You Own Me (Owned Book 1)

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  “Lennox!” Vic's harsh, commanding voice cut into my euphoria. My eyes traveled up the length of his body. I suddenly hated his black shirt with red fury because it hid his body from my eyes. I could discern the peaks and valleys of his muscles as the shirt clung to his sweaty skin, but it wasn’t enough. I needed to see him. As I reached to take off his shirt, Vic pushed me back in to the mattress.

  He growled, a sound so erotic and primal I felt it all over. I snapped my gaze to his, surprised by the lust in his eyes. If I wasn’t coming before, I was now. Dear whatever God was in heaven, Vic was breathtaking when he looked at me like that.

  “Say it. Say ‘you own me, Vic’,” he barked.

  If he makes me feel like this, I will do whatever he wants. “You . . .” I choked out. Oh, I was turning into spaghetti. Oh God I was becoming as hard as metal. Since when were orgasms this amazing?

  “You own me, Vic. Say it,” Vic rasped out. His neck veins were throbbing and his black eyes were shining.

  I could feel myself going over the edge, getting lost in his face, his eyes. Everything about him was consuming me from the slick of his sweat rubbing against me to the blood pooling under his lip where I'd kissed him too hard to the way he was fingering me into sweet oblivion.

  “You . . . you own me.” I gasped, writhing like a possessed person. I think I screamed. No, I'm pretty sure I screamed. Yeah, I screamed.

  “Say ‘Vic.’ Say my name.” Vic stared down at me, also doing his best impersonation of a person possessed.

  “You own me, Vic!” I wailed, just as the last completely space-bending wave of orgasm hit me. I fell back against the bed, my eyelids fluttering to stay open. Vic leaned with me, keeping his arm around me in a fierce grip. I could still feel his fingers inside of me, but they no longer worked their magic. Thank God, too. I'm sure he could bring me to orgasm again, but I don't know if I would survive it.

  I felt his fingers slowly slip out of me. It was a hollow feeling. I wanted them to stay; I opened my mouth to beg him to stay, but stopped. I watched him bring his fingers up and I expected him to wipe them off on his shirt, but instead he brought them to his mouth.

  Vic locked his eyes on mine, and he licked his fingers slowly, savoring the taste as if he were eating the greatest food known to man.

  I could feel my core heating again. My mouth salivated.

  When he was finished, he leaned down and put his mouth to my ear and whispered: “Say it again.”

  Instinctively, I knew what he meant.

  “You own me, Vic.”

  I didn’t fall asleep. I was exhausted, but I didn't fall asleep. A night picking glass out of your epidermis followed by a mind-blowing, life-altering orgasm will make you tired. Still, I couldn't sleep, not with Vic in my bed. My entire body was a live wire, like I'd stuck my finger into an electrical socket.

  We hadn’t done anything else. Vic just held me, stroking my hair and whispering delicious things. He was such an enigma: one minute a tornado and the next a quiet, tropical ocean.

  “This doesn't change anything,” Vic said into my room.

  I nearly groaned. Of course not, why would intimacy change anything? Why would something so raw and real, that had made me feel like my skin had been peeled off and my viscera and muscles exposed to the world, change anything? Why would an event so transcendental that I could swear we became one, change anything?

  His words may as well have been an echo; they were so noncommittal and empty. I sighed into his chest. For someone who appeared so together, he really was a basket case.

  “Yes, it does Vic,” I grumbled.

  “Lenny, I still can't—”

  I rolled off the bed and stood up; it was my turn to stand over him. Damn, he was gorgeous. It's not fair that someone is that gorgeous. But then, that's why he has all his other hang-ups. If he was gorgeous and well-rounded, well, the universe would simply implode.

  “Whatever you can or can't do, Vic,” I said, refusing to be capitulated by his eyes, “we're changed. We can't go back, and if you won't let us go forward, then,” I shrugged, “I guess this is it.”

  Wow, I sounded so adult. Too bad inside I'm crying like a baby. I need him to leave, like right now, so my awesome outward composure isn't betrayed by my whimpering and withering insides.

