You Own Me (Owned Book 1)

by Mary Catherine Gebhard

  “How does that feel, Lennox?” Vic asked, his voice deep and husky.

  “I want more. I want more of you,” I pleaded with him. I felt my grasp on control slipping. I wasn’t playing a game anymore. I really wanted Vic inside of me. On this damn table if need be.

  “Come,” Vic stood up, giving me his hand to take. He placed me in front of him, his erection poking my back. I was his human erection-shield. Vic stopped us in front of the hostess desk and ordered some food I couldn’t pronounce. “We forgot something in the car, but we will be back before our order arrives,” Vic stated brusquely.

  The hostess nodded politely.

  We didn’t go to the car; we went into the men’s room. It was elegant, with black tile and red velvet wallpaper. It looked nicer than some of my previous apartments. I didn’t get a chance to view the fancy bathroom more than this initial glimpse, because Vic shoved me up against the wall. He yanked my panties down and off of me, shoving them in his pocket.

  “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re trying,” Vic said, his voice hot against my ear.

  “Huh?” I breathed.

  Vic grabbed my breasts, and rubbed his cock back and forth against me.

  “Trying to get me hard in public?”

  When I didn’t respond, Vic squeezed my breasts harder, making me squeal,

  “Yes!”

  “Bad girl.” Vic massaged my breasts. “Bad, bad girl.”

  I moaned, leaning my head back against his shoulder.

  “Are you going to make it up to me?”

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  “Good.” Vic pulled me back away from the wall, then bent me forward and hiked up my dress so that my ass was bare. Vic slid his hand between my thighs, feeling the wetness. “You’re wet for me.”

  “Always,” I panted. There was nothing to hold onto so I pressed my hands back to the wall for support.

  “Good.”

  I heard the rustle of leather as he loosened his belt and the zip as he lowered his fly. Then, silence.

  Vic plunged his cock into me without mercy. I groaned. Grabbing my chin, Vic turned my head so I could see him behind me. “You won’t make any noise, understand?”

  Vic’s grip on my chin was so tight I couldn’t nod, so I blinked my eyes in acknowledgement. He pumped into me, in and out, never releasing his hold on my chin.

  The rhythm was utterly torturous. I didn’t make a peep, a feat that was nearly impossible. I scratched at the walls and bit my shoulder as orgasm after orgasm hit me. I knew he was doing it on purpose, giving me multiple orgasms.

  His fingers played with my clit, drumming out each orgasm until my shoulder was bruised from my withheld screams.

  Finally, he came.

  He zipped up his pants and resettled my dress back on me, smoothing out the wrinkles from it having been bunched up around my waist.

  I was so exhausted I couldn’t stand up from my ninety degree angle against the wall. He lifted me back up, turning me around to look at him. I rested in his arms like a noodle.

  He smiled and said, “Good girl.” Then he kissed me on the forehead.

  “Do I get my underwear back?” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  I paled.

  “Something wrong?” He asked.

  “Well, yes, actually,” I replied. “Your semen is seeping out of me and is making a mess.”

  “I thought you wanted more,” he whispered against my earlobe, dragging out the word ‘more.’

  I shuddered. I had literally just orgasmed, but he was making me want to go again just with his voice.

  “I’ll get it all over my dress, and it’ll stain the booth,” I said, trying again.

  Vic shrugged. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “What?” My eyes popped. “I won’t be able to eat here ever again!”

  He smirked. “Don’t you trust me?”

  Back at our table, the food was waiting. It was warm, but not hot, so evidently it had been sitting out a while. I started to dig in. All this mental tug-of-war and sex was making me hungry.

  “Will you tell me what happened to Dean?” I asked, sipping my water. Vic was right; wine went straight to my head. I was a bad drunk. When I drank, I thought I was the shit, which got me into a lot of trouble. I liked to dance on tables and laps. However he did order a bottle of wine, so maybe just a sip.

  “Why?” Vic asked.

  “I‘m worried he’s going to come back,” I mumbled, poking at my fancy-looking food. I’m not particularly fond of fancy food. The servings are small, it’s overpriced, and it tastes weird. Give me a burger and fries and I’ll love you forever.

