by K. S. Adkins
“But in your room —” I whisper.
“About that,” he starts, clearly uncomfortable. ”I owe you an explanation. I’m not ready to give it you yet, but I will.”
“Okay,” I mumble, confused.
“Princess,” he says looking at me. “I will, I promise. When the time is right.”
Nodding my head, I turn back to the window and will the ride to end.
I ran out of things to say. She doesn’t believe I want her; I can feel it. I just don’t know what the fuck to do about it. Pulling up to my house I walk over, opening her door like I always do, reach in pulling her into my arms, and lift.
She feels so fucking good, I don’t want to set her down; however, I have to if I want to get the door open. She doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. Instead, I grab two pillows and a blanket, motioning for her to lie down. Reaching in my pocket, I remembered I have the scripts from the good doctor, so sitting down next to her, I attempt to strike up a conversation.
“Are you in pain?” I ask, tucking the blankets around her.
“It’s not too bad,” she says, settling in. “I think I’ll just sleep it off.”
“Are you sure?” I ask, concerned. “I can go get these filled.”
“No,” she says. “I’m good, they gave me a dose of antibiotics before we left. I’m fine for a few hours. Sit with me?”
Sitting down, I bring her feet into my lap and rub to warm them up. “Sure you don’t need anything? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”
“Jonas,” she whispers. “What are we doing?”
“I’m rubbing your feet,” I tell her, dreading the questions. “Try to sleep.”
“Jonas,” she tries again. “You promised.”
“I promised when the time was right,” I say, getting irritated. “This ain’t the time.”
“I’m afraid there won’t ever be a time,” she whispers. “You want me to trust you and to need you, but you don’t trust or need me back. So I’ll ask again, what are we doing?”
“Dammit,” I growl. “I said not now, Macy, fuck.” Moving her feet off my lap I stomp into the kitchen like a stubborn kid. From the kitchen I hear her sniffle, and without a second thought I ram my fist into the plaster. Is it too much to ask that we just sit together? That she isn’t trying to drag my past up? I’m not fucking ready. This is the second goddamn time I lost her, and I’m not fucking handling it well. I just wanted to sit here, watch her sleep, eat, anything, I just wanted to be near her.
The couch creaks, letting me know she’s moving. With my head still hanging I use my ears, and that’s when I hear the steps creak. So she’s headed upstairs, then.
Following her up, I see her pulling the covers back from the futon, preparing herself to lay down there. Walking into the room, I pull the covers back, telling her to take my bedroom. I even go so far as to tell her she can have it, and that I will sleep on the couch. Her eyes get red but she just nods, leaving the room.
Again, I fucked it up. She thinks I don’t want to share a bed with her; well, she’d be wrong. There’s no place else I’d rather be, but I know don’t fucking deserve to be there. Even trying to do the right thing goes wrong for me.
This last week has been shit. Not so much because of what went down with Briggs, but the way I’m being “handled,” like I’m going to snap or start kicking puppies for sport. Venessa and Jonas both are driving me nuts; the only saving grace I have is Rogan. I get it; I took someone’s life, I should probably feel something, but you know what? I don’t. My history with that dickbag isn’t something I like to talk about. What woman wants to share that nightmare? The fact is, he did start off decent and over time it went to hell, and I was just too caught up in my own life to see it. The first time he hit me, he was as shocked as I was and he went nuts when he realized what he’d done.
At that point, I wasn’t afraid of him yet, but I was cautious. Slowly, so fucking slowly, his anger bled into other areas of my life, but again, I was focused on other things. He didn’t trust that I was studying at the library or at the lab with Ben. He would show up to the hospital just to see me, he claimed, but I knew it was to make sure I was on shift. On the weekend nights he worked, I would take a break sometimes and visit Venessa at Lush.
Months ago, while laughing and moshing with Venessa, he just showed up. He came in pissed the fuck off and I couldn’t figure out why. After fighting in the hall outside the restrooms, Max ordered him to leave, and now that he’d killed my night, I left shortly after. Figuring he went back to work I took a bath, turned on my music, and went to start my laundry, since I was up. When I heard my music cut off I went out to investigate and there he was, chest heaving, fists clenched, eerily still, and I knew right then I was in serious trouble. But like most people, I didn’t know the severity of his anger until it was too late.
He attacked me at every angle. Sides, back, stomach, thighs, and he even made it a point to punch me several times in the ass. I’ll give it to him, though, he never hit my face. Finally he ran out of steam, or so I thought. Again, I was wrong.
Once he relieved the rage in his system, his dick decided to join the party. My cunt, as he liked to call it, wasn’t interested. In fact, it was terrified. As he held me down and forced his way in, he seriously hurt me. He punished me over and over again, pulled my hair, smacked my face, called me names, apologized, cried, and then would fuck at me even harder. When he finished with me, he wouldn’t let go, and I didn’t have the strength to move. My boyfriend had just beat me and raped me in my own home, and I didn’t know why. I had to ask myself how it was even possible to have your partner rape you, but he had, and I had a hard time coming to terms with that. It wasn’t just the act itself, it was that it fucking happened to me.
