by Pamela Clare
I couldn’t stand the cool sheets, the drafty room, the black, yawning bay windows. There was only one thing to do at a time like this. Night baking. I tiptoed from the bedroom, so as not to disturb the slumbering child across the hall, crept down the stairs, so as not to disturb the hibernating man in the study, and into the kitchen.
I opened the pantry door with a sort of reverence and fingered the packages, like a painter might before selecting his materials. A cheesecake, maybe? I’d gotten enough cream cheese for it. It would have to harden overnight, but in the morning I’d drizzle it with melted chocolate and some of those raspberries.
Or maybe something chocolaty. What was I thinking? Definitely something chocolaty.
A tart. A light chocolate crust, a smooth truffle filling, and a shiny chocolate topping. A bit more foreplay, what with the three separate components, but—ah—the payoff. My eyes glazed at the thought. It was an orgasm in cake form. Really, no one could pamper themselves better than a baker.
I crushed graham crackers for the crust, then pressed the mix into the tart mold I’d bought from Goodwill a year ago. While that hardened in the oven, I whisked eggs and melted chocolate to make my filling. Once the tart itself had baked, I poured a thin layer of glaze over the top, forming a black, glossy surface.
It would take a while to set, so I wandered through the quiet house. There wasn’t anything to see, nothing to touch, so my hands rested behind my back.
Light peeked out from under the study door.
I knocked, my timidity downgrading it into more of a tap.
“Come in,” he said from inside, and I opened the door.
This study was nothing like Philip’s. It was open and airy, matching the minimalism in the rest of the house. A desk and chair filled out one end of the room. A small sofa sat in the other, and that’s where Colin lay. He shut the drawer on the side table just as I entered.
“Can I talk to you?” I asked.
“Sure.” He rubbed a hand over his face. Dark shadows etched under his eyes, and I felt guilty for my earlier doubt. Not that I was convinced he’d done nothing wrong, but he’d also done plenty right. And at the time he’d been little more than a stranger.
Colin resettled in the corner of the sofa, his arm out. I closed the door behind me and joined him, curling into his side. He wrapped his arm around me, pulling me in tight.
I could have this forever. All I had to do was wait, the perfect, placid little girlfriend, for Colin to solve my problems. Let him control me—trust he wouldn’t betray me.
But what would the cost be if I was wrong? If he was?
And Bailey would be the one to pay.
“I’m going to talk to Jacob,” I said.
My words kicked him into standing.
“No,” he said, sounding exactly like I did when Bailey shoved peas up her nose.
I tried to remain calm. “It’s not up to you. He’s my…”
“Rapist?” he scoffed.
That stung. “My friend.”
“And what am I?” he said.
“You’re my…lover.” My voice broke.
He raised an eyebrow. Is that all?
“Well, what are you, then?” Calm was over. His silence infuriated me. “What do you want to be? I don’t even know, because you won’t…fucking…talk!”
He glared at me. Then a flicker—a small, reluctant smile cracked.
I laugh-cried back at him. Goddamned, fucking, adorable man.
It wasn’t just about trust. Living here, I’d started having little daydreams about what it would be like to stay. There wasn’t an exit date planned, not that I knew of, but this was hardly a permanent arrangement. Maybe I wanted it to be.
But if I was going to be worthy of that, I’d have to handle my own shit. Whether Colin liked it or not.
“I have to do this. For Bailey and for myself.” I pulled out my trump card. “Would you let Philip handle it if someone hurt you?”
His eyes flashed. That was all. Just a small visual sign, but I felt the jolt through his body. Maybe I’d hit a little too hard.
“Actually,” he said. “Laramie found a loophole.”
Heh, Laramie the lawyer found a loop—and then the meaning of the words registered. Relief was there, but I didn’t like his tone. “What is it?”
“If you get him on the rape, then he won’t have a legal claim on Bailey.”
I blinked. Nope, still didn’t get it. Didn’t want to understand.
“What does that mean—get him?”