  Vic put his fork down. “Don’t you trust me to protect you?”

  “Of course.” I choked on my bite of food and took a sip of water to wash it down. I really hated that he kept making trust an ultimatum. It was like I couldn’t ask questions or I’d break his trust. “I just . . . I don’t know. It would be nice to know where he was.”

  “He’s not coming back,” Vic said, his voice final. It was supposed to be a direction for me to stop asking questions. I never did follow directions well.

  “Is he in jail?”

  “No.”

  “Is he in a mental institution?” I asked.

  That would make the most sense. Dean wasn’t a bad guy; he was just fucking crazy. I mean, no sane person cuts himself and then jacks off over clothing. He needed psychiatric help, not punishment. Or, as we say as a euphemism: rehabilitation.

  “No,” Vic replied, visibly irritated.

  “Then, where is he?” I pressed. I was starting to get frustrated. This was my problem, after all. I appreciated Vic’s help more than I could ever say, but I had a right to know.

  “Look.” Vic faced me. “He’s not coming back.”

  I slammed my fork down on the table. “How can you possibly know that?” I would get the answers I needed, even if it meant no sex tonight. Or tomorrow.

  But Vic wouldn’t answer me. He ate his food in silence, so my mind began to mull over the pieces I remembered. I picked up my fork and pushed around haricot vert—they looked like regular ole green beans to me.

  Images of guns and knives came crawling back into my mind.

  Vic slowly chewed his food, looking like he wasn’t planning to volunteer information anytime soon.

  “Wait. You didn’t . . .” It dawned on me. He did. He killed Dean. “Holy shit.” My fork clattered against the china plate loudly.

  Vic paused, fork halfway to his mouth.

  “He was going to kill you, Lennox. We found a knife, a condom, a rope, and some lye in your apartment.” Vic finished, lifting a forkful of food to his mouth casually, like we were talking about a television show.

  I felt sick. There was such a thing as trial-by-jury. There was such a thing as justice.

  Vic folded his napkin on the table and spoke carefully, “I am greater than justice. I am who justice calls when justice can’t be delivered.”

  What the hell did that mean? That sounded like some weird-ass Batman shit. I told him as much.

  “I’m special operations; I went out on a limb for you, Lennox.”

  “So you want me to be thankful you murdered someone?” I asked, my voice rising.

  Vic grabbed my knee and held it tightly.

  “I want you to understand that under no circumstances can you talk about this. It won’t end well for you.”

  I stared at him, dumbfounded. Was he threatening me? Yes, he was threatening me. The man who said no harm would ever come to me was now threatening me. “You replaced an evil with a bigger evil.” I slouched in to the booth’s seat. This was too much.

  He shook his head. “No, Lennox. Not at all—”

  “Fuck you!” I shouted.

  Vic’s eyes widened at my outburst.

  That’s right! I’m J-Lo in Enough and I just learned kickboxing. I’m sick of men pushing me around. I’m sick of this victim bullshit. “Fuck you! Pretending that
you’re some savior. Going around killing people and acting like you’re doing it to protect women. Fuck you! All you did was step into his place!” I pushed him. He didn’t even sway. It’s like trying to fight a redwood tree.

  Vic glanced around, forehead furrowed. “You’re making a scene.”

  “So!” I let my voice get louder.

  Vic reached for my hand. I recoiled.

  “Goddammit, Lennox, when have I ever hurt you?”

  I started counting on my fingers sarcastically. “There was that time at the cabin. Then there was that other time at the cabin. Then there was that time at your apartment. Oh, let’s not forget that time with your wife . . .”

  “Fuck,” Vic muttered, removing his hand from my knee. He ran both hands through his hair, looking pained.

