Strong Hold

by Sarah Castille

  “You want to fuck me in my security belt?”

  Zack licks his lips. “Very much.”

  “It’s not safe.” I unbuckle my belt and place it carefully on the dresser. Sexing it up with a Colt 1911 handgun strapped to my side is just asking for trouble.

  “I’m not safe if I don’t get what I want.” His mouth turns down in a pout, and I laugh.

  “I don’t want safe.” I unbutton my shirt and drop it on the floor. “But we have to be fast. We only have half an hour.”

  “A lot can happen in half an hour.”

  “Like what?” I rip open the Velcro on my bulletproof vest and shrug it off.

  “You’re going to sit on your dresser across from me, feet on the edge, knees spread, and show me your pretty pussy.” He unbuckles his belt and tears open his fly.

  “Will I be touching myself?” I pull off my T-shirt and unhook my bra.

  “You’re going to show me how happy you are to see me. Then you’re going to show me what you like.” He shoves his clothing over his hips.

  “What will you be doing?”

  “This.” He fists his thick cock and pumps it hard. A moan leaves my lips, and he growls. “Naked. Now.”

  “Bossy.”

  “You love it.”

  I do love it. Although I never imagined wanting to give up the control I fight so hard for in the ring, it is deliciously erotic to give it up in the bedroom and let Zack run the show.

  It takes me only moments to slip off the rest of my clothes. I shove aside makeup, magazines, and fight gear and position myself on the cold, hard surface of my dresser, back braced against the wall.

  “Open for me, beautiful girl. I want to see how you touch yourself when you’re alone.”

  Swallowing hard, I part my legs. Everything he says makes me wet. I could probably come just listening to the sound of his voice.

  “Wider. Show me how wet you are.”

  I tremble, slide my feet past my hips. Although there are at least ten feet separating us and my gun is within reach, I feel deeply vulnerable, utterly exposed, and my stomach knots in protest.

  “Such a pretty pussy.” Zack pumps himself in earnest, and the sight of his powerful body, rocking with every rough stroke of his cock, sends a shock wave of need through me that banishes my fears.

  There isn’t enough time for a slow, gentle build. And I don’t need to imagine a dark, dominant man manipulating my body, because the object of my deepest fantasies is sitting right in front of me. Emboldened by his obvious arousal, I slide two fingers through my labia and dip inside my entrance to make them slick.

  “Show me how much you want me.”

  My fingers glisten under the light when I hold them in the air. Zack groans, and the tip of his shaft gleams wet.

  “Touch yourself.”

  I rub my fingers on either side of my clit, gently at first, and then with firmer strokes as pleasure builds inside me. A gentle squeeze of my breast with my free hand rips another groan from his throat, and he grips his shaft so hard, I can’t imagine it doesn’t hurt.

  “Are you close?” His gaze flicks between my hand and my face, his eyes heavy with arousal, his body taut and straining.

  “Yes.”

  “I want to watch you come.”

  His words send blood rushing downward to my swollen clit. Desire spirals through me, lifting me higher and higher, and my body heats. I push two fingers deep inside me, rubbing my palm against my needy clit. That small amount of pressure is all it takes to send me over the edge. My climax rolls through me in a thunderous wave. My back arches, and my head slams against the wall as I give up the last of my inhibitions to the exquisite sensation.

  “Fuck. Yes.” With a hard grunt, he pumps his swollen shaft and releases against his belly, his hips jerking with each shuddering pulse.

  I lean languidly against the wall, memorizing the rare softness of his face in the few precious moments where he is not haunted by memories of the past. This is the Zack I remember. The Zack of my dreams.

  “That was damn good,” I murmur. “And we still have time left.”

  A slow, sensual smile spreads across his face. “Get your ass over here, woman. That was just the warm-up.”

  An hour and two orgasms later, we meet Cheryl and Amber backstage at the Kofman Auditorium in Alameda. I’ve met Amber a few times before, and she greets me with a hug. Zack gets a wary look that makes him laugh.

