Perfect Little Plan

by Jennifer Miller

  “Aw, isn’t that sweet? Are you concerned about me? Are you going to miss me, princess?” he asks, walking over to my side of the bed.

  “No. I don’t care where you go. I’m just surprised you would leave me alone.”

  An angry look flashes across his face and he leans over me, grasping my wrists hard, holding them up near my shoulders. I turn my face to the side trying to avoid him. “You better start caring, princess, or you aren’t going to like what happens.” Then he moves his hands to the side of my face, forcing me to face him again. He kisses me hard on the lips.

  As soon as he lets go of me, I wipe my face with the back of my hand. He laughs as he walks out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Throwing the covers back, I run to the door and press my ear against it – all I hear is murmuring on the other side. He must be on the phone again. It isn’t long before I hear a hard slam which I assume is a door closing. I think I’m alone; this could be my only chance for a while.

  I run to the sliding balcony doors and creep out onto the balcony. This is the first chance I’ve had to come out and take in my surroundings. Deacon told me when he locked me in this room that we are in the middle of nowhere and I could yell and scream as much as I want – no one will hear.

  Looking around, I see he was telling the truth. There doesn’t appear to be anything for miles. I’m too high up to jump down and tying my sheets together would be useless; I couldn’t even reasonably reach the ground.

  Frantically, I start running around the room, looking for something, anything, to use as a weapon. I search the dresser, the top of the closet, under the bed, the bathroom cabinets. “Dammit.” I can’t find anything.

  Running back to the bed, I rip the sheet from it and wrap it around my hand. Heading to the balcony doors, I brace myself. If I can manage to shatter the door, I can use the glass as a weapon. Please let this work. I take my fist and slam it against the door as hard as I can. I scream. Not even a scratch and all I managed to do was hurt my hand. In anger, I beat against the door over and over until I’m a heap on the floor. I pull my hand out of the sheet and glance at it. It’s beginning to swell, but I hardly feel it.

  There’s nothing here. Nothing. Feeling defeated, I walk back out onto the balcony and decide it’s worth a try, no matter what Deacon said.

  “HELP! PLEASE SOMEONE! HELP ME!” What do I have to lose? Maybe I will luck out and someone is around.

  I wait a moment and then try again.

  “HELP! I’VE BEEN KIDNAPPED. SOMEONE HEL…”

  Suddenly, I am grabbed from behind and dragged into the bedroom and thrown on the bed like a rag doll. I try to roll onto my back but instead a weight settles on my back, and my face gets shoved into the mattress.

  “Shut the fuck up, bitch.”

  The voice is not Deacon’s. I freeze as shock runs through my body from head to toe, paralyzing me in fear.

  “Lover boy isn’t here to save you. It might be worth facing his anger to shut you up permanently.”

  I don’t speak. I’m afraid to move. Who is this man? He moves off me so he can roughly flip me over. I stare up into his hard eyes. He’s not an attractive man. Light hair, pointy nose, and lips so thin they’re hardly there at all. He has a scar that runs from the tip of his eyebrow to the middle of his cheek. “Leave me alone.”

  “I don’t think I will… what does he call you? Princess? I don’t think I will, princess.” He says mockingly. Then, to my horror he runs his hand down the front of my body, squeezing my breasts painfully and then gripping my hip. His breathing starts quickening.

  “No, please don’t touch me.”

  “That’s right, beg, you bitch. Next time you will think twice about breaking the rules and trying to yell for help.”

  Oh God. He’s going to hurt me, or worse. I do the only thing I can. I start struggling. I kick my legs like a three-year-old having a tantrum. I throw my head back and forth and get one of my hands loose and scrape my nails down the front of his face. “Let go of me!” I scream.

  He roars in pain and touches the side of his face where I scratched him. The next thing I know I feel a hard smack on the top of my head. I see stars and I panic, afraid of what he will do to me when I can’t defend myself. Just as I start to lose consciousness, I hear Deacon yell, “WHAT THE FUCK?!” Against my will, I succumb to the darkness enveloping me.

