Forbidden: A Romance Anthology

by Yolanda Olson

  Do not disturb signs immediately begin going off in my head.

  I won’t bother Mr. G. no matter what happens. I’ll prove to the Gastrells that I’m more than capable of taking care of the little family they’ve built.

  And most of all, I’ll prove to myself that I’m not the throwaway I’ve felt like my entire life.

  Chapter Six

  Glancing over at the grandfather clock against the wall, I realize it’s almost time for lunch. Mrs. G. has already been gone for a few hours, Anna Leigh and Maynard have been engrossed in their game of Candy Land, and no sign of Mr. G. even being in the house has happened yet.

  “Ew! I hate licorice!” Maynard exclaims loudly when he ends up moving his piece toward Licorice Castle.

  “I’m going to fix lunch for you guys. Anything in particular you’re hungry for?” I ask as I get to my feet.

  Anna Leigh shakes her head and her brother shrugs. I actually like that they’ve been so complacent so far—it makes for a nice, easy way to make some cash.

  Once the eldest of the Gastrell children picks up the dice in her hands and begins to shake them, I shake my head and walk out of the room.

  Maybe one day when I’m old enough and have finally made something of myself, I’ll be able to have a family of my own and a nice little house too.

  Nothing like this one because fuck knows what kind of cash they have to be raking in to live in a neighborhood like this, but something that’s cozy and all mine.

  As I walk toward the kitchen I look down at the hem of my shorts and pull away a small piece of threading that I didn’t realize had been coming loose until I felt it tickling my thigh.

  I wish I could say I wasn’t embarrassed since I know that Miss Jean bought these for me brand-new, but it still manages to add to the inadequacy I feel being here.

  It’ll pass, I promise myself as I step into the kitchen and glance around. As I walk over to the island and run a finger over the squeaky, clean surface, I can’t help but wonder what it feels like to wake up every day in a place like this. To have the world at one’s fingertips for the taking, a refrigerator full of food, and to never have to worry about what tomorrow will bring.

  I pull out one of the stools and sit down, drumming my fancy, dark red fingernails along the top of the island. I have no idea what to make these children and I’m sure that unlike the ones at the shelter, a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches probably won’t suffice.

  “What was your name again?”

  I almost jump out of my skin at the sound of the voice, and glance over my shoulder with a startled expression on my face.

  Everett—Mr. G.—is standing in the archway of the kitchen looking at me with that stoic expression in his eyes.

  “Um, Meryska,” I mumble as I feel my cheeks becoming hot. I don’t understand how he can’t remember my name, but he seems to enjoy making me squirm over something as simple as this.

  “That’s right,” he confirms indifferently as he walks into the room and over toward the fridge. “Not sure how I could have forgotten that,” he mutters under his breath as he pulls out a glass Tupperware bowl full of what looks like leftovers.

  “So, what are you doing here alone?” he continues as he walks over toward the counter, pulls back the saran wrap, then retrieves a plate from the cabinet over the sink.

  “I was gonna fix the kids some lunch,” I reply quietly.

  “And how’s that going?”

  I fold my hands on the island top and lower my eyes toward my Calista-inspired nails, then take a deep breath.

  Be yourself.

  “Fuck if I know what to make them,” I blurt out as nonchalantly as I can.

  Mr. G. chuckles as he puts his fixed plate into the microwave then turns to face me.

  “They eat anything if that helps.”

  “Including leftovers?” I ask nervously.

  I can almost swear that I see a smile trying to curve up the edge of his lips, but his resolve holds strong as his eyes begin to bore into mine.

  “Anna Leigh! Maynard!” he suddenly booms at the top of his lungs causing me to jump slightly.

  I can hear the footsteps of his children rapidly approaching and when they enter the kitchen, I swivel in my stool to look at them. They’re both staring at their father expectantly, with Anna Leigh stealing a glance at me and sticking the tip of her tongue out of the corner of her mouth. I look away and stifle a giggle—it’s obvious to her that I’m on edge right now and she wants to make me feel better with her silly gesture.

