I took a deep breath and a sip of water. Ronan looked as wiped out as I felt. He had a look of disbelief on his face, and I saw him shake his head more than a few times.
“My ex’s only flaw in his twisted plan was that I was supposed to be at the event at seven that evening, so when I didn’t show up by eight-thirty my co-worker and friend Brendan came to my house looking for me. Brendan saw me tied up in the chair through my window. He ran in and saved my life. My ex bolted as soon as Brendan rushed through my front door along with the two men I didn’t know. But, his friend Ron stayed and tried to fight. He was no match for him physically because of his inebriated state. Brendan rushed me to the hospital. Before we left my house, he had to dress me because I was indecent, wearing fragments of torn and bloody clothing. I begged him to help me shower and wash the alcohol from my hair. I didn’t think about the rape. I just wanted to be clean. I will never be able to thank Brendan enough. I owe him my life.”
Blowing out a deep breath, Ronan asked, “Are these guys in jail?”
I hung my head and tried to push back the sobs. Ronan would never understand what I was about to share with him. I swallowed hard saying, “No…well yes… Ron and my ex went to jail that night, but it was because they were picked up for drunk driving and drugs. I have no idea about the other two. I heard rumors they fled to Mexico to live with family.”
Confused, Ronan asked, “So what happened next?”
“They were only in jail a few hours. Ron and my ex were given a year of community service.”
Ronan stood up from the bed, pushing a hand through his hair and saying, “Christ! Community service for rape and domestic abuse! That’s not a punishment. It does not fit the crime.”
“That’s California law. Each case is different, Ronan.”
“Wait. There is no way that would be the punishment.” He paused, turning away from me. “No, Holliday. There’s something you’re not telling me.” He looked back at me, calmly asking, “What are you holding back, Holliday?”
I swallowed hard, muttering, “I didn’t press charges for the rape or the beating. No jail time was served by my attackers for the crime.”
“What? Why not? Holliday, that’s fucking stupid! Rape, that’s a serious crime!”
Tears started flowing down my cheeks. Ronan dropped to his knees beside the bed. Clutching my hands, he said, “Oh God. Holliday please, I’m sorry. Forgive me, I’m not yelling at you. Please stop crying. My heart can’t take this, seeing you cry.”
Releasing me from his grip, I wiped away the tears with the back of my hand and said, “I know it was stupid, but Ronan he threatened me. He said if I told anyone he’d hunt me down and find me.” I stammered a bit and then cleared my throat. “When I got out of the hospital, he paid me a visit at my house. In that moment he told me he would kill me. He said he knew of plenty of places in Death Valley to bury a body and no one would ever find me.”
Ronan had become angry. His nostrils flared as he clenched his teeth. Letting out a loud scream of frustration, he attempted to throw the San Pellegrino bottle against the wall, but all he did was wildly wave it through the air.
I went on to explain to Ronan how I told my mom to sell my house and that I wanted to live with Charlotte in New York City. Actually, Charlotte ordered me to come to New York City, and I was all too happy to leave California behind. I covered my face and began crying again. Once he heard my sniffling sobs he placed the bottle on the nightstand, crawled into the bed and held me. He rocked me until I finally fell asleep in his arms.
When I woke up it was a little after eight. Ronan was sitting on the bed next to me in a pair of blue pajama bottoms reading The Hollywood Reporter on his iPad.
“Hey sleepyhead, how was your nap?” he inquired softly, kissing my cheek.
“I need to get home. I have to go to work tomorrow,” I said half-dazed.
“No beauty, you’re staying here with me tonight.”
“Ronan, I can’t. I don’t have anything to wear. No pajamas, no clothes for tomorrow, and I don’t have any of my beauty products or my toothbrush.”
“I called your sister, Charlotte, nice gal by the way,” he said with a wink. “I persuaded her that you would need a few items, and she packed you a bag. I also called my girl at Saks and had her put together some special items for you. Go into the bathroom. You’ll find all of the things you need to stay the night with me, and if you don’t have something let me know. I will send Dean out for it.”
