by Paula Cox
I stumble back, away from the angel, and spin as I fall. The momentum of her shove sends me right across the circle into the vending-machine fucker. Never one to waste a golden opportunity, I aim my fist as I fly. He yelps, but it’s too late. My fist pounds into the side of his head. A sound like cracking wood fills the arena for a moment. Then the crowd erupts into cheers. The man falls boneless to the floor.
I go to the other end of the circle, arms above my head.
Then I watch in disbelief as the angel who helped me to my feet walks across the circle and kneels next to my opponent, making as if to help him to his feet.
Who is this woman? I think, intrigued despite myself.
Chapter Two
Emily
A quiet life, I think, as I kneel next to Patrick. That’s all I ever wanted. A quiet, peaceful life.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. Sometimes at night when I close my eyes I imagine that Patrick is not my brother, my tormentor, my abuser. I imagine I find the strength to leave him. Find the strength from God, maybe; or maybe not. Anywhere I can find it. I become stronger than I ever dreamed and I tell him: No more. I won’t live with you. I won’t let you hit me. I won’t be a part of this madness.
But here I am, kneeling beside him in an abandoned warehouse.
That man . . .
He kissed me. Just kissed me. I don’t know why I helped him to his feet. He just looked hurt and sometimes, I can’t bear to see things hurt. But I didn’t expect him to kiss me, that’s for sure. But it felt good, didn’t it? You kissed him back before you remembered everyone could see, you don’t know this man, it’s not who you are. I tell myself I didn’t, but I’m lying.
I steal a glance at him now. Around mid-twenties, with an easy, carefree smile despite the surroundings. Dark red hair, cut short, with a shadow of red stubble. No freckles. His hands are covered in tattoos, making him look dangerous, the sort of man you cross the street to avoid. And yet I helped him.
He walks through the crowd to the organizer, a large man in a suit sitting on an umpire-style chair overseeing the fights. The organizer hands him down an envelope and the man nods. He weaves through the crowd, to the makeshift bar in the corner, hands the barman a note and takes a bottle of whisky. He swigs it and then drops onto a barstool.
“Patrick,” I whisper, prodding him as gently as I can in the arm. “Patrick, it’s time for us to go. I think they want to set up for the next fight.”
Part of me wonders what it would be like if Patrick never got up. Maybe that’s a nasty thought to have about your brother, but Patrick is a nasty man. Even now, as I kneel down, pain throbs from my ribs where his giant fist beat me last night. And for what? What did I do that was so dreadful, so unacceptable, so evil that I deserved to be punched? I forgot to rinse off the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. Patrick’s the only family I’ve ever known and I tell myself I love him, but I’m not so sure of it.
Slowly, his eyes blink and he rolls onto his side. Propping himself up on his elbow, he squints at me. “What the . . .” He shakes his head, groans. “What the hell happened, Emily?”
“You lost,” I whisper. “The other man hit you and you went down.”
As if that needs explanation.
“Oh.” He grunts as he tries to stand, wobbles, falls back down. “Are you going to help me or not, for fuck’s sake?” he snaps.
Biting down my pride—sometimes it seems all I do is bite down my pride—I take him by the arm and help him up. It’s not easy. He weighs at least ten tons and he doesn’t help himself, flopping in my arms like a dead fish. After around a minute of panting and pulling, he wobbles to his feet. He waves me away, as if already forgetting that I’m the one who just helped him up. He looks around the arena with big dumb eyes, mouth hanging open stupidly, and then he glances at the victor and then to me. I see the cogs working in his face, trying to figure out how, exactly, he got beat.
“We should go,” I say quickly.
He ignores me. I see the moment it dawns in his features, a sudden tightening.
He wheels on me. “You helped him up!” He makes himself big like a Silverback standing at its full height, intimidating. I shrink down, feeling like there’s nothing in this world I could do against somebody so much larger than me. “You did! I remember! Why the fuck would you do that, huh? And . . . And . . .” He spits onto the concrete. “You kissed him, too!”
He takes a few steps until he’s standing directly over me. I know his expression well. It’s the I’ve-got-you-now expression. The expression that says there’s jack I can do to stop the beating that’s about to come. I want to delve inside of myself, find the strength, find some iron, but he’s three, four times my size and I know if I fight, the beating will only be worse. None of the crowd steps in to help. He might’ve lost, but he’s still big.
I want the blood-flecked concrete to open up and swallow me, but life isn’t a fairytale and Patrick lifts his paw, ready to strike.
“You’re a slut,” he says. He states it matter-of-factly. I hear the little girl in my head, the little girl who believes all the cruel things he says: You must be a slut if he says it like that. He sounds so sure. It’s absurd, I know. But sometimes self-doubt doesn’t listen to reason.
He clenches his hand into a fist. “You made me lose.”
I feel rooted to the ground. His fist sails at my face. I wonder if he’ll break any bones, a detached part of my mind wonders.
