by Hill, Sierra
“The art dealer. We met her at the exhibit last month. We’ve hung out a few times and it just so happens her uncle works for the Sox and offered up the tickets. Unfortunately for her, she’s out of town at another art show in New York this weekend, otherwise she would have been my date. Instead, I’m left with your ugly ass to tag along. And believe me...I would definitely prefer Jenni’s hot little ass sitting next to mine over yours any day.”
“There’s nothing wrong with my ass,” Mitch balked, making an act of turning his head to mockingly grab his butt. “You’re just jealous of my perfect David-like gluteus maximus.”
Jax snorted as he stood up. “You just keep thinking that, my friend.”
Five minutes later, they had decided they’d get changed and head down to the pub before taking the T down to Fenway. The idea of catching the game and a few beers had already lifted his mood and Mitch was excited to see the Red Sox pull out another win in the post-season, and maybe even take a pennant. Possibly another World Series.
Ready to close up shop for the day, he glanced once more at his Inbox. A new email from Sasha M. Lee, MD caught his attention. Clicking the email to expand the view, he read through the professionally written correspondence.
To: Mr. Mitchell Camden
From: Sasha M. Lee, MD, Lee & Associates
Date: October 8
RE: Change in your therapist
Dear Mr. Camden,
Due to a scheduling change, I’d like to inform you that Rylie Hemmons, MPT, will no longer be available. Effective immediately, your new therapist will be Carmen Flores. Carmen has over twenty years of experience and is a highly regarded physical therapist.
As we have previously arranged, Carmen will continue to provide you with your in-home services, so there will be no interruption in your schedules or create any inconvenience.
Thank you for your continued patronage.
Best Regards,
Sasha M. Lee, MD
Lee & Associates
WTF?
Mitch all but roared as he read and reread the email. What in the world was this all about? This couldn’t possibly have anything to do with what happened between them, could it? Well if it was, this was a ridiculously childish thing for Rylie to pull.
There was no doubt in his mind that they had a powerful attraction, which he felt instantly when he met her at the bar the other night. And that heat seemed to only intensify and gain momentum the more they were together. He could only describe it as a hungry desire. Was it possible that she didn’t feel the same way? Was that the reason she withdrew so suddenly? Was she just trying to get back at him for leaving her wet and unsatisfied?
Mitch felt a sharp pang of regret. Maybe he had brought this on himself, given how he had left things earlier in the day. He certainly hadn’t meant to leave her high and dry, given the compromising position they had both been in when the doorbell rang. He had been caught off guard, and more than a little surprised, by her physical reaction and response to his kiss. He’d wanted to keep tasting her, run his hands up and down her beautiful body before their little interlude was interrupted. It pissed him off to have to leave Rylie in that state of desire. In his own state of desire – he was hard as a rock. Damn, if he could just go back in time. She was so warm and tasted like sunshine on his tongue. He wanted more of that feeling. More time with her, to devour her. That girl made him want to be a better man.
Each one of her touches blazed through him. They turned him into the equivalent of the Greek god Dionysus, making him burn with ecstasy. He wanted – no, had to – experience more of her. This would not be the way this would end, not if he had anything to do with it. And when Mitch wanted something, he got it. He would fight this and he would win. He would get what he wanted, come hell or high water.
Without even a second thought, Mitch began to type out an email response to Sasha Lee. To say he was demanding or unrelenting in any of his pursuits was an understatement. Mitch would not be deterred and would use his power and influence to see that his wishes became reality. Every facet of his life was governed by this personality trait. Some people, like his mother, found it to be ‘willful.’ His father was glad to see him put the family gene to good use.
It took less than two minutes for Mitch to write out a terse reply and hit the Send button. Feeling more in control of the situation, he closed his laptop and headed downstairs to meet his friend for an evening of beer and baseball.
