“Well, shit.” He straightens up and perches on the corner of the desk. “There’s a checkbook in the top right drawer. I have the funds. Pay whatever bills are outstanding. And get me a list of what guys still owe and how much. I’ll talk to them personally.”
I continue to look at him. On the outside, I probably look mildly interested in what he’s saying to me. But inside, I’m not really paying attention. Instead, I keep wondering: Why him?
Why, after all this time, do I find myself in this man’s gravitational pull? He’s just a guy. Why do I like the way he smells? Why do I touch myself and think of him? Why did I jump on the chance to come work for him?
“Your florist called,” I say awkwardly.
Link’s face pales. He stands up and fishes his cell phone from his pocket. The expression on his face is so pained, so distraught. My stomach tightens in response.
“Hi, Taylor. Yeah, I’m fine. I just…” He shakes his head as anger slowly replaces his sadness. “I forgot.” He almost whispers the word. His lips flatten into a thin line. “Yeah. Two dozen today. Red.” He rubs at his forehead as if in pain. “Yes, send a picture of delivery. You too.”
When he looks back at me, his expression is neutral. Emotionless. “Never let me forget my Monday flower order. It’s…important.”
I nod.
He stares.
I stare back.
I’m curious, but I’m not going to ask. It’s not my business. I can remind him to order flowers without knowing the details.
“They’re for her,” he murmurs. “For Livie.”
I nod again and he turns for the door.
“You’re doing a good job. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” I reply, my voice catching. That’s something else that hasn’t happened in a long time—being thanked for doing something well.
Link stops, his hand on the doorknob. He doesn’t turn around or attempt to look at me. Several seconds go by, and then he drops his head. “Do you ever think about killing him?”
I blink, surprised by his question. A shiver dances down my spine as I realize he knows about me. About what happened to me. A hundred different thoughts run through my mind. I don’t express any of them.
“Yes.”
He nods at the floor. “How often? How often do you think bout it?”
“Always,” I breathe.
He pivots slowly, peering back at me. Our eyes lock and I see understanding there. And something else. Appreciation.
I think he’s going to say more—he looks like he wants to—but he pulls the door open, leaving without another word.
And then I understand the draw. It’s not that we’ve both been damaged. Or that we both have suffered, or lost, or hurt.