She reached up to tie her hair into a haphazard knot on top of her head. With her arms raised, her lush breasts glowed in the moonlight as her nipples peeked out to bob above the water line. Another day, I may have been instantly turned on. But today, her simple movements had a calming effect on me.
She leaned back to slide further under the water. She caught my stare and afforded me a small smile. In that instant, I was completely lost in her. I returned her smile and silently wondered what it was that I did to deserve this angel that had come into my life.
We both quietly sipped our cocktails for a time, the bubbling of the jets and the billowing steam creating an almost hypnotic atmosphere. Krystina had settled back and her eyes were closed. However, her brow furrowed on occasion. I could almost see the mouse spinning the wheel in her head.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
She peered open one eye to look at me.
“Honestly, I'm wondering if it's okay to ask questions now.”
“Fire away,” I offered, although somewhat apprehensively.
“Where was your mother on the day that your father was killed?”
“My mother," I spat out bitterly. The mere mention of her grated on my nerves and instantly broke the tranquil atmosphere in the hot tub. “The last I saw her was that morning before school. She made oatmeal for my breakfast, kissed me on the cheek, and told me to have a good day. I haven’t seen her since.”
And I haven't been able to eat oatmeal since that day either.
Krystina sat there shaking her head in disbelief.
Yes, angel. Believe it. She abandoned us.
“Since your mother was no where to be found, what did you do?”
I knew she would ask, but I hesitated.
Trust her. She deserves to know it all.
“Even though I was only ten years old, I knew enough to understand the severity of the situation. My father was shot dead and I found my sister with the gun. I could only draw one conclusion at that time. I was also still filled with guilt over not protecting Justine from my father’s abuse. I thought that maybe, just maybe, this was fates way of giving me a second chance. I reacted without thinking.”
“Reacted how?”
"Justine was acting strange. Looking back, I realize now that it was her mind’s way of protecting her from a traumatic experience. However, I didn't know that at the time. I only knew that I had to help her somehow. So, I went back into the living room and retrieved the gun. I put it in my school bag and left the house, leaving her alone with my father's dead body. I headed towards the nearest subway station. I rode the train for a while, trying to decide what I should do. Eventually, I ended up at the Harlem River.”
I stopped, afraid to tell Krystina the rest. She sat there wide-eyed with her glass frozen midway to her lips, waiting for me to continue.
“The Harlem River?” she coaxed.
“The police never found the gun that shot my father. I threw it in the river, effectively destroying all evidence that would lead to the truth.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion.
“Are you saying that you still don't know who shot your father?”
“There are theories. Some by the police, others belong to Justine or myself. My mother’s disappearance, of course, made her suspect number one for the police. But they didn't know her like I did. My mother was terrified of guns, and I'm not convinced that she had it in her to pull the trigger.”
“Who then? Was it Justine like you originally thought? She was practically a baby!”
“I don't know. She says that she still has no memory of that day or the next few days that followed. Posttraumatic stress,” I added and shook my head. “It's frustrating that she can't remember. She only knows what I told her about that time.”
Krystina crossed the hot tub and sat next to me. Water lapped around us as I wrapped my arm around her and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.
“What did you do after you threw away the gun?” she asked quietly.
“I went home. My mother wasn't there. For some reason, I knew that she wasn't going to come back, so I made sandwiches for our dinner. It's funny how the mind works,” I added as an afterthought. “Through all of it, I never once thought to call anyone about the dead body that was in the family room. It was by pure happenstance that Hale came by two days later.”
Krystina jerked back, her expression one of incredulous disbelief.
“Wait. You and your sister lived with a dead body for two days?”
The memory of my father’s disgusting corpse was singed into my brain. The long-term damage that it had inflicted on Justine caused more guilt to tear at my gut.
I should have known better. I should have called someone.
“My grandmother had asked Hale to drop off a loaf of banana bread that she made for us. The rest of that day was downright chaos and the details are hazy, but I do remember eating the banana bread,” I added sardonically.
“Alex, I know that you'll think that this is pity, but I really am terribly sorry for all that you went through. And I'm sorry that I compared you to your father. I never would have said that had I known everything.”
But you were right. I am like him.
“It is what it is, angel,” I tried to shrug off instead.
“You are not like him.”
It was as if she read my mind.
“Aren't I though? Come on, Krystina,” I said bitterly. “I get off on hitting women.”
“No. Not that way,” she insisted and shook her head vehemently. “It's different and you know it. You don't like to hit women the way that he did.”
“It doesn't matter. I am who I am. I just channel it differently. BDSM is my chosen outlet, but it’s why I say that I’m not good for you. I lose control of my emotions at times with you. You’d be wise to be leery of that.”
“That's a load of bullshit, Alex. I’ll say it again. You are not like him.”
I wanted to believe her when she said that I wasn't like my father. But she didn't know everything, and she certainly didn't know me like she thought she did. Even now, her chocolate brown eyes swirled with conflicted emotions as she studied me. I was sure that she was questioning her own words, but willing herself to believe them at the same time.
