Black Roses (A Mitchell Sisters Novel)

by Samantha Christy

  Her mouth trembles as she reaches up to touch my face with tentative fingers, brushing them back and forth across the soft hair on my jaw. “Yes. I’m sure.”

  A longing like nothing I’ve ever experienced washes over me, my need to protect her is fierce. I trace my thumb over her quivering lips. “You’ll always be safe with me.”

  I sit back on my haunches and tear open the small square package. I watch her study me as I roll it on and then hover over her. She’s so fucking nervous. Her hands are shaking. Her breathing accelerates, causing short successions of hot breath to roll over my face. I watch her swallow.

  I can’t do this. I’m afraid I will break her. I reach deep inside for my willpower and gently pull away, but she grabs my shoulders, bringing me closer.

  “Mason, please. I’m sure.” Her tender, conceding eyes contradict her apprehensive movements.

  I’ve never wanted anything so much in all my life. “Sweetheart . . . ” I lean in to kiss her, the head of my throbbing dick begging for entry, riding the edge between too much and not nearly enough. I start to push in slowly, torn between savoring the surreal sensation of sliding up her tight walls and needing to keep her grounded. Sheltered. Safe.

  I won’t last long. I’m not even an inch inside her and I can feel my balls tighten. I close my eyes and try to think of something, anything, to hold off my own release so I can see her enjoy this.

  But then she lashes out, her arms flailing blindly. A guttural, painful scream tears through the air, making my heart tumble uncontrollably into the trenches of my clenching stomach. My eyes fly open to see her staring blankly at the ceiling, her eyes hollow as if nothing is behind them but an endless pit of fear.

  “No, no, no, no . . . ” her quiet plea shreds me, pummeling my body like blows to the gut.

  I was barely seated within her so I pull out instantly and roll to her side. “Piper. Sweetheart, it’s me.”

  “No, no, no, no . . . ” she chants with every quick breath, lost in a nightmare that I provoked.

  Guilt flows through me like hot lava, my mind wildly grasping at anything that could fix this. I take a deep breath against my rising panic and clench my teeth against the wave of helplessness. I shake her lightly. “Piper, look at me,” I command. “It’s Mason. Only me. You’re okay, sweetheart.” I repeat the mantra over and over, until she hears me.

  She looks around the room surprisingly, as if expecting to see something or someone else. Then she snaps out of it, recognition rolling in waves across her face as it contorts with a mixture of misery and embarrassment. She sighs, closing her eyes and pulling the covers over her naked body. She throws an arm across her face, shielding her eyes from me. “I thought I could,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

  I lay on top of the covers that surround her, pulling her close to me, spooning her without letting any part of my skin except my hands touch her. “God, no. I’m the one who’s sorry. I never should have pushed.” I run my hand gently down her arm, my fingers coming across her bracelet. I slowly trace the charm. “You weren’t ready. I should have known.”

  “You didn’t push me Mason. I wanted it. I want it. I’m just not sure I can.” I feel her chest rise and fall in a deep sigh.

  “Shhhh.” I hold her tightly and she lets me. We lie like this for long minutes, just listening to each other breathe. I need her to know I’m here for her. I need her to feel it. I’m all in.

  Shivers run down my spine as she takes in and lets out an insurmountable quantity of air. She’s about to talk. Secrets are about to spill from her lips. Horrifying, gut-wrenching secrets.

  “You know how when you wake up from a dream and you could swear it was real?” she asks. “How you can’t understand how something with such clarity and detail didn’t really happen?”

  I nod my head into her neck. “Yes,” I breathe my answer into her hair. I absolutely fucking know.

  “I’m not a virgin,” she quietly reveals, emotion breaking her voice. “But I don’t remember losing my virginity.”

  I stiffen, taking her hand as I brace myself to hear everything she has to say.

  “And I don’t know who I lost it to because there were so many boys. So many . . . ” Her words fall apart, trailing off as sick fear coils my insides.

  My brain takes a second to get from ‘I don’t remember losing my virginity’ to ‘so many boys.’ And then all of a sudden, my mind starts to put pieces of the puzzle together.

