Reflection (The Chrysalis Series)

by Sallinger, Elene

  Reflection (The Chrysalis Series)

  Sallinger, Elene

  Bridget Ross is a woman with a shameful secret. Despite a life full of success and close friends she denies herself her true desires in penance for the crimes she can't take back.

  Connor Reynolds is a man without a purpose. His own tragic past prevents him from putting down roots and pursuing his dreams.

  Their paths collide forcing them to face the ultimate question … is their love worth fighting for?

  Reflection

  The Chrysalis Series - 2

  by

  Elene Sallinger

  This book is dedicated to everyone who thinks that what they desire is shameful. Sometimes, accepting ourselves is the hardest, scariest thing we do.

  Acknowledgments

  No book is accomplished without the help of others. In particular, I’d like to thank J for being willing to debate plot points and help me see where I was running off the rails. I’d also like thank my daughter for being patient when her dad and I debated said plot points.

  Additionally, I’d like to thank the women of Mercer County Aware who talked with me, counselled me, and helped me see how abuse of all kinds can translate so heavily into the mental baggage we carry.

  I’d also like to thank everyone in the kink community who has welcomed me with open arms. You’re too numerous to name, I’d hate to leave anyone out, but your feedback and open communication has been invaluable.

  To my beta-readers … you’re all awesome. Thank you for catching all my mistakes!

  Finally, I’d like to thank everyone at Xcite Books for making my entrance into the world of writing so painless.

  Chapter One

  Curled in the foetal position, Bridget Ross fought the agonised pleasure wracking her body. Every muscle clenched as she denied her body the release it sought. She would not allow this. She would not succumb.

  Intentionally, she bit the inside of her cheek, drawing blood. Anything to distract her from the sensations her dreams had fed her. Slowly, the pleasure faded only to be replaced with the throbbing sting in her cheek. That pain she could deal with. The other –

  Stop! Don’t think about it.

  Horror flooded her body at the realisation of how close she’d come to falling off that ledge. One she’d vowed she’d never stand near again. It had been too close. Tears ran down her cheeks and her limbs became leaden with shame.

  At her back, her pit bull terrier, Daisy, whimpered and whined and nuzzled her, but Bridget couldn’t find the will to comfort her. Not when she herself was beyond comfort.

  Could a person will themself into non-existence? Simply lie there and wilfully deconstruct their cells so they merged with the universe and ceased to exist?

  On the side table, Bridget’s alarm clock began to chime, informing her it was now 5.30 a.m. and time for her run. She ignored it. Eventually it cut off.

  She stared into the darkness, blanking her mind deliberately. If she didn’t think, she didn’t feel and then she could tolerate this. If she allowed herself to feel in this moment, she’d be lost.

  Bridget willed herself to be empty. She lay there; a lump of flesh. The only indication of life was the rise and fall of her chest and even that she would have traded if she could.

  It was futile. She knew it, but still she wished for it. Memories were funny. They had a way of sticking with you no matter how deep you thought you’d buried them. She could no more escape her memories that she could will herself to stop breathing.

  As if to test the notion, Bridget blew out all her breath and held herself still. She refused to inhale until her lungs screamed for air, and then she waited longer. Finally, conceding defeat, she sucked in a breath forcefully.

  Despite herself, her body lightened. The clenching of her muscles relaxed. Her tears dried. Today was not the day that she gave up. Today she was not able to die.

  Too bad that wasn’t the same as living.

  Dragging herself from the bed, she made her way to the bathroom. She began her usual routine, going through the motions just as she did every morning. Turning the knobs on the shower, she undressed and waited for the water to reach the correct temperature.

  Whorls of steam billowed out from behind the glass walls of her shower before she finally stepped in. The water scalded her creamy skin, turning it tomato red, but went unnoticed.

