by M. S. Parker
I raised an eyebrow and folded my arms, trying to suppress a shiver. I didn't succeed. For a moment, I thought he would come over to me again, but he didn't. He gestured toward the afghan still lying on my lap. I pulled it around my shoulders, finding it comforting and warm now.
“Why didn't you take me to a hospital?”
He hadn't offered an explanation, but I wanted one. Something about him told me I could trust him, but past experience told me to suspect dark motives from everyone. No exceptions.
“My friend Curt used to have anxiety attacks,” he said. “One of the reasons why he decided to cash in after his car accident. He figured what better way to avoid anxiety than retiring in the Bahamas.”
“So you knew what was happening?”
“I strongly suspected. I just didn't know why or how to talk you down,” he said. “When you passed out, I knew your breathing and pulse would go back to normal. I figured it'd be better for you if you woke up someplace safe with someone you knew rather than in a hospital, surrounded by complete strangers.”
That made sense, I supposed.
“Are you okay now?” he asked.
I nodded automatically, so used to saying it that I didn't even stop to consider if it was true.
“Are you claustrophobic?”
Something about the way he said the question told me he didn't actually think that was the problem.
I shook my head, looking away from him. There was a fire going in the nearby fireplace. I stared at the flames, willing the sight of them to heat the part of me that couldn't be reached by the blanket around my shoulders. I didn't want to think about what had triggered the panic attack. I could still feel the darkness there, fluttering at the edge of my mind. On a good day, it took me a couple hours to shake off a mild attack, but this had been anything but mild.
Movement caught my attention and I turned back to see Rylan moving to kneel in front of me. He put his hands on either side of mine, but didn't grip onto them. “Jenna, you know you can trust me, right? Whatever it is, it's okay.”
Near-hysterical laughter bubbled up inside me. “Okay? It's pretty fucking far from okay.” I pulled my hands out of his and pressed them against my mouth to keep myself from continuing to laugh. All it did was muffle the sound while I fought it down.
After a panic attack, my emotions were always very close to the surface and so much harder to control. All of the exercises my therapist had taught me were harder to access and took longer to take effect. I started to count slowly, trying to pace my breathing with the numbers.
I ducked my head so I didn't have to see Rylan's face.
“Jenna.” His voice was soft as he put a finger under my chin. “Look at me.”
He raised my head and I didn't have the strength to stop him. I was suddenly exhausted.
“You're safe with me. Whatever you're scared of, you don't have to be, not here. Not with me.” His thumb brushed across the side of my mouth and tears welled up in my eyes. “Tell me what you need me to do.”
What I needed him to do? It was the first time I'd ever had anyone ask me that. People had told me what I needed to do for them, what I needed to do for myself, but never asked me what I needed from them. Certainly never in a kind, concerned tone, one that lacked any sort of patronizing aspect to it.
That simple statement broke the last of my control and the tears spilled over. I tried to turn away, but he gripped my chin. Not hard enough to hurt, but firm enough to know that he didn't want me to look away.
“What can I do?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said and dropped my gaze. He could keep my face where it was, but he couldn't make me look at him. “No one can do anything. I'm broken. Have been for a long time. I’m just holding the pieces together for as long as I can. That's all I can do.”
“Bullshit.”
He didn't say it angrily or with any force, but it still made me look at him, startled out of my tears.
“This isn't some child's nursery rhyme where no one can put you back together again.” He released my chin and smoothed down my hair, letting his fingers brush across my cheek.
“You don't know.” I shook my head and wiped at my cheeks. My shoulders slumped. “You don't know what was done to me.” The weight of the years bore down on me, the memories threatened to come forward. I took a shuddering breath.
He wasn't some random stranger I'd hooked up with who would run screaming. He wasn't someone who I'd never see again, a person I could let write me off as an unstable nutcase. He deserved to know, at least enough to explain to him why his newest employee went off the deep end in the elevator.
I'd never told anyone who wasn't a court-appointed shrink, and it had taken me a long time to trust them enough to tell it. Starting was always the hardest part. With Rylan, I decided to keep it simple.
“I was abused as a child.” The sentence came out flat, like it was someone else saying it. I'd always wished that could've been the case with the memories. They never felt like they'd happened to someone else. It was always me, right there. My hand went to the left side of my stomach, the same place it always went when I thought about back then.
Rylan's eyes flicked down to my hand, but I looked away before I could see the realization in his eyes. He'd seen me naked. Only the scars on my back had been covered by the angel wings tattooed across my shoulder-blades. The others had been visible, but he hadn't asked about them back then.
“I figured that was the case.”
Again, he surprised me enough to look at him when I hadn't planned to. There was anger in his eyes, something I hadn't seen since Lily had died, and the heat from it warmed me more than the fire or the afghan. The people who were horrified or sickened by what had been done to me were better than the ones who didn't understand why it was wrong or the ones who thought it was my fault. But it was the ones who were mad that I was grateful for.
I forced myself to continue. “I don't even know how old I was when it started, only that my earliest memories are ones of pain.”