  I need him to leave so I can eat ice cream and watch Grey's Anatomy while I compare myself to Cristina. Yeah, I'm Cristina; I don't need a man.

  I can't do any of this if he stays.

  I desperately need Vic, and Vic won't let me have him. So, I just need him to leave.

  Vic reached out and circled his fingers around my wrist. He stared up at me, his eyes betraying nothing.

  I stood motionless at the side of the bed; I was counting my heartbeats, willing myself to not fall off the edge of the cliff I teetered on.

  . . . forty-two Mississippi, forty-three Mississippi, forty—.

  Vic released my wrist.

  I began to shiver. You never know how much you miss a person's warmth until they stop giving it to you. It wasn't just any person either, it was Vic. Vic whispering me sweet nothings, Vic lighting my body up like a Christmas tree, Vic . . .

  Without a single word, he simply got up and left.

  I felt like I should call after him. I needed to say something, anything, to fix the rift that had developed between us, but I knew nothing would ever fix it. There was a chasm the size of the Mariana Trench between us now. So, some things were better left unsaid. I think Vic knew that too.

  “Did you have a good day off?” My coworker Lissie asked.

  I nodded, smiling. You know when a lie is just too hard to say? Like, it literally takes too much of your soul to give voice to the lie? After I tried to kill myself, people would ask how I was doing, people who didn't know I had attempted suicide. They were just asking in a general how ya' doin' kind of way, and I couldn't very well respond, “Oh, I'm well, just trying not to off myself with a razor blade. You know, the usual.” So instead, I would just nod and pass by.

  That feeling, that it's too much for my soul, is what I felt when Lissie asked me. What happened with Vic yesterday morning had rocked me to my core, and I was still trying to figure it out. I nodded at Lissie and continued to my cubicle. Unfortunately, Bethany saw me before I could escape to my cubicle and called me into her office.

  “Halloween is in three weeks.”

  I love people who state the obvious (not really) and my boss is no exception. She called me into her office, told me to sit down, and said the obvious. The gravity with which she spoke to me should be reserved only for the doctor telling me I have leukemia. Add in her gray stare and pinched lips and I almost cracked up.

  I cleared my throat to rid myself of the laughter trying to get out, and waited for her to continue. She couldn't have really called me into say that Halloween was in three weeks. I mean, I do own a calendar. Well, I own a smartphone, which has a calendar on it.

  “Lennox,” Bethany cocked her head slightly, “you may feel as if you haven't received much responsibility since you started working here.” Duh! That was an understatement.

  My career had really taken a hit. I had gone from hot celebrities thanking me for the great party down to having to deal with screaming, pre-pubescent boys and girls. I wish I could be grateful, really, I do. With the nasty things my former boss Zelda was saying about me, I was lucky to have any job, let alone one in event planning. I am, however, not grateful. It isn't fair that, because I have a crazy ex-boyfriend and a bitch of an ex-boss, I have to plan shitty bar mitzvahs and preteen parties for spoiled brats. I had worked extremely hard to get where I am, err, was.

  I chewed the inside of my lip. Each day was a lesson in humility, whether I wanted it or not.

  “Lennox?” Bethany asked, trying to catch my drifting attention.

  “Yes?” I asked, flashing my pearly whites.

  “I was saying I'd like to give you a little more responsibility. Regal is in need of a new planner.” My eye
brows shot up at the mention of Regal. They were widely known for throwing the best parties in Santa Barbara. Hell, the best parties in California. This was her idea of a little more responsibility? I was going from mitzvahs to the media pretty quickly. Not that I was complaining.

  I nodded my head attentively as she gave me the details.

  I had three weeks to plan an off-the-hook party for Regal. I felt like I'd been shoved into a reality TV show where they cooked up fake drama. Everyone would watch rapt as I scrambled about doing the impossible: make an amazing party in only three weeks, when really, it should have taken a full year to be planned. This wasn't fiction though.

  Regal had hired another event planning company with whom they had been working with just fine, or so they assumed. Turns out, Fancy & Foolish had been embezzling all of the money Regal had allotted for the party. Regal and F&F were now embroiled in a lawsuit, but that didn't stop the fact that there was still a party that needed to be planned. There was always a party that needed to be planned.

