Caught Up In You 5: No More Denial (Edgeplay)

by Jenna McCormick

  Silence.

  “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry to hurt you, but it’s better this way.”

  Still he says nothing. I hear him breathing steadily, wonder what is going on in that landmine riddled head of his.

  “I’m going now,” I say at length.

  “Are you punishing me?” The question is delivered evenly by a man with tight control over his emotions.

  “Of course not. I’m doing what’s best for you. For both of us. You need to heal.”

  “Heal? Have you lost your mind? There’s a stalker out there, damn it! How well do you think I’ll heal if he kills you?” Barely leashed fury carries across our grainy connection.

  I haven’t forgotten about the car bomb, or the surprise package someone left for me. “I’ll be fine.”

  “Tell me where you are.” The command is sharp. I can’t tell which Connor is at the helm, but it doesn’t really matter now.

  “I love you.” The words are almost a sob.

  “Don’t you dare hang up that fucking phone—” his shout is cut off when I do exactly that.

  I’m still wearing his ring. I should have left it with him, but forgot to take it off. Now I can’t. It feels like the last tie I have to him and I’m loath to cut it.

  Instead I sit at the counter and order a cup of tea, my eyes trained on the Felix the cat clock on the wall. Nothing to do but wait.

  ****

  Dr. Trammel ushers me into her office. “Well, Miss Sinclair, what can I do for you?”

  Now that I’m face to face with her I have no idea. “Do you know anything about Complex-Post Traumatic Stress Disorder?”

  She cocks her head to the side. “Not much more than you would find in a basic internet search, I’m afraid. I do have a colleague who specializes in mental health disorders though. Would you like me to set up a meeting?”

  I nod and she picks up the phone. “Hello, Gerald? It’s Sanjay Trammel. I was wondering if you have any time to meet with a friend of mine. She has some questions about C-PTSD.”

  A smile breaks out when she calls me a friend. That’s the one thing I need more than anything else in the world right now, people I trust, and though our acquaintance is short, I do trust her.

  In moments it’s all arranged. Dr. Trammel writes down the address on a prescription pad. “You’re in luck, he’s combing through records today and jumped at the distraction.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Trammel.”

  “Please, call me Sanjay.” She extends the paper but doesn’t let go when I reach for it. “Are you in some sort of trouble, Baily?”

  How to answer that honestly? “I’m not sure. My grandfather just passed away.”

  Her brown eyes are full of sympathy. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  I nod, accepting her words. “My world is in total upheaval right now. I’m trying to figure out what my next move should be.”

  Her gaze flicks down to the paper. “And I’m assuming this consultation has something to do with a certain billionaire.”

  “I really can’t comment on that.” It’s one thing to discuss Connor’s symptoms abstractly, but I’m unwilling to betray his trust or talk about him behind his back.

  She releases the paper and guides me out of her office. “For what it’s worth, I think doing a little research is a wise course. Feel free to call me if you have any more questions.”

  I thank her again and head back downstairs, where I flag down a cab. Once I give the address for Gerald Balfour’s office, I stare out the window, my mind a total blank.

  Gerald Balfour meets me right out of the cab. He’s an overweight man in his mid-fifties with a bald pate and a big grin. I like him instantly.

  “Miss Sinclair, it’s so lovely to meet you. Would you care for something to drink?” He waves to a small sitting room with a torn pleather couch in a hideous royal purple and matching wingback chair.

  “Coffee if you have any.” I set my bag down and shrug out of my coat.

  He bustles into a small galley kitchen and soon returns with two steaming mugs. Though his taste in furniture leaves something to be desired, the coffee is excellent.

  “So, Sanjay said you’re doing research on C-PTSD. Are you a student?”

  “I plan on being a nurse.” It’s not a lie, just a misdirection. Better for him to think I’m merely interested in his field than that I have a specific agenda.

  He nods, accepting my words at face value. “Well, maybe you should tell me what you know about it and we can take it from there.”

