Rough Hard Fierce, Chicago Underground 1-3 (Rough Hard Fierce)

by Skye Warren

I pounced on her. “Who’s the guy, Shelly?”

  “Okay.” She didn’t play dumb. “It’s Philip. Don’t be angry.”

  “Don’t be angry? This guy is like…I don’t know! Something bad.”

  “He’s not so bad.”

  How dare she side with him? “I saw what he did to you.”

  “He didn’t do anything I didn’t agree to,” she countered.

  Damn. A low blow.

  “I’m sorry.” She stepped toward me. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “No, you’re right,” I managed to get out.

  “No, I wasn’t.” She reached out her hands for mine. “I’m really sorry. At first I didn’t know, and then by the time you told me, there was the thing with the cops, and I knew you’d be upset about it, so…”

  I sighed. “Avoidance.”

  “Learned from the best,” she said with a small smile.

  That pulled a smile from me. I kept my voice down. “Bitch.”

  “You love me anyway.”

  My eyes prickled. “Is this the part where we hug?”

  “Let’s not,” she said.

  And I was fine again. I picked up a can of soup from the bag. “I can’t believe you’re seeing that asshole.”

  She just gave me a wry look—I see who pays me—and crossed to the coffee machine.

  Fair enough, but there were limits. Or there should be. “Have you seen his study?”

  She started the brew, then turned around and leaned against the counter. “The bullfighter,” she said. We both laughed.

  But maybe it didn’t have to be like this. I wasn’t sure how much, but Colin had money. And I knew Shelly had some saved. “Maybe Colin could…”

  “No,” she said. “You know how I feel about it.” I did. Honest pay for honest work. Besides, I wasn’t totally sure Colin would be okay with stealing away Philip’s live-in prostitute.

  “So if you live with him, is he like your sugar daddy?”

  She crunched up her nose. “I hate that term.”

  “This from the girl who prefers the word ‘whore’ to ‘escort.’”

  She laughed. “It’s for the same reason. Girls want to act all uppity, but it’s all the same.”

  “Colin is like my sugar daddy, you think?”

  She shook her head at me—not “no,” but more like it didn’t matter. “You did the right thing. We all make deals to get what we need. Everyone has a price.”

  Colin had once said the same thing to me. Everyone did, and I suppose it was a small comfort that mine was high. Oh, not as high as Shelly’s, especially not in terms of hard cash, but choosing me with all my issues, taking in a little girl, spending time with us, that all counted for a lot.

  And even when I tried to box it into a neat little agreement, it didn’t fit. He could get straight sex from Shelly or someone like her, or just one of those other girls at the club. No, somehow he actually liked me. And I liked him right back, despite his gender. Fucking complications, feelings.

  Shelly handed me one of the mugs she’d been preparing.

  “I need a favor,” I said.

  “Anything,” she said.

  “They’ve been in contact with Andrew. I need you to find out where he is.”

  Chapter Seven

  An hour. That’s how long I’d been in bed staring at the ceiling while Colin was downstairs, “finishing up a few things.”

  My thoughts were not friendly company tonight.

  Rick’s accusations stung. More information than I’d wanted, and yet less than I really needed to act on. I wasn’t in a position to have any leverage with Colin.

  And while I was glad that I’d cleared the air with Shelly, our conversation had dredged up more memories. What I’d told Colin was true; I’d sat there, almost comatose, when Andrew had driven me home.

  The weight of what had happened, of what Andrew had done, had sat between us like another passenger in the car. I hadn’t dared look at him, afraid I’d see the face of my friend masking a violent stranger. Or maybe I was more afraid that Andrew—sane, safe Andrew—had returned and I’d have to deal with his horror at his own actions.

  Before we had even slowed to a stop, I bolted out of the car and ran into my house. I wasn’t sure how long I lay there on my bed. Movies showed rape victims rushing to take a shower, to wash it all away, but I just lay there. As if the water would make it real. Or maybe if I scrubbed hard enough, there’d be nothing left. I already knew the important things could never be rinsed off. The shame, the fear. The pain. So it was better not to feel.