  It had to be themed, risqué, and, most importantly, elegant. There had to be A-list celebrities and three-star Michelin dining. I was thinking a DJ playing the latest hits commingled with a live orchestra playing haunted strings. (It has to be a real DJ, not the kind that plugs his MP3 into the speaker and calls it a day.) The lights would be low, with the occasional strobe for effect. There would be VIP booths for those who didn't want to deal with the crowd. A regular costume party is passé; a masquerade is the way to go. Big silk and velvet drapes would hang from the ceilings in rich golds and burgundies.

  I would need a big venue. Someplace ornate yet haunted, like an old ballroom. I want the venue to scream Phantom of the Opera or Anastasia. There would be a majestic staircase where all the VIPs would descend to the grand ballroom for dancing. It was a perfect idea. Cliché yes, but that was important, because that meant I could find everything within three weeks. Still, the idea was exciting enough that people wouldn't be bored by the cliché. Honestly, I think it could be done. I just needed to find the location.

  Part of me couldn't help thinking that Bethany gave me this opportunity because she assumed I would fail. Three weeks to plan a party that would normally require a year’s worth of planning isn't something you assign to one person. It also isn't something you assign to the person you had previously only let handle bar mitzvahs.

  There was something off about Bethany; something I couldn’t put my thumb on. She did give me this job, but it seems like she's been trying to run me into the ground. Perhaps it's all the Dean nonsense that's making me paranoid. Yeah, that's probably it.

  “Zoe, I need your help with some computer stuff,” I yelled, banging on her door. I pushed my way into her apartment as she opened the door. I'd spent the last couple of days organizing, budgeting, and designing the party alone, but now I needed help. When I was at work, Bethany gave me zero help and didn’t assign me any help. Weird, right? One of the biggest clients, not just for her company but in all of Santa Barbara, and she gives me zilch assistance.

  Zoe rolled her eyes. “Oh, hey, Nox. Nice to see you too, Would you like to come in?”

  “Sorry! I'm in a hurry. I just—” I stopped mid-sentence, stunned.

  Lissie was there. In her underwear. In bed. Zoe walked over and sat on the edge of the bed.

  “I'm really sorry,” I said, eyeing them both. It was Saturday and I had forgotten that not all people worked through the weekend. “Clearly, I have interrupted something.”

  “You interrupted nothing,” Lissie said. She smiled and sat up, arranging herself cross-legged.

  “That's too bad . . .” I rubbed my chin like a creepy miser.

  “Oh yeah?” Zoe said, laughing. “You're such a creep sometimes.”

  “Only sometimes? I need to up my game.” I paused. “Anyway, I need help!”

  “I couldn't tell by the way you were trying to knock down my door,” Zoe said sharply.

  “I need help with some graphic design,” I pressed.

  I know, I know, it's really rude to interrupt two lovers, but did I mention that Bethany was absolutely no help? Absolutely no help at all. She wouldn't give me access to any of Simply Santa's vendors. I was basically working on my own. I didn't even have time to ruminate on the oddness of Bethany's behavior, because any time not working on Regal's party was, well, time not working on Regal's party. I couldn't afford that.

  “I'm not a graphic designer,” Zoe said, shrugging.

  “But you work with computers?” I said, confused.

  “Oh, if I had a nickel.” Zoe laughed with amusement.

  “I have some background in graphic design,” Lissie offered.

  “You do?” Zoe and I asked in unison.

  Lissie muttered, “That's what I'm going to school for.”

  “You are so hot!” Zoe said, and jumped on top of Lissie.

  Lissie squealed in delight. I watched them happily wrestle for a few moments, lost in their bliss, before I cleared my throat.

  “Guys, I hate to interrupt your nauseating love fest, but unless you're going to invite me to join, will one of you please help?”

  “What do, ah!, you, ah! need-help-with?” Lissie screamed out as Zoe tickled her. They looked like a happy couple.

  I envied their happiness. I'm pretty sure my skin was turning green.