  She spills drinks on purpose.

  She can’t remember.

  So many boys.

  Fuck. My stomach rolls. Bile burns my throat and a rage I can barely control pounds at my temples. I try to push down my emotions. Because this—what’s happening right now—is huge. She trusts me enough to open up to me. Maybe she even loves me enough to do it.

  “Piper.” It’s all I can get past the colossal knot in my airway. I have to remind myself to breathe as I caress her arm gently. She needs to know I’m not repulsed by her revelation. And even though all words are lost to me, I try to reassure her with my touch.

  “I didn’t even know it happened. Not for a long time after,” she says in a troubled whisper that I strain to hear. “I was sore the next day. Really sore. I thought it was because I had started running with Charlie the day before.” She pauses and clears her throat, clearly uncomfortable as she continues, “There was some blood. But I was always a little irregular where that was concerned.”

  I get lost in the haunted sorrow of her voice as I brush her hair behind her neck and let my fingers attempt to rub some tension from her. My eyes fall onto her tattoo, making me wonder what it has to do with her assault.

  “I started having dreams. Flashbacks,” she says. “Each one revealing a clue to what happened to me that night. But at the time, I didn’t know the nightmares were real. They’re never the same. Sometimes I fight. Sometimes I run away. Most times though, I participate willingly.”

  Her breath comes in short spurts of air, tension rolling off her in palpable waves. “They say I was most likely drugged with sleeping pills since I never felt sick after. They told me it was unlikely I even put up a fight—that those drugs are meant to relax you and almost put you in some sort of alternate reality.”

  The aching throb in my chest turns into unrelenting fury in my gut. Anger clouds my brain and rage bubbles deep in my blood. I want to ball my fists and hit something; hurt something as deeply and as punishingly as she’s been hurt. It takes everything I have to lid my own emotions and offer her a comforting word. “God, Piper. I’m so sorry. I can’t even imagine—”

  Her neck strains as she looks back at me, cutting off the first words I could muster. “But you can imagine,” she says. “You might be the only one who can, Mason. I have no idea what happened to me that night. Every dream I have is a different version. I may never know what happened. Just like you.”

  Shit. More of the puzzle pieces fall into place. “The marathon. Did you see someone? One of your attackers?”

  She nods. “I think so. But I’ll never know for sure. He could have been anybody; or nobody. Or he could have been one of the guys who assaulted me. Or”— I feel the bunching and quivering of muscles in her neck—“he could have simply been a drunk kid at the party having a good time, clueless to the fact that he was raping a girl.”

  Oh my God. Her murky waters run far deeper than I can fathom. Flashes of my own dreams—dozens of them—shuffle through my mind. I know all too well what not knowing the truth did to me. It almost killed me. But with help, I got myself to a place where I could manage it. I wonder if Piper will ever be able to get there.

  I damn well plan on being around to do everything in my power to make sure she does.

  chapter twenty-three

  piper

  In a break between customers, I stare out the window, daydreaming about waking up in Mason’s arms this morning. I didn’t dream at all last night. The nightmares never came, and the reality of waking up with him after my revelation i
s better than any dream I could have conjured up anyway. Except maybe a dream where I get to live a normal life. Like a normal girl. A girl whose world didn’t come crashing down around her on her seventeenth birthday.

  I thought it would ruin me—ruin us—once he found out the worst parts of me. And although I feel lighter than air today, deep down, I still have reservations. After all, can anyone really know all the secrets of another? What if he can never accept what I’ve been through? What I’ve done.

  What if I’m not capable of being the kind of woman he needs? Sex is supposed to be good. It isn’t supposed to be this dreaded experience that takes you to the depths of your own fiery hell. Even Charlie seems to like it despite everything that happened to her.

  Still, he was right. It did help to talk about it. All those hours I sat on a couch with therapist after therapist, refusing to talk. Maybe if I’d just opened up to them.

  You have to tell him, Piper. Charlie’s words echo in my head. Would she approve—or would she scold me for leaving out pertinent details?

