by Leanne Davis
He let her statement fall in his car with silence. Then he said, his tone neutral, “The truth being you’re a slut?”
“The truth being that’s what they’d think. They would think I’m dirty and gross—”
“I don’t think that.” He interrupted her, his tone soft, at odds with the impassioned tone of hers. Her conviction. Her truth. She was dirty and gross and a slut. How much did that play into who she was? What she did with herself? How many of her problems stemmed from that? And what led her down that belief in the first place? The family he just met was not what he had pictured. They seemed loving, warm, and real. Maybe it was an act, but Tristan didn’t think so. He usually got a gut-level feeling on people. Like he had on Kylie right off… And now her damn family.
“You’re in the minority,” she answered finally, her voice almost a whisper. Breathless. Her jaw locked.
“I don’t have to be.”
“I know I should have stopped how I act… actually, how I am, a long time ago. I can’t describe it really.”
“Try to. How are you like?”
She licked her lips as she glanced at him, her eyebrows drawn in puzzlement. “I’m the girl who had sex indiscriminately.”
“So did I. In college. I totally did that.”
“Every weekend?” Her tone gathered strength.
“Damn near.”
“Well then, we would have hooked up somewhere on some dirty bed or floor and I wouldn’t remember much of it. I’d stumble home after, clean up, and get up to do it all over again.” Her tone was gathering steam as she spoke.
“Yup, me too, Kylie,” he shot back immediately.
She cut him with a glare. “I was raised by a nice family to be a good person. Get good grades. Try my hardest. I was loved and cared for. Yet, I just wasn’t happy. In high school I was just sad so much. And shy. So socially awkward. Still am.”
“You were not socially awkward when I met you at The Acorn. You served me with complete competence, politeness, and skill. Being quiet doesn’t make you socially awkward. Maybe it just makes you not annoying.”
“I’m comfortable there. I know my job. My roll. My place and how to function. Left in a group with peers my own age? I’m hopeless. I often tagged along with my sister. So popular, pretty, perky, and—”
“Perfect,” he supplied. “Yes, I’ve gathered she’s the ideal you’ve pitted yourself against. Measured up against and always found coming up short… but let me ask you this; did anyone else make the comparison? Because I didn’t get from your mother that she wanted you to be Ally.”
“No, she doesn’t. I do. You’re missing the point. My mom deserves for me to be like her. To just be… better than I am.”
“Okay, I disagree. But continue. You are socially awkward and lacking in every way Ally is not. So in high school what did this propel you to do?”
She shot him an annoyed frown. He could see her agitation growing as he summarized what she was saying. “I drank when we were out with friends.”
“So, not that uncommon. Doesn’t make you the devil.”
She made a face at him. “Can I finish?”
He liked her bristling. He liked the strength her tone gained each time she got angry at him. He mock-waved at her as if to compel her to speak. “So, I discovered that when buzzed I got more talkative. I found it easier to talk around the girls and flirt with boys. I became less socially malnourished.”
“Wow, epically strange, Kylie… Drinking made you feel braver, looser, and freer, which increased your confidence. It is liquid courage for a reason.”
“And,” she said in a sharp tone, “I slept with a few of them.”
“Again, no teenager has ever done that. Most of us wait until we’re married and in our twenties.” His tone was almost scornful in his sarcasm. “You do realize this isn’t the nineteenth century, right? Or the 1950s even.”
“I realize that. But I discovered… I liked it. But when the alcohol wore off I was still… me. I couldn’t talk or flirt or engage anyone my age. I didn’t know how to even remotely act around any boys I actually liked. So I didn’t do it with those boys. It was just… boys. Random boys I didn’t care about. And then I went to college.”
He rolled his eyes. “And let me guess. You were free. Of parental constraints and curfews, and you were totally on your own. You could do what you wanted and there was no one to stop you. You could party all night on a Tuesday. It’s called being a typical freshman at college, Kylie.”
“No. No, it wasn’t. I did it more. I did it at parties. I was those girls you frat boys talk about it. The easy ones. I was—”
“So let me go back a second here. The ‘it’ you so shockingly liked was having sex?”
Her brow furrowed and she hesitated before muttering with caution, as if she felt suspicious of his question. “Yes.”
“You liked the feel of having sex?”
“Yes.”
“Wow, abnormal and shocking to enjoy the biological response most of us are supposed to be wired with. This is what you think makes you such a terrible person? A bad girl? A slut? You liked the feel of an orgasm, so you… shockingly tried to have them? Funny thing, so do I, and so did I.”
“It’s not that simple! You make it sound so harmless or normal or something.”
“Because it is!” His anger grew finally as he answered through a tightened jaw. “It is normal, Kylie. To be young and free, and act on the hormones that literally overwhelm us. Instead of being so ashamed that you turn yourself inside out over normal urges, have you ever considered of being grateful it was such a positive physical experience for you? That you are actually lucky to feel such a normal reaction to it?”
“Versus what? Being some kind of assault or rape victim?”
“Well, yeah, for starters.”