  “Yes, Daddy?” she asks.

  “Do you think you can go easy on Miss Meryska today and share some of this with me for lunch?” he asks, using a knuckle to tap the side of the bowl.

  “Well, what is it?” Maynard asks, causing Anna Leigh to rib him with her elbow almost immediately.

  “Sure!” she replies with that same enthusiasm she had when she opened the front door for me.

  Thank you, I mouth to her and she smiles. I get to my feet, walk over to where Mr. G. is standing at the counter and reach up into the cabinet next to his head to pull out two smaller plates for them. He nods at me to set them down on the counter before he reaches for a clean spoon and scoops out smaller portions for the kids.

  After the microwave dings, he retrieves his plate, then waits patiently while each of his children’s plates heats up. They come over to take them from the counter with a sound, thank you Daddy and Miss Meryska, before they disappear back toward the living room.

  “Help yourself,” Mr. G. tells me as he picks up his plate and begins to walk out of the kitchen.

  As I begin to fix myself a small plate, I smile. Maybe he’s not so bad after all and he won’t be so quick to forget me again.

  Chapter Seven

  Five o’clock came and went and Mrs. G. still hasn’t come home yet. I’m sitting in the dining room with Mr. G. and the kids since he insisted that we all take a place at the table.

  “It’s almost bedtime anyway,” he reminded them with a stern tone, “you have to take your showers and get ready for bed soon.”

  I push my food around my plate with the fork wondering how I’m going to get home. Part of the deal was that Mrs. G. would give me a ride back to the shelter, though I planned on having her drop me off just down the street.

  “You aren’t hungry?”

  I glance up at Mr. G. and swallow hard under the weight of his eyes. They have that stern hue to them again and I almost feel like one of his children right now.

  “Lunch is still sitting, I guess,” I reply with a shrug as I set my fork down.

  “Well, you make sure you clean your plate,” he tells me with a nod as he goes back to his dinner.

  I guess he thinks I’m one of his kids, after all. May as well act like one then.

  I let my fork clatter onto my plate as I push my chair back and get to my feet. I pick up the glass of water I’ve been sipping in between bites and walk out of the dining room.

  The silence in the room behind me now is as stony as the man who rules the home, but I don’t care. If this is how he is on day one because Mrs. G. isn’t around, then it’s possible I don’t need this job as much as I thought.

  I carefully place my plate in the sink and the glass on the counter as I turn the water on. There wasn’t much left on my plate for him to make a big deal over, so I know that the garbage disposal will take care of the rest.

  I’m hoping that Mrs. G. will be home by the time I’m done so I can tell her what a dick her husband is and give her notice. That should make everyone involved in this farce happier than a pig in shit and hopefully, I’ll at least get paid for my time today.

  I may not be much to anyone, but I do have my damn pride and I won’t be treated like a child.

  As I busy myself washing my plate, fork, then glass, another plate is placed into the sink. I glance up to see Mr. G. watching me with amusement dancing in his eyes. With a sigh, I grab his plate and begin to wash it, when I’m done wit
h that one, he places one of the kids’ plates in the sink next.

  And the cycle repeats itself until four dinner plates are spotless and in the dish strainer.

  “Calista probably won’t come home tonight,” Mr. G. begins thoughtfully as I dry my hands with a small dishtowel. “Whenever she’s with her mother, she tends to stay gone for a day or two.”

  I grit my teeth.

  Had I been informed of this, I would have walked out the front door the day of my interview, but honestly I shouldn’t be surprised.

  It’s probably what fancy, rich people do.

  “Okay, well, I still need to get home,” I tell him indifferently. “I know you can’t leave them alone here, so I’ll just call for a ride.”

  “Stay.”

  I arch an eyebrow as I cross my arms over my chest and look into Mr. G.’s eyes. He seems serious enough about it, but I’d still have to tell Miss Jean so she doesn’t stay up all night worrying about me.