But then a tattooed hand catches Patrick’s wrist. Patrick turns; the man is standing right next to him. “Hit a woman, eh?” The man growls. “Hit a fucking woman?”
Patrick tries to pull his hand away. The man flings himself forward and brings his fist around in a wide arc. Crack! For the second time tonight, Patrick goes down.
Chapter Three
Emily
All I can think when Patrick goes down is: I’m going to get it later.
When you’ve lived with an abuser for as long as I have—my entire life—you start learning the tricks. One of the tricks is to always appear to be on their side, even when they’re in the wrong. Especially when they’re in the wrong. All I have to do is make sure to appear to be on his side, and maybe I won’t get it too bad when he finally wakes up.
But when I make to kneel beside him, the tattooed-hand man takes me by the arm. Not hard, but not soft, either. A firm grip.
“No way,” he says.
I spin on him. “I have to make sure he’s okay,” I insist.
He stares at me with dark eyes. “That piece of shit was about to hit you. Look how damn small you are. He would’ve laid you out and for what? ’Cause you helped me to my feet? Pathetic. No way I’m letting you go with him. Who is he, anyway? Your boyfriend?”
“My brother,” I say. His hand is warm and strong. I can’t help but relive the kiss when he holds me so securely.
I glance down at Patrick, unconscious but breathing, and try to pull away from the man. He shakes his head. “No way,” he repeats, voice stern.
“Listen to me, Mister Whoever You Are, if you don’t let me go to him, I’m going to—”
“I’ll kill him if he touches you,” the man states flatly.
I roll my eyes. “Look, I don’t need a knight in shining armor, okay?” Are you sure? A voice asks. Are you one-hundred percent sure of that, Emily? Maybe a knight in shining armor is exactly what you need.
The man shakes his head stubbornly. Then, before I can react, he bends down and picks me up by the waist. I let out a wail, but I’m sure there’s as much thrill as fear in my voice. He throws me over his shoulder, my arms flailing at his back, and turns away from Patrick’s prostrate form. “What are you doing?” I demand, voice breathless.
“Getting you out of here,” the man says.
He begins carrying me toward the exit. The crowd loves it.
“Look at him go!”
“There’s a brave man!”
“Saving the girl!”
&nbs
p; Everybody’s drunk or drugged-up and nobody steps in to stop him. He carries me up a flight of stairs, maneuvering me as though I weigh nothing, and out into the pitch-dark night. Across a parking lot and to a car.
I should be pounding on his back with my fists, kicking out with my legs, desperate to get back to my brother. But the truth is, I’m intrigued. I know I shouldn’t be. I know it’s wrong. My brother is laid out back there and here I am, not even putting up a good fight to get back to him. But when this mystery man lays me in the back of his car, I don’t dive for the handle. Instead, I sit with my hands in my lap, trying to catch my breath. There’s something about his touch. Conflicting voices scream at me. Go back! But he’s interesting! But what about when Patrick wakes up? Can’t a girl go on a ride of her own every now and then? Not you, Emily! You know that! But this is the first exciting thing that has ever happened to me.
That last thought seals it. Always, it’s Patrick, Patrick, Patrick. Everything happens to him and I’m just along for the ride, his quiet sister, his obedient sister, his beaten sister.
When the man starts the car, I don’t jump at the door. I look at him in the rear-view mirror instead. His cheeks are flushed and there’s a cynical smile on his lips. He looks in-control as few men do.
“My name’s Jude Kelly,” he says.
“Emily Ness,” I mutter.
“I’m taking you somewhere safe, Emily Ness.”
I should fight, I should scream, I should break the glass and leap out into the street if that’s what it takes. But I don’t do any of that. I lean back in the passenger seat and watch as New York drifts by, the lights and the partiers and the twenty-four-hour stores. Jude drives us to a block of apartments and stops outside.
I’m about to step out when he walks around the car and opens the door for me. “I can carry you again, if you like.”
I step into the street. “I can walk,” I say shortly, still wondering what the heck I’m doing. I think of Patrick, back there, still out cold. Or maybe not out cold anymore. Maybe on his feet and swearing bloody vengeance. I swallow; there’s going to be pain when I return. But for some reason, that isn’t enough to stop me from following Jude through the lobby, into the elevator, and up to his apartment.
His apartment is a one-bedroom place with a lived-in look. Clothes are strewn across the floor and empty beer bottles rest on the coffee table. No pictures hang from the walls. The only decoration is a large flat-screen TV which sits in front of the couch. Jude waves at the couch and I sit down, pushing aside a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. Jude brings me a glass of water. I drink it down, savoring the coolness on my throat. I didn’t realize how hot I was until I drink it.
I lay the empty glass on the table and Jude drops onto the couch next to me. I turn, realizing he’s looking at me. There’s a heat in his eyes, an intensity I’ve never seen before. His eyes are hard. His body is harder, every contour outlined under his clothes, packs upon packs of muscle.