****
Rylie’s nightmare started just as it always did. It’s a warm summer night, just after dusk, as she’s walking through Boston Common. The breeze blowing gently at her back, the stars up above peeking quietly out from under their bluish-black blanket, she shrugs off her backpack to remove her jacket, revealing a green tank underneath. Hefting the bag back over her shoulder, she is aware of male voices coming up from behind her. She turns her head slightly to the left to peer behind her, but sees no one. Her pace quickens.
The hairs on the back of her neck begin to prickle.
The next thing she knows, her bag is being savagely ripped from her arm, the strap catching in the crook of her elbow. She tries to free herself, but she stumbles instead. Trying to regain her balance, she looks up into a face that is shrouded by a black hoodie. A noise from her other side causes her to look in that direction, another hooded head and face. A dark pair of menacing eyes glare from under the baseball cap. Then a low, dangerous laugh escapes his lips, which are turned upright in a threatening smile. His hot, vile breath comes out in a rage of sound against her ear.
“Don’t move, or you’ll die.”
The kernel of panic rises from the pit of her stomach, a volcano of hysteria lodged in her throat, choking her from the inside out. Unable to formulate a word or a sound, she lays there in silent fear, terror stampeding through her veins. Her father had taught her what to do in a situation like this, but nothing would come to her. She felt panic-stricken and paralyzed.
The bigger one is now on top of her, pinning down her arms. His fingers pull at the strap of her tank, yanking it down past her shoulder. Her skin crawls. She wants to gauge his eyes out, but she can’t. She struggles, pushing her shoulders off the ground, but he takes her head in his hands and slams her back down.
It momentarily goes black, the world around her. And then she hears a ripping sound. She blinks, trying to refocus, but her head hurts. She feels something warm in her eyes. It’s blood. Oh my God, I’m bleeding.
The man is breathing hard and his rough, sweaty hand begins to grope at her breast. His touch is rough. Criminal. Sinister. She hears him cackle. She hears the word No being repeated over and over again. Is she saying it out loud? His face comes down to her body, his wet slobbering tongue inching over her flesh, tasting her. Groping her. Ruining her. She feels the man on top of her grind against her, his rigid body rutting hard against her. She hears him groan and then from far off in the distance, she hears shouting. Someone calling out.
The second man is whispering in a harsh, nervous tone. “Fuuuck, man. Let’s get the hell out of here. Just get her fuckin purse.”
Another loud sound, this time closer. A whistle, like the sound a referee makes. The man on top of her curses and pushes himself off, but not before his tongue darts out and licks her cheek. “Next time, pretty baby. Next time.”
The two hooded men look around, grab her bag and take off, leaving her momentarily frozen, chills skating down her shaking limbs. She is now surrounded by other voices...helpful voices...covering her naked and bruised body.
Are you okay?
Someone call an ambulance.
Her head’s bleeding.
Sweetie, it’s all right. You’ll be okay.
But she knows that’s not the case. She will never feel okay again.
Rylie jerks out of bed, the sweat clinging to her, sending hot and cold shivers down her spine. Her entire body is a live wire – humming with electricity, her hands balled into fists. She’s shaking uncontrollably and her ha
ir is matted against her forehead, her T-shirt and shorts soaked through. Flipping to her side, she leans over to look at the clock on the nightstand. Four-thirty a.m. Great.
She had to be up and out of her apartment in three hours and she needed to get back to sleep, but she knew at this point sleep would elude her. Instead, she was drenched in sweat and wide awake – frightened and anxious. Goddamn it. Those fuckers.
Getting out of bed, she slipped off her shorts and shirt and found a new set in her bureau. She headed into the bathroom where she splashed some cold water on her face and grabbed a washcloth to wet and smooth over her forehead and the back of her neck. Slipping the tank over her head, she glanced up at her reflection in the mirror, letting out a curse as she gripped the sides of the sink.
When would this panic ever subside?