  “I insist,” he says in a quieter tone, his eyes becoming soft.

  I blow out my breath as I hook my thumbs into the belt loops of my shorts and begin to chew the inside of my mouth thoughtfully.

  “You can consider it overtime, Meryska,” he adds with a soft chuckle and I grunt. Does overtime come with a bib and a bottle too?

  “I have to call the lady I stay with,” I tell him after giving it a little more thought. I don’t understand why he’s treating me like this, but I guess I should just play along. “She’s expecting me to come home tonight and if I don’t she’ll probably call the cops.”

  He gestures to follow him and I do.

  Through the dining room and the kitchen, past the children cleaning up the table and down a hall that I haven’t wandered down before until we stop in front of a door. He reaches into his pocket, retrieves a key, and slips it into the lock, giving the door a push, then stepping back to let me in first.

  “You can use the phone on my desk. I’ll put the kids to bed while you make your phone call,” he says.

  I step into what I’m assuming his office, and when I turn around to thank him, the door is already closed with the click of the lock greeting my ears.

  Chapter Eight

  It’s been an hour and Mr. G. still hasn’t come back to check on me. I may not remember what it was like to tuck my brothers into bed, but I do know it doesn’t take this damn long.

  After I called Miss Jean to let her know I’d be back in the morning, I tried the door even though I knew it was locked. I guess I was hoping it was just a game of sorts, something for him to pass the time to become “amiable” like Mrs. G. promised he would be, but no such luck.

  I’m honestly locked in the office of the most beautiful man on Earth and a dead phone line on the next try to call out for some help, which I’m assuming was his plan the whole time.

  Most accused get one phone call after they’ve been contained—even if I have nothing to be accused of.

  Perhaps he doesn’t like that I didn’t make the kids lunch and that he had to let them encroach on his leftovers, or perhaps he doesn’t like the fact that I didn’t finish my dinner. Either way, this is getting more fucked up as the minutes tick by and I’m starting to slowly slip into survival mode.

  It’s strange because I haven’t felt danger in such a long time, though I do intend to return any favor he may try to dole out to me.

  I didn’t get this far by staying on the straight and narrow lines of life.

  I go back to his desk and sit down, making myself comfortable in his leather chair. I begin to pull open desk drawers and rifle around to see if there’s anything that will give me some kind of idea as to what he does for work, but what I find sets my teeth on edge.

  There are notepads, all blank and neatly stacked without a single word, line, or scribble inked into the pages.

  I furrow my brow as I sit back and think. He has to do something to be able to afford this place, so what the fuck is it?

  I glance over at the mouse sitting on the desktop and sit up. Gripping it, I give it a shake from side to side to bring the screen to life. Mr. G. doesn’t seem to be a fan of passwords so the last thing he was working on fills the screen and I begin to read.

  Seventeen year old female. Tattoos on legs, chest, and arms. Pretty, sassy, willing to train before sale.

  “What the fuck? “ I mutter under my breath.

  Click.

  Creak.

  Chuckle.

  I bring my legs up and cross them beneath me as I swivel the chair to glance over at the door. Mr. G. is standing there with a smirk on his face, a legion of demons dancing in his eyes, and a leather belt firmly wrapped around a fist.

  “Lesson one: don’t poke around in other people’s affairs,” he says softly.

  I reach up to smooth my hair back, before I swing my legs down and get to my feet. I place my hands on my hips, square my shoulders, and look Mr. G. straight in the eyes.

  “Don’t forget the second part of that, Everett. Never try fucking with a bitch that’s already lost everything,” I reply evenly.

  “Good,” he remarks with a nod as he begins to walk toward me. “I love it when they put up a fight.”

  Chapter Nine

  Mr. G. has a hand wrapped firmly around my throat. Each time he squeezes, I can feel my eyes bulge slightly and my lungs constrict resulting in a burning sensation.