My mouth dropped open. Ronan sweetly lifted my chin, pressing my lips back together and let out a soft chuckle in doing so. I slipped on a black lace silk chemise that Ronan had neatly laid out for me at the end of the bed and walked into the bathroom. He had purchased all my beauty care products, including my favorite peppermint lotion and shower gel. All the items that Charlotte packed for me were hanging neatly in the closet along with the green Burberry dress that I’d tossed aside like garbage my first night with Ronan. I opened the top drawer to find the loveliest colors of lace, silk and even cotton undies with a few matching bras.
“Now when you stay with me you don’t have to pack a toiletries bag,” he said, grinning from ear to ear.
“What makes you think that I would want to stay here with you, Mr. Connolly?” I teased.
“Don’t you want to stay with me?” He frowned and gave me a pitiful although adorable pout.
Walking back to the bed I leaned over and kissed him deeply, thrusting my tongue into his mouth. He returned my kiss with the same forcefulness, finding my tongue over and over with sweeping gradual grazes. I’m pretty sure he got the message from the kiss that I wanted to stay with him. He pulled back and stared at me, those green eyes dazzling. I fisted a few of his dark locks in my hand. He must have taken a shower while I slept. His hair was still damp. I climbed onto the bed, straddling my legs over his muscular thighs. He pulled his knees up and I slid down onto his pelvis. Ronan wrapped his arms around my back while he ran his tongue the length of my neck. Soft kisses fluttered along my jawline.
“Ronan, I need you,” I said. He grabbed my face and pressed his lips against mine, drawing my bottom lip into his mouth. Ronan began gently rubbing the scar that he’d found on my back, tracing his index finger over it again and again, sending a chill up my spine.
“My beauty, I want to take this pain away from you. I want to rid your body of this scar. I want to rid your body of these scars too,” he said as he moved his hand in between my legs.
“Ronan, even if we remove the scars physically, that night will still be in my memories.”
“I hate that I can’t take this pain away from you.”
“Ronan please,” I said, my voice barely a whisper.
“I just want to help you by removing the scars.”
“Why?” I frowned. “Is it because the scars are too painful for you to endure?” I asked. My voice was a bit shaky. “Do I… do I repulse you?”
“Oh, Christ no, Holliday, that’s not what I meant. I don’t want anyone to hurt you ever again. I won’t let anyone hurt you ever again.”
Tears ran down my face. “Why do you want to protect me Ronan? You barely know me.”
He grazed my cheek with his thumb, wiping away the tears. “I know what I feel. I know that for some amazing reason you’re the best thing that’s come into my life in a long time.” The smile faded from his lips and his face became serious. He looked at me and said, “Tell me his name.”
“Whose name?” I said, tracing my finger along the length of his jawline.
“Your ex.” He paused for a moment, searching my face for a reaction, and then continued. “Holliday I need to know the name of the man who hurt you.”
“No, you don’t need to know.” I shook my head. “He won’t bother me, Ronan. He hasn’t come after me in two years, for all I know he’s forgotten all about me.”
Ronan’s dark eyes narrowed as his body stiffened. He ran his hands through his hair and let out a deep sigh. Seeing the frus
tration in his expression, I could tell he needed to be calmed down. I kissed the temples on his forehead gently, running the tip of my nose down the side of his cheek where his stubble tickled my lips. He gripped my hips as I began to move over him, grinding my pussy up and down the length of him, creating a delicious friction. Tipping my chin to his mouth, he brushed my lips with his. I covered his mouth with mine and began rolling my tongue against his, kissing him— it was slow and wonderful. He trailed his fingers underneath my new lingerie, slightly brushing his thumb against my clit. I let out a low moan and Ronan pulled back; his face was as white as a ghost.
