Submerged under my loathing for Garret’s promiscuity, though, is something deeper, more personal. I am almost afraid to probe the emotion; I am too familiar with the haven of insecurity from which it comes. You’re scared you’ll be tossed aside, the devil’s voice slithers in my ear. You’re scared he won’t want you. You’re jealous of those other girls, because they have everything it takes to get him while you, well...
My mind keeps seesawing between my priorities and my insecurities, a nauseating tilt-a-whirl of things to consider. I voice my thoughts to Sarah, telling her how my grades and my dire financial situation have to be my priorities. I literally can’t afford to let Garret be a distraction.
She drops her tone to something soft, something consolatory. “Look, Jodie,” she leans forward to cup my hand between hers. “You might be right. You’ve got a lot on your plate; no one is denying that.”
I nod my head in affirmation. Yes, that's what I need to hear right now. The right thing. The sensible thing.
“But the way he was looking at you wasn’t the same way that guys look at groupies they just want to fuck and leave. Garret Lyons –” she emphasizes the name – “was looking at you in a special way.” There is no doubt in her voice.
Despite everything looming over my head, my heart swells with pride and satisfaction. I want to throw it in Mother’s face that a man was looking at me not only with desire but with something more real and profound. I want to shout it to everyone I have ever known that I saw a spark of something that could mean something, however abstract that sounded. It feels real to me. It feels important to me. It matters. I matter.
Fuck you, Mother. Fuck you, Bellamy. I’m not a pig; I’m not an object. Garret Lyons likes me. Me, me, me.
Sarah and I talk for a little bit longer, but as the sun starts to peek through the blinds, announcing morning, she stands and grabs her purse. I kiss her on the cheek and walk to the door to let her out. She says goodbye and strolls away down the hall.
I shut the door and heave a giant yawn. I have to be at work in four hours, I think, silently cursing to myself. I have no idea how I will be able to get any work done at Bellamy’s office, given how worn out I am from this rare night of revelry. So much has transpired in the last few hours, both physically and emotionally. Every ounce of energy in my body is spent.
I exhaustedly brush my teeth and change into pajamas before collapsing into bed. As I am on the verge of sleep, my phone buzzes with a text message. I consider ignoring it, but eventually flop a tired hand onto the table and flip the device open. It is from Sarah.
“You need to jump on the Garret train while you still can, girl,” it says. “I mean, how many chances like this are you gonna get? Night! xoxo.” I snap the phone shut and lie back down, but her words keep pin wheeling through my head.
The seesaw bounces, back and forth – Garret, school, Garret, money, Garret, work, Garret, life. How many chances will I get? How many? I can’t be sure. I don’t know. I am scared.
It doesn’t take long for the fatigue to overtake me and I pass out in bed, letting sweet nothingness drown me under an ocean of conflicting thoughts.
CHAPTER SIX
The surface of the desk is cool on my forehead. I am resting my head face down on the table, my eyes fluttering while I struggle with the exertion of forcing them to stay open. Every cell in my body is screaming like a banshee, begging for just a few moments of sleep. I have been dozing in and out all morning. Every time I fall asleep for the tiniest second, my head bobs to my chest and I have to jerk myself violently awake.
The clock is ticking slower than it ever has. The journey of the second hand between each mark is painstakingly diligent. It might as well be Chinese water torture at this point. Everyone in the office can see how tired I am; it is written in every exhausted wrinkle at the corner of my eyes, in the sloppy make-up smeared across my cheeks and lips, in the sluggish drag of my feet across the cold floors.
I have been trying to stay out of sight – hence my current supine position – but already a few people have passed by and dropped a smirking remark as they did, an offhanded “Someone was out late, hmm?” or “Not feeling so hot today, Jodie?” I wanted to smack them all, but the only thing I can summon up the willpower to do is nod and smile tiredly.
I just pray that neither Carla nor Bellamy see me in this state, lest I provoke either one’s prodigious and well-documented temper. I had ducked into the mailroom and grabbed the daily task list from my box when I arrived to avoid Carla, but three hours later I have barely accomplished anything. My inbox is bursting with unread emails while stacks of things to alphabetize and file are spewing from every edge of my desk. Given my pounding headache and the nausea that rears its head every time I move, though, I couldn’t care less. The only thing that matters is that I get out of here before Carla spots me, and definitely before Bellamy does.
I take a quick glance around the room. No sign of either of them, though I have seen Carla’s wriggling ass prowling in and out of various doorways at the opposite corner of the office. Not a peep all morning from behind Bellamy’s door. I breathe a sigh of relief. Fifteen more minutes and I can leave.
I flick through my emails, dumbly scanning for items of interest. The usual spam and shopping discounts get trashed immediately; class assignments and work to-do notices get ignored for the time being. I am in no mood to be productive. I reach a hand down to massage the backs of my ankles where they are throbbing from the stiletto straps that had sliced them open last night. I feel a streak of sticky blood on my fingertips that jolts me from my stupor. Taking a look down, I see crimson rivulets streaming from just below my calf all the way down past my heel, where they cascade onto the concrete floor with a muted hiss. I must have re-opened a scab. There is too much blood to just ignore. I have to do something.