  I lowered my voice. “Yeah, pretty much.” I shrugged. “Hey,” I said, “maybe it’s not your fault. Maybe I just have atrocious taste in men. Okay, that kind of came out wrong. What I’m trying to say is maybe I bring out the worst in men. Like, Dean used to be normal and then he met me. And, I mean you have a wife, so you must be doing something right.” I laughed bitterly, realizing how ludicrous everything was. “Oh my God. You have a wife and I’m out on a date with you. Fuck. My. Life. Seriously, what am I doing? I’m at a fancy restaurant with someone’s husband with his come in my dress.” I laughed bitterly. “My mom would be so proud.”

  Vic looked at me with his piercing eyes. They were so beautiful; my favorite thing about him, undoubtedly. His eyes were like concentrated pieces of him; all of his strength, his candor, his vulnerability, his compassion, and his ruthlessness condensed into two, almond shaped, black holes.

  “Stop!” I screamed at him, surprised even by my outburst.

  “Stop what?” Vic asked, shocked. His normal authoritative air was gone. He wasn’t trying to control me anymore; in fact, he looked like a kicked puppy.

  “Looking at me with those eyes,” I said. If I was ever going to get over him, he needed to stop sucking me in with that gaze.

  “They’re just my eyes,” Vic replied, nonplussed.

  “Well, stop it,” I muttered.

  Vic sighed. “I’ll take you home, Lennox.”

  We didn’t speak on the ride back. There was no sexual tension—it was just awkward. I was sad, depressed even. My perfect man was . . . not perfect, at all. He was a killer.

  When we arrived at my door, Vic asked me what was wrong. I swear, I don’t understand how someone can be so smart and yet so fucking dense. I really wanted to punch him in the face. Then, as he nursed his black eye, I could say to him: “Oh, what’s wrong?” Perhaps then, he would understand a semblance of my frustration.

  I didn’t feel like giving him a play-by-play of our conversation at the restaurant. So instead, I said,

  “Nothing, other than the fact that Dean is lying dead in the ground somewhere.” Oh, and you’re a complete dickhead killer who I’m head over heels in love with and the fact that I can’t be with you is tearing my heart up inside and I think I’m going to die of heartbreak. I looked it up on the Internet; it is possible to actually die of a broken heart. But I didn’t say that.

  “Better in the ground than in your pussy,” Vic responded icily.

  I clamped my jaw shut, too stunned to say anything. Well, fuck you too, buddy!

  “Sorry, Lennox.” Vic ran his fingers through his hair. He’d done it so much in the past hour that it was uncharacteristically in disarray. “I just . . . fuck! I told you that you and I wouldn’t be a good idea.”

  I glared at him. “Well, congratulations Mr. Hindsight. Would you like me to go back in time and give you a fucking medal?” I slammed my door in his face, not wanting to hear his response. His excuse was like a murderer saying, “I told you I was gonna murder you if you kept hanging around me.” Uh, okay . . . that doesn’t justify your actions. You are still a murderer, Vic. And, you are still a dick.

  Fuck.

  I’m so pissed I got myself into this mess.

  I saw my dad’s beaming face, before I even parked my car. Despite all the unanswered emails and unreturned phone calls he still loved me. It was a miracle.

  “What the hell happened, Lennox? I nearly put out a missing person’s report.”

  I swallowed hard at his question. What do I say? Now that it was all over and I wasn’t worried about his safety, I could tell him the truth. I could tell him that Dean had threatened me and my family. I almost did, too, the words were coming out of my throat, but they caught on my tongue.

  Vic. Vic Wall. If I told my dad what happened, it would inevitably lead to Vic and the murder of Dean.

  Oh God.

  All of the neat little boxes I had made in my brain were becoming undone. The murder. Vic. Dean’s murder and Vic. Dean lying dead somewhere in an unmarked grave. Blood. My mother lying in a grave. My mother’s suicide; in a note, my mother telling me to be strong. No blood, just cold, gray skin . . .

  I shook my head and managed a smile. “Nothing, dad,” I said. “There are no adequate excuses for what I did.”

  He frowned, clearly not happy with my way of avoiding telling him what happened. After a long pause, wherein neither my dad nor I gave in, my dad finally said,

  “Well, come on then. You’ll catch a cold!”—I started to get my bags—“No, I’ll get the bags. Go on inside and to your room.”