“What’s wrong Ronan?”
“I… I… don’t want to hurt you.”
This happens sometimes. Guys begin to think I’m a china doll, fragile, ready to crack at any moment if they touch me intimately.
“It’s okay Ronan you’re not the first man who thinks he needs to handle me with care,” I said reassuringly. “I know that there is this strange theory that once a woman has been raped sex is no longer a source of pleasure. The act of sex, fucking and screwing has been replaced with a boat load of emotions— pain, fear and sadness. Every victim’s story is different, but I need you to understand I am not sexually broken. I like sex. Rape is not a form or sex, rape is a crime— it’s assault. Sex is a wonderful and amazing experience— it feels good. Assault is traumatizing.”
“I think I understand.”
Lucky for me, the first man I had sex with after I was raped was very kind and understanding. That relationship, although short, did me a world of good both emotionally and physically. Maggie once told me, “Your healing process is your own. You’re going to have good days and bad. Holliday, you’re allowed to trust again. You’re allowed to love sex— you won’t break. If you do, the right man will help you put the pieces back together.”
“Ronan, I assure you I will not break if you fuck me. Did I break earlier?”
He shook his head and said, “Only when I made you come so hard you were weak in the knees.” A slow smile spread across his face.
“Exactly.” I smirked. “Now, do it again. Fuck me Ronan Connolly. I want to scream out your name in pleasure.”
“Okay, my beauty. Just remember you asked for it,” he said, as a wicked grin crossed his lips.
Ronan Connolly looked positively gorgeous leaning back in a wooden chair as he read the morning paper in his York Hotel penthouse. His tight grey V-neck t-shirt hugged his well-trimmed upper body in all the right places. I watched him for a few moments in silence, drinking in the sight of him as he sipped his coffee and shuffled the paper. The early morning light poured through the sheer white curtains of the master suite as I lay there smiling and staring at the insanely sexy Irishman. Glancing at the clock on the nightstand, I noticed it was a little after seven a.m. For the first time in a year and a half I was going to be late to work. I had sent a text to Charlotte late last night telling her I’d be in the office at ten. She was fine with it, probably because she knew I’d spill all the dirty details of my sex-filled night with the dashing movie star as soon as I got to work. I tried to quietly sit up in the bed, but the sounds of my legs stirring under the covers attracted Ronan’s attention.
“Good morning, beauty,” he greeted me while folding the paper in half.
“Good morning,” I replied cheerfully.
“Did you sleep well?”
Stretching my arms up over my head, I nodded. I loved the way he called me beauty. The only other person who had ever given me a nickname was my father, Jay, who called me Grace. I was terribly clumsy and awkward before I hit puberty. Lean and lanky, I was all long limbs with knobby knees coupled with a hideous unibrow and overbite. Thank God for waxing and braces correcting my beauty ailments. Roller-skating and swimming helped me to overcome my uncoordinated demeanor. I sometimes felt like I was an ugly duckling surrounded by nothing but gorgeous swans.
Once I turned fourteen, it was like I became a different person overnight. I began to develop my breasts and natural curves. By the time I was sixteen, well, let’s just say my step-father Perry nearly had a stroke every night when I left to go on a date with a guy. I would have thought he’d had plenty of practice with Charlotte, but I guess it’s never easy letting your daughters walk out of the house with good-looking hormone driven teenage boys.
Charlotte has always been worshiped by men. To me she was the most beautiful feminine creature. Slender and tall with golden blonde hair, like the warm California sun, and sapphire blue eyes that were both mysterious and sad. Only our mother, Helen, and I could see the sadness in her soul. I suppose we all had that same sadness in us. Even though we all looked completely different physically, with good reason since Charlotte and I were both adopted, we couldn’t have been more like-minded for any three people who didn’t possess the same DNA.
