“I should’ve fucking gagged you.” I’d heard his angry murmur and I’d shrunk back even deeper into the corner, my back pressed into the bedroom wall. I’d clamped my mouth shut so tightly that my jaw started to ache.
I’d shrunk because I knew what he could and would do with his hands and it hurt.
And not the good kind of pain. At least I now knew that there could be a good kind of pain.
He’d taught me that at least.
At first.
Lured me in with the sweetest pain and then wham!
I shake my head briskly from side to side to knock the memory loose. I don’t need or want to think about that right now. There are more important things occurring at this moment. One being driving and trying to shift gears all while my hands are cuffed together. Did I mention that? This is by far the scariest thing I’ve ever experienced in my entire life. Not to mention ranking right up there with one of the dumbest.
Even scarier than when I watched his fist heading towards my face as if it was flying through the air in slow motion. Too bad I hadn’t had moves like they did in the Matrix and could’ve floated over the air backwards and missed the actual hit. I pictured that move in my head over and over it seems a zillion times. It didn’t stop the fact that I’d felt all of the pounds of pressure that accompanied that punch.
And I had.
Every bit of it.
I start counting.
A nervous habit.
My go to move when I don’t have a clue what else to do to calm my nerves.
I count backwards from one hundred to give me something else to think about. Anything else besides the hatred he so obviously feels for me. He can’t love me. Can’t love me and hurt me at the same time. Not pain for the sake of pleasure, but pain for the sake of pain. Isn’t that different?
Doesn’t that make a difference?
Ninety-two, ninety-one, ninety—
Unfortunately, my lack of focus has me skidding once again across the ice. I have to admit, sliding across the ice in slow motion might top the fist, at least at this second. It’s impossible to say what I will think might be the scariest thing tomorrow, but for now it takes everything I have to quiet my breathing, separate myself from my mind, and remain calm as my blood pressure spikes and my breathing grows erratic.
Eighty-eight, eighty-seven, eighty-six—
This time I don’t stop. I spin and spin and spin and I count and count and count until my Jeep flips over and I finally pray, which is sure to make my grandmother beam with pride.
Pray that this isn’t it.
Pray that the last moments of my life aren’t filled with regret.
Pray that I’ll have another chance to fill my life with goodness and happiness and love or at the very least pleasure.
Pure unadulterated sinful pleasure, if I have anything to do with it.
My heart pounds like a hammer working powerfully at getting those last few millimeters of a nail into a board and I’m finding it difficult to breathe as fear squeezes my lungs like a vise. I suck in a deep breath and then another in a fruitless attempt to ease my fears. I not only feel my heartbeat, I can hear my heartbeat and it blocks out all other sounds except the frantic intakes of my breath as I start hyperventilating.
So I resort to counting some more.
Start where I left off. Fifty-six, fifty-five, fifty-four...
Hmmm…now I find that odd. Out of all the things to remember, I remember where I left off counting? For some odd reason, at that moment, I’m sure having a difficult time remembering much of anything else. I have to think of something. Anything to soothe my rapidly freakin’ out nerves so I settle on watching each breath crystalize with each puff of air. Laughable, considering that means the heater isn’t working properly, which should freak me out even more, but all it does is give me something to concentrate on instead of losing it completely.
Now keep in mind, if someone had walked up to me yesterday and said, ‘Hey, Kimberly, you’re fixin’ to be hangin’ upside down in a Jeep shiverin’ with enough force to make your teeth chatter like a cartoon character,’ I would’ve scoffed at ‘em.
Yep. Scoffed loudly and vigorously.
I mean really? Stuff like that only happens in the movies, right?
Okay, so I’d use the word scoff.
I like that word. It has such a delightful ring to it. It reminds me of a lady snorting inelegantly behind her fan in the midst of a crowded ballroom. An old worldly quaintness about it that reminds me of my grandmother and brings a hint of a smile to my face even though she annoyed the living daylights out of me at the best of times.