  Drenching her loofah in Dial, Bridget wielded it the way a carpenter wields sandpaper. She scrubbed relentlessly, taking off layers of skin. Tears ran down her cheeks – whether from pain or lingering shame she didn’t know. Didn’t truly care. She ignored them. Ignored the burn and scratch as the scalding water failed to rinse away the slime she felt along her skin.

  It wasn’t enough.

  She became frenzied in her need to cleanse herself. She knew the stain would never be washed away. It marred her spirit as permanently as if it were tattooed on her skin. But it didn’t stop her from trying.

  She reached for the soap again, only to have it slip through her cramped fingers and clatter against the tiles spilling the bright, orange liquid.

  Staring in dismay at the soap running down the drain, defeat settled into her body and the loofah slipped from her fingers. Collapsing in on herself, Bridget huddled in the corner of the shower sobbing and wishing she could rinse her crimes down the drain as easily as she could the soap.

  Dressed in running gear, an iPod strapped to her arm, she waited for the sky to lighten sufficiently so she could commence her run. Standing pressed against her front door, she watched the sky through the small window cut-out in the heavy, wooden door.

  Clouds dyed the colour of cotton candy swirled in the sky and patches of robin’s egg blue poked through the early morning dawn cloud cover. Its beauty wasn’t lost on Bridget, but the ants crawling under her skin were winning the competition for her attention. She needed to get out of this house. She needed to get away from the memories. She needed to run.

  As if on cue, a ray of sunlight broke through the clouds illuminating her street. She knew a sign when she saw it. Unlocking all four deadbolts on her door, she walked briskly down the block. When she felt sufficiently warmed up, she began to jog. Daisy trotted happily at her side, her tongue lolling out.

  The music in her ears set the pace as it always did, starting out slow, building in tempo as she ran so that she would have to focus all her attention on the beat and her pace in order to match it.

  Each choice in the playlist was deliberate. Each drenched and pulled her in. The music absorbed her consciousness, taking her away from her memories, burying them down deep once again. It never failed her. It allowed her to fool herself into thinking she could outrun the past.

  Absolutely gorgeous.

  Connor Reynolds was riveted by the sight in front of him. Perfection personified. Damn, he wanted his camera in his hands. There was no better subject. The composition took care of itself. No need to do any fancy lens work, or fiddle with too many settings. Framed by the trees lining the running trail, it was all taken care of, just point and shoot.

  Without warning, he was yanked hard to the right. All thoughts of adding the sunrise to his growing portfolio flew from his brain as his ankle wrenched sharply and he went down on the path. Skin shredded against the asphalt and white daggers of pain lanced along his wrists and into his elbows as he barely saved himself from getting a massive case of road rash along his face.

  ‘Stop!’ a feminine voice cut through the silence. ‘Dang it! I said stop!’

  Connor dragged himself up off the park trail and scanned for Lotus, his Rhodesian Ridgeback. She was responsible for this current debacle. Well, at least that was his story and he was stic
king to it. Not his inattention. No, not at all. She’d clearly decided she’d had enough of running by his side and was now more interested in the dog that was currently wrestling with her. The problem, however, was that unlike his leash, which he’d quickly released once she’d yanked him, that dog’s owner was being dragged and bounced around like a leaf on the wind at the moment. What in the hell had possessed her to wrap a leash around her waist?

  Forgetting his injuries, Connor dashed across the trail to where she was vainly trying to get the dogs to stop. Wading in between them, he reached for Lotus’ collar and yanked her to the side with a sharp, ‘Relax!’ To the strange dog, he put up a hand and said, ‘Stop!’ He didn’t know the proper command for her, him, whatever, but his tone should get the job done. Thankfully, the dog stopped.

  Turning his attention back to Lotus, he ordered, ‘Sit.’ She turned her root beer-coloured eyes up to his. The plea of “let me play” screamed at him, but he ignored it. Patiently, he repeated the command. She was so stubborn when she wanted something. This time, she sat.