  I sum up what Connor related to me, that Complex-Post Traumatic Stress Disorder occurs when someone has prolonged exposure to physical or emotional trauma.

  He nods. “Typically we see this in adults or teens who were abused in some way as children. C-PTSD wasn’t included in the DSM-IV. That’s the manual mental health professionals use to diagnose psychological disorders. Dr. Judith Herman, the pioneer in C-PTSD, has made proposals for its criteria and inclusion in the DSM-V. I have a copy of her book here if you’re interested.”

  I nod and he stands, crossing to the black built in bookshelves spanning the far wall. He pulls out a white paperback and hands it to me. I read the title. Trauma and Recovery: The Aftermath of Violence--from Domestic Abuse to Political Terror.

  “If that isn’t some scary shit.” I don’t realize I’ve said the words out loud until he chuckles.

  “I couldn’t have put it better myself. If mankind stopped abusing one another tomorrow, this disorder would cease to exist. Dr. Herman explains it better than I could ever hope to. Why don’t you read the book a little. I’ll be here, suffering through paperwork, if you have any questions.”

  I set aside my coffee. “That would be great.”

  I settle myself on the surprisingly comfortable couch and dive in. One particular phrase describing the criteria of C-PTSD draws me up short.

  People with C-PTSD may view the perpetrator as all powerful or be obsessed with the relationship which may be accompanied by thoughts of revenge.

  I shut the book and close my eyes. Viewing the perpetrator as all powerful. Is that how Connor saw my grandfather? And the thoughts of revenge part makes the coffee churn uncomfortably in my stomach. Connor said he wanted answers, but was that all he was after?

  I continue to read until Dr. Balfour taps me on the hand. “I’m about to break for lunch. There’s a small Chinese place around the corner. Would you care to join me?”

  I set the book aside. “How’s your filing going?”

  “Slowly,” he grumbles, holding my coat out for me. “So, do you have any questions?”

  Dozens. Possibly hundreds. “I was reading about something called dissociative amnesia.”

  He pushed the button for the elevator. “Yes. Those who’ve suffered from C-PTSD can develop dissociative amnesia, or the inability to remember past experiences or current information.”

  “Like memory loss?” I had plenty of experience with that with Pops.

  “More complicated than that. The memories are inaccessible, blocked. In simple amnesia, the kind that shows up on soap operas, the loss of information is the result of a physical injury or perhaps disease. With dissociative amnesia, the memories still exist, but are buried in the person’s mind. Inaccessible to the conscious brain.”

  I thought about that for a beat. “Like they’re locked up.”

  The noise of the city surrounds us and I mull over what he’s told me as we make our way to the Chinese restaurant. We hit the buffet and continue our conversation over moo shu pork and chicken chow mein.

  “The term ‘survivor’ is not entirely accurate for those afflicted with C-PTSD. Because the roots of their relational traumas lie deep within their early childhood experiences, people with C-PTSD will often manifest strong dependency needs combined with a deep distrust of other people. In other words, they are compelled to seek out others but will constantly fear further harm or betrayal.”

  That fits Connor to a T. “And what about dissociat
ive identity disorder, that’s another symptom, right?”

  Dr. Balfour finishes his eggroll, then grins at me. “You’re really going for all the doozies. Dissociative identity disorder is characterized by the presence of two or more distinct or split identities or personality states that continually have power over the person's behavior. There's also an inability to recall key personal information that is too far-reaching to be explained as mere forgetfulness. With dissociative identity disorder, there are variations in memory, which fluctuate with the person's split personality.”

  I push my plate aside, appetite gone. “So say someone suffers from both dissociative identity disorder and dissociative amnesia. How do you treat that?”

  He blinks at me and wipes his mouth. “Well, there are various schools of thought. Medication, talk therapy, hypnosis. But if an individual was unfortunate enough to be afflicted with all of the above? The best treatment would be a miracle.”

  Chapter Four

  I buzz Rochelle’s apartment, praying fervently that she’s home. I’m not sure what I’ll do if she’s not, but exhaustion is creeping over me, sapping my strength.