I yank open a desk drawer and fumble through it in search of tissues. Wedged between hair clips and loose pens missing their caps are dozens of plastic tissue packages. All of them are empty, victims of the month-long cold I endured at the beginning of the frigid weather. Dammit. I can feel the panic starting to rise like bile in my throat. There has to be a way to avoid getting up, but in my fugue state I am struggling to think of a creative solution.
I spy Carla grab a coat and clomp towards the bank of elevators. She presses the down button with a manicured nail, then admires her reflection in the polished bronze, turning her jaw this way and that way and uttering a satisfied “mmhmm” with every new angle. The doors soon clang open and swallow her.
She is gone, at least for now. I offer up a quick prayer of gratitude. The sick taste in my throat dissipates a little and my heartbeat calms with her departure, though I still have Bellamy to worry about.
I look around to judge which avenue is the best route towards the bathrooms. It will be safest to creep around the edge of the office, I decide, staying close along the wall. I have to move now, though – the blood has started to pool in my cupped hand. I stand up to move, making sure that everyone around me is fully engrossed in their work.
I tiptoe as quietly as possible for a girl my size. My hips brush along the slick walls while I make my way to the bathroom that is tucked into an alcove near the elevators. The whole time I am walking, I keep my gaze fixed firmly on Bellamy’s door, watching for any sign of movement. Everything is still – for now.
Reaching the restroom, I wrap my hand around the chrome handle and tug gently, slinking inside. The air in the bathroom is warm; I can feel my eyes drooping from the soft heat. My body relaxes, loosening from the tension accrued during my sneaky dash to safety. Moving slowly, I grab a fistful of paper towels from the dispenser and press them against the wound on the back of my ankle. I dab the blood away. As I pat, the flow gradually eases and a crunchy scab stitches across the smooth skin of my calves.
I step towards the sink and flick on the faucet to run my hands under the hot water. Everything in the bathroom--the steamy air, the reassuring silence--is conspir
ing together and making me drowsy. I splash some water on my face to wake myself up.
I look upwards. The reflection in the mirror reveals a different creature from the Jodie who went out last night. My hair has collapsed from the teased height of last night’s monstrosity to a more natural wave that lies limply across my brow. The eyes that had just a few hours ago flickered with vitality now look hazy and dull.
Without the various restraints and supports I had strapped around myself last night, even my body looks tired – my breasts hang heavy, squeezed inside my shirt but always on the verge of sneaking out. I smooth out the wrinkles along the sides of my waist. As I do, I cup a hand along each hip, carefully feeling how my mass strains against the fabric of my black chino pants, forever pushing out.
A quick pirouette shows my ass and thighs threatening to do the same, bulging against the stitching in my clothes. My whole outline sweeps along dramatic curves, from the wide bust down to the flaring out of the boundary of my hips. I tuck a misplaced bra strap back under the shoulder of my shirt and snap off the sink, turning to dry my hands.
A clock above the mirror shows that twelve minutes have passed, leaving only three more between me and freedom. Three more, I think to myself. You can do it. Just make it back to your desk, gather your things, and bolt out the door. No one will see you.
I take a deep breath and crack open the door, peeking out down the alcove to see if anyone is watching. Bellamy’s door is still closed. No one seems to be moving. I sigh happily and start to stride out, already savoring the taste of the cold outdoor air on my lips.
“Jodie,” says a rough voice from behind me. I freeze in my tracks.
Without having to turn around, I know exactly who it is. The happiness in my chest deflates like a popped balloon. Fear rushes in in its place. Slowly, slowly, I pivot on my heel and turn to face him.
Bellamy is standing in the middle of the hall, arms crossed over his chest. The low ceiling makes him look even taller and more gaunt than usual. His presence fills the tiny space. His eyebrow are furrowed in their usual scowl, but as he drinks in my exhausted, disheveled appearance, the angry wrinkles deepen another degree.
I choose my words carefully, trying to make my tone as pleasant and light as possible to hide the tremors in the pit of my stomach: “Hello, Mr. Bellamy. How are you?”
He ignores my greeting completely. “You look tired. Where have you been? What have you been doing?” he demands.
I stammer and try to think of an excuse. “Oh, um, nothing, Mr. Bellamy, I just haven’t been, um, feeling well lately, and uh…” I trail off as the stormy emotions on his face thicken.
“You were out last night, weren’t you.” His words are an accusation, not a question. “You went out on the town, didn’t you? Had a few drinks, maybe?” I shake my head fervently in denial, but as he steps closer to me with every word, his voice swells with power and condescension.
“Spent some money, didn’t you, Jodie? Bought some things, Jodie? I thought you were so poor, isn’t that what you told me, Jodie?”