He seemed to choose his words carefully. “If you press charges, prosecute him, and he’s convicted, then legally—”
“No fucking way.” I’d practically shit myself telling Colin. There was no fucking chance I was going to say it in public. And that’s assuming they even would prosecute. And that I’d win.
“Allie,” he said.
“Colin,” I said. “How would Laramie know?”
He didn’t meet my eyes.
“No,” I whispered. “Tell me you didn’t.”
His lips firmed.
It was a small comfort that he didn’t give me excuses. That it was for the best, or that he had a right to share my secrets. Rage would be great, but all I had left was a whisper. “Fuck you.”
I ran from the room, stumbled up the stairs, unseen through my tears, and huddled under the covers. The feeling of my heart being ripped out slipped on like an old shoe. God, the betrayal.
The pain echoed from past wounds, but not just from Jacob.
I remembered my shock at Shelly’s furor. I was grateful for her anger on my behalf, but she was more than that. She’d been spitting mad. She’d called Jacob every swear word I’d ever heard, and a few I hadn’t, and she never swore. Then she’d insisted I tell the authorities. He couldn’t get away with this, she said.
I was confused. Even through my own hurt and anger, I didn’t want anything bad to happen to Jacob. He’d been my friend for so much longer than he’d been my rapist. It wasn’t a switch I could turn off.
But Shelly’s arguments made sense. He deserved whatever punishment he got for what he’d done. And if I didn’t say anything, he might hurt someone else.
A woman on a mission, she kept at me until whatever sanity was left in me wore down.
When I finally wanted to shower, she blocked me. Evidence, she said.
My bruised, sticky body was evidence.
Shelly drove me to the hospital herself. We waited for hours—I wasn’t an emergency. She stayed with me until they took me into the exam room. They wouldn’t let her come with me.
In a room full of strangers, wearing a small, paper gown that gaped open in front, I was made to lie down on a hard table. There were stirrups there—I’d never seen anything like it before.
“Put your feet here,” the doctor said.
I wouldn’t do it. The doctor, the nurses, the police officer all coaxed me, but finally they just lifted my legs and put them in. They didn’t need my consent either.
They poked me and prodded, ferreted out all the bruises and a few cuts. Cold gloves caught on my flesh. A camera flashed, memorializing my shame. They put their fingers and instruments inside me, where nothing had ever been until a few hours before. They hurt me there too. Everything down there hurt.
The doctor stopped once, to take a phone call. I thought it was his wife, because of the way he kept saying he’d call back soon so many times before he could hang up.
I stared up at the ceiling. First I tried to find shapes in the bumpy ceiling tiles, like the game children play with clouds. But all I found were faces. Inhuman faces, with wide, blank eyes and gaping mouths, swirled above me. I closed my eyes, but that was worse—they could come and get me. So I stared up blankly.
I was waiting for it to be over. Little did I know it would never end.
I’d trusted Jacob, sure. My friend, my pal. But even my adolescent mind knew he was fucked up, and with good reason, and we were both just stupid kids. I’d outwardl
y agreed with Shelly’s venom, but inside, in that part of me as confused and as hurt as Jacob was, I understood him.
I’d trusted these strangers far more. These helpers in the community, these pillars of society—doctors, nurses, policemen. They weren’t supposed to touch me, hurt me, humiliate me. At least Jacob had cared enough to hate me while he hurt me. These people were thinking about their shift ending, even while they had their fingers inside me.
When Jacob had touched me, I’d burned from the pain and the fear. When those men had touched me, I’d grown cold. Frozen to ice, never thawed.
In the present I felt the warmth of Colin’s touch at my back.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
I still felt the anger, the hurt, but those things were impotent. At least when you were small like me. So tired. And hell, I didn’t want to be mad at him. It probably made me weak, but that was nothing new.
I fought past the lump in my throat. “Give it to me.”
He paused. “What?”
“The way I want it. You know.”