  “I’m scared.” Amber clings to Cheryl’s hand so hard, her fingers turn white.

  “You’ll be fine,” I say to Cheryl’s mini-me. Luckily for Amber, there is no sign of her dad in her beautiful face. “The toddlers will be going on first and then the big girls like you, so you’ll be able to watch them from behind the curtain at the side.”

  We look for Amber’s class, and I fight back waves of nostalgia as I breathe in the familiar scents of sweat and flowers, dust and makeup. Girls race past in light, floaty dresses, the sound of their ballet shoes tapping on the wooden floor so painfully familiar, I ache inside. Amber isn’t the only one who is scared to be here tonight.

  “You’re doing good, sweetheart.” Zack puts a warm hand on my shoulder, and my anxiety eases. Nothing could dissuade him from coming backstage with us. He said he had good memories of being backstage, but I know he didn’t want to leave me.

  We find Amber’s teacher, Madame Rambert, warming the girls up with some demi-pliés in first and second.

  “Point and close, point lift, point and close, and arms, fairy wings, and fifth.”

  “Don’t go,” Amber begs when we lead her to the circle. “Stay with me.”

  So Cheryl and I sit on the floor beside her, and suddenly, I’m five years old and desperate to be the best ballerina on stage and make my mother proud.

  “Toes next,” I whisper. “Good toes and naughty toes.” I kick off my shoes, and do the movements in my sock feet just like her, then bend forward. “And touch toes. Hello toes!”

  A few girls giggle, and I look up. The teacher is watching, and she motions me over. “You look like you know what you’re doing. Could you finish warming the girls up? The toddlers are running amok, and I need to get them ready.”

  “It’s been a long time…”

  “Just a few minutes,” she begs.

  “Okay.” I look up at Zack, leaning casually against the wall along with a few parents. “You don’t have to stay. We won’t be long.”

  He lifts an eyebrow, and his silent admonishment makes me feel all warm and tingly inside. He’s not going to leave me. I am not alone.

  Cheryl and I get the girls up, and we practice ballerina walks around the room, walking on demi-pointe and skipping. Then we do jumps in first, spring points, and petit jetés. The moves come back easily, as do the memories. We finish with a curtsy, and the girls clap.

  After Madame Rambert returns, we find our seats in the auditorium. Zack holds my hand when the three- and four-year-olds delightfully stumble their way through the theme song from “The Twelve Dancing Princesses,” losing tutus and tiaras in the process. Zack chuckles through the entire performance, and I can’t help but join him.

  “I didn’t think a hard-core MMA fighter would enjoy something like this,” I whisper.

  “It reminds me of the first recital you did when you volunteered to teach.”

  I remember that performance, too. It was an utter disaster. From tears to tantrums, it was a mortifying three minutes that made me think I wasn’t cut out to do anything but dance. “You were there?”

  “Of course I was there.” He squeezes my hand. “I thought you might need some support. But when I met you afterward and the first thing you said was ‘I’m glad you weren’t there,’ I decided not to tell you.”

  Emotion wells up in my chest. He was there for me even when I didn’t know it.

 
Amber’s group is up next, and the first few notes of the music take me away to the thrill of my first recital and the excitement I felt every time I was on stage. Bittersweet tears prickle my eyes. I love fighting, but if I hadn’t had my accident, I don’t think I would have ever stopped dancing.

  “You okay?” Zack puts an arm around me and pulls me close.

  “I miss it,” I admit, taking strength from his warmth.

  “I thought there was nothing more beautiful than watching you dance.”

  I swallow past the lump in my throat. “That’s not the kind of thing you say when a person can’t do what they love anymore.”

  “Why not? There is no point pretending you weren’t good. You were amazing, and you should never forget it. But I was wrong. There is one thing more beautiful than watching you dance.”

  Thrown off-kilter by his brutally candid words, I am almost afraid to ask. “What?”

  “Watching you fight.”

  I snort a laugh. “Fighting isn’t beautiful.”

  “It is to me when you’re in the ring.”