Every time he says my name, the steel in his words sharpens another degree. Without increasing his volume at all, he twists verbal daggers into my viscera. Fear is pouring through my veins and though I try to calm myself intellectually – he is just a sick old man, Jodie, don’t be afraid of him, there is nothing he can do to you, just remember, he is sick, he just wants to fuck you – I cannot help but feel the rising tide of panic.
He stops inches short of me. His breath billows in sharp tufts over my face. I can make out every fine detail of his skin, his eyelashes, his lips. That shark’s smile, the one I had seen before when his hand had wrapped around my wrist, streaks across his face again. He is the cat in the alleyway and I am the rat in the corner.
“Tell me the truth,” he commands me. “Tell me now.”
I gulp. “It was nothing, Mr. Bellamy…” One twitch of his eyebrows cuts me off.
“Don’t lie to me, Jodie.”
Shivers and silence are all I can offer in resistance.
“Okay…Okay. Yes, I went out last night. I spent some money that I probably didn’t have.” I reach down deep within myself and find a tiny nugget of courage, of resistance. I square my shoulders a little more, straighten my posture just the tiniest bit. “But what’s it to you?” I say defiantly.
He smirks. When he speaks again, his voice has softened to a silky growl. “Oh, Jodie, don’t you get it? It means everything.” Bellamy grabs my hand and pulls me in the direction of his office, extinguishing my last reservoir of bravery. As we cross between desks, I look around the room for anyone to help me, my eyes wide and pleading, but everyone has gone out to lunch. The room is empty.
I see the clock. I could have left two minutes ago.
***
The door clicks shut behind us. Bellamy drags the two chairs in front of his desk into position so that they are facing across from each other.
“Sit,” he orders. I comply.
He follows suit, carefully crossing his legs and painstakingly re-arranging his tie. When he has smoothed out the last of its wrinkles, he folds his hands in his lap and looks at me.
“We can’t be having this, Jodie,” he says. “This is quite – “ he rolls the word slowly across his tongue – “unacceptable. Do you want to lose this job?”
I try to imagine the freedom of being free of this asshole’s tyrannical sadism, but the only things I can picture clearly are mounting bills and depressing bank statements. Like it or not, I am tied down here.
“No, sir, I don’t want to lose this job.”
He cracks a knuckle. “No, no, we don’t want to lose you, either, Jodie.” Cheery sunlight is streaming in through the windows as venom and mirth drip from Bellamy’s teeth. “We don’t want to lose you at all. So enough with the threats. I don’t particularly like using them unless I have to.
“What I would rather do, Jodie, is reward you. For, shall we say, good behavior?” Bellamy chuckles to himself. My level of disgust is creeping upwards, has been since he first touched me.
“What is it this time?” I ask through clenched jaws.
“Another deal, of course,” he replies. “I will give you another raise – let’s make it another doubling of your salary – in exchange for a blowjob.”
I had been ready for his answer, but hearing it out loud still strikes me like a slap in the face. Unconsciously, I reach up and rub my injured shoulder. My other hand strokes the pocket where, just that morning, I had stuffed an unpaid utilities bill on my way out the door.
I know how that rat felt.
I nod the tiniest increment possible. He laughs – laughs out loud – and stands up from his chair, toppling it over. I sink to my knees in front of him.
While he undoes his belt and unzips his trousers, a memory starts to play in my head. Reality and the reminiscing run alongside each other, like two films played on split screens:
My mother is berating me. “You’re the disgusting one in this house, so you will do the disgusting work!” She thrusts a toilet scrubber in my adolescent face.
Bellamy extracts his cock from its fabric sheathing. It flops forward, thick and ugly, veined, blunt. I reach a trembling hand up and wrap my fingers around its girth.
I take the tool from her and fall to my knees in front of the toilet. Slowly, with long strokes, I rub it against the porcelain rim.
I strain my head towards his member. My hand caresses up and down its length. I unravel my tongue and, swallowing the repulsion that has climbed into my throat, lick once along the shaft. Bellamy shudders and grins.
My mother smiles at the scene before her – me, on my knees, eyes closed, doing her dirty work.
My tongue nears the head of his manhood. I squeeze lightly at its base and take him into my mouth with a wet slurp.
While I scrubbed and cleaned, reality succumbed to imagination. Being so close to shit and filth made it that much more important, that much more transcendent for me to fa
ntasize about something beautiful.
My mouth bobs up and down on Bellamy’s rigid cock. I touch his testicles lightly with one hand and with the other, grip and pump his manhood deeper in my mouth. I pull him as far into me as possible, so that my lips brush against his body. I nearly gag with the effort.
Behind closed eyes, I picture paychecks falling like snow, a curtain of them, a waterfall. Suddenly, a figure bursts through the cascading sheets.
It is Garret. In my mind’s eye, he is clad in leather jeans and boots, shirtless, with that classic smirk on his face that stirs something between my legs to life. He is laughing at something. I try to ask him what he is laughing at – What is so funny? – but when he answers, I can’t understand what he is saying.
Devil's Angels Boxed Set: Bikers and Alpha Bad Boy Erotic Romance Page 39