  “Who is it?” A woman’s voice, but with all the ambient noise I can’t tell if it’s her.

  “Baily Sinclair.”

  “Come on up.” The door buzzes and I yank it open, too tired to think twice.

  Rochelle’s apartment is on the fourth and fifth floor of a five story brownstone on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I take the stairs, still mulling over what to say to her.

  It’s obviously one of her off days, because this is the first time I’ve seen Rochelle dressed as though she didn’t intend to be seen. She’s wearing jeans and an old flannel shirt, and her hair is haphazardly tied back in two wild braids reminiscent of Pippi Long Stocking. She greets me at the door with a hug and a huge smile, which fades when she sees my bag. “What’s going on?”

  “My grandfather died and I left Connor.” I make a face as Snarkarella chirps, Way to hit the highlights.

  “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry.” Rochelle wraps an arm around my shoulder and leads me deeper into her apartment. It’s not cool and ostentatious like Connor’s, but snug and filled with soft feminine things like throw pillows, oriental rugs in royal blue and gold, sheer taupe curtains diffusing the natural light. The high ceilings and recessed lighting give the space a warm glow.

  She gestures to a plush white sofa I’m almost hesitant to sit on.

  “I’m sorry to just show up like this, but I didn’t know where else to go.”

  She sits next to me, her expression sad. “It’s fine, honey. I just got back late last night. I’m heading out in a little bit if you want to come with.”

  The idea of traversing the bustling streets makes me bite my lip. I stop automatically because of Connor’s constant of forcing me to suck his cock when I do that. Then the reality that we might never share such intimacy again settles around me like a lead-lined cloak. Though I fight them, tears leak out from behind my closed eyelids.

  “I’ll take that as a raging hell no.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m such train wreck,” I sob.

  Rochelle laughs lightly, which oddly helps me stem the flow of tears. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve had my share of breakups that left me emotionally eviscerated. And losing your grandfather too? No honey, I’m laughing because it was idiotic of me to think you’d want to go out. I’ll cancel my plans and we’ll order some scrumptious take-out and watch some outstanding cinema. Sound like a plan?”

  The last thing I want is to intrude in her life, but her offer is too tempting. I need to spill about Connor to someone who’s witnessed his damage firsthand. “Sounds great.”

  Rochelle shows me to the second bedroom. Instead of the warm colors of the rest of the apartment, this room is done in black and white. Black wrought iron bed with a white duvet, and black bolster pillows. Stark black and white landscape prints on the wall, a leafless tree, a cobblestone street with a single lamp post, the jagged peak of a distant mountain with fat clouds threatening to wreak havoc in the foreground. Dramatic, dark and ominous, perfect for my mood.

  “I’ve got a few calls to make. Get some rest and we’ll talk more later.”

  I give her an impulsive hug. “Thank you.”

  After a long, hot shower, I comb out my hair and retreat to my room. Though I can’t muster the energy to move or the wherewithal to think, I don’t drift off right away either. This is just a weigh station, temporary, and I feel the burden of taking on my own future pressing down on me.

  Though I’ve taken the first steps, I’m not really ready to tackle the future without Connor. Despite what Dr. Balfour said about him needing a miracle to recover, my heart tells me I gave up too soon and urges me to return to him.

  It hasn’t even been a full day, Snarkarella points out. He lied to you, hid things from you. If you go back to him now, he’ll browbeat you into submission. And not the fun, kinky kind either.

  I close my eyes, unwilling to acknowledge the truth in her words. She got what she wanted, I left Connor. But all I can hear is the worry in his voice, the panic revealed when he thought I’d been kidnapped. No matter what’s happened to me or what might happen in the future, I doubt I’ll ever rest easy knowing I hurt someone who loved me.

  ****

  “So then I came here.”

  Rochelle lets out a low whistle. “Holy Crow McIntyre, that is one hell of a clusterfuck.”

  I push the Pad Thai around in my bowl with chopsticks. “Yeah.”

  “Do you really think Connor set out to seduce you as some sort of revenge plan against your grandfather?”

