by Skye Warren
Oh, and I can understand that. That’s what I’ve wanted my whole life, except now that I have it, I still feel tied down. Constrained by the expectations of my sister, my boyfriend. Unable to let go of the past.
Amy whispers something in the bouncer’s ear, and even though he hasn’t officially let me in, I scoot past him. She’ll keep him occupied for a while at least, and if she’s lucky, he’ll occupy her right back.
Chapter Three
The crowd has already heated up, moving as one large ocean, liquid heat filling the dance floor. I slide between bodies and duck waving arms toward the back of the club, where sofas and chairs are haphazardly arranged. There isn’t much seating in clubs like these, so usually people claim them fast. It doesn’t matter when Shane shows up, though. He can clear the best seats with a few crisp bills or even a smile.
That’s where I find him, holding court with one of his friends and several girls.
Two of the girls are chatting with Rick, a guy I’ve always found a little creepy. The other girl leans against Shane while he looks down her dress.
As I watch, he brushes his hand up her arm.
When I reach the table, Shane looks up. Guilt flashes in his eyes, and he gives the girl a shove that I find more disturbing than his flirting. She wobbles on her high heels before shooting me a venomous glance.
“Babe,” Shane yells over the heavy thump of music. “I thought you’d never make it. Get your pretty ass over here.”
Part of me wonders what would have happened if I hadn’t joined him tonight. Would he have kissed that girl? Would he have had sex with her? What bothers me most is how little that worries me. I know there’s something toxic in our relationship, but toxic is all I know.
He grabs my wrist. Then the world is tilting sideways as he drags me onto his lap. I let out a small squeak before settling on his thighs. This close, I can smell the sweat on him, the faint musk of grass from the field. It’s not unpleasant, exactly. It’s just a little too intimate for comfort.
As is the erection pressing into my ass. I squirm to get back on solid ground.
He wraps his arm around my waist like an iron bar on a roller coaster. “Where you going, babe?”
“Yeah, babe,” Rick says, smirking. Everything dumb and dangerous that Shane has done while we’ve been together has been with Rick at his side. Bad influence doesn’t begin to cover it, but it’s not my place to tell Shane who his friends should be.
“Please don’t call me that.”
I know better than to challenge him, and sure enough, his lips widen. It’s not a nice smile, especially when you factor in the calculation in his eyes. “Your girl needs to lighten up,” he says, his gaze trained on mine.
“Yeah,” Shane says, voice low. He’s too busy feeling me up to realize we are wading into danger. He has one hand groping my ass, the other playing with the neckline of my dress.
“Stop,” I whisper, but of course he doesn’t hear me. It’s way too loud for that. I scan the crowd, hoping Amy will magically appear. Maybe that’s cowardly of me, but I just want this night to end without a fight.
As if Rick reads my mind, he asks, “Where’s the smurfette?”
He calls her that because her hair was blue when they first met. Since then it’s been pink, purple, teal, and every color under the rainbow.
“I don’t know,” I say because I don’t really. She might be at the front of the club, flirting with the bouncer. Or he might have taken a break and found some empty office for them to make out. Either way, I’m not sending Rick in their direction.
His eyes narrow. “I know she came with you.”
Crap. “She went to the bathroom.”
Rage flashes over his face—he doesn’t like being lied to, but most of all, he hates that Amy isn’t interested in him. She likes to rebel, but she’s not stupid.
Shane grows bold enough to push his hand inside my dress and stroke my breast.
My whole body goes stiff. I grab his wrist. “Stop.”
“Fuck,” he mumbles, his face buried in my hair. He’s hard as a rock underneath me, almost rolling his hips into me. This is bad. He’s too far gone to say no right now, and if we were doing this at my apartment, I might have to go along with it. But we’re not in my apartment. We’re in the back of the club. As much as I’m trained to avoid conflict, I can’t let him undress me in public.
“Shane, I mean it. Stop that.”