  I might have stayed there forever, slowly withering away, only found two weeks later when my dad returned from his route. But Shelly had come.

  She’d taken one look at my torn clothes and discolored wrists, and she’d known. God, the horror of that, of someone else knowing about that dark moment, was like another thrust of the rape.

  “Who did this?” she’d asked.

  I couldn’t tell her. I’d seen the way she looked at Andrew when she thought I wasn’t looking. The way she invited him to everything, the way she asked after him if I’d seen him without her. I hadn’t even been able to tell her that he liked me, that he had asked me out, again and again. How could I tell her this?

  As it turned out, I didn’t have to.

  My silence gave it away. “No,” she’d gasped.

  But she’d brought something new to the table: anger.

  Anger was good. I felt it burble in me now, hot springs of wrath. Manipulative. Controlling. Asshole. This had started about Andrew, but now it was about Colin.

  Why did Colin have to force things? Well, I answered my own question there. Because I’d told him no, repeatedly. To men, no just meant make me.

  I had wanted Colin, but by taking away my choice, he’d degraded me as much as Andrew had. Colin hadn’t even had to do it, because I’d needed more money than I could make at the bakery. Because of Andrew. Andrew, who pushed me for custody and then disappeared. Andrew, who Colin had spoken with, but not me.

  Was it possible Colin had used Andrew the same way he’d used Rick—to try and force my hand into coming to him? No, that seemed beyond even him. Still, though, the lines had utterly blurred. We’d moved from shades of gray into hot mess.

  I couldn’t stand the cool sheets, the drafty room, the black, yawning bay windows. There was only one thing to do at a time like this. Night baking. I tiptoed from the bedroom, so as not to disturb the slumbering child across the hall, crept down the stairs, so as not to disturb the hibernating man in the study, and into the kitchen.

  I opened the pantry door with a sort of reverence and fingered the packages, like a painter might before selecting his materials. A cheesecake, maybe? I’d gotten enough cream cheese for it. It would have to harden overnight, but in the morning I’d drizzle it with melted chocolate and some of those raspberries.

  Or maybe something chocolaty. What was I thinking? Definitely something chocolaty.

  A tart. A light chocolate crust, a smooth truffle filling, and a shiny chocolate topping. A bit more foreplay, what with the three separate components, but—ah—the payoff. My eyes glazed at the thought. It was an orgasm in cake form. Really, no one could pamper themselves better than a baker.

  I crushed graham crackers for the crust, then pressed the mix into the tart mold I’d bought from Goodwill a year ago. While that hardened in the oven, I whisked eggs and melted chocolate to make my filling. Once the tart itself had baked, I poured a thin layer of glaze over the top, forming a black, glossy surface.

  It would take a while to set, so I wandered through the quiet house. There wasn’t anything to see, nothing to touch, so my hands rested behind my back.

  Light peeked out from under the study door.

  I knocked, my timidity downgrading it into more of a tap.

  “Come in,” he said from inside, and I opened the door.

  This study was nothing like Philip’s. It was open and airy, matching the minimalism in the re
st of the house. A desk and chair filled out one end of the room. A small sofa sat in the other, and that’s where Colin lay. He shut the drawer on the side table just as I entered.

  “Can I talk to you?” I asked.

  “Sure.” He rubbed a hand over his face. Dark shadows etched under his eyes, and I felt guilty for my earlier doubt. Not that I was convinced he’d done nothing wrong, but he’d also done plenty right. And at the time he’d been little more than a stranger.

  Colin resettled in the corner of the sofa, his arm out. I closed the door behind me and joined him, curling into his side. He wrapped his arm around me, pulling me in tight.

  I could have this forever. All I had to do was wait, the perfect, placid little girlfriend, for Colin to solve my problems. Let him control me—trust he wouldn’t betray me.

  But what would the cost be if I was wrong? If he was?

  And Bailey would be the one to pay.

  “I’m going to talk to Andrew,” I said.

  My words kicked him into standing.

  “No,” he said, sounding exactly like I did when Bailey shoved peas up her nose.