“Jenna,” he interrupted. “You don't have to tell me the details.” He took my hand, wrapping his fingers around mine. “Not unless you decide to. I don't need to know.”
I sighed in relief. Even if I ever did manage to someday wanting a relationship with someone, this was why it would never happen. I could never tell anyone everything that had happened, and I could never ask a man to be with me without knowing. Just telling Rylan that little bit had been more than I'd ever told anyone not bound by patient-client privilege.
“Come with me.” He stood and held out his hand.
I blinked. All of the chemicals that had been keeping me going were slowly ebbing away and the exhaustion I'd felt before was seeping into my bones.
“I'm not letting you go home like this.” His voice was firm. “I have plenty of rooms here.” He paused, and then added, “You can even lock the door behind me if you want.”
I took his hand, surprising myself when I didn't let go as soon as he helped me stand. There was something comforting about his hand on mine, something I didn't have the energy to try to analyze right now. Instead, I was just going to accept it and follow him through what I now realized was an insanely huge house.
“Would you be more comfortable in a room near mine or far away from mine?” he asked as we stepped into a massive kitchen. Stone walls, marble floors and state-of-the-art appliances.
“Close.” I was getting too tired to be surprised by how differently I responded to Rylan. If I had been in any other man's house, I would've been heading for the door, insisting on a cab. Even if, through some strange occurrence, a man had been able to convince me to stay, I would've taken the room the furthest away from him and done as he said and locked the door behind me. Now, all I could think was that I needed him nearby. I felt safer with him than I had with anyone since Lily. The only person since Lily.
Tired as I was, I still managed to gawk as I followed him up a winding staircase that led to the second
floor. I wanted to ask if he lived here by himself, ask why he'd buy such a big house if it was only just him. I didn't though. I told myself it was because I was having a hard enough time not tripping on the steps, but I knew it was really because expressing interest about the details of his life would make me admit to myself that I cared more about him than I should have.
We turned left and walked halfway down the hallway before he stopped and opened the door on the left.
“Here.” He stepped out of the way so I could enter. “Light's on the left.”
I felt along the wall and turned on the light. The room was tastefully decorated with furnishings that were obviously top quality but not ornate. A large bed sat in the middle of the room and a door on the other side was open. The colors were warm and inviting, a perfectly designed guest room.
“That's your own bathroom.” He motioned to the door across the hall. “And there's my room. There's no direct access between the two rooms, but if you need me, I'm right here.”
I took a step and a wave of dizziness washed over me. I reached out and caught the doorframe, fighting to keep my eyes open. I'd already worked a long day and the clock glowing from inside the bedroom said it was past one in the morning. Add that to the emotional upheaval and the physical toll and I was surprised I'd actually managed to make it this far. I looked at the bed. It was only a few feet away, but I wasn't sure I could take another step.
“I've got you.” Rylan's voice was right behind me. “If you permit me.”
I knew what he was asking and I nodded my answer, wondering if he understood how big a step it was for me. Then he pick me up in his arms and carried me into the room. He held me securely, but not so tightly that I felt like he was restraining me. He set me on the bed and immediately took a step back, giving me room to breathe.
“Do you want something else to wear?” he asked. “I can get something out of the dresser and give it to you. I always keep a couple extra pairs of pajama pants and t-shirts in the guest rooms.”
I wiggled my toes, realizing for the first time that, at some point, Rylan had taken off my shoes. I looked up at him and nodded. I wanted the familiarity of my own pajamas, but at least what he had would be more comfortable than the skinny jeans and fitted sweater I'd worn to work today.
He went to the dresser, rummaged for a moment and then came back with a pair of flannel pants and a plain gray t-shirt.
“I'll be across the hall if you need me,” he said. “It's a simple turn lock and there is a key, but it's downstairs. I'll get it for you if you want it though.” He stepped out into the hallway and reached behind him to close the door.
“Wait,” I said.
He stopped, but didn't turn to look at me.
“Will you stay?” I asked. “And sit with me for a while?”
He gave me a soft smile and I saw another glimpse of anger cross his eyes before disappearing into a warm emotion I wasn't going to think about. “Of course. I'll just step out into the hall until you're done changing, then I'll come back in.”
“Okay.” I watched as he closed the door and pulled off my clothes. Everything went into a pile on the floor and then I pulled on the clothes he'd given me. I kept glancing at the door, wondering if he'd do what he'd said. The fear ingrained in me through experience said that he would come back in before I was done dressing and take advantage of the situation. Another part of me thought he'd get tired of waiting and leave. A tiny bit hoped that he'd keep his word. And I wasn't sure which of the three ideas terrified me more.
I slid under the covers and then risked it all. “I'm dressed.”
For one heart-stopping moment, nothing happened. Then the door opened and he came back in. He left the door half open, giving me privacy and an escape route. He started toward the expensive-looking chair in the corner.
“Sit here, please.” I patted the edge of the bed. “It's a strange place and you're familiar.”
He smiled again and came over to the bed. He sat exactly where I'd asked him to and didn't try to touch me. “I'll stay right here until you fall asleep. How about that? And then I'll be right across the hall if you need me.”