“Why should he stop?” Rick says, his voice taunting. “It’s nothing he hasn’t done before, right?”
Oh no, this is bad. I figured Shane wouldn’t tell anyone that we haven’t had sex yet. It might make people question his virility. Maybe it sounds weird, but I’m fine with everyone assuming I’ve put out even if I haven’t. Except the way Rick’s eyes have lit up, he must know we haven’t.
Shane’s body tenses, his fingers tightening on my ass and on my breast. “Shut the fuck up.”
Maybe I should be glad my boyfriend is finally sticking up for me, even though I know it’s more about himself. But my conditioning kicks in. I stroke his arm, trying to soothe. “Don’t worry about him. Let’s get out of here. Let’s just go.”
He’s still taut with anger, with frustration. “Why do you fucking do this to me?” he says, bitter and sharp. For a moment I think he knows how toxic we are together.
I think he hates it too.
“Too fucking uptight to spread your legs,” he adds, and my hope withers.
“We’ll go back to my place,” I say, placating. This feels like a pot boiling over, and I’m desperate to remove the heat. So what if I have to sleep with my boyfriend to do it. Girls do that all the time. At least that’s what I tell myself.
He rocks his erection into me, and I know it’s working.
I close my eyes for a moment. This is how it will be, the throbbing rhythm, the darkness. With my eyes closed I can pretend he’s someone else. Best of all, I can pretend I’m someone else.
“You’ve waited this long, man,” Rick says, breaking into my fantasy. “Why stop now?”
I feel the heat go up a couple of degrees. “Let’s go,” I say, pleading.
“You got some magic pussy, is that it? Some fucking unicorn tits under that dress? Because I’ve seen my share of tits. Not sure why you’re hiding yours like they’re something special.”
Shane shoves off his chair, and I tumble off his lap. The ground hits my knees hard, my palms harder. I shudder out a breath. God, this is messed up. And I don’t even care. I don’t want a great relationship with a nice boy. I don’t want Shane either. But I can’t have what I want, so this is where I end up, on my hands and knees in a dirty club.
I turn in time to see Shane haul Rick out of his chair.
Rick is either too drunk or too stupid to care. He laughs, loud and cocky. “Her sister is a fucking stripper. And your girl won’t even let you touch her.”
Oh, that’s too damn far. I’ll do almost anything to avoid confrontation, but I draw the line where my sister is concerned. She’s not a stripper—not anymore—and when she was, she did it to protect me.
I don’t get a chance to defend her honor, though, because Shane tackles him. They fly into the table behind us, knocking it over. People scatter, forming a circle to lock us in. Making this into a circus act.
My stomach turns over, and I push myself unsteadily to my feet. People don’t move out of the way for me like they did for Shane and Rick, but I shove myself between them, blind, sick, heading sideways until I see red lights that spell EXIT.
Humid air wraps its fingers around my throat. The rain seems to have stopped, leaving every surface glittering. I lean against the damp brick wall, sucking in moist air that’s surprisingly fresh for an alley. My head falls back, and I stare up at a heavy blanket of dark clouds.
There are no stars. There are never any stars.
A harsh metal sound warns me that Shane’s not done with me tonight.
“Clara!” He barrels into the alley like
he’s still spoiling for a fight. A bruise darkens the side of his face. And judging from the glint in his eyes, he blames me.
My heart leaps into my throat. “You’re scaring me.”
He pushes right into my face, hands flat against the brick on either side of me. His hot breath blows across my cheek. “You’ve been leading me around by my dick since we met.”
“That’s not true.” We met at a coffee cart outside the art building. He was in his third year, taking a basic art class to satisfy his business degree requirement. He was ahead of me in line after class, and when I stepped forward to order, I discovered he’d paid for my drink. After I got my coffee, he introduced himself, using the charming smile that made everyone fall in line—even me.
He took me to old movies at a local theater that served themed menus to match. And on Valentine’s Day he sent so many roses that my room had overflowed. He told me that he liked my innocence so much he didn’t mind waiting for me.