  The way he held me all night was surreal. As if he accepted all my faults. The ones he knows about anyway. He stayed on top of the covers, keeping the warm fleece sheet between us, strategically bunched up in the space between his groin and my backside, presumably so I wouldn’t freak out over his erection.

  My breath hitches just thinking about his penis. He thinks I’m scared of it. I guess in a way, I am. I’m scared of all penises and what they could do to me. What they have already done to me. But, his in particular seems to make my mouth water instead of making my stomach turn. Last night, before my total and complete meltdown, I would steal glances at it. When he wasn’t commanding that my eyes connect with his, and when his stare would inadvertently fall to my breasts—I would look at him.

  I wanted to take him in my hand so badly. So badly I thought I could do it. I really thought I could—

  “Hey, Piper.”

  Jarod startles me, pulling my gaze from the window.

  “What’s so interesting out there?”

  “Hi, Jarod.” I turn around and tighten the strings of my apron. “Nothing. Just taking a mental break, I guess.”

  “Oh. Well, what time do you get off today?” he asks.

  “I’m only scheduled to work lunch, so I’m off at two.”

  He smiles and I realize what I hadn’t before. He’s attractive. Handsome, even. His dark brown hair, his chocolate eyes and his olive skin all hint at a Latino heritage that gives him a slightly exotic look. The gauges in his ears add an edge to the overall picture, along with his full sleeves of tattoos which are presently covered up by his long-sleeved dress shirt. I’ve never looked at him this way before. I’ve never looked at any man this way. Not until Mason.

  “I’m off after lunch, too.” He shifts his feet nervously. “Do you maybe want to catch a movie or something after work?”

  Men have asked me out before. Lots of times, even though I try to remain anonymous and unapproachable. And I usually have no problem blowing them off and telling them where to stick it. But this is Jarod.

  I look around the restaurant and take in all the men here. Some sit with children; some with a group of men. Most are with what appears to be their significant others. But instead of emphatically assuming that each of them is a rapist—a conclusion my unyielding mind settled on years ago—I try to look past that pre-conceived notion and figure out their story. I realize I’ve changed. Mason has changed me. And not all men are monsters.

  Jarod and I are friends, so I feel kind of bad when I have to suppress the smile that’s threatening to curve my lips as I say the words I never thought would pass through them. “I’m sorry, Jarod. Thank you, but I can’t. I’m seeing someone.”

  His eyes meet the floor. Then he nods. “It’s Mason Lawrence, isn’t it?”

  I nod. I half expect him to rant about how, of course, any girl would choose a famous athlete over a waiter. I’m fully prepared to defend myself and set him straight. But he doesn’t utter a word about it. Instead, he says, “He’s a lucky guy.”

  “Thanks, Jarod,” I say as he walks away, swinging a towel over his shoulder in defeat. But, I’m the lucky one.

  I look back out the window and watch the busy world rush by, wondering if maybe I could fit in and be a part of it. Maybe I’m ready. Maybe I’m ready to move to New York.

  Maybe I already have.

  ~ ~ ~

  I float through the rest of my shift, the usual customer annoyances having little effect on me.

  Throwing my dirty apron in the laundry pile, I gather my things and head out the front door, dropping my phone when I collide with someone in my buoyant exit.

  Crap. I look down at my phone. I think I broke it.

  But before I can lean down to retrieve it, biting words lash out at me, dampening my mood much more than the broken phone. “Well if it isn’t Piper Mitchell, the very same one I saw leaving Mason’s building early this morning.”

  My eyes snap to Cassidy’s and an unwelcome pang of dread splinters through me like a warning beacon. “What were you doing there at seven o’clock this morning?” I ask, acutely aware of my silent gratitude to the many pedestrians bustling about us. “Are you stalking him?”

  Hatred clouds her hazel eyes. “I have every right to be there. He’s the father of my child.” Her lips draw back in a silent snarl. “And whether or not he realizes it, I’m the most important woman in his life and I always will be. Especially if he knows what’s good for him.”

  My mouth gapes open. “Is that a threat, Cassidy?” My body stiffens in automatic defense. “Are you telling me you’ll try to take Hailey? Because you’d be in for one hell of a fight.”

