay?” I ask. “I think I can tell you, but it’s not like ripping off a bandage. It’s more like stabbing myself in the heart. Ripping everything open again is not something I want to do.”

  Jon’s gaze drops to the table. He nods once. “You ask first.”

  I wonder how direct I should be, if I should just come out and say it. Jon folds his arms over his chest and waits, not looking up at me.

  “What happened when you went home that summer?” My question seems to surprise him.

  “My funds were frozen, and my mother publicly emasculated me. She stripped my privileges so I couldn’t go about my daily life. Basically, I was locked in the mansion where Mom could make sure nothing else happened. It was very public within the family, a warning to anyone else who might step out of line.” There’s still pain in his voice. This went beyond humiliation, they did something to him, more than what he’s saying. I’ll circle back to it.

  Jon asks point blank, “Why aren’t you divorced?”

  “Oh. That.”

  “Yes, that.”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “It isn’t. Which begs the question, why are you still married to that guy?”

  Thoughts flop around in my head, obscuring the real answer. I push the usual responses away and say it. “I’m afraid of him. I'm afraid he'll do something worse, afraid that's even possible, and thought it was better if he didn’t know where I was. Also, I don't have the money. That’s not the main reason, though. It never was.”

  Jon watches me, his eyes boring into mine, sorting through my pain and doubt. It’s all there, laid out to be seen and judged. I want to explain, but I keep my mouth shut.

  “Thank you,” he says softly. “Your turn.”

  “Why do you hide who you really are? Why not let people see you’re smart, shrewd, and loyal? What’s with the act you put on day in and day out?” I never judged him for it, nor would I because I do the same thing. For me, it’s a defense mechanism, a way to hold myself together. But for him, I don't understand.

  His gaze drops and he inhales deeply, then lets it rush out. Jon looks at the window. The sun has almost disappeared beneath the dark blue waves. “I didn’t know who I was until after I met you. You introduced me to myself, to a guy I didn’t know existed. I didn’t like him at first and fought the transition. By the time I figured it out, most people had already pegged me for a can’t-do-shit player. Challenging expectations would have caused problems, too, for several reasons. If I act like an airhead, no one looks at me twice. If they know I have Sean’s mind and Peter’s drive, they’ll look hard. I don’t want anyone scrutinizing my life.”

  Everything makes sense except that last part. I'd assume he wanted privacy, but this is Jon Ferro. He likes to show off and be in the limelight, so what’s he hiding?

  Jon stares past me, out the window and asks. “How’d you find out about my involvement with the mistresses?”

  “What do you mean?” I sit forward and watch as he wrestles with this one.

  I watch his Adam’s apple bob in the center of his throat, and he asks again, “How did you know?”

  “I didn't. I suspect I still don't.” He’s pensive for a moment, leaning on his elbows, his hands propping up his chin. “There’s something else about the mistresses, isn’t there? Something you don’t talk about, something you hope no one knows. What is it?”

  When those eyes lift to meet mine, they’re cold and hollow. It’s like he’s caught on train tracks and can’t move. The truth is barreling down on him without mercy. He nods, and swallows hard. He’s looking at me but doesn’t see me. Darkness shadows his features, obscuring his handsome face with pain and regret.

  “The first one, Monica.” He can barely say her name. It sticks in his throat, practically choking him. His posture remains closed off, and he folds his arms across his chest with an angry scowl on his lips. “She did things, threatened me if I didn’t comply. I was barely a teenager and didn’t realize her game until it was too late.”

  “She seduced you?”

  He nods. “I said no, but it didn’t matter. She kept coming to me. It was flattering at first, but it wasn’t something I would have done without her initiative. The things she wanted me to do to her were fucked up. The first time, I barely remember it. She drugged me, and I wasn’t myself. The next morning she was gone. I thought it was over, but then she wanted more. I refused and told her to fuck off. Her response was a picture of us shoved under my bedroom door with a note that said, 'Wouldn’t it be horrible if this ended up in your mother’s room?' She took it that first night we were together. I couldn’t say no after that.”

  Venom spikes to the surface and I want to hurt her. My fingers flex, and it takes a lot to keep my voice even, calm. “She blackmailed you?”

  “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

  “So, how’d it stop?”

  He glances up at me and looks sick. His eyes dart away and sweat breaks out on his brow. “She kept fucking me every few weeks until she got a ring from Dad. After that, she stopped—until the night my mother refused to divorce Dad. All hell broke loose. My parents went insane, in opposite directions, leaving me alone with Monica.