Her fingers were now turning white where they gripped the door armrest. She kept her face averted when she said it. Rape victim. He tried to take comfort that she was not. She was a girl scared of her sexuality. For all her acting on it and for all her experience, she was scared of the very thing that she acted on. It didn’t make much sense. But he was seeing in her that she didn’t totally make sense. So scared and timid she couldn’t even admit she enjoyed sex without it becoming some kind of terrible, dirty secret inside of her. Something insidious, almost incestuous that she had to hide from her family and apologize to Ally for.
Gentler, he said, “What would change that perception for you? I have to ask it. And your tone says it bothers you. The way you’re picking at your cuticles just now suggests to me it makes you nervous or feel bad… something along the lines of anxiety. So tell me, then, Kylie, what would change this fact about you? Never having sex again? What?”
“I don’t know. But my problems with food and my self-esteem aren’t because of this. This is just the behavior I use to act out. To… to punish myself. Otherwise I’d stop. Any sane person would stop.”
Why? Because she thought she had been raped? It was all so convoluted by her way of thinking that he had no idea how to get a grasp of it or figure her out. “I’m not saying you don’t have issues. I get that. But so do we all. I just don’t see anything about you that says you are any more screwed up than anyone else. The fact that you’re afraid of your own shadow is evident too. But all my point is, first, you’re not a slut or whore or any other name you decide to embrace because someone else decided that for you. And second, you don’t have sex for the wrong reasons. You’re not acting out. You’re not doing anything wrong. You were being a young, single and free girl who is allowed to have sex because you are lucky enough to enjoy it.”
“I don’t know. I think if you lined up all the ones I’ve done it with at college, or if you saw me in action, you’d feel totally different. I think you’d turn away disgusted. I think you’d start calling me all those names.”
“I would not,” he said, enunciating with clear, concise syllables so she’d maybe hear him. “Because you could line up all
of my past and me in action and you might think the same of me. But the strange thing is, you’re right, most would judge you and not me. I’m not saying that isn’t the reality of our culture, I’m really not arguing that with you. I’m arguing that it’s bullshit and no way for you to judge yourself and certainly not what I’m judging you for. I’m saying you don’t have to let it determine what you think of yourself.”
“Really? Then what do you judge me for?”
He glanced at her and said simply, “For who you are with me, right here, right now, today. Who I meet and get to know each time we’re together. The same you’re doing with me.”
“So you think I just need to be stronger. Have you ever actually been called names? To your face? It hurts, Tristan. It makes you feel small and low and you want to crawl under a rock. When it happens, I swear, I’m going to stop and not put myself into the situations where it happens. But I do it again. Or my past actions are remembered and brought up. So it doesn’t just work like that. I need to be stronger. You just admitted you were not judged for it. You can’t compare your experience to mine and then tell me to just be stronger. Feel better about it. Buck up and ignore them. You don’t know how ugly it feels to be called names. Sometimes I wish they’d just hit me or something. That I could strike back against. That would show on my body. I’d bruise and ache and then it would heal and go away. This? It just comes into me and… stays.”
He drove for about five minutes without answering her. Without saying a word. His jaw ached from the way he was clenching it. His hands hurt from gripping the steering wheel so hard. He finally pulled into a parking stall. He simply got out and walked around to her side without a word. He opened her door and leaned in towards her. She stared up at him, her confusion and apprehension almost palpable between them. He pulled her out until she was standing and then simply wrapped her against him. He held her small, slim, trembling body in the heat of his arms and the protection of his body. His face tipped down so his lips found the top of her head and he kissed her smooth forehead.
Quietly he said, “I can’t stand what you think of yourself. I don’t like the words said about you, even from your own lips. I don’t want them to make anything about you feel ugly. There is nothing ugly about you, including your behavior. I’m sorry, I came at you from my experience, not yours.”
Something rippled down her spine and her arms clung harder, tighter around his waist. She didn’t answer. He didn’t push.
Finally she mumbled, her voice muted by the material of his coat her face was pressed into. “Where are we?”
“My place.” He stated it softly, his tone gentle and firm. He didn’t qualify why or what it meant.
Her head popped up and her gaze met his, staring into his eyes, long and intense. She finally licked her lips and nodded as if they were having some kind of silent interaction. Her gaze left his to travel to the building behind him. It was a dozen stories tall.
Why was he doing this? Why had he brought her here to his place? He hadn’t planned on it. Not today. What if he had mail sitting out? A leftover card or bill or something… any number of things with his name on it. Tristan Tamasy. It was his identity and nothing he usually hid. It could be anywhere in his place. He hadn’t even done a cursory walkthrough. He’d intended to take her home. Keep them always at her place. But something strange coursed through him, listening to her call herself ugly. Something that left him ragged and pulling into his apartment complex to park.
Maybe he wanted to get caught. Maybe his behavior right now was a lot like hers, a reckless cry to get caught… by her. Almost a dare for her to realize the truth about him. If she found out who he was, he’d have to stop. He’d not have failed Tommy. But he wouldn’t hurt her beyond this. But to tell her would mean he’d never see her again.
And what disturbed him most was he couldn’t name for sure why he wouldn’t admit the truth to her. Was it out of fear of not ever seeing her again? Or was it because he was supposed to be using her and he didn’t want to disappoint his grandfather? The problem was, the longer he knew her, the less and less he believed he could hurt her in any way.