  Her deranged laugh causes the hairs on my neck to rise. “You don’t even know him,” she says. “You’ve been around for ten fucking minutes.” Her nostrils flare and her face reddens in anger. “I’ve been in his life for years. And I’m willing to bet he doesn’t know the slightest thing about you, does he?”

  Unease washes over me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I told you I thought you looked familiar when we first met, but it took me a while to put it all together. This morning, when I snapped a picture of you coming out of his building, it all started to make sense. It’s then when I remembered the picture I showed Baylor last year,” she says. “I thought it was her, but she set me straight.”

  Her apparent lunacy is starting to scare me, even beyond the whole she’s-taking-stalkery-photos-of-me feelings. But she has my full attention as she digs through her purse, pulling out what looks to be a weathered photo.

  She grips the photo in her hand, not allowing my eyes to fall on it. “When I was in high school,” she says, “I would go into the city for parties. Wild parties. I first saw Mason at one of them. He may not have known me at the time, and we didn’t hookup until college—” she pauses to release a sigh that drips with school-girl infatuation, “—but, he’s the reason I went to Clemson.”

  Oh, my God. Stalker is right. My unease is quickly turning into pure undiluted fear.

  “I only knew it was a matter of time before he fell for me. I was very, um . . . persuading.”

  Thoughts of her persuading him sicken my insides.

  “Anyway, back to the point.” She shakes her head as if pulling herself back from fantasy. “I know what went on at those parties.” She gives me a hard stare. A knowing stare.

  My gut clenches as jagged pieces of my nightmares slice through my mind. My lungs burn, begging for the un-replenished air that’s left them. My foreboding body falls back against the building for support.

  “Mason thinks you are some sort of prudish princess.” She rolls her eyes. “Snow White, was it? Well, Princess, I wonder what he would say if he knew you frequented those kinds of parties. If he knew you were the kind of girl who gets off when more than one boy touches you. If I told him that you like to suck some nameless guy’s dick while another one fucks you at the same time. Do
you think he’d ever look at you the same way? Do you think he wouldn’t be repulsed by the very sight of you . . . ”

  Gooseflesh ripples up my back as I try to keep the nightmares, the slivers of memories, at bay. Mason knows. I told him. So I shouldn’t let this get to me. But she pushes on, punishing my resolve by describing in detail what did or could have happened that night. Her repeated graphic verbal illustrations cause waves of nausea to roll through me. I feel the blood drain from my face. I fear I might faint, so I put my hands on my knees right before I horrifyingly lose my lunch on the sidewalk beneath me.

  Still unable to stand straight, I can feel her eyes burn into me as I glance up at her. The sheer desperation in my naïve eyes must betray me and I can clearly see the moment her mind erupts with comprehension.

  Evil distorts her face as she assesses me from head to toe. “Oh, my God,” she says, studying me, her eyes hard and cold like a freezing wind. “So Snow White isn’t a slut. She’s a victim.”

  If the contents of my stomach weren’t already spectacularly displayed in front of me, they would be now. My body begins to shake uncontrollably. But as I watch the scheming wheels spin behind her bitter eyes, the terror of her knowing my secret pales in comparison to what she says next.

  She shoves the tattered picture in front of me. My hesitant eyes take it in. It’s a picture of me. On that night.

  “So, Princess,” she says, malevolence dripping from her words. “Boys had sex with you without your consent? How can you be so sure he wasn’t one of them?”

  Tension closes like a fist around my heart as I look closely at the picture. There in the background, with his arm around the shoulders of another boy, is Mason.

  He’s so young. His soft, light beard hasn’t yet made its way to his face, but it’s unmistakably him. But what makes me wretch up more nothingness from my empty stomach is that the boy he’s with—he’s one of the nameless faces in my dreams.

  I clench the picture with shaky hands, crumpling it in my fist as I try to muster the energy to run. After all, running is what I do best. I take a deep breath. Then another. And as soon as my lungs fill with enough oxygen to give my body the will to move, I walk away. I walk away leaving my broken, shattered phone on the sidewalk in a pool of my vomit.