I felt his indecision as my breath caught. He didn’t want to hurt me, I knew, but he’d want to do as I asked, because he’d fucked up. I didn’t even know if I wanted him to say yes or no.
“Okay,” he finally said, resigned.
Relief and panic warred within me, but both emotions were muted by the sharp pain on my wrist. Why did men always go for the wrist? They wanted to immobilize women, I supposed. Immobilize our hands, at least—were hands really so powerful? Then he tightened his other hand in my hair and yanked. Fuck. Yes, they were.
I slid down the side of the bed, where the hardwood floor slapped my face. My knees jolted as they hit the floor, and then again with the impact of Colin’s weight from behind.
All over, my body was twisted or crushed. It was perfect.
I surrendered. There’s a freedom in not having to move, not having to think, but knowing it would happen anyway.
My clothes were yanked out of the way, and then he was fucking me.
Each thrust slammed my head into the ground and my shoulders from their sockets. Ah, bliss.
My mind took up a chant. Hurt me, hurt me, hurt me. Make me hurt, cry, bleed. Make my outside match my inside. Help me get it out, because I can’t cry on my own.
And then my plea escaped my mind. “Hurt me, hurt me.”
“Oh, God,” Colin groaned.
“Hurt me.”
He reached around and pinched my nipple. I gasped. He pressed harder. Yes.
“Allie,” he said. It sounded like a warning. I couldn’t think.
The initial pain of his cock stretching me had passed. I wanted more. I tilted my hips back to meet him. He took the cue and grasped my bare hips with both hands. His fingers dug into me as he rammed my body onto his cock. Fuck, it hurt. Yes, more.
My mouth formed the words, but no sound came out. “Hurt me.”
“Fuck!” With a final, erratic surge and a long, almost painful moan, he climaxed. He slumped over me, crushing me.
He was right. Fuck.
What had I done? I couldn’t face him.
A tear slid down my face. That wasn’t strange. My face was wet—I’d been crying before we even started. But this one came from near my ear and slid down to my nose.
It wasn’t mine.
I jerked up, which only succeeded in slamming my body against his and then back into the floor. I finally threw him off, heavy and limp as he was, but he covered his face.
“Oh, Colin,” I said.
He was dressed, only his fly open. Like a drunkard staggering from a bar, he managed to stand and stumble into the bathroom. He slammed the door in a sick reversal of the scene in the motel that first night with him.
I just sat there on the cold floor, absently rubbing my bruised knees. What had I done? This was so much worse than I’d thought. It wasn’t just about turning myself into a whore.
I’d wanted to be hurt, but I’d hurt him.
Chapter Ten
Someone was watching me. I could feel it. If it was that damned cat in here again…
I opened my eyes to round, mischievous blue eyes. “Bailey!”
She blew out her lips, and wetness sprayed me. Nice.
I wiped my face with the sheet, wincing at the contact of fabric on abraded skin. “How did you get in here?”
“My fault,” Colin said.
I looked over at the bathroom where he was shaving with the door open. In jeans and nothing else, he looked delicious. How the hell did men get hip bones like that? Even though Colin was not skinny, nor really even lean, there they were. Mine were all padding.
“It’s no problem,” I said, pulling Bailey under the covers with me. She squirmed and kicked until she was free, lounging on Colin’s pillow like a princess.
I stretched, and my muscles screamed a protest. No, last night wasn’t a dream. Damn. I looked at Colin again, who was now pulling on a T-shirt, facing away. He headed for the door.
“Colin?”
“Yeah?” He definitely wasn’t looking at me.
I wasn’t sure what to say. I’m sorry for being so fucked-up, but you knew that when you signed up with me. Yeah, that’d go over great. They should print that on greeting cards. So I settled on, “What are you doing today? Want to hang out?”
“I’ve got to work. Early meeting.”
“Oh,” I said. “Okay.”
A beat passed. “If you want, you guys could come for lunch.”
“At the restaurant?”
He nodded.