  Confident he had about 30 seconds before she ignored him, he spun to help the dishevelled owner. Much to his amusement, she was on hands and knees grumbling curse words that would make a sailor blush. Facing away from him, she presented a very lovely, lush ass for his perusal.

  Her jogging clothes hugged her body and he was mightily impressed with her equipment. Her running equipment, of course, not the wiggle in that gorgeous ass as she struggled to her knees. Not the shapely curve of her waist or the lightly muscled arms set off by her black runner’s tank. Her headphones were dangling around her wrist and her coppery red hair was falling out of the simple band where she had it tied up in a sloppy knot.

  ‘Daisy!’ Her voice was smoky and tinged with an accent he couldn’t place other than Southern. ‘You little bitch! What have I told you about running off like that? Ya’ll damn near broke my ankle.’

  Her vowels were long and her consonants soft and silky. “Running” lost the “g” and “you all” didn’t even exist for her. He grinned at her use of “bitch” in its one and only appropriate usage as the pit bull terrier – he was guessing, anyway – was clearly a female with a name like Daisy.

  ‘That’s my fault, I’m afraid.’

  She whirled to face him stepping backward and catching her knee on her dog’s leash. He reached for her arm to steady her and a look of terror flashed across her face. She jerked up her hands and pushed one hard into his chest. With the other, she slammed her forearm against his, batting him away.

  ‘Shit!’ he hollered, tucking the aching limb under his armpit in a vain attempt to curb the throbbing. ‘What the hell is wrong with you, lady?’

  ‘Don’t touch me!’ she gasped, her breath ragged and her chest heaving.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he snapped, ‘I don’t plan on getting anywhere near you.’ His arm still throbbed. ‘I was just trying to help. You were about to fall and it was clear I’d startled you.’ He shook his wrist, trying to flick away the pins and needles.

  ‘I didn’t know you were there.’ She placed her hands on her knees and visibly brought her breathing under control.

  Connor remained wary. Gorgeous or not, she’d already proved volatile and he wasn’t at all sure she wouldn’t flick off again. ‘Look, it was my dog that caused the problem. Well, it was me, really. I was distracted and she got away from me.’ Taking in the dogs casually sniffing each other, he gestured toward them, saying, ‘They seem no worse for wear.’

  Glancing at her dog, she said, ‘Daisy will take any opportunity to play. I guess it was bound to happen.’

  ‘That leash isn’t your best choice if you want to be able to keep yourself on your feet when your dog decides to get rambunctious.’

  ‘But it keeps my hands free.’ Her voice dropped and her gaze turned distant as she spoke and Connor wasn’t certain he’d heard her.

  ‘Huh?’ he prompted, wanting her to clarify.

  As weird as this encounter had been, he found he wasn’t looking to leave yet either and he really should since he had things to do.

  ‘Nothing.’ Her voice turned sharp and cool. ‘Your knee is bleeding. Are you injured?’

  She reached out as if to touch him, only to pull back like she’d been burned. Something was way out of kilter with this one. Now that she’d mentioned it, he noticed the burn of the shredded skin on his knees and the ache in his palms. Examining both, he determined that all the damage was superficial and told her so.

  With a brisk nod she said, ‘I’d keep a better eye on my dog if I were you.’ She jerked lightly on the leash and set off down the path away from him.

  ‘Hey!’ he hollered after her. ‘What’s your name?’

  She ignored him.

  He stood, rooted to the spot, watching her until she disappeared from sight. Crazy. She was certifiable. Definitely.

  Looking down at Lotus, he stroked her silky head and shrugged. ‘You can’t win them all, huh, baby?’

  Taking up her leash, he continued on his way, leaving all thoughts of that strange encounter on the trail behind him.

  Chapter Two

  Bridget idly tapped her fingers on the battered top of the small bistro table as she waited for Claire to arrive. Around her, Bean There Done That was alive with the energy that only a college town coffee house can have. Small groups of students clustered around laptops that competed for space with encyclopaedic textbooks which overflowed the tables. The huge tomes crowded out their cappuccinos and macchiatos while they debated the merits of lives they hadn’t yet begun to live.