  Zack whispers his happy memories of my performances in my ear for the rest of the show. The time one of the dancers fell on her rear and split her costume, and when the male lead in a performance of The Nutcracker got stuck in his papier-mâché head. He tells me how he was thrown out of the auditorium when he shouted and fist-pumped after I landed my first grand jeté.

  I can’t be sad when I’m smiling. By the time the intermission rolls around and we have to pick Amber up backstage, I am lost in bittersweet memories of a past that gave me much joy.

  “You were wonderful,” I tell Amber as we wait for Zack to return from the snack bar. “Lovely demi-pointe and skipping and petit jetés.”

  “How was my hair?” She pats her bun, seemingly unconcerned about her performance. “Did any pieces come out?”

  Zack joins us in the lobby. He has a rose in a beautiful cellophane wrapper behind his back, which he slips over to Cheryl when Amber stops to talk to a friend.

  “Give her this,” he whispers to her. “It’s traditional to give flowers after a ballet performance.”

  “Thank you. That’s so sweet.” Cheryl looks from me to Zack and back to me. “If you don’t want him, I’m gonna be first in line.”

  After we say goodbye to Amber and Cheryl, Zack speeds through the city. Lost in thought, I don’t realize he is driving in the wrong direction until the city lights have faded away.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Bay Area Ridge Trail.” He turns right on Girard. “I heard it was a good place to watch the stars.”

  “Thank you.” I squeeze his hand. “I was dreading going home. It was one thing being there with you and Cheryl, but being alone after that…”

  “I know.”

  “You always knew.” My voice catches, and I look out the window to hide my tears. “I haven’t been out to look at the stars since I left Glenwood.”

  He squeezes my hand. “Me either.”

  Ten minutes and one stop at a shopping mall later, we are hiking along one of the well-used trails. Zack bought blankets, flashlights, water, and protein bars. He guides us through the semidarkness to a clearing below the ridge line on the mostly unpopulated side of the coastal range as if he’s been coming here for years.

  “How did you know about this place?” I ask as we spread the blanket on the grass. Although there are no lights around us, the glowing sky makes it easy to see the trees and rocks and a large skunk that scuttles away through the underbrush.

  “I asked around.” He drops his bag on the ground. “There are better places for star gazing, but none are so close. We might only be able to see a few hundred stars because of the city lights. Not like the thousands we saw at home.”

  Zack stretches out on the blanket, and I lie beside him, shoulder to shoulder like we used to do. Although the night air is warm and fragrant with the smell of pine, I’m glad of my jacket and the extra blanket he bought on his way here.

  “There they are.” He points to our stars. “Vega and Altair. They are almost together again.”

  Zack once told me the story of the two brightest stars in the Milky Way, Vega and Altair. The goddess Vega fell in love with Altair, a mortal peasant. Their love was so powerful, the gods could not stop them from coming together, and they were punished by being placed in the sky where they were separated by the Milky Way. Once a year, a bridge appears, and they can be together again. But the path is treacherous. If Altair fails to make the crossing, Vega’s tears fall as raindrops on the land. But if he makes the crossing, the sky gods will allow them to be together.

  “Except for the Milky Way.” I point to the white streak in the sky between them.

  Zack threads his fingers through my hand. “It’s not that far.”

  “You always were the optimist.” I tip my head until I’m leaning on his shoulder. “No matter what I did, you always said it would be okay.”

  Zack laughs. “I said that for me more than for you. I knew I wouldn’t be able to stop you from doing whatever you set your mind to, no matter how crazy, so I had to try and reassure myself.”

  “So you didn’t always believe what you said?”

  Zack turns and presses a kiss to my temple. “I knew that as long as I was there, you could take any risk, because I would never let you get hurt.”

  I don’t know if I’m emotionally drained after weeks of fighting the connection between us or if I am still feeling fragile after the ballet, but his words resonate deep inside me. I took a risk going to New York alone and an even bigger risk ignoring the warning signs and marrying a man I didn’t love. It was the worst of decisions, but it needed to happen. Zack had always protected me, but sometimes you need to get hurt so you learn to see the danger ahead of you. You need to fall so you learn how to get up again.