His eyes narrow. “I think you like this shit, giving me blue balls. Making us fight over you.”
“You weren’t fighting over me! Not like that. He was just being an ass.” I’m not sure when the anger started, the accusations. It feels like it came slowly, creeping up on me. By the time I realized how bad it had gotten, I was almost afraid to end things. How would he react?
Shane scoffs. “All my friends want to fuck you, and I’m tired of fucking lying.”
“So don’t. It looked like Rick knew anyway.”
“He figured it out, because I was—” He cuts off with a dark glare. “And now he won’t fucking shut up. I get it, you’re hard to get. Message received.”
My breath catches. “You think this is a game?”
“It is a game. You’re playing me, and I fucking played along. I waited for you longer than any other guy would have.”
That isn’t exactly true. Giovanni waited for me longer than a couple months…and we never got to be together. But he’s gone now. I can’t keep living in the past.
And maybe Shane is right. Maybe this is a game, but not like he thinks. I wasn’t trying to make him jealous. I was living in an imaginary world where Giovanni was somehow alive, where he’d find me and we could be together. I was playing pretend.
“Okay,” I say softly, giving up more than my virginity. I’m giving up the dream of another boy in another time. “Let’s go back to my place.”
“No,” he says.
“Yours then.”
“And give you time to change your mind? No fucking way. Here. We’re doing it right here.”
Shock leaves me cold. This isn’t the charming boy who paid for my latte. This isn’t the hot guy sneaking a feel underneath the table on a date. This isn’t even about sex. I saw what my sister did, both at the strip club and in our previous life—the way sex became about power. That’s how this feels, like Shane is trying to prove a point.
That’s not how I want my first time to be. Cruel hands on my back, hot breath on my neck. I swore to myself that my first time would be with someone I loved. I may be able to break that promise for Shane, but at least I want the illusion.
I make my voice soft. “Please, Shane. I’m sorry I made you wait so long. Let’s just find a bed, and I promise—”
“I said no. Did you hear me? We’re going to lift that short skirt of yours right here, right now, and I’m going to get what I’ve been waiting for.”
My shock hardens into anger. I would do a lot to avoid conflict, but I won’t lose my virginity in a back alley. I know I seem soft—it’s why my sister is so protective of me. But underneath I’m forged in steel. Even she doesn’t know how that happened. She doesn’t know what our father did and she never will.
I push against his broad chest, and maybe in surprise, he takes a half step back. “I said no, Shane.”
And then he does something horrible—he laughs. The most disturbing thing about that laugh is that I’ve heard it before. It doesn’t sound particularly sinister. It’s an ordinary, fun-loving laugh from an ordinary, fun-loving guy, except he’s laughing about something dark and twisted.
“No one will care,” he says. “You’ve been dating me for months.”
My chest feels tight. I’ve been in this situation before, with a man who wouldn’t take no for an answer. Last time I had a protector. I had Giovanni, but I’m alone now. “Stop,” I say. “This isn’t you.”
His lips brush over my cheek. “You don’t really know me.”
Then I feel his hands on my legs, pushing up. I shove my skirt down, but I’m no match for him. The cold air rushes between my legs—and then this hand is there, groping, feeling, taking.
No, I won’t let this happen. I make fists and hit him anywhere I can reach: his shoulders, his neck. Only when I manage to get the bruise on his face does he swear roughly. It seems to enrage him. Hard hands shove me back into the wall. The brick catches me in its cold net. My breath rushes out of me. Spots dance in front of my eyes.
Shane leans back to reach for his zipper.
A blur flashes in the corner of my eye, something dark and fast.
It crashes into Shane, and they slide along the gravel into the shadows. The sound of fists smacking flesh makes me wince. My hands shake as I cover my mouth. Oh God, this is just like before. Except I don’t know who had come after Shane. A stranger? I can’t see into the deep part of the alley, and I’m not getting any closer than I have to.