Besides scoffing loudly and vigorously, I’d roll on the floor laughing until my sides ached from the pain of it because nothing that thrilling ever happens to me.
Nothing!
I unquestionably count hanging upside down in a Jeep quite thrilling in an ‘I never want to do this kind of shit ever again in my life’ kind of thrilling.
If someone asked me even an hour ago how I got where I am now, I don’t know if I’d be able to fully answer. But being in the predicament I currently find myself, it makes me question how I could knowingly open a door and step through it not knowing where it leads. Sort of like Alice and the rabbit hole. Unfortunately instead of being subjected to what some might consider a fun psychedelic mind trip, I get a freakin’ black eye, busted lip, and a whole lot of unnecessary crappy life experience. And how once, even knowing where it led, I still allowed myself to stay. I didn’t think ‘Hey this isn’t what I expected, sayonara.’
No. Instead, I froze up like an air conditioner unit left on when it got too damn cold outside.
It is moments such as this that bring clarity.
When there’s nowhere else to go, no place to run, no place to hide, no noise to interrupt the thought processes.
Moments such as this when I’m finding myself hanging upside in my Jeep with nowhere to go, I realize I’d do just about anything to get out of this God awful mess I’ve made of my life. Nevertheless, I don’t recall adding hangin’ upside down in my freakin’ jeep as one of the escape routes.
Fuck this shit.
Pardon my French.
Even though I hope my grandmother hears every one of the curses floating around my head from her heavenly resting place seein’ as how she’s probably the only Sinclair that has and will ever make it to those parts. The rest of us aren’t holding out much hope for the streets paved with gold guarded by angels dressed in flowing white robes with halos adorning their curls at the Pearly Gates. More like Dante’s Inferno nine circles of hell kind of expectations.
If any moment in life deserves a good cursing, it’s got to be this one.
And once again I’m fixin’ to do it loudly and vigorously.
Still I would’ve never guessed in a million years that I would really be hanging upside down in a Jeep.
It seems a little too unrealistic.
A little too commercially, cheesey, actiony movie kinda drama right down to the last second rescue before the bomb explodes and I go flyin’ in the air kinda crazy shit.
Definitely not the kind of life I normally lead.
Twisting in my seat, I lift my arms straining against the seatbelt. Jerking at the latch as best I can but it’s stuck and won’t budge all because I had to finagle it around me anyway. Damn difficult with handcuffs. I can’t release the catch, can’t break free, can’t control the shaking that’s taking over my body. It seems I can’t control much of anything anymore. My head pounds and my eyes fill. My body falls limp, weak from fear and I have to choke back an unwelcome yet weirdly therapeutic sob. I want so badly to curl up in a ball right now but even that’s too much to ask.
I turn back to the window and the only thing I can see is white sparkling snow falling and I finally freak out one hundred percent. That’s when I let out a scream to end all screams. Psycho movie kind of scream. I scream as loud as I can for as long as I can until my throat is raw like it is being ripp
ed out and then I droop.
How long have I been here? Five minutes? One hour? It seems like an eternity.
The Jeep’s long since died, the cold’s beginning to seep in through the glass, and the snow continues with its relentless fall.
I just hang here listening to my breathing, growing colder by the second. Shivers rack my body and my breath clings to the air in glittering crystals before evaporating right before my watering eyes.
Luckily the moonlight reflecting on all the snow, along with the beam of the headlights, keeps the inside of the jeep from becoming pitch black or I can just imagine where my fertile mind might wander.
This particular circumstance is leaving me with way too much time on my hands and a mind fraught with an enthusiastic imagination and unreserved contemplations of the dark.
The only thing that could make this any better is if a flashlight would magically appear so I could hold it up under my chin. Then I could at least spend the time entertaining myself with ghost stories and gigantic sasquatches or any number of even more frightening monsters of the night to pass what seems to be an interminable amount of time.