  My eyes well up from that awful memory. I remember when I came to, Deacon was angry. “You don’t have to worry about Ronnie, princess, I took care of him. He will think twice about ever touching you again,” he said while stroking my face. My head hurt too much for me to react to his touch, until I realized I’m completely naked. I ran to the bathroom heaving into the toilet, not sure if I was sick due to the ache in my head – did I have a concussion? - or the fear coursing through me as I had no clue how I had ended up naked or what, if anything, had happened in addition to what I could recall.

  Deacon distracts me from my thoughts when he yanks open the closet door and grabs a box I’ve never seen before from the top of the closet. He turns towards me, and throws the box on the bed. “You will wear this to dinner tonight.”

  Opening the box, I pull out a slinky black dress that I can already tell will barely cover my body. “I’m not wearing that.”

  “Oh, yes you are, princess. We are going to have a nice, romantic meal, and you are going to wear that dress.”

  “I’m not dressing up for you, Deacon.”

  Faster than I can blink, Deacon is on me. I shrink back as much as I can, trying to avoid his nakedness from touching mine. Grasping me by the top of my arms, Deacon’s face is mere inches from mine, “You will wear the fucking dress, Olivia. This is not up for discussion.” As he speaks each word, he shakes me and squeezes me tighter, making me cry out in pain.

  “Deacon! You’re hurting me.”

  “Stop making me hurt you. Do you think I like this? Do you think I want to hurt you? Why do you keep making me hurt you? Just do what I tell you to do and we will be fine. I’ve told you over and over again that this is our future. You and me, princess. Once you accept that, the happier you’ll be.”

  “Okay. Okay, Deacon.” I force the words out of my mouth because it is the exact opposite of what I want. I’ve learned the hard way what happens when I don’t keep my mouth shut or if I don’t say or do what he wants.

  “Good. I will be back later. Make sure you are dressed and ready.” And with that, he grabs some clothes off the floor and leaves the room.

  WHAT MUST BE a few hours later, I’m running a brush through my hair. It’s one of the few personal items Deacon allows me. I have no idea what I look like. I have the hideous dress on and I keep pulling it down. The scrap of fabric barely covers my ass and my boobs are barely contained. I look like one of the very girls I tell all my readers on Pink Sugar Couture not to emulate. My inner fashion diva has officially curled up and died.

  Entering the room, Deacon whistles low, “You look hot, princess.”

  I feel revulsion internally and just stare at him. He’s dressed for dinner in what I can’t help but notice is a well-cut, charcoal-colored, European suit and tie. Where he gets the clothes, I have no idea. Not for the first time I wonder where we are exactly, and how this house is associated with him. The things that I don’t know about this man continue to shock me. How I was ever married to him, I don’t know.

  He walks toward me and places his mouth on mine. I refuse to open for him and I know it will only make him mad, but dammit, I hate feeling helpless in all of this.

  Pulling away from me Deacon looks into my eyes, “I’ll let that one slide, for now. Come with me.”

  Grabbing hold of my arm, already covered in bruises, I slightly wince at the discomfort, as he hauls me out of the room and down the hall. Bringing me into a large sitting room that includes a dining table, I see that he has set up a candlelight dinner. Dread fills me. What is he up to?

  Steering me towards a chair, I take a seat
- or more accurately, am seated. The table is set and there are even silver domes over what I presume are our meals. Deacon takes a lighter from his trouser pocket and lights the tall candles set perfectly in a silver candelabra at the center of the table. As he leans over, his suit jacket opens slightly and I see a gun tucked into the front of his pants. It certainly isn’t the first time I’ve seen it while I’ve been here, but it is just as disconcerting this time as the first. I secretly hope when he sits, the gun will go off and shoot his dick off. He certainly deserves far worse. I smile at the thought.

  Deacon, seeing the smile on my face, returns it with one of his own. “I knew you would like this, princess. I wanted you to see that we can have wonderful, romantic dinners like this. You don’t have to spend so much time locked up in your room. Once you finally realize this is where you should be, we can have dinner like this every night.”

  “I don’t want to have dinner with you every night. When are you going to get a clue, you fucking douche?”

  The smile that was just present on his lips quickly vanishes and anger seizes his entire countenance. I know I should just shut up and play along with what he says, but I can’t; I will never stop fighting. Not ever. I will not let him strip away who I am.