The only time I’d ever been there was when I’d asked him out. He hadn’t asked me back. But here was an invitation, almost engraved. “Yes! We’d love to. Wouldn’t we, Bailey?”
“No,” she said.
“She means yes,” I told him.
“No, no!” she said. Goddammit.
Colin smiled faintly, I could see from the side, and then left the room. With a heave, I sat up and settled the pillows around Bailey. Then I went into the bathroom.
Oh, shit. That explained why Colin wasn’t looking at me. The left side of my face was…wrecked. It was all black, a little bit green, and my eye was puffy. Christ, it hurt more to look at me than it had last night. Maybe. I’d been pretty zoned out. He hadn’t hit me. More like the floor had hit me, slowly, in a long, painful punch that had pushed harder with each thrust from behind.
I’d be able to patch this up some—some ice and a heavy foundation job would do wonders. But for now I looked hideous. I fretted about whether to say something about it to Colin while I got ready, but when Bailey and I went downstairs, he’d already gone. Ugh, avoidance was contagious.
I puttered around the house, making breakfast and doing some chores, mostly waiting for lunchtime. My face was a half an hour project, so that was a nice distraction. In the right light I looked like someone who’d done a horrible job with her makeup. Looking like an idiot was preferable to looking hurt.
I packed up Bailey’s lunch in the kitchen. Hmm, dessert. I eyed the chocolate tart that I’d taken out of the fridge earlier. I did want some. Badly.
More importantly Colin might like it. He was freaked, justifiably, and possibly mad at me—also justifiably. It would be a peace offering, even if I’d initially made it for myself. I mean, if I gave it to him, he’d still share, wouldn’t he? Two birds with one stone and all that.
I wrapped the tart in plastic wrap and then bundled us into the car. It only took ten minutes to arrive at the restaurant, and then the unbundling process commenced. Finally Bailey and I sat at a table in the corner near the office hallway. I was debating whether to knock at the door when he emerged.
“You came,” he said, sounding surprised. That gave me pause. Did he think me so unreliable? Or worse, did he think our relationship was irreparable after last night? Please, no.
“Of course,” I said. “And I brought a cake. You do like chocolate?”
“You made it?”
“Yes…did you
notice the bowls and pots covered in black goo in the kitchen?”
He considered. “No.”
“Okay, that’s…disturbing. But yes, I made it. Do you have a fridge or something where it can sit?”
“Sure.” He took the tart from me and disappeared into the kitchen. I returned to Bailey and pulled out her lunch. I hadn’t been sure what they’d have here for her, so I’d packed the full complement—pasta, mixed veggies, and milk to drink. We hadn’t had much opportunity for eating out, but we’d been here before, at least. Bailey took to her restaurant high chair with aplomb. It was the eating part she struggled with. In minutes the floor around her was littered with lunch. So much for planning.
Colin returned and took a seat across from me. “I ordered for us already. Hope you don’t mind.”
“No, not at all.” I smiled, fishing for one from him. “I bet you know what’s best here, don’t you?”
He gave a short nod. He looked out the window, at the table, at Bailey crunching carrots—anywhere but my face.
I sighed. “Is it that bad?”
“Is what bad?” he said.
“My face.”
He looked at me, and then away. “Yes.”
Well, damn.
Our food came shortly. I suppose since he owned the place, he’d better get prompt service. So we busied ourselves with eating. When we were done, I offered to go back and find the tart, but he went into the back himself. I liked the way the employees looked at him, both with respect and a sort of affection that I recognized in my dealings with Rick. It was a contrast to the formality he’d been dealt at Philip’s house.
He returned and, for the first time that day, looked me in the eye. “I’m sorry.”
Crap, it’d probably ended up sitting on a lukewarm burner and melted or something. “It’s ruined?”
“Sort of. I put it in the back, and my manager thought it was available. He moved it to the front case.” He paused. “It’s gone.”
“Wait, like sold?”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Well.” So much for my apology cake. “That’s okay, I guess. At least someone enjoyed it.”