  My dad was never really one for showing his emotions, or letting others show their emotions either. After my mom died, all emotions ceased to exist entirely. Any problems we might have had disappeared along with emotions. My depression didn’t exist. My suicide attempt never happened. To my dad, it was easier to never talk about it and move on. He was an expert in compartmentalizing. So the fact that he could ignore his daughter’s months’ long absence really wasn’t that shocking to me.

  I can remember a very distinct conversation my dad and I had had while I was hospitalized after my suicide attempt. The gashes on my arms were still very fresh, and occasionally they would bleed through the gauze and bandages. Yet every meeting my dad and I had, we would never acknowledge where I was. We would talk about his work and my school (never mentioning that I wasn’t there). We would talk about my favorite TV shows. We would eat lunch and discuss its highs and lows. Never mentioning that the TV was hooked against a hospital wall and that the the lunch came from a hospital cafeteria.

  Well, on one fateful day, my wounds began to soak through my bandages. It became so bad that I couldn’t ignore it anymore. The blood was dripping onto my salad. My dad continued to chew his lettuce, not noticing or at least compartmentalizing it away. I finally called a nurse who changed the bandages so they were good as new.

  I remember thinking, “he can’t ignore this.” A nurse had to take off the bloody bandages right in front of him. She had to redress my arms right in front of him. I even winced a few times. When all was said and done, it had taken at least ten minutes—the whole while he just sat there and chewed his salad.

  I looked at him, my teenage self expecting some kind of reassuring words from him. I remember what he said to this day: “The salad is excellent with the vinaigrette.”

  I don’t blame my suicide attempt on my dad. I don’t blame anything on my dad. He was a great and loving father—he still is. But, just like most people in the world, he has his own problems to deal with. If anyone were to question how it was possible to have a loving father and yet be on the run from a psychotic ex-boyfriend at the same time, I think I would point them back to that conversation in the hospital.

  I itched to turn on my computer or pick up my phone. It’d been a few weeks since the incident with Vic. The one where he basically announced he was a murderer for some top secret government organization. After that I spiraled in to a rabbit hole. I stopped going to work—Bethany was an entirely different issue in itself that I couldn’t begin to process.

  I stopped responding to emails.

  I stopped responding, period.

  Eventua
lly people stopped calling.

  I mean, who would believe Vic? Was I supposed to jump from one crazy, nutbag to the next? I kept getting these weird flashbacks from that night of people dressed in black. I remember thinking it was a dream, but after Vic’s confession…

  I don’t know. It wouldn’t be my first hallucination. Wouldn’t be the first time I justified my hallucinations for my own personal playground, either. Why can’t I just meet a nice guy who works for a boring company but is interesting and mentally stimulating and also gives really good head? Those exist, I think.

  Staring at the chrome face of my computer, I dared it to give me advice. This life I’d landed myself in was far from what I dreamed of as a child. Not too long ago I was a teenager, listening to loud music in my room and feeling too much for my own good. Now I was an adult, still listening to loud music and feeling too much for my own good, but, shit, now I had responsibilities and it seemed like every decision I made somehow affected somebody else.

  When the fuck did that happen?

  “Lennox!” My father’s voice jilted me back to reality. I looked up at my closed door, expecting the weak knock he’d given so many times during my adolescence. He never barged. He barely knocked. I could be getting jackhammered by some random guy and he’d only give a slight knock to let me know I needed to quit with the moaning.

  No knock came. Instead his voice carried through the wood,

  “Stop talking with boys and come to dinner!” That was our thing when I was in high school. My father would jokingly tell me to stop talking to boys and I would laugh in response. Now, years later, my father was still yelling that to me from the kitchen.

  Funny enough, I was quite the slut back in high school. Now, I don’t like using the term slut. I think it’s derogatory toward women. No one calls men sluts. A man can be with a lot of women without being called deprecating names, but if a woman sleeps with more than two men, she’s a nightwalker.

  Having said that, I’m allowed to call myself a slut. Because it’s the only word I have for myself back then. I purposefully threw my body at anyone who would have it.