  “Lesson two: fuck when you’re told to,” he growls as he parts my legs with his knee and trades the hand around my throat for his belt. He quickly loops it, latching it on the tightest loop he can fit it through, then pulls it—and me—back with full force.

  I grunt as my fingers begin to claw at the leather around my neck, trying to gasp for air, but it’s no use. Mr. G. has lost his shit this time and honestly, I think it’s been too long for either of us, anyway.

  He opens one of the top drawers as he uses the belt to slide me up the desk, then closes it securely around the buckle.

  Once he’s secured me in place, he makes his way around the front of the desk and roughly pulls my shorts off.

  I keep trying to find some way to breathe but I can tell he isn’t going to let up any time soon. Especially not when he rips my panties apart, tosses one half aside, and stuffs the other half into my mouth.

  “Try not to be too loud,” he instructs with a smirk as he hovers above me for a moment. I’ve seen that look he has in his eyes before; one too many times for my liking, and I only ever stopped seeing it when I moved into the shelter.

  I close my eyes tightly and continue to tug at the belt. Granted, this isn’t the ideal position to be in, but having my obituary say died of asphyxiation due to panties and a belt, isn’t the lasting impression I want to leave behind.

  I want to be remembered, but not like this.

  As Mr. G. slips a finger into me, I do my best to try and lock my knees together, but he’s much stronger than me.

  “Lesson three: if you put up a fight, you should make sure you’re capable of taking down the man that has you in such a compromising position, little girl.”

  I use my tongue to push my panties out of my mouth and take in as deep a breath as I can. He’s going to be even more pissed off that I’m not gagged anymore, but I’ll be angrier if I die like this.

  Once again, I try to lock my knees together in an attempt to force his finger out of me, but he just laughs and finally relents.

  “I guess you want to move on then, Meryska? Is that it?” he asks as I listen to the zipper on his pants being undone, then the dull sound of them hitting the carpet.

  Mr. G. steps forward, forcing himself between my legs, parting them with ease, then places the tip of his cock against my pussy.

  “When was your last time, little girl?” he asks in a thick tone.

  I shake my head because I honestly can’t remember and I can’t form words since my damn oxygen is still being cut off.

  As if he’s read my mind—or decided to finally show some mercy—he presses his
body against mine, holding me in place, as he begins to undo the belt loops and releases it from the drawer. I let out my breath in a rush as the leather finally gives way, then grunt, when he jerks me upright.

  “This,” he begins holding up one of my hands in my line of sight, “makes you look like a whore. Don’t ever paint your nails this color again.”

  I blink rapidly a few times as the world explodes around me. It’s not because he hit me, it’s because my body is desperately trying to take in oxygen and get the blood flowing properly again.

  Mr. G. loops the belt around his fist again, jerking my head back as he shoves his thick cock into me without mercy. He begins to thrust his hips in a manic, yet controlled manner. Almost like an animal aware that it has rabies and still trying to hold on to the shred of normalcy it felt before becoming infected.

  He grunts as he continues thrusting, using me as his personal fuck toy—ragged, abused, and being trained for whoever places the highest bid on me.

  Mr. G. pulls out of me for a moment and begins to pump his cock until he comes against the inside of my thigh, then uses the belt to force me to turn over onto my stomach, my face against the sweaty desk, and he enters me again.

  The harder he fucks me, the more I bite back tears of pain.

  The deeper he goes, the more I realized how much I missed this.

  Chapter Ten

  “What are you going to do about Calista?” I ask him after he’s had his fill of me. My legs are shaking, my neck is bruised and raw, but I honestly can’t remember a time I felt so damn wanted.

  He lets out a tired chuckle as he runs his hand back through his hair, then grins at me.

  “She hasn’t caught us so far, what makes you think she’ll be a problem?”

  “Well, it was different before, Everett,” I remind him with an eye roll. “Hotel rooms across state lines because you’re ‘on business’ are different than having me in your home and taking care of your kids.”