  “Honestly Rochelle, I don’t know what to think. My judgment is all wonky. I never would have thought Pops capable of helping kidnap a little boy, but he did.” Another stray tear escapes. I’m leaking like a rusty spigot, moisture flowing freely from my tear ducts.

  “Well, this happened before you were born. You didn’t know him before, didn’t know what he was like with your grandmother.”

  I nod, accepting her wisdom even as I say, “He was always so patient and gentle with me. You should have seen him tending the plants on the estate. Coaxing them to grow and thrive. He did the same thing for me. People don’t usually change that much.”

  “Except for Connor. What do you think he would have been like if not for his abduction?”

  I shake my head. “I can’t even imagine it. Unlocking his memories drives one side of his personality and the other is focused on coping with it.” I pick at a loose knot in the chenille blanket on my lap. “What if there are more?”

  Rochelle’s eyebrows draw down. “More what?”

  “More sides to Connor. Dissociative identity disorder is two or more distinct personalities, and odd things have been happening. Like stalker type stuff. The car bombing, the weird present on my doorstep. What if there’s someone else in there, someone bent on revenge?”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh honey, you don’t really think Connor would ever hurt you like that?”

  “Not the parts of Connor I know, but how deep does the rabbit hole go?”

  We sit in silence for a time, watching the fire in the grate.

  “I miss him so much, Rochelle, but there’s just too much standing in our way. His baggage, mine, my family legacy. It’s insurmountable.”

  “Look, I may be a product of Hollywood, but I honestly believe in happily ever after. It has to be earned though, through hard work and overcoming the things that stand in your way. If you run away, if you don’t face the challenges head on, you don’t deserve the ultimate reward.”

  Despite my melancholy, my lips curve up. “You’re right, you are a product of Hollywood.”

  “Maybe I’ll have that tattooed on my ass. Lola wants me to get a tattoo.”

  “How are things going with you guys?”

  “Slow. Steady. It’s new for both of us. We’re talking about moving in together, but you beat her to it.”

  “So
rry.”

  We talk a little more and my tension eases. Despite her fervent belief in happy endings—the story kind, not the massage version—Rochelle is incredibly down to earth and easy to talk to. She talks about the places she’s visited and the sights she’s taken in. About how she likes to immerse herself in a character’s location well before filming starts, to get a feel for who she’s supposed to be portraying. We watch one of her movies together, a retro film noir piece from early in her career. By the time it ends she’s snoring softly on the couch.

  The snoring starlet. Too bad you don’t have your phone, you’d get a million hits on You Tube, Snarkarella says.

  Like I would ever betray her trust that way after all she’s done for me. I cover her with the blanket and head to my monochromatic room. Again sleep proves elusive, so I imagine going to all the places Rochelle has been. In each frame Connor is by my side, but a lighter, happier version of Connor, one not burdened by ghosts from his past.

  The pounding on the front door wakes me from a dead sleep. The digital clock reads 4:50 in the morning. This is no social call.

  Darting from the bed, I head into the hallway. Rochelle is already at the door, and though the security chain is on, I jolt with unease at the sound of Connor’s voice.

  “Damn you Rochelle, is she here?”

  “Connor. Go home.”

  “Answer me!”

  “One of my neighbors is gonna call the cops if you don’t settle down.”

  I can’t stand by and let her fight my battles for me. That weak, traitorous part of me is thrilled he found me so fast. At the same time, I’m dismayed that I really can’t run very far before he’ll catch me.

  “It’s okay, Rochelle.”

  She casts me a dubious look as I move closer to the door. “You sure?”

  “Let me in,” Connor growls like the big bad wolf. I know that commanding tone and which version is in charge.

  Rochelle makes a disgusted noise. “Get your fat foot out of the door so I can take the chain off. And I swear, you try to take her from here before she’s ready and I will tell the tabloids everything.”

  He barely spares her a glance, his blue-eyed gaze trained on me. My heart pounds frantically, adrenaline surging in my system as she unchains the door and allows him entrance.