  I tried to remain calm. “It’s not up to you. He’s my…”

  “Rapist?” he scoffed.

  That stung. “My friend.”

  “And what am I?” he said.

  “You’re my…lover.” My voice broke.

  He raised an eyebrow. Is that all?

  “Well, what are you, then?” Calm was over. His silence infuriated me. “What do you want to be? I don’t even know, because you won’t…fucking…talk!”

  He glared at me. Then a flicker—a small, reluctant smile cracked.

  I laugh-cried back at him. Goddamned, fucking, adorable man.

  It wasn’t just about trust. Living here, I’d started having little daydreams about what it would be like to stay. There wasn’t an exit date planned, not that I knew of, but this was hardly a permanent arrangement. Maybe I wanted it to be.

  But if I was going to be worthy of that, I’d have to handle my own shit. Whether Colin liked it or not.

  “I have to do this. For Bailey and for myself.” I pulled out my trump card. “Would you let Philip handle it if someone hurt you?”

  His eyes flashed. That was all. Just a small visual sign, but I felt the jolt through his body. Maybe I’d hit a little too hard.

  “Actually,” he said. “Laramie found a loophole.”

  Heh, Laramie the lawyer found a loop—and then the meaning of the words registered. Relief was there, but I didn’t like his tone. “What is it?”

  “If you get him on the rape, then he won’t have a legal claim on Bailey.”

  I blinked. Nope, still didn’t get it. Didn’t want to understand.

  “What does that mean—get him?”

  He seemed to choose his words carefully. “If you press charges, prosecute him, and he’s convicted, then legally—”

  “No fucking way.” I’d practically shit myself telling Colin. There was no fucking chance I was going to say it in public. And that’s assuming they even would prosecute. And that I’d win.

  “Allie,” he said.

  “Colin,” I said. “How would Laramie know?”

  He didn’t meet my eyes.

  “No,” I whispered. “Tell me you didn’t.”

  His lips firmed.

  It was a small comfort that he didn’t give me excuses. That it was for the best, or that he had a right to share my secrets. Rage would be great, but all I had left was a whisper. “Fuck you.”

  I ran from the room, stumbled up the stairs, unseen through my tears, and huddled under the covers. The feeling of my heart being ripped out slipped on like an old shoe. God, the betrayal.

  The pain echoed from past wounds, but not just from Andrew.

  I remembered my shock at Shelly’s furor. I was grateful for her anger on my behalf, but she was more than that. She’d been spitting mad. She’d called Andrew every swear word I’d ever heard, and a few I hadn’t, and she never swore. Then she’d insisted I tell the authorities. He couldn’t get away with this, she said.

  I was confused. Even through my own hurt and anger, I didn’t want anything bad to happen to Andrew. He’d been my friend for so much longer than he’d been my rapist. It wasn’t a switch I could turn off.

  But Shelly’s arguments made sense. He deserved whatever punishment he got for what he’d done. And if I didn’t say anything, he might hurt someone else.

  A woman on a mission, she kept at me until whatever sanity was left in me wore down.

  When I finally wanted to shower, she blocked me. Evidence, she said.

  My bruised, sticky body was evidence.

  Shelly drove me to the hospital herself. We waited for hours—I wasn’t an emergency. She stayed with me until they took me into the exam room. They wouldn’t let her come with me.

  In a room full of strangers, wearing a small, paper gown that gaped open in front, I was made to lie down on a hard table. There were stirrups there—I’d never seen anything like it before.

  “Put your feet here,” the doctor said.

  I wouldn’t do it. The doctor, the nurses, the police officer all coaxed me, but finally they just lifted my legs and put them in. They didn’t need my consent either.

  They poked me and prodded, ferreted out all the bruises and a few cuts. Cold gloves caught on my flesh. A camera flashed, memorializing my shame. They put their fingers and instruments inside me, where nothing had ever been until a few hours before. They hurt me there too. Everything down there hurt.

  The doctor stopped once, to take a phone call. I thought it was his wife, because of the way he kept saying he’d call back soon so many times before he could hang up.