It hadn’t dissipated in over five years. Only four people in the world, aside from herself, knew what occurred that night; her father, her brother, the beat cop who took her statement and Sasha. No one else was the wiser. Rylie made sure of that. There was no way she would ever let anyone look at her with pity in their eyes or offer up banal platitudes or sympathetic gestures like they did that night in the hospital. She had been mugged, attacked and beaten, left feeling violated and helpless in the heart of the city. It took everything from her, leaving her a withering mess.
And all she could do was swallow the fear and tamp it down. No use crying over it, because that would just be a travesty. There were few things worse than expressing your feelings in the Hemmons’ household. And therapy or counseling? Don’t even think about it. Even if her brother wouldn’t have kicked her butt for showing weakness, there was no way Rylie would have subjected herself to having discuss the details of the attack with strangers.
So instead, and by accident, Rylie found a way to lose the victim mentality and take control of her fears. She learned, through a then-boyfriend of Sasha’s who was an instructor, about a form of self-defense and martial art called Krav Maga, the same self-defense system that the Israeli Military used and trained their soldiers. At the incessant urging of Sasha, she attended Kip’s class one Saturday morning. And as they say, the rest was history.
Blown away by the natural and effective techniques that Krav Maga used, including moves from boxing, Judo, wrestling and Kung Fu, Rylie found herself instantly enjoying the instinctual body movements and simple principles of the martial art. The fluidity of the moves, the concentration required, and the total body workout gave Rylie exactly what she yearned for – the control over her life. Without hesitation, she signed up for classes, fell in love with the sport and within a year, became a certified instructor.
Now she was teaching other young women every Saturday morning at the Cambridge Rec center, helping those who were like herself once – fragile, ashamed and afraid learn to fight to win their freedom back.
Realizing that sleep at this point would elude her, Rylie reached for her laptop and placed it on her lap, as she got comfy in bed. Might as well do some web surfing – at least that could get her mind off her woes. Checking out the late breaking news for a bit, then moving to look at the Nike Outlet site for the newest running shoe, it only took her ten minutes before she found herself typing Mitch Camden in the Google search engine. 975,000 results. Hmm…okay. How about Mitch Camden, Boston? The first result that flashed up on the page was Camden Ventures. Clicking the link, she pulled up the Home page for Mitch’s business.
Doing a quick scan of the contents and the current projects, she clicked the About Us page. It brought up two bios, including one for Mitch and another one for a Jackson Koda, Esq., the same guy that was with Mitch at the bar the other night. Nothing against Jackson, but she was far more interested in the juicy details on Mitch.
Rylie read through a brief description of his education and accomplishments, very impressive, followed by some comments about his philanthropy and charity involvements. For such an asshole, he certainly had a caring side, she thought, scanning the pictures. Clicking the photos page, her breath hitched as she landed on a headshot of Mitch. He was in a charcoal gray suit, white dress shirt and a deep green silk tie, that brought out the emerald flecks in his beautiful hazel eyes. Damn, he was gorgeous. Flipping through a few more, she saw pictures of him on various project sites, and what looked like a trip to Africa, where he was feeding a group of children.
In one particular photo, his golden smile lit up his face, his angular jaw transforming and softening his features. His deep hazel-green eyes, hooded by sooty, thick lashes, sparkled like sea glass in the sun. He had his arm around a young boy, who was maybe about five, and another man who was wearing military fatigues. Mitch looked gorgeous, his smile depicting a light she hadn’t seen yet. And the other man he had his arm around had strikingly similar hazel eyes and a wide, perfectly straight smile. They all looked happy. She could see love and a deep bond between the two men. His brother? He had to be related to him in some way, their facial expressions and likeness too similar not to be.
In the few encounters and short time she’d known him, she’d never seen Mitch this contented. Sexy, yes. Incredibly handsome, absolutely. But she sensed something was missing right now. He didn’t have the same gleam in his eye that he did in that photo. Interesting. She’d have to see if she could pick up on that if she ever saw him again. But that was unlikely, considering what she asked Sasha to do for her.