The things he said made no sense. It went beyond jealousy, it went beyond anger, and the only explanation I could come up with was that he fucking hated me. The look on his face like he was disgusted with himself, not for what he had done, but that he had done it with me, solidified my theory.
He hated me, but why? I was the best girlfriend I could be. I wasn’t jealous, I had a job, I worked hard, and I was a nice person. I didn’t force him to live with me or spend time with me, I gave him space, I respected his privacy. No matter how I played it out, I couldn’t get what I did wrong. I’m a nerd, I’m a thinker, and if I’ve done something I like to know what it is so I can fix it. But once he took my body without consent or care, I said fuck this and decided something had to give.
In the weeks following, he stayed away more; he didn’t come home at night, and when he did he stayed on the couch and shot looks at me for the most minimal of things. I basically stayed out of his way until the day I sent him over the edge. Venessa had called and asked me to go to the Detroit Flyhouse and take an aerial yoga class to help take my mind off my studies, and wanting any reason to leave, I accepted.
We had a great time; it was just what I needed. I left feeling relaxed, stretched, and focused. Briggs was in my home, polluting my space, making me scared in my sanctuary, and he needed to go.
The second I walked through the door, I knew something was wrong; my living room smelled funny. Come to find out meth has a smell, and it’s disgusting. There were pills scattered on the table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey, and a very long shiny blade with a black engraved handle. Deciding I was in over my head, I ran upstairs to pack a bag, called the police – again - and planned to stay at Venessa’s for a while. I’d called the police several times but they placated me, then basically told me I was on my own. My last resort was telling Venessa, which I did not want to do, but I was out of options.
I could hear his huge feet stomping up my steps. Looking from left to right, I couldn’t decide where to go, what to do. I was trapped in my own bedroom. Before he cleared my door I ran to my bag to grab a hypodermic to defend myself. Should he get close enough, I was stabbing him with it.
He kicked my door open, stalked toward me with raised fists, and all the years
spent training went out the window. Needle in hand, I was frozen in place. At that moment, I knew I was too afraid to defend myself; I knew this act of defiance was going to cost me. All these things, I knew. I just didn’t know how much.
Grabbing my throat to protect myself, I dropped the needle, needing my hands to push him away, no luck there. Just as my vision danced, he threw me against a wall. Holding me there, he whispered in detail what he was going to do to me and why. He made good on his word for once; he used his fists, knees, and even his teeth to show me how much he hated me. But when he brought his knife out and cut me that first time, I never knew someone could hate me that much.
While he shredded my skin, he raped my body; he also crushed my spirit. The words didn’t mean anything then, just the actions. The actions spoke louder, showing me, proving to me, that no matter what you do, there’s always someone bigger than you, stronger than you, and that they can be merciless. If you had told me love was the most powerful thing in the world that night, I’d have called you a liar and told you no, hate was.
Blood, so much fucking blood. My insides forgotten, I couldn’t believe I was just mutilated. I cataloged my injuries because as a nurse, I knew what each one meant. The pain was there, but it felt miles away. He ransacked my room, tore my bag apart looking for something, but I was too busy losing consciousness to care. Just as I was about to succumb to passing out he gives me his parting words: “Die, bitch.”
Right then, all the pain came roaring back; my senses, too. He meant to kill me; he was leaving me there to die. Well fuck that, I thought to myself. If I lived through this, my first order of business? Kill the motherfucker.
Once he left, which felt like forever after he ransacked my entire house, I managed to call a friend from work. She picked me up, taking me to a hospital across town. There I was treated, kept for two days, then released. Venessa assumed I was on a study bender, and I didn’t correct her. It wasn’t until a few days later she figured it out, and then took matters into her own hands.
She did what I couldn’t do; she had him put away, and used my drug to do it. Briggs wasn’t going to stay in long. I knew that, so I needed to prepare myself for his return. He wanted to kill me; he didn’t succeed. So yeah, he’d be back. Guys like him always come back.
Now you know, that’s my story. Do I feel anything? A single fucking thing about stabbing him to death? Yeah, I do. I wish I could do it all over again, with a video to remember it by.
Venessa, Rogan, and Jonas are all waiting for me to lose my shit. Most especially Jonas. It’s just not going to happen. What happened to Briggs felt good, justified. There is no remorse to be found. I’m over it; I just wish the three of them would move the fuck on as well.
Watching her go on about her life is killing me. I keep waiting for that other shoe to drop but … it doesn’t. Venessa warned me she wouldn’t process it, and she was right; it’s also really fucking disturbing. Being a cop and now a detective, I’ve seen some nasty shit. I’ve had to draw and fire, use force to apprehend, and even watch children get caught in the crossfire. Macy is the first woman I’ve had interest in, and she’s in danger, and I can’t do shit.
I’m unfamiliar with the rules on relationships, but I have to assume I have some sort of say in her recovery. How can she get past this if she doesn’t recognize it? The coroner reported seven stab wounds. Does that sound like someone who has her shit together? No, it doesn’t. She doesn’t discuss it, ever. She’s focused on finding whoever was pulling Briggs’ strings. With Venessa and now Macy both healing, the team is on a temporary hold. The girls are more important than the cases right now; even the Cap agrees.