  After taking a few deep breaths, Deacon’s eyes once again meet mine, “Tonight, things are going to change. The time for you to start accepting that we are together again is right now. I’ve apologized to you over and over for sleeping with Tracey. I’m so sorry you walked in on that, but I’m done apologizing for it. I’ve forgiven the fact that you betrayed me with that man, so you will forgive me about Tracey. I know once you forgive me, we will be fine. Everything will be fine, princess, and we will be happy.”

  “Not for the first time, you are out of your fucking mind. Tracey was merely the straw that broke the camel’s back. I quit loving you long before that.”

  “ENOUGH! I am done being easy on you.”

  I laugh at that comment. Easy? He calls this easy? My laughter only angers him.

  He rips me out of my chair and yanks me against the front of his body. “You are my WIFE and you will do what I say. You will provide your wifely duties. You are no longer allowed to talk back to me.”

  “Fuck you, Deacon. I am no longer married to you. I don’t love you. I love Luke. I will ALWAYS love Luke.”

  He pulls me just far enough away from him to give him room to backhand me across the face. I feel pain, blinding pain, and taste blood in my mouth.

  “DO NOT SPEAK HIS NAME TO ME!” He screams. Then, while seething with fury, he continues, “I will not allow you to talk about the man you whored yourself out to. Do you hear me?”

  Before I can respond, his mouth is on mine. I want to throw up. He pulls me tight to him and I can feel that he is obviously turned on from the violence. His erection presses against my hip and his hands are all over my body. I’m stiff and don’t move, refusing to participate in his complete violation.

  Then suddenly, an idea enters my mind. It’s crazy, but it may just work.

  Hesitantly, I reach my hands out and run them up Deacon’s arms. He stiffens, surprised at my touch. I never return his touch. Leaving one hand on his arm, I cup the side of his neck with the other hand and start returning his kiss. When his tongue enters my mouth, I shudder and Deacon mistakes it for pleasure, pulling me closer and moaning deep in his throat. I grab the hair at his neck, and squeeze it into a fist, deepening the kiss while my other hand starts unbuttoning his shirt, one button at a time.

  Deacon pulls away from me and looks into my eyes questioningly. It kills me to do it, but I whisper, “I want you, Deacon. You’re right, we belong together. Kiss me.”

  He wastes no time pulling me back to him and kisses me hard once again. His tongue is brutal in its exploration of my mouth. He starts sliding my dress off of one shoulder and just as I reach the bottom button of his shirt, I quickly pull the gun from his pants and back up, pointing it at him.

  “Back the hell up right the FUCK NOW.” I feel like a bad ass. Finally, I have the upper hand and I feel euphoric.

  Shock is displayed all over his face. He’s breathing hard and his eyes are glassy. I can tell it’s taking him a minute to completely comprehend what has just happened. He takes a step towards me.

  “I SAID TO BACK UP, DEACON.”

  “You aren’t going to shoot me. You don’t even know how to use a gun.”

  Calling his bluff I click the safety off the gun and see his eyes widen.

  “That’s right, motherfucker. I guess you don’t know everything about me, do you?”

  “You won’t shoot me, Olivia. You don’t have it in you.”

  Deacon starts walking towards me again and I take a step back for every step he takes forward. Before I know it, my back is at the doors leading out onto a balcony. I’m trapped, but I refuse to give up. I reach behind me and open the doors, happy they aren’t sliding glass like the bedroom. The cold air takes my breath away.

  “Just give me the gun, Olivia. You don’t want to do this. Give it to me, and we will go back to dinner. I made your favorite, cheese ravioli. Come on, I will show you.” He takes another step towards me.

  I keep backing up, “I said stay away from me, Deacon. I am not afraid to use this. I will shoot you.”

  I feel the railing at my back. I don’t know what to do. I can shoot him and then try to find a phone and call 9-1-1. That’s what I will do. It’s all I can do.

  I grasp the gun with both hands, and before I can get off a shot, I see the intent in Deacon’s eyes right before he lunges for me.

  I overcompensate for his lunge and throw myself backwards, right over the side of the balcony. I see his eyes widen in horror as the gun goes off and he reaches for me, but it’s too late. I’m falling.