His eyes move up and down me, from my toes to my face. A shiver runs down my spine. I should stop this, I think. But a man has never looked at me like this before. Despite myself, my body starts to respond. Shivers, tingles, a tickling sensation between my legs.
“You’re beautiful, Emily,” he says.
When he leans across and kisses me, I should shove him away, or even just turn my head to the side. But I just want to taste it, if only for a moment. When his lips press into mine, I take in a long, deep breath. I’ve never moaned because of a kiss before, but there is sound escaping my throat. I don’t think; I open my mouth and push my tongue forward. He meets me, and for a while our tongues dance, clashing. Nerves tingle and dance down my tongue and over my body. Then he reaches his hand across and presses down on my pussy. My pussy! I should push him away. This is beyond bad. But I can’t.
The pleasure is too much.
He breaks off the kiss. His lips are red. The mood I’m in, suddenly his red lips are sexy, a sign of our kissing.
He slides off the couch and kneels in front of me, hands working at my pants. He unbuttons them, pulls them down, along with my underwear. I’m bottomless, pussy right there, naked. I should cover myself, but I don’t. My clit is aching like mad and when he brings his face close to me, I don’t moan in resistance. I moan in encouragement.
He grabs my thighs, parts my legs, and then shoves his face into my pussy. His tongue darts from his mouth and licks my clit. Oh. My. God. I’ve never felt pleasure like this. I’ve touched myself sometimes, in the shower, or in the dark under covers, but its never felt like this. He teases my clit at first, circling it with his tongue, and then he licks it with full power. Pressing his tongue down so hard it feels like a burning rod, pushing firmly into me.
I lean back on the couch, letting my head roll, and start moaning louder and with more passion than I’ve ever moaned before. He digs his hands into my thighs—hands that just beat the crap out of Patrick!—and licks faster. Soon, his licking turns my clit into a fire-hot orb. A ball of pleasure so hot I’m surprised it doesn’t singe his tongue. He licks with more ferocity, trailing his tongue up my lips, down to my hole, and then with a quick jerk back to my clit.
I’m moaning louder and louder now, and then—
Oh . . .
My . . .
“God!” I cry.
The orb of heat explodes and the orgasm rocks through me. I feel as though I am being thrown about the place, from wall to wall, crashing. I sink my fingers into his hair and press his face closer to me. Pleasure explodes. I moan louder, with more hunger, and then the orgasm surges through me one last time.
“Fuck!” I roar, shocked at myself for cursing.
When it’s over, Jude rises to his feet, offers me his hand, and leads me to the bedroom.
We flop down, side by side.
“Damn,” he says.
“Damn,” I agree, hardly able to catch my breath.
Chapter Four
Emily
We lie in silence for a time. Pocketed silence, a silence just for us, because outside New York is as loud and lively as ever. Horns honk, people shout, alarms blare, cars backfire, tires screech. But inside, lying side by side in Jude’s bare-walled bedroom, we are silent.
After a while, the madness of the lust passes and I come to my senses. I take a blanket from the end of the bed and drape it over my naked legs. “That was something,” I say, suddenly aware that I’m half-naked in a strange man’s apartment. That he just went down on me and gave me the best orgasm of my life, easy.
“It was,” he agrees. “Don’t know what came over me. Guess I couldn’t stand to see that big bastard hit someone so small and vulnerable.”
“Who says I’m vulnerable?” I shoot back. Is it that obvious?
Jude shrugs. “Just a guess,” he says. “I had to take you. I couldn’t let him do you like that. It’s too fucked up. Why does he treat you like that?”
I feel a wall rise inside of me. It’s the same wall that’s risen many times before, the wall that blocks me from revealing just how awful Patrick is, just how scared I am of him. “It’s not that bad,” I murmur.
“Right.” Jude laughs gruffly. “Of course it isn’t. And pigs fly every damn day. I saw it, Emily. I saw just how bad it was. Trust me, I know a thing or two about the bad shit in this world.”
“What, you’re a philosopher as well as a kidnapper now, are you?” There’s acid in my voice. “I should tell you. My brother’s a very dangerous man.”
“Not as dangerous as a mob man,” Jude says absentmindedly.
A mob man. That would explain the tattoos. What have I gotten myself into?
“Maybe you aren’t so different, then, you and Patrick. Neither of you take my feelings into account. You just picked me up and—”
“I didn’t hear you complaining just now,” he cuts in.
I feel myself blush. “That was different.”
“Different, how?”
“I . . . I couldn’t stop it.” My voice is
weak, but I’m telling the truth. It really felt like I couldn’t stop it.
“And the moaning, the begging, the screaming? What was that about?”
“Oh, shut up.” I sigh. “Maybe I did like it.”
“There’s no maybe about it.” With a groan, Jude climbs to his feet. He walks to the door. “I’m going for a drink. You can rest up or join me. Choice is yours.”
“I’m going to lie here awhile,” I tell him.
He shrugs and goes into the living room, closing the door behind him.