The doc was right, though. Her wounds are shallow, and after she let me change the bandages she couldn’t reach, I would have to agree. It’s not the visible wounds that freak me out, it’s the wounds I can’t see, the ones she won’t let anyone see. She’s still staying here with me, but we don’t talk. We coexist. She’s a fucking roommate. When she isn’t working on this, she’s studying or talking to that Ben fuck.
But she isn’t talking to me. I’m sure she’d disagree that she isn’t talking to me, but she isn’t. She’s talking at me, around me, through me. I’m trying everything I can to get her to open up, comfort her, just fucking be close to her, but she shuts me down.
I know I fucked up. She made it clear she wanted me, and I made it clear I didn’t like what she was offering, but it wasn’t that I didn’t want her. I was – am - fucking terrified of not pleasing her, that I’ll ruin it. Now my problem is twofold: I’m walking on eggshells to keep her from losing it, guilt over my role in her getting hurt is crushing my chest, and I want her so fucking badly I’m being a dickhead about all of it.
I’ve told myself to sit her down and explain to her why I am the way I am, but every time I get her to sit still, I lose the courage. Telling her I was physically abused is lodged in my throat, because rule #1 is you never tell. But I have to, I just fucking don’t know how. I’m thirty-two years old and I suck at fucking, too. The few partners I’ve had told me as much, loudly, too. I’m sure it goes against the laws of nature that I don’t even like the sight of my own cock. I hate it, it’s disgusting, it doesn’t work right. Around her, though, I don’t hate it at all. Just a smile from her, a joke, and a taunt gets it stiff. Fuck, when she touches me, I get so stiff it hurts.
Giving up on her, on us, isn’t an option. We both have shit to work on, to hammer out, and I won’t stop until we both are together, united, a fucking couple.
Briggs may no longer be a threat, but it’s still out there. We may not discuss it, but I clearly remember what she told me he came for. “What’s in here,” which means we’re back to the drug she’s creating. Briggs was an average cop, so Rogan and I don’t believe for a fucking second he was working alone. He was a pawn, expendable, and he was replaceable.
So now I have to find out who’s really responsible for the threat, and I have to protect her from it, and all while making her fall so far in love with me she won’t care about my past, only the future: our future.
I’ve been awake for hours now. Thinking of him, wondering why I had to push him when he wasn’t ready. Wondering what I can do to bridge the gap. I want him, of that there is no question. For months now, he’s been there watching over me, even before I knew he was doing it. He said he did because he couldn’t not do it. We’ve been dancing around something big; it’s just out of our reach, and one of us has to have the fucking guts to reach out and grab it. I’m a self-proclaimed overachiever and I want Jonas to be mine, not just a partner or a protector, but all fucking mine.
Sitting up slowly, walking over to his dresser, I grab one of his shirts, throw it on hastily, and make my way across the hall to the spare bedroom and the futon he’s claimed. Decision made, I open the door, walk to the side of the futon and take his shirt back off. He doesn’t move, so I pull back the covers and slide in next to him. Still unmoving, I run my hands through his hair and whisper his name. He feels so good I can stop myself from running them down his chest, but just as I reach his stomach he wraps his hand over my wrist and pulls me on top of him. Yes! Finally!
Not wanting him to change his mind, I find his mouth in the dark and attach myself to it. He grabs me tighter so I apply more pressure. His hands find my sides and I stop myself from straddling him to hopefully prevent him from tossing me out. He didn’t like aggressive Macy, so I’m working on easy-does-it Macy. If I’m being honest, aggressive Macy isn’t me either, but in my ignorance, it was what I thought he’d like. When he grabs my ass a moan escapes, and how could it not? He has huge, warm hands and they are playing with my ass. Breaking the kiss, he starts to mumble and instead of getting upset, I listen.
“Missed you,” he growls, squeezing me tighter, “so fucking much.” Taking this as a sign, I continue rubbing every inch of skin I can find while he mumbles and kisses my neck. “Princess,” he says, and fuck if I don’t moan again. I love when he calls me that.
“Princess,” he repeats, making me pause. “Look at me.”
“You want this?” he asks, unsure, so I nod and lean back in to show him how much “You sure?”
“I’m sure,” I tell him, but he doesn’t look convinced, so I go on. “More than anything I’m sure, Jonas. I can’t be near you and not be near you anymore. If you don’t want me, you have to tell me, because I want you so much it fucking hurts. However you want it, I want it; just make it stop hurting.”
“Fuck,” he says, burying his head in my neck. “Don’t want to disappoint you, ever.”
“Just be you,” I tell him. “We’ll do this your way, whatever you need.”
“What about what you need?” he asks.
“I need you,” I say, kissing him. “Just you.”
“You’re not wearing panties, Princess,” he says, and I shake my head. “Not wearing my shirt either.” I shake my head again. “I fucking loved you in my shirt.”
Running my hands down his sides, I slip the left into his shorts and send ghost fingers over his cock. When he shivers, I do it again. When he moans and starts to move, I clamp down. He goes completely still so I loosen my grip and continue stroking him slow.
“Flick the lamp on,” I whisper, kissing his ear. “I want to see you.”