My mother, she’s equally as beautiful with shoulder length, raven hair that never seems to lose its luster, become frizzy or turn grey. She has perfect pink lips, long legs, and big brown eyes that warmed any man’s heart, causing them to trip over themselves to be in her company. And you’d never ever catch Helen Elizabeth Prescott Chambers dead in anything other than a designer label. Even if my mother had the flu she’d still put on a pair of YSL pumps.
Helen never seemed to age either. Well, maybe that’s because she has had a few surgeries to keep her body in top form. She was born dirt poor in a trailer park outside Tucson, and her only mission in life was to be an adored trophy wife. She was just that for a while until she found herself bored and Perry bought her a restaurant in Malibu to manage. Now she’s an adored entrepreneur, but still a trophy wife nonetheless, because Helen really only makes appearances. She lets her right hand, Andrea, do most of work. My mother’s posh five-star restaurant, Tradewinds, is always filled with celebrities, the extremely wealthy and tourists. The modern gourmet eatery has been featured in several TV shows and movies, which is always good for business. I suppose deep down my mother truly does have a strong will to work hard in her blood. It was her looks, attention to detail, determined attitude and charm that landed her the job at a financial firm as my dad’s secretary where they fell deeply in love and were married a year later.
My parent’s marriage survived eleven years after my adoption. Charlotte and I came home from school one day to find our father’s lifeless body slumped over the dining room table. Jay Christopher Prescott, Executive at Windsor Bradbury Trust, dead at forty-four years of age of a heart attack. My dad couldn’t handle being a father for two young girls, a doting husband and a successful financial business executive all at once.
Charlotte and I went to the best private school in Southern California. My sister took dance and piano while I went to swim camp and took tennis lessons at the club with a private instructor. To keep up with the Joneses, dad made several financial investments during their marriage. Unfortunately most of those were bad decisions. He never told my mom that he had lost nearly all their money. She found that out after the funeral— we were devastated, nearly broke and my dad was gone. Dad never told her that she couldn’t have anything, and my mother never thought to ask about the status of their bank accounts or credit.
My mother was pretty demanding as a wife. Dad did everything humanly possible to keep her suited in Chanel and drenched in Cartier. Hosting various charity events, attending glamorous dinner parties that entertained clients, she kept up her duties as the prominent executive’s wife, including spending money faster than my dad could replenish it. Spontaneous shopping sprees, days spent at the spa and lavish trips to Europe and the Caribbean where no expense was spared were often taken, keeping my mother overjoyed. Happy wife, seemingly happy life was the motto my father lived by.
No one realized how much my father was suffering from carrying the stress of providing for his family and keeping secrets, yet never having an outlet for to release his bottled up emotions and frustrations. He turned to drugs and the bottle for the release, but that ultimately took its tol
l on his mind and body. We never knew he had a problem until his toxicology report proved otherwise. Then there was the stash of pills, booze and cocaine we found in the garage and the unannounced visit we received from his dealer one afternoon trying to collect payment. My dad owed this guy nearly $3,000. That was an interesting afternoon— my mother interviewing my dead father’s drug dealer while they sat sipping black coffee one Saturday in March. I guess she charmed him well enough because he said he was sorry for her loss and not to worry about the payment. In fact, he handed her all the cash he had on him and told her to use it to take care of those two sweet girls.
My mother quickly fell into a deep depression after my dad died, but just as quickly, after only two weeks of mourning, she snapped out of it. Men all over from Los Angeles County to Orange County and beyond had stopped by to see if the widowed Helen Prescott was doing okay. Once my mother realized she was being pursued by some of the wealthiest, well connected and successful men in Southern California she dried her eyes and went to work on finding her second husband. This time around Helen Elizabeth Prescott was going to marry for money not love.
Love. I’d never been in love. I thought I was once with my first college boyfriend and maybe Shia LaBeouf, but if anyone ever told me I’d be in the throes of passion with a real life movie star like Ronan, I’d have scoffed at the not-in-a-million-years fantasy notion.
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