“Thank you.” I settled back against the pillows, knowing the exhaustion would take over my self-preservation mode and my eyes were going to close. That was okay this time though. He wasn't going to touch me.
I was safe.
Chapter 3
I wasn't safe. I was never safe. When I fell asleep, I never knew if I'd wake up in the same place, if I'd be alone or if there would be others with me. In my bed. In another bed. A warehouse. Basement. There could be one or twenty. Old, young, mostly men but there'd been a couple women. Women, like the one who was holding down my wrists while her husband was pumping away inside me, tearing me apart.
They wanted me to scream and fight, and I did what they wanted. I'd heard my mother negotiating with them before they'd come into my room. I'd been pretending to sleep, hoping and praying that this time, it was just a nightmare. That I hadn't heard my mother telling them it would cost extra if they left marks. That I hadn't heard in her voice that she wanted them to agree to pay more, no matter what it did to me.
They'd agreed and my breasts ached with the bite marks they'd left, but they were nothing compared to what else they were doing. Once he was done, they turned me over and it was her turn. My throat was raw from screaming by the time she was done and he was hard again.
They took turns for hours and when they left, my mom took a belt to me for ruining the sheets. I begged her not to throw away my blanket, the only consistent thing I'd ever had. It had never protected me from the horrors of my childhood, but it had always been there to bring a tiny bit of comfort. I didn't care that it was a mess. She burned it in front of me and laughed when I started coughing and choking from the smoke.
I stayed home from school three days after that one. Mom even left me alone. Or she forgot about me. When I crawled out of bed after two days without eating or drinking, she was passed out on the couch. It was a very real possibility that she’s forgotten about me. She hadn't been giving me time to heal.
When I got home from school after my first day back, the man Mom called Uncle Ronny was waiting. He had another baby doll dress for me. Mom said I should be thankful that I wasn't developing young because once I started getting real boobs, Uncle Ronny wouldn't want me anymore.
I prayed every day that I'd start growing like the other twelve year-olds in my class. Until it happened, I would have to do all of the disgusting, humiliating things Uncle Ronny made me do, things that left me retching and crying... all after he'd left of course. I'd learned the hard way what happened if I threw up when Uncle Ronny was still here.
The memory bled into another, then another.
Fingers, then hands, inside me.
A thick shaft shoved between my lips, choking me.
Hard objects being shoved into me, bottles and sticks, whatever happened to be lying around.
Hands around my throat as I tried to scream.
Gasping for air.
No air.
I was dying...
I fought my way awake, pushing at the darkness, at the past. I felt my heart pounding in my chest, blood rushing in my ears.
I reminded myself that I hadn't died the time my mother had tried to choke me. She'd left my throat bruised and swollen for days, but I'd lived. I'd survived that and more. I clung to that truth as I tried to wake myself up.
I heard someone screaming and knew it was me, but I couldn't stop myself. I was aware that I was dreaming, that the things happening in my head were a mix of memories and the dark imaginings of a mind twisted by the past.
Uncle Ronny had been real enough, but only half of the things in the nightmare had been his particular fetishes. There had been a nameless man in a mask who'd liked the other things. He'd been the one who'd punished me for throwing up.
I kept trying to talk myself out of that space between sleep and waking; the place I sometimes hated wo
rse than the nightmare because I knew it was up to me to get myself out of there and I often doubted my ability to do so. The more I doubted, the longer I stayed.
I was sure this time would be bad, that I'd be stuck in this state for what would feel like years. Then, I heard it.
“Jenna, shh. I'm here.”
That voice.
The voice that broke through my panic before.
“Wake up.”
There were strong arms around me. Arms I recognized. Ones that protected and strengthened rather than hurt and restrained.
“It's okay, Jenna. I'm here.”
The screaming stopped.
Lips pressed against the top of my head.
Soothing noises filled my ears, repeated words being murmured, mixed with nonsense sounds.
Little by little, I felt my muscles begin to unclench and other sensations started to come through.
A gentle rocking motion.
The steady thumping of a heart.
The scent of him, fresh and clean, as if he'd taken a shower before he'd gone to sleep.
“Go back to sleep,” he whispered. “I'm not going anywhere. I'll stay here with you until morning.”
I wanted to tell him he didn't need to do that. He needed his sleep because he had to work tomorrow. I had to work tomorrow, but I wasn't as important. If I fell back asleep, I could have another nightmare. I could get violent. More than once, I'd woken up after a nightmare to find scratches on my arms, or even bruised knuckles. I'd cracked a knuckle once putting a hole in the drywall. I didn't want to hurt him. Especially since I'd given him a black eye the first time we'd met.
The memory made me smile and I heard him sigh in relief.
“That's right. Good dreams now. Go to sleep and I'll be here.” His arms tightened around me for a moment, then loosened.
I pressed myself closer to him, not wanting him to let me go.
“Shh.” He shifted, cradling me against his chest. “I've got you.”
He said he'd stay. He'd respected every decision I'd made about the physical contact between us. He'd never lied to me or gone back on his word. Everything I knew to be true said I could trust him. Even my heart was daring to hope. It was only my instincts that still wanted to push back.