  I stared up at the ceiling. First I tried to find shapes in the bumpy ceiling tiles, like the game children play with clouds. But all I found were faces. Inhuman faces, with wide, blank eyes and gaping mouths, swirled above me. I closed my eyes, but that was worse—they could come and get me. So I stared up blankly.

  I was waiting for it to be over. Little did I know it would never end.

  I’d trusted Andrew, sure. My friend, my pal. But even my adolescent mind knew he was fucked up, and with good reason, and we were both just stupid kids. I’d outwardly agreed with Shelly’s venom, but inside, in that part of me as confused and as hurt as Andrew was, I understood him.

  I’d trusted these strangers far more. These helpers in the community, these pillars of society—doctors, nurses, policemen. They weren’t supposed to touch me, hurt me, humiliate me. At least Andrew had cared enough to hate me while he hurt me. These people were thinking about their shift ending, even while they had their fingers inside me.

  When Andrew had touched me, I’d burned from the pain and the fear. When those men had touched me, I’d grown cold. Frozen to ice, never thawed.

  In the present I felt the warmth of Colin’s touch at my back.

  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  I still felt the anger, the hurt, but those things were impotent. At least when you were small like me. So tired. And hell, I didn’t want to be mad at him. It probably made me weak, but that was nothing new.

  I fought past the lump in my throat. “Give it to me.”

  He paused. “What?”

  “The way I want it. You know.”

  I felt his indecision as my breath caught. He didn’t want to hurt me, I knew, but he’d want to do as I asked, because he’d fucked up. I didn’t even know if I wanted him to say yes or no.

  “Okay,” he finally said, resigned.

  Relief and panic warred within me, but both emotions were muted by the sharp pain on my wrist. Why did men always go for the wrist? They wanted to immobilize women, I supposed. Immobilize our hands, at least—were hands really so powerful? Then he tightened his other hand in my hair and yanked. Fuck. Yes, they were.

  I slid down the side of the bed, where the hardwood floor slapped my face. My knees jolted as they hit the floor, and then again wi
th the impact of Colin’s weight from behind.

  All over, my body was twisted or crushed. It was perfect.

  I surrendered. There’s a freedom in not having to move, not having to think, but knowing it would happen anyway.

  My clothes were yanked out of the way, and then he was fucking me.

  Each thrust slammed my head into the ground and my shoulders from their sockets. Ah, bliss.

  My mind took up a chant. Hurt me, hurt me, hurt me. Make me hurt, cry, bleed. Make my outside match my inside. Help me get it out, because I can’t cry on my own.

  And then my plea escaped my mind. “Hurt me, hurt me.”

  “Oh, God,” Colin groaned.

  “Hurt me.”

  He reached around and pinched my nipple. I gasped. He pressed harder. Yes.

  “Allie,” he said. It sounded like a warning. I couldn’t think.

  The initial pain of his cock stretching me had passed. I wanted more. I tilted my hips back to meet him. He took the cue and grasped my bare hips with both hands. His fingers dug into me as he rammed my body onto his cock. Fuck, it hurt. Yes, more.

  My mouth formed the words, but no sound came out. “Hurt me.”

  “Fuck!” With a final, erratic surge and a long, almost painful moan, he climaxed. He slumped over me, crushing me.

  He was right. Fuck.

  What had I done? I couldn’t face him.

  A tear slid down my face. That wasn’t strange. My face was wet—I’d been crying before we even started. But this one came from near my ear and slid down to my nose.

  It wasn’t mine.

  I jerked up, which only succeeded in slamming my body against his and then back into the floor. I finally threw him off, heavy and limp as he was, but he covered his face.

  “Oh, Colin,” I said.

  He was dressed, only his fly open. Like a drunkard staggering from a bar, he managed to stand and stumble into the bathroom. He slammed the door in a sick reversal of the scene in the motel that first night with him.

  I just sat there on the cold floor, absently rubbing my bruised knees. What had I done? This was so much worse than I’d thought. It wasn’t just about turning myself into a whore.

  I’d wanted to be hurt, but I’d hurt him.