I drag my eyes from the view outside in order to concentrate on stilling my mind and huff out another icy breath. That lasts for all of five minutes, so I give up and turn my head to watch the snow drifts pile higher and higher against the driver’s side window. White fluffy snowflakes that float to the ground in what I would normally consider a beautiful dance upon the frigid night air but not tonight. And definitely not while I’m hanging upside in my Jeep.
I take five deep breaths, counting slowly with each one. One—two—three—four—five.
“Help! Help! Help!”
I yell for so long, my throat aches and grows even hoarser than before. I struggle and jerk against the seatbelt, my trembling fingers scrambling against the latch, but still nothing.
I count again. One—two—three—four—five—six—seven—eight—nine—ten.
Drawing in another deep breath, I wince at the sharpness of the pain as the seatbelt bites into my flesh.
“Oh please God, help me.”
I shiver some more watching as the snow falls harder and piles even higher against the window. And just when I think there can’t possibly be anything to distract me from this situation, one potent memory races to the forefront of my mind. Granted, I don’t know how good a last memory can be when it includes the humiliation of walking around practically naked in a semi-public place and remembering a man that I found other-worldly gorgeous being intimate with some other woman. But it’s the only memory I have of him, so it will have suffice.
Warmth blooms in me as I think back on that night. I’d watched as his talented hands stroked over the woman’s curvaceous body as he oversaw her pleasure by administering that sweet pain.
With that thought, the adrenaline pumping through my body decides to wane and I’m suddenly fatigued beyond the point of being able to keep my eyes open. There’s only one thing to do at a time like this, so I make the decision to close them for a second. Just a second.
I work at consoling myself by picturing myself curled up on my white microfiber sofa in front of a large roaring fire wrapped up in a thick fleece throw with a book clutched firmly in my hands. A cup of hot chocolate waits for me on the coffee table with marshmallows floating on top like little clouds. Real fluffy marshmallows, not the little prepackaged dehydrated marshmallow wannabes.
Yep, that’s right. I’ll read a book.
A real book. I inhale deeply at the idea like I can actually smell the pages.
Yep, I’d sit wrapped in my thick fleece throw in front of the roaring fire drinking hot chocolate with real marshmallows while reading a book from cover to cover without interruption. With that thought, the panic in my body begins to recede.
My eyes fly open and I feel light headed for a second. I take back everything I just thought. Then I let my eyes drift closed again. I’ll go back to the club, find him, and kiss him and perhaps much, much more. Another round of warmth seeps into my veins replacing the heat from my lost adrenaline, warming me through and through.
Then like a miracle, out of the darkness I see flashing blue and red lights from behind my eyelids. Slowly blinking them open, I send up a quick, heartfelt prayer and tell myself right then and there that I’m gonna kiss whoever gets me the hell outta here.
Life is too unpredictable.
Life is definitely way more complicated than it should be.
Life is by far too short to live with regrets.
I say I’ve done more than enough of that to last me a lifetime.
No more.
Chapter Two
A proper lady will avoid familiarity in her behavior towards gentlemen
The sweep of a flashlight briefly illuminating the inside of the Jeep sends waves of relief flooding my system and easing my mind. I choke out a sob. “Oh, thank God.”
My eyes fill with another batch of tears. I hear the soothing, deep resonance of men’s voices outside my window and just like that, all the tension that’s held my body prisoner for the past few hours melts away and a moan of relief escapes my lips.
I barely make out the gleam of light on dull silver right before the snow is shoveled from my door making a clean path. A loud grating noise that affects my spine like nails on a chalkboard causes me to shudder and wince at the pain of the movement just as the door is wrenched open.
Now I can’t say that I’ve never had a fantasy about rescue workers or firemen before, but never in my life did I actually think that real live firemen wearing thick khaki pants with yellow stripes and big black boots would be crouching outside an overturned jeep with me in it.