“A load of bullshit, huh? You don't look so sure that it is.”
She sat quiet for a long while. When she finally spoke, it was apparent that she was choosing her words carefully.
“I do not want to downplay anything that you have told me tonight. You had a terrible childhood. I get why all of this is painful to talk about. But I'm having trouble seeing why this is such a big secret to you. I don't understand why you couldn't tell me all of this before.”
“What do you mean that you don't see why it's a secret? First of all, I am now a man of considerable means. I’m no longer a piss broke child living in the slums that nobody gives a rat’s ass about. The press would have a field day with this story. Justine would never survive it. I have to protect her from that. Secondly, I'm an accomplice to murder. I threw the evidence in the river. The only other person that knows that I did that is Justine. And then...”
...my dreams.
I shook my head, unable to finish the sentence. My dreams were my innermost secret; something that I never spoke of before to anyone. They were one of the reasons why I was so hell bent on understanding the human mind.
There was a method to my madness when I decided on psychology as my major in college. I had hoped that it would help me to understand posttraumatic stress disorder enough to unlock Justine's memory and learn the truth about what happened to my father.
I needed that truth to discredit the theory about who might have killed him, a theory that was based around my own memories that would only resurface in my dreams. I wanted to quell the nightmares that haunted my childhood; visions that made me see the possibility of another reality that I didn't want to believe. However, education didn't get me anywhere and I still
didn't have any answers.
Krystina reached up and cupped my face in her hands. Her eyes were soft and comforting.
What would she think if I told her about the dreams?
However, I immediately dismissed the idea. If the dreams rattled me, they would be sure to terrify Krystina – especially after the way I had squeezed her neck just a few short hours ago.
The shameful memory of my horrendous behavior made me cringe.
“Alex, I can see how conflicted you are over this. We don't have to talk anymore about it tonight.”
Grateful that she was giving me a reprieve for the time being, I pulled her tight to me and buried my face in her hair. I was emotionally spent, yet I also felt like I could finally breathe.
It was then that I realized how much of a struggle my days were, and how exhausting it was to maintain order in all things that surrounded me. It was as if each day I was climbing a mountain, hand over hand up an endless rope to a peak that I could never quite reach.
With Krystina, there were times when I felt like I was free falling into an abyss. However, there where also moments when I felt that I didn't have to worry about the rope breaking or that I'd hit rock bottom. As unbalanced as I sometimes felt with her, she somehow had the ability to keep me grounded.
Fuck the psycho-bullshit that I've read. I do love her.
A feeling of melancholy settled over me. I knew that loving Krystina came with consequences, as I couldn’t tell her my deepest concerns about what might have happened all those years ago. I could only give her the truth as I knew it to be.
In a perfect world, we could complete each other. And as I held her close, I silently wished that could be our reality. She merited nothing short of perfection and deserved so much more than I could give her.
CHAPTER 9
I awoke to the early dawn sunlight streaming through the curtains of the cabin window. Alexander lay still beside me, a pleasant change from how he had been throughout the night.
I gave in to a silent yawn, exhausted from not getting nearly enough sleep. When we eventually climbed into bed, it had been well past midnight. Alexander passed out within minutes. However, I lay awake for hours contemplating everything that he told me. I dozed off sometime around three in the morning, only to be startled awake an hour later by Alexander’s thrashing.
He had obviously been having a terrible dream of some sort, but I had been afraid to wake him. Alexander’s words about his sister’s posttraumatic stress had echoed through my mind, and I worried about the possibility that Alexander might suffer from the same. It would certainly explain the unprecedented choking episode from the night before. However, I didn’t know enough about the disorder to make that diagnosis. I only heard of the dangers that could occur upon waking a person who could potentially have PTSD.
I watched him sleep and listened to the sounds of his breath coming soft and even. His face was so peaceful that it was hard to believe how restless he had been just a few hours earlier. I wanted nothing more than to snuggle in closer and stay in his arms all day.
Unfortunately, nature called. I shifted my weight slowly towards the side of the bed, careful not to disturb his slumber. Tiptoeing as quietly as possible, I made my way to the bathroom.
When I looked at my reflection in the mirror, I winced. I had worn one of Alexander’s t-shirts to bed and it sagged limply over my shoulders. My face was pale from exhaustion, only emphasizing the dark rings circling my eyes. My hair was an absolute disaster, with ends sticking up every which way. I sighed.
Will mornings ever agree with me?
I splashed some water on my face with the hope that it would shock a little bit of life back into my pale complexion. I tried to smooth out the unruly curls, but they refused to be tamed. I knew that nothing short of a shower would suffice this morning.
Thankfully, there was a shower stall in the bathroom. It was small, but larger than I would have expected a boat to have. I turned on the faucet, adjusted the temp, and stripped out of Alexander’s t-shirt. As I was pulling it over my head, I paused to breath in the scent of it. The shirt smelled like him – that familiar sandalwood scent that never failed to make me quiver inside.