  “I need help with this year's graphics. The logos, the web promos, you know. All that fun stuff that I have zero experience or know-how with. I can paint a stick-figure on MS Paint. So there’s that,” Continuing, I explained my problem. “Most legitimate designers need more than three weeks’ notice. Go figure.” I ended bitterly. Bethany had told me all of her designers needed more than three weeks. When I asked what the hell I was supposed to do, she just shrugged.

  “I can do that,” Lissie wheezed as Zoe gave her a break. “Just give me your guidelines and ideas and I'll have some mockups ready for you by tomorrow.”

  “Really?” I practically squealed.

  Lissie answered, equally as excited, “Yup!”

  “Awesome! Well I'll leave my notes here,” I said, placing my notes on one of Zoe's tables, “and you guys can get back to boning each other.”

  Lissie laughed, but Zoe groaned at me to get out.

  “You know where I am if you need a third,” I offered in my sleaziest voice.

  Simultaneously they yelled: “Get out!” My ass was shoved out as Zoe bolted the door behind me.

  I don’t have a bad body; I’m just not in shape like the rest of the world, or at least like the people on TV. The people on TV are the rest of the world, right? I turned around in front of my mirror examining my body. Objectively speaking . . . well, I can't speak objectively. My tits are too small. My ass is too big. I have fat where I shouldn't. I’ve got no muscle tone. A mess.

  I shouldn’t complain. The majority of hotties worked for their bodies. I didn't work for my body. It always fell low on my priorities. First it was a math degree and then when I didn’t want that, it was a career in event planning—now it was hiding from Dean. My appearance never stood a chance. I would rather eat a jar of Nutella while binge-watching The Office than go to the gym.

  Do you know that people go to the gym every day? Every day. It's insane, but they do look hot because of it. They don't look like me. Flabby and in between: not fat, but not skinny just like billions of other people on the planet. Nothing special to see here, folks, move along.

  Vic was special. Vic is special.

  It doesn't take a psychiatrist to figure out why I'm being so hard on myself today. I have an ex-boyfriend who cheated on me every night and beat me up during the day. Now, as I'm trying to move on, I've inaugurated myself with yet another man who doesn't want me; at least he doesn’t beat me.

  If I was confident, if I was full of esteem, perhaps I could say “fuck ‘em!” But I'm not. The tiny voices in my head have been granted megaphones. “Is it me?” I ask. And the voices shout back, “Yes!”

  I ran my
fingers through my hair. Right now it's red. Naturally, it’s blonde. I think. I still have all of my natural highlights and lowlights, so I've got that going for me. I might have a weird body, but I have kickass hair. I have a complexion that allows me to wear whatever hair color I want. Unfortunately, I have one of those personalities that gets restless easily—I've been dying my hair since junior high. If it weren't for pictures, I'd have no idea what my natural hair color was.

  During my punk phase, I wore it multicolored: blue, pink, green, and purple. Thank God I grew out of that. Not because it didn't look fucking awesome, but because it was a bitch to maintain. When I was with Dean, I was a brunette. Now that I'm on the run, I've changed the color to obscure what I looked like in Seattle. Honestly though, it’s because the idea of having anything remotely reminding me of Dean makes me sick. Even hair color.

  It's stupid and weak, the fact that I have to change myself because of what Dean did. I wish I was strong enough to not be affected.

  Before everything got so fucked up, there was a Mexican food franchise that Dean and I used to eat at. Dean didn't even care about it, but it was my favorite place to eat.

  Of course, now I tremble even looking at it.

  I try to rationalize my fear, but that's the thing: fear isn't rational. It's a gut instinct. It's physical. I walk up to Ranchorito, open the door, and then cold sweats overtake me and my vision narrows to pinpricks. Next thing I know, I'm down the street dry heaving. I must look like such an idiot when that happens. I sure as shit feel like one.

  How do you overcome something when it hijacks your body like that?

  “Boo,” I said aloud, kicking my closet shut with a thud. I think that was enough masochism for the day. Lissie is working on the designs for Regal, so that only left . . . well, everything else. I turned on my stereo and let the thrumming bass guitar of the Toadies’s motivate me. Time to get to work.