  “She was pissed, and the only one available to take it out on was me. I was about to turn fourteen and had no clue how to handle myself. I wouldn’t hit her—even when she came at me with a knife. She told me I was jus
t like him, a fucked up perv, and I’d like what was coming to me. She held a blade to my neck and pressed until there was blood. I felt it running hot down my throat.

  “Instead of pushing it in the rest of the way, she tossed it on the floor and gave me a choice—sober or wasted. Either way, she wasn’t leaving. I took the coward's way out and swallowed a pill that left me more coherent than I wanted. She recorded the entire thing. The blood, the sex, her fucking me so hard it looked like I didn’t care. You can’t tell I’m out of it, and I remember everything, lying there unable to move while she mutilated me with the knife.”

  He sucks in a sharp breath and looks directly at me. “I've waited ten years for that tape to go public. I look like a fucking sadist, screwing my dad’s fiancée. She made sure her fucking engagement ring stayed in plain sight and said a bunch of shit about screwing all of us together like she was the only woman any Ferro man wanted.

  “If that tape pops up, even though she never touched them—I know because Pete was grief-stricken over his first fiancée’s death, and Sean was anywhere but here—it could have serious consequences for my brothers. She implies things happened with Sean and Pete even though they didn't. It doesn’t matter. It will look true. I look like someone who can’t be trusted, ever. And the entire time she was with me, I never thought she’d do anything like that. I underestimated her. I walked into a bear trap, and didn't fucking notice until the metal teeth snapped off my leg.”

  He’s breathing hard, and his hands are clutching the arms of his chair. Jon doesn’t look at me. His voice is deep, angry, “Do you still want to be with me? Do you want to be with a guy who won’t defend himself? A dickhead who did some seriously fucked up shit with his father’s fiancée? That’s hanging over my head and always will. If you stay with me, one day it might show up and take us both down.”

  I’m so horrified I can’t speak. He’s burning holes into the table with his eyes, expecting an answer that will gut him. He thinks I’ll run, that I’ll say no.

  I’m trembling and just start talking. The words rush out and won’t stop. “I thought it was my fault, the stuff with Mark. I thought I didn’t know how to do it—how to have sex well enough to satisfy him. I thought it was me. I did anything he wanted. Anything.” The last word is a whisper.

  Jon lifts his head, his expression softer, and watches as I retell the nightmare that became my life. “It hurt. Sex with Mark always hurt. He wasn’t mean at first, but when I asked him to slow down and give me more time, he wouldn’t. Eventually, pain and tears were just part of the routine. It pushed him darker until he didn’t care what I wanted or how I felt. He’d go from being completely sweet to chasing me down to use me. I couldn’t move or throw him off.

  “After a while, I tried to run. That made him worse. He locked me up, and he told everyone the same kind of thing he said at the club—that we liked to play these sadistic games. It made my neighbors ignore my screams. No one thought anything if they didn’t see me for weeks. We were those people. They never thought I didn’t want him. Sex turned to rape. Rape turned to beatings. There are videos of me, too, pictures of me doing things to him.”

  I swallow hard and steel myself for the rest. “The last time he took me, he... He cut me with a metal claw—inside. I healed, but there are scars, one is really long and jagged. It hurts when I,” my jaw opens and closes, but I can’t say it.

  It’s devastating. The scars Mark left cause me pain I can't overcome.

  Jon reaches across the table, gently taking my hand. He rubs his thumb across my knuckles. “Cass?”

  I force my head back and have trouble meeting his eyes.

  “Is Mark the only man you've been with?”

  I nod slowly, unable to speak. I feel sick and want to cry, but there are no more tears. Mark ruined me completely.

  Jon lifts my hand and places a kiss in the center of my palm. He waits a moment and says carefully, “Have you seen a doctor?”

  “No. I healed, but it hurts even when it’s just me or a dream.” I smile weakly. “I've wanted to do things with you, but I'm afraid. I won't want to stop, and I can’t handle the pain. It’s not just that it reminds me of him and what he did. Things don’t work right anymore.” I try to force a smile, but it falls flat.

  “I don’t want you to do that. I’m glad you didn’t, and I’m grateful you told me.” Jon’s voice is kind. I half expected him to go crazy and threaten to kill Mark, but he doesn’t. He remains calmly focused on me.

  I nod and try to meet his gaze, but it’s hard. My eyes fall on the table and study the woodgrain. I’m acutely aware of my breathing and feel like I’m ready to bolt. Talking about this is beyond difficult. I’d rather have my guts ripped out and be left on the side of the road half alive. When something reminds me of Mark, I’m not dead, but I’m no longer living. I cower when shadows stretch across the ground. I startle at noises in the night. When I first moved in with Beth, I woke her in the middle of the night screaming so loudly she busted into my room with a baseball bat. I swore I'd seen a man standing over me, that the room was so dark I could only see the whites of his eyes. I told her that night what happened, about my nightmares, and that it never stops.