She must have been staring at his smiling face for five minutes and caught herself sighing as she continued to look at his full lips, upturned into his bright smile. Her body suddenly felt overheated, the memory of their kiss flooding back, spreading straight through to her core. Her finger came up to touch her lips, the memory of his lips skimming down her neck and his hands caressing her breasts. The warm tingly feeling invaded her body and she realized at that very moment that even the thought of Mitch turned her on.
She hadn’t allowed anyone to touch her like that since before her attack. Five long, painful years of keeping her pain hidden and he was her first. And instead of repulsing her, bringing back horribly vivid flashbacks, Mitch’s touch ignited her. It was pleasure and it was wrong, she knew it. But it felt right. It made her feel whole.
Rylie closed the website and sighed again. She didn’t understand why she kept thinking about Mitch or worried about what occurred between the two of them. She shook her head, trying to clear her head and make herself forget. She had to remember that Mitch was just a playboy. She was a game to him. He probably got off on the chase and once he got what he wanted, she’d be erased from his thoughts.
It didn’t matter, anyway, because come Monday, everything would be wiped clean. Mitch would no longer be her client to worry about, she made sure of that. She had beseeched Sasha to find a way to extricate herself from Mitch’s case. She groveled and begged until Sasha granted her request.
Rylie climbed back into bed, placing her hand on her stomach, trying to ease the knot that had slowly begun to build in the pit of her stomach. She knew, without a doubt, that Mitch would move on, forgetting her existence in a moment. She breathed deeply, trying to reassure herself that this would mean she could resume her normal, everyday life. No entanglements.
But even that thought now depressed her.
CHAPTER eight
By some sheer act of mercy, Rylie’s Saturday morning Krav Maga class went relatively smoothly, even though she was slogging through it with the limited sleep she’d gotten the night before. Her four regular students showed up, as well as two new participants, who all had the same deer in the headlights look. She got excited to see their expressions change over the class hour as the intensity of the workout brought them the same unexpected exhilaration she had felt the first time she practiced it.
Finishing up at five minutes before the hour, she spent time after class meeting with the newbies, discussing the program dynamics and reviewing the specifics, costs, and their goals. She was always curious to find out what others wanted out of self-defense, as it
was a different and unique experience for each individual. She learned that not everyone came out of fear and self-loathing. Damaged beyond repair.
With her bag and gear packed, Rylie walked out the gym door, waving a goodbye to Kip, who was at the front with a client, and headed to her car. She spoke with Sasha the night before and promised to swing by and pick her up before heading to Logan to see Mark off to Africa. As if she knew she was thinking about her, Rylie’s phone chirped with a new text from Sasha.
Where are you?
Rylie sat down in her front seat and typed a quick message back.
BRT…leaving class now.
Hurry up.
Rylie chuckled to herself at her friend’s impatience. Sasha was a lot of things – a fashion plate, a doctor, an over-sexed woman. But patient, she was not.
Within fifteen minutes she was out front of Sasha’s Beacon Hill brownstone, watching Sasha fly down the steps, her short, gauzy skirt billowing in the breeze. She was impeccably dressed, day or night, and always a little bit wild. There were times Rylie felt a tinge of jealousy at her obvious talent for accessorizing, wishing she herself could put something together other than T-shirts and jeans. She’d certainly improved over the years, with constant nagging and counsel from Sasha. At least she’d even gotten to the point of rotating the earrings she wore on a daily basis – which was a vast improvement. She had her limitations, she knew, regardless of Sasha’s constant badgering.
Jumping in the car, Sasha leaned over and gave Rylie a quick peck on the cheek, slapped on her seatbelt and pulled down the visor to reapply her lipstick in the mirror, all within a matter of seconds. Sasha was efficient, to say the least, if not a bit anal about her lipstick application.
Satisfied with her painted pouty lips, Sasha smacked her lips together and adjusted herself in the seat to turn to Rylie.
“So…do I need to drag it out of you?” she asked, not beating around the bush with a formal greeting.
Rylie gave her a quick look over her shoulder, pulling into the fairly vacant street traffic.