Just when I think I’ve died and gone to sexy man heaven and that I’m more than likely hallucinating, another big body crouches down eclipsing all the others. Except this one’s wearing a cowboy hat that unfortunately shields the majority of his face from my eyes.
Now I can say that I’ve never been one to fantasize about cowboys, but he looks mighty fine in his cowboy boots and tight faded jeans that stretch over his thickly muscled thighs in a way that makes me think they might split like Bruce Banner’s when he morphed into the Incredible Hulk. One can dream.
My head buzzes from too much blood and too much thinking. It’s the only reasonable explanation I can come up with. I have to work at regulating my breathing and staying cognizant to what’s actually going on around me.
The cowboy is the first to lean inside and I can’t help but stare. He steals my breath with his masculinity. He’s kind of a large man. That’s my favorite kind. Broad-shouldered, lean, exuding an over-abundance of confidence that makes me weak with longing. I suck in a much needed lungful of air and try to respond to the jumbled talk, I really do, unfortunately nothing but a gruff, raspy mess comes out. My tongue’s thick and swollen so I’m forced to swallow several times in order to coat the back of my throat with what little saliva I can scavenge and finally manage, “This is like a crazy dream, right?” My eyes flitter sightlessly around, then back to him. Stupid question, but that’s exactly how I feel. Gorgeous guys never come to the rescue except in movies and in dreams.
I squint, but still can’t fully make him out in the dim light. Still can’t distinguish one feature from the next, but I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s smiling at me. I bet it’s a beautiful smile.
It sounds like a beautiful smile.
“Hi, sweetheart.” The man in the cowboy hat’s deep, dark voice sounds marvelous to my ears as it penetrates my muddled brain flowing over my spine like thick melting chocolate feels sliding down my throat. Sweet deliciousness that brings about a heated flutter in my lower belly representing unwanted trouble and unneeded temptation. Exactly what happened the last time. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. If only I could bang my forehead with the heal of my hand, I would. Hard.
“Hi.” That one word comes out as a croak and is barely audible with the muted chatter of men’s voices outside the j
eep. A feeling of utter exhaustion encompasses my body and everything I look at is a blurry mess. I blink my eyes rapidly to get a clearer view of the man with the chocolaty voice but his face is still obscured by the brim of his hat as well as shadows. No matter how hard I try to make him out, it’s just too damn dark.
My lips curl up on one side. The other side hurts too bad to participate, but if it could it would. Cowboy hat. Boots. Boots and a cowboy hat. Nice.
“What put that pretty little smile on your face, sweetheart?” His voice is gravelly, yet soft and steady that does things to my insides. His commanding presence and soothing tone calms me, making me finally feel a sense of safety, of peace, and I haven’t felt that way in forever.
“This has got to be a dream. You’re like the Lone Ranger or something, aren’t you?” As soon as those words leave my lips I know I’m delirious. Lone Ranger? I groan and squeeze my eyes shut in mortification. Where the hell did Lone Ranger come from?
D-E-L-I-R-I-O-U-S.
And if he asks, I’m gonna blame it on dehydration, sleepiness, pain, and any other valid feelings and reactions associated with trauma that pop into my head.
He pauses in his inspection. “I’ve never been compared to the Lone Ranger before, sweetheart.” His voice is tinged with humor. He nudges back the brim of his hat with his thumb, just like cowboys do in the movies, finally revealing his face. He chuckles at my gasp for air. I stare at him and even though I can’t see myself, I know my eyes are opened as wide as they can possibly go, well, at least one of them. My mouth hangs open even wider and a shiver courses through my body making goose bumps erupt over my flesh.
God, he’s magnificent, the very epitome of the Marlboro Man from ads of old.
Rugged, tanned, square jawed, and his eyes finally visible with thick dark brows lifted high on his forehead. God his eyes. Stunning. If eyes are truly the windows to the soul, I want to take up residence in his dark, sensual pools and stare at the wonders they behold.
When You Only Need To Ask (The House of Sin: The Beginning) Page 2