  Several of her own students were currently huddled around a table in the far back. Hopefully, they were studying for the exam she’d dropped on them for the following day. They’d waved to her as they’d come in, calling out a “Hey, Professor Ross, you drink coffee?” as if it were completely alien for their teacher to actually do something human like drink coffee.

  Unfortunately, her “Of course, coffee’s the single best chemical reaction in the world” had fallen on deaf ears. The blank look she’d gotten let her know that she needed to step up her Chem 101 classes if they hadn’t understood the apparent, albeit bad, joke that it was.

  Still, they were good kids. It warmed her heart to see the group included Jack Rigby, who was a great guy, but a very poor chem student. Skyler, her best student, was also in the group and it looked like she was taking a special interest in helping him. More than likely that interest had less to do with altruism and a lot more to do with Jack’s baby blue eyes and well developed body, but hey, if it helped him pass she was all for it.

  Her eyes danced restlessly around the café as she waited for her best friend. The pale green walls were unexpected in a coffee shop where so many went for mocha shades that matched their primary cash crop, but they worked here. Mona Van Hove, the owner, was not your usual sort of person and there were significantly more comfortable, overstuffed chairs arranged around low tables than there were bistro tables.

  The artists’ work adorning the walls was for sale. Mona took a special interest in displaying local works and showcasing aspiring unknowns. The fireplace that dominated the back wall was always in use during the frosty Vermont winters and during the summers she filled the area with candle displays that created a cosy atmosphere no matter the temperature.

  The vibe was one of bustling energy. Conversation was lively, but muted enough that you didn’t have to raise your voice to be heard. The clink and tap of dishes as coffees and espressos were made to the accompaniment of the hiss and spit of the machine frothing milk was a comfort on a day like today.

  Despite herself, she’d been unable to get the unfortunate encounter with the strange jogger out of her head. She’d been barely civil to him and that wasn’t like her. She was polite to everyone. It had been bred into her from the time she was old enough to walk. No Southern woman worth her salt lost her manners regardless of the situation. However, she had definitely done that this morning.

/>   She’d wanted to put it down to the fact that he’d startled her. That she’d had the dream again when she’d gone so long without it she’d thought she might actually have gotten past it. But the reality was that her own reaction had startled her more than anything else.

  Yes, he’d absolutely frightened her, but she’d learned years ago to clamp down on the terror and panic that hit her like a Mack truck every time a man caught her by surprise. But no, this time she’d actually pushed him. She’d physically assaulted a man who was guilty of simply startling her. Making it even worse, once she’d recovered her composure she’d found that she’d wanted to reach out and touch him for very different reasons than fright. And that was not like her at all.

  Bridget Ross of the Charleston Rosses did not run around touching strange men just because she found them attractive. The weirdest thing about it all was that he wasn’t a stunning individual. If he’d been gorgeous she could rationalise her reaction. His features, however, were relatively nondescript. His hair was a deep, chocolate brown cropped extremely short in one of those styles that said a man just couldn’t be bothered with it. His chin had been strong, with the morning’s stubble still present as if he’d gone jogging before shaving. His nose had clearly been broken at some point in his life as it sported a distinct bend.

  His eyes, well, they had been extraordinary. She would give him that. He had the greyest eyes she’d ever seen. A pale shade of charcoal, they were almost the colour of the ash left in the grill after a good barbecue. He’d towered over her, but only because she was five feet tall on a good day and he was probably just under six feet. She’d had to look up at him and the lack of equilibrium she’d felt had a lot more to do with the way her heart had begun to race and her body had responded to him.

  He’d looked at her with those ash-coloured eyes and she’d felt as if she was on fire. As if she was being consumed from the inside out and she wanted nothing more than to continue to burn.