After showering quickly, I wrapped myself in a towel and headed back out to the bedroom in search of clothes. Alexander was awake, but still in bed. He was propped up by pillows and looking at his phone. He appeared extremely relaxed. If he recalled having any sort of bad dream, he wasn’t showing it.
“Good morning, angel. Sleep well?”
“Like a baby,” I lied. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to mention his tossing and turning during the night. We shared such a tense and stress filled evening. I didn’t want to start the morning off on the wrong foot.
“Come here,” he said and patted the mattress next to him.
I went over to the bed and plopped down next to him. I tried to ignore the way the sheet slid down around his hips to reveal the beginning of the delectable “V” that would leave any woman swooning.
“What’s up?”
“Are you familiar with The Stonework’s Foundation?” he asked.
“That’s your non-profit charity, right?”
“Yes. Our latest project is a woman’s shelter in Queens. Justine is heading it up. The final fundraiser before the grand opening is on Friday. It’s a charity gala. I’d like you to accompany me.”
Woman’s shelter?
I vaguely remembered reading something in a newspaper article about Alexander opening a shelter for battered women. At the time, I half wondered what his interest in that would be. Now it all made much more sense.
I hesitated with my response as I recalled the many press releases that I read about Alexander. Some were about business dealings; others were about the women that decorated his arm. I wasn’t sure if I was ready for our relationship, as shaky it was, to become open to public speculation. The last thing we needed was a gossipmonger’s scrutiny while we were trying to work things out.
“Is this a black-tie sort of thing?” I asked, trying to gauge how big of an event it would be.
“Kind of. Think more along the lines of Moulin Rouge, the French cabaret. Justine is taking advantage of the post-Halloween season to spice things up. She’s hoping to make it stand out from the typical charity gala, which can be extremely dull and boring. She decided to go with a turn of the century costume theme – tuxedos and top hats, feather boas. I must say, I was skeptical at first, but her idea worked. At a thousand dollars a ticket, the event sold out.”
A thousand dollars a ticket!
There was no doubt about it. This event was a huge deal.
“It sounds like it will be great, but I’m not really sure if it’s something that I should go to.”
“That’s completely absurd. Why wouldn’t it be?”
He ran a hand through his hair and regarded me carefully. His brow furrowed in confusion. I shook my head and sighed.
“It’s the press, Alex. You’ve said it yourself – you are often in the public eye. We haven’t made any sort of public appearance together. I’m not sure if I’m ready to see my picture in the morning newspaper. Or the tabloids for that matter.”
“There’s no reason for you to have concern. Let me worry about the press.”
“I’m not necessarily concerned about the press per say. It’s just that we are still trying to figure out us, you know? I don’t know if I want us to be so public yet.” I shrugged like it was no big deal and moved to get off the bed, but he rolled over and pinned me beneath him. “Alex, what are you doing? I need to get dressed.”
He ignored me and kissed the tip of my nose.
“Angel, the press is always going to be around in one way or another. I usually do a good job of avoiding them, but sometimes it can’t be helped. You need to accept that.”
“Yes, but –,” I stopped short when I saw his gaze drop to my chest. The towel that I had wrapped around me had fallen open to expose one of my breasts. I would have moved to fix
it, but my arms were trapped in the grip of his powerful hands. I held my breath and waited to see what he would do.
His lips parted slightly and he leaned down towards me. His eyes were a violent inferno of desire. He took the lobe of my ear between his teeth before tracing the outline with the tip of his tongue. A shiver ran through me.
“What was it that you were trying to say?” he whispered. His breath was hot as he nibbled his way down my neck. A rush of heat crashed between my thighs.
“No – nothing,” I gasped out, my voice barely recognizable as another shiver raced down my spine.
“Are you sure?”
Using one hand, he positioned my arms above my head and worked his way around my collarbone.
“Yes.”
“I thought maybe you were going to start a fight with me,” he teased. His free hand softly brushed over the side of my breast, down to my belly, and then back up to flick at a rigid peak. My breath caught in my throat. “You wouldn’t want to have a disagreement over something as silly as the press, now would you?”
“Never.”
Wearing nothing but his boxers, he continued to straddle my hips and kept me pinned in place. He made another trail down my belly with his fingertips, never quite reaching the mark because of how he was positioned. I pushed up with my hips and strained against him, but that only served to send another rush of heat to the junction of my thighs. He was driving me absolutely mad.
“A bit eager this morning?”
Yeah, ya think?
The man had the ability to turn me on in an instant. I couldn’t control my need for him if I tried. I wrenched one arm free from his grip and pulled at the waistband of his boxers, suddenly desperate to have nothing between us. I tugged until he finally shifted so that they could be removed. I reached to pull him close to me, only to have my grasp come up empty when he climbed off the bed.
“Don’t move,” he told me.
“Wait. What?”
Where the hell is he going?
“Be patient, angel. I’ll be right back.”
Stepping Stone Page 8