  The fall feels like an eternity, and my life flashes before my eyes as expected, but another thought occurs to me as well… where are parachute pants when a girl needs them?

  Whispering Wishes

  by Jennifer Miller

  MY BEST FRIEND is a lunatic. I’m pretty sure I misunderstood her, but then again, maybe not. And why should I be surprised? She is always giving me crystals and paraphernalia with supposed various benefits and instructions on what to do with it all. I have numerous chakra bracelets, books on meditation techniques and sachets filled with all kinds of oils and God only knows what else to fix something or help banish whatever ails me at the time. Why should this be any different?

  I’ll never forget the first time we met. Walking into my assigned freshman college dorm room, nervous, yet eager to meet my new roommate, I didn’t at all expect what I encountered. I was already feeling on edge about the fact that our cohabitation had been arranged rather than chosen, and feared that we wouldn’t get along or have anything in common.

  It was a sunny Saturday afternoon, and I had spent a fair part of the morning convincing myself that this would be a great experience. I practiced a friendly and warm hello that was now ready on the tip of my tongue. I entered, peeked over the boxes in my arms, and my practiced greeting quickly fell flat. Stepping into the room, I felt my jaw drop to my chest; my head slowly turn from side to side as my eyes bulged from their sockets. I was simultaneously seized with wonder, amazement, and a strange aroma. Part of me thought I should run and hope that I had misread the number on the door. My roommate had not only arrived ahead of me, but had decisively claimed her space. Half of the room was completely decorated. A large dream catcher hung from a wall, along with a tapestry full of sequins in a complicated pattern of bright colors. Sheer curtains hung from the window over one of the beds, along with a curtain of crystals. Incense burners sat on the dresser, one holding a still burning stick. A statue of Buddha was proudly displayed at the end of a row of books on her desk, and moving slightly closer, I read – or tried to read titles on their spines - certain they could not be associated with a chosen curriculum. Looking up, plastic glow in the dark stars like those I had seen in magazines as
a child, were stuck to the ceiling.

  All of that paled into comparison to my roommate, sitting cross-legged on her chosen bed holding some sort of rod-like object in her hands. Her eyes were closed and I became aware of gypsy like music playing in the background while weird sounds emanated from her mouth. Again, I thought to drop my boxes right there and run away screaming down the hallways, but instead, I counted to ten, took a deep breath, and stepped fully into the room to introduce myself. Who would have guessed that the strange girl would inevitably be my best friend? Perhaps if I had immediately used her Ouija board or crystal ball, I wouldn’t have been so freaked out.

  Blinking away the memory, I return to the conversation, “You think I should do what, now?”

  I take in Mischa as she sighs at me. Today she’s got her long dark hair in gorgeous waves that fall to her lower back. She’s wearing a long, flowing, chiffon tank dress that swirls about her legs when she walks. Her feet are bare, and she has gold ribbon tied around the top of her head. When she moves, I can hear the light jangling from all the bracelets, necklaces and anklets she’s wearing. While she may be a bit eccentric in her spirituality, she’s a true beauty through and through – and I really do adore her. Even though I personally don’t believe in any of it. I do listen, because it does matter to me, simply because it matters to her.

  We’re currently hanging out in her New Age Metaphysical store, Moonstones, and I’m watching her put away boxes of Tarot cards that just arrived in a recent shipment. “It’s simple, Aspen. I don’t know why you are having such a hard time with this. What is there not to understand?”

  I barely manage to keep myself from rolling my eyes at her. “I guess I just find it hard to believe that it really works.”

  “Like I’ve never heard that from you before. Need I remind you of other times you have felt that way? You won’t know if it works unless you try, now will you? In fact, it wouldn’t hurt you to have that attitude towards everything in this store, Ms. Cynic. And besides, what do you have to lose?” She’s looking at me with her big brown doe eyes and while part of me wants to laugh at her quirkiness, I never will, because even if I’m not sure about whether or not something like this will work, she is. Besides, I have to admit, I can’t imagine her not being this way. It’s a huge part of who she is. She is so sincere, so genuine. And the truth is, I wouldn’t have her any other way.