Without even meaning to, I take a step back toward the street. Then I turn, and I’m running to the entrance. The bouncer’s still there. Amy, too.
“Someone’s fighting,” I manage, breathless. “In the alley. Please help them.”
The bouncer doesn’t seem surprised. He mutters something into a mic attached to his shirt before taking off around the corner. I have to trust that he’ll break up the fight, but I don’t want to be here when he does. I don’t want to give Shane another chance to attack me.
“Oh my God,” Amy says. “He’s fighting again? Are you okay?”
No, I’m not okay. Not like she means. I’m not injured, but I’m cracking open inside, because for the briefest second, it had seemed like Giovanni was saving me. That’s impossible, I knew. He died years ago. It’s just some kind of flashback, a memory from when he saved me before.
More wishful thinking.
“Let’s get out of here, please,” I beg.
Amy doesn’t ask another question. She grabs my hand and steers us toward the side street where cabs line up. We get into the backseat without another word and take the ride home in silence, my shaking hand in hers.
Chapter Four
When I reach my building, I bypass the front door with its key-card entry. Instead I head into the alley beside my loft apartment and climb the fire escape. These are the kind that slant at a steep angle, more like skinny stairs than a ladder.
Sure enough, a matted bundle of blonde-brown fur wriggles on the second-floor landing.
“Hey, Lupo,” I murmur, keeping my voice soft and my movements slow.
He backs up until he’s at the corner of the bars, his small body trembling with anxiety. We’ve done this dance for weeks now, but he still doesn’t trust me to get close.
I think he belonged to whoever used to live here. Either that or he just likes to climb. The first time I caught a glimpse of shaggy fur, I opened the window and he raced down the stairs. After that I started leaving scraps in a bowl outside the window. Only when I come up through the stairs do we even get this close.
Sometimes I imagine snatching him up into my arm and bundling him inside. I could brush the knots out of his fur and feed him from my hand.
Then I worry that startling him will set us back. Will he still trust me if I keep him trapped inside? So for the time being I’m content to coax him gently, to show him I won’t hurt him, night after night.
Whispering sweet nothings, I push the window up from the outside and pull out the food I left there this morning. Slowly, slowly I scoot the bo
wl to his side of the landing.
“Aren’t you a pretty one,” I croon as he sniffs at the food, then begins to eat. “Aren’t you sweet.”
I remain like that, crouched on the metal grate, watching as he downs the whole meal. Only then do I step in through the window. As soon as I’m inside, no longer blocking the stairway, Lupo rattles the steps on his way down.
“Good night,” I whisper into the damp night air.
The only response is the tinny sound of a trash can knocked aside. With a sigh, I pull the bowl in and shut the window. On impulse I turn back and push the window open again. My sister would freak if she knew I was doing this, but Lupo might come back while I’m sleeping. He might be curious enough to peek his nose inside if he knows it’s safe.
I drop the empty bowl in the sink and grab an orange from the counter for a late-night snack. Settling into the drawing table that I use for both my art and my schoolwork, I toss the peel into the trash can and set the split pieces on the pencil ledge.
The loft is really a single room with thin hardwood slats set diagonally on the floor and a high, peaked ceiling. A small kitchen frames one corner, the door to a small bathroom in the other. The open window splits the space between a twin bed and nightstand and a lounge my sister found at an estate sale. The drawing table and small wardrobe for my clothes round out the rest of the space.
It’s an ordinary apartment in this part of Tanglewood, except for the paint. I’ve covered almost every surface I can find. My landlord agreed that I could paint the walls as long as I paint them back before I move out. He probably thought I meant a soft beige or maybe a trendy sky blue. Instead there’s a patchwork quilt on one side and a mountain vista on the other. The starry night surrounding the window and a gothic Rapunzel on the other side. Not even the furniture escapes my brush. The squat wooden legs of the chaise are fashioned into chess pieces. Thorny vines wrap around the tall spindly legs of the drawing table.