  I know my reactions are irrational, and that normal people think I just spook easily, but if you look beneath the surface it’s not hard to see. I no longer have the luxury of acting like anything—I only react. I can’t seem to get ahead of it and I’m so tired of cowering. Periodically I find strength and plow forward no matter the cost. Those times are few and far between. Working at the strip club reminds me I’m in control of my body now. For me, it's not about sex. It's about power. I decide what I’m willing to do and when I'm willing to do it. It’s a deep-seeded psychological reaction to what I’ve lived through. I don’t poke that area of my mind too much. It’s barely stable as it is. Sometimes not knowing why I do something is all that holds me together. There is no glitter tape to patch my wounded soul.

  Jon is speaking softly, carefully as if he knows I’d bolt if I weren’t stuck on a boat. “Cass, I’m saying this for you, not me, but I think you should speak with someone. I know a doctor—one of my cousin Logan’s colleagues—who works with rape victims. I’ve heard her talk about it.”

  “Have you met her?”

  He nods slowly and takes a deep breath. “Yeah, I have. It's kind of an awkward story.”

  He has my full attention. “You can tell me. I have no right to judge anyone.”

  My words seem to sadden him, but he doesn’t comment on them. He simply continues, “She came to me once, and told me stuff that I didn’t want to hear at the time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She could tell from my behavior and my body language that someone messed with me—that I was sexually abused. I refused to call it what it was, I still have trouble with that, but she was kind. She was one of the few people who understood my fucking spree wasn’t really about sex. I needed a shrink, Cass.” He laughs bitterly and runs his hands through his hair and down his neck.

  It literally hurts to hear him talk about this. I wish it never happened to him. I wish I could go back and stop it. There’s no way to remove the pain of the past, if anyone knows that truth by now, it’s me.

  Jon continues, “I needed someone to take my head apart and put it back together correctly. My heart left the conversation when that bitch started screwing me. I kept my head in the sand and didn’t want to feel anything. Ever. Sex was physical after that, a necessity like food or water. I fucked. It was a game, something to master.”

  “I remember you saying that.”

  “I believed it, and if I wanted to keep on living like that, I could. The truth is I still don’t want any woman to have the power to destroy me again.” He’s staring at me, our eyes lock, and it feels like I’ve been sucker-punched.

  Tears spring up in my eyes. How could he say that? After everything I just told him, he reverts to ‘a fuck is a fuck?’

  “So, we’re frie
nds and always will be? Nothing more? Is that what you’re saying?” I blink back tears and force a smile, but it won’t stay in place. My lip quivers and I start crying. I can’t help it. I’m too raw, too exposed. I never saw this coming.

  Jon rushes around the table to me and rests his hand on my back. “No, that’s not it at all. Baby, I’m saying the idea of loving someone terrifies me. I never thought I could do it, but I already did. The moment I saw you rolling around on the floor at Peter's bachelor party, I realized something.”

  I glance up at him through wet lashes. “What?”

  His touch is tender as he tells me, “You had my heart from the beginning. I thought it was gone, but you’d stolen it and kept it all this time. I love you, Cass. I’m going to find a way to be with you, in a way that you adore—a way that makes you feel good. There won’t be any reason to cry.” He leans in and presses his lips to my cheek and kisses away my tears.

  CHAPTER 22

  JON

  We walk the deck after that, her hand in mine, fingers knitted together. The stars blink against the inky sky and the dark water is still as glass around the yacht. I don’t deserve her. I know I don’t. Regardless, I’m elated she finally confided in me, and I want to feel like this forever.

  The concept of gentle sex crosses my mind. I don’t know how to be that kind of lover. I've never tried. I focus on getting harder and higher—and taking the girl with me. That won’t work for Cassie. I need to figure out what will, because I’m not letting her live like a chaste hermit, afraid of her own body.

  I know Logan’s friend can help her. In our conversation, she explained the way the human body tenses to defend itself. Rape victims can get stuck with their muscles stiff for years. Imagine holding your hand in a fist for an hour. It fucking hurts. Now think what that does to a body after years of being stuck that way. Her core might be stuck like that, playing defense even though there’s no threat from me. Scars can feel painful, too. Most people don’t notice them, but others wince with the slightest caress. Touching Cassie intimately can bring back a slew of emotions I never want her to feel again.