“Do you want to come in?”
Her head nodded. That was it. Permission. He could finish this now. Tonight. He could use everything she had unwittingly and with total honesty told him. He could use it to hurt her, exploit her… destroy her. Destroy her as her own thoughts did a pretty good job of doing. He could. He should. He just didn’t know how he was going to make himself.
Chapter Ten
KYLIE GLANCED TO HER left as the elevator started to climb. Tristan stood there, his arms crossed over his chest and his gaze fastened up on the red digital letters that counted the floors going up. Silence stood heavy, like a thick fog in the air around them. What was it? She didn’t know. He seemed almost angry. Trepidation filled her, staring at him across the small distance. He was kind of erratic sometimes, she had begun to notice. Grumpy to sweet. Drilling her to suddenly holding her. He could be incredibly gentle, engaging, and funny, to serious, annoyed, intimidating. Right now it was leaning towards intimidating. Her hands were slick with sweat and she nearly gulped when the elevator dinged and opened. She glanced up at him. He dropped his arms and turned towards her and put his hand out.
He could then melt her heart into a puddle the next moment. His gaze was on hers, his hand reaching towards her, waiting patiently and kindly for her to come forward to him. He often seemed hyper-conscious of her well-being, her physical space, and strangely took pains to make sure she was comfortable. She followed him down the hallway, which had luxurious flooring and dim wall sconces as lighting so one felt like they were walking down the hallway of a five-star hotel rather than apartments. He dug in his front pocket and came out with his keys, which he inserted, and let them in. She followed behind him as he tossed his keys on a console table and started shrugging out of his coat and flipping his boots off. She stood back nearly against the front door, taking in the room.
It spread before her, a tile entry that ran into thick beige carpet and off towards hardwoods that melted into the kitchen and dining area. It had warmly colored furnishings and flavors of textures. The entire place was modern, contemporary. It wasn’t so much as big as every little detail was attended to, from the chair rail to the high ceilings and skylights. He had the top floor and they had lifted the height on the ceilings. She felt like nearly gulping out loud. It was a physical representation of what didn’t match her and him. And why it wasn’t such a hot idea she was there.
He noticed her nearly frozen against the door. “You want to take your coat off?” His tone was gentle, prodding. She nodded and quickly worked at sloughing off the bulky, pillow-like coat. She leaned down and started at her own boots and set them off to the side, neatly.
“This is yours?” she finally asked, stepping past him to tilt her head and take it all in.
“Yes.”
She nodded. “It’s nice. It looks like you.”
“Thank you, Kylie.” His voice came up behind her and made weird chills slide down her spine and into her stomach at the deep timbre of his voice. He hadn’t touched her but she swore she could feel him from his voice. She nearly jumped when she felt his fingertips brush over her neck. “Why do you look like you’re about to jump out of your skin all of a sudden?”
She kept her eyes scanning his possessions, a plethora of items that were all neatly and pleasingly arranged together. “We’re at very different places in our lives.”
“Yes. Not the most unusual circumstances for two people dating to be different about. You’re a student. I’m not.” He turned her towards him. “How about something to drink?”
Don’t get drunk. The words came to her as if her sister had spoken them. But it would ease this a bit and give her something to do right now and focus on.
“Okay.”
He smiled, holding her gaze before he passed around her and went into his kitchen, where he started opening up a bottle of wine. She
trailed behind him, lingering near the island, which was enormous both in length and width. She sat on one of the stools. “I suppose you know wines.”
“Yes.” His smile was amused but discreet as he was working at the cork.
She sighed. “My aunt Gretchen, she’s able to do that. Figure out what a quality one is and will spend for it. I never really have gotten it. The boxed to bottle all taste the same to me. It’s lost on me. So don’t waste a good one.”
He popped the cork off and set it aside as he poured a swish into each glass and then picked them up, walked over to her, and set the glasses on the counter next to her. He ran his hands along her thighs and leaned in to kiss her lips. Her lips fluttered shut at the mild, sweet contact. “Anything I share with you isn’t a waste to me. And I’ll teach you, then you’ll get why it matters.”
Heat from his casual affection and close proximity made her feel flushed like she’d gotten too close to a fire. “I’m a student, remember? I don’t want to learn expensive tastes so no, I don’t want to know the difference.”
He smiled and picked up his glass to sip. Nerves propelled her to grab it and instead of sipping it she took a regular swallow and nearly spit it back out as the dry, red oaky flavor rushed too fast and powerfully down her throat. She started coughing and he laughed as he gently pressed his fingers to the center of her back. She caught the grin on his face and she finally smiled back as the weird, intimidating tension she was feeling finally started to dissipate and the ease they’d enjoyed out in the snow started to return.
“Slower. Sip it.”
“Let it roll over my taste buds? Soak in the flavor? No. I drink to get the buzz, Tristan. Don’t ruin it.”
He threw his head back, teeth flashing as he laughed in appreciation. “I like your way of thinking better.”
He took her hand and pulled her toward the massive sectional that filled his living room and she finally relaxed as they sat down, talking.