  “Shh.”

  I don’t even realize I am crying until Zack gently pulls me across his body. His arms wrap around me, and I sob into his chest—loud, ugly, broken cries that shake my body. And all I can get out are four words—words that have been buried beneath the walls around my heart, words that I have never admitted, not even to myself.

  “It wasn’t your fault.” It was my choice to move to New York. My choice to get involved with Damian. My choice to marry him even though I didn’t love him. My choice to ignore the signs that his insecurities about his age and position were being manifested in his increasingly possessive and controlling behavior. My choice not to walk away before my marriage imploded. I took a risk and I fell, but I learned how to get back up.

  “Shay…” His voice cracks, breaks.

  “I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too, sweetheart.” He holds me through an endless torrent of tears, stroking my hair, my back, whispering things in my ear that I am desperate to hear but are inaudible above the sound of my pain.

  “I was never meant to go to Redemption,” he says quietly when my sobs become hiccups and I have soaked his MEFC shirt with snot and tears. “I was on a red-eye to Brazil, and the plane stopped to refuel in San Francisco. But when they started the plane up again, there was an engine problem, and we were rescheduled on a flight the next day. After sitting for so long, I needed to work out. I called up MEFC and asked if there were any local training centers with potential fighters of interest. I thought I’d kill two birds with one stone. They mentioned someone at Redemption. I walked in the door, and I found you.”

  “And I slapped you.” My face burns at the memory.

  “That was the moment I knew I’d found you again,” he says with a hint of humor in his voice.

  “Zack?” I scrunch his shirt in my hand, squeeze my eyes closed.

  “Yeah?”

  “Why does it bother you so much that I was married?”

  He is silent for so long, my pulse kicks up a notch, an
d I tighten my grip on his shirt.

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Shay. I always thought you were mine. Even when I left you, it never occurred to me you would wind up with someone else. I was determined to make something of my life, just as you were going to make something of yours. I wanted to be worthy. For you. For me. For the family we talked about having. But I always planned to come after you. The future I dreamed about always had you in it. Now I’ve had a chance to think about it, and I realize it wasn’t fair. I’m glad you found someone who loved you and made you happy, even though it didn’t work out in the end.”

  Safe in the circle of Zack’s arms, my walls down, relieved of the burdens of anger and blame, I give him the same gift of honesty he has given to me. “I wasn’t always happy.”

  He tenses the tiniest bit, and I push myself up to meet his gaze. “I didn’t love him, and I don’t think he loved me, but at first it didn’t matter. We both got something we needed out of the relationship He was kind and generous and caring. We shared a love of ballet. And we had fun together. But slowly things changed, and because we didn’t have love, there was nothing to stop our marriage from crumbling.” I brace myself and tell him the secret no one at Redemption knows. “I didn’t fall down the stairs.”

  His body goes rock solid beneath me, his arms turning to steel bands around my back.

  “He pushed me.”

  “Jesus Christ.” He pushes himself to sit, carrying me with him until I’m in his lap.

  “After he beat me,” I continue. “He was drunk. He drank a lot when we first got together, but it got worse when my career took off and his started to decline. He was a lot older than me. A lot older than most of the dancers in the company. It made him very insecure, especially after they hired two young choreographers to work with him. He became obsessed with the idea that I was going to leave him for a younger man.”

  “Shay.” His voice cracks, breaks. “Fuck. I can’t even—”

  “He never hit me until that day. But he had become possessive and controlling and verbally abusive. Matt came for a weekend and talked with him, and things seemed to calm down, but then he got fired.” I draw in a ragged breath. “The night it happened, he got very drunk and checked my computer history. I had seen a video of your fight with Okami online, and read about what happened after. I was worried about you, so I would periodically run your name through the search engine to see what you were doing. He knew who you were because I told him about you when we first got together. He thought I was going to leave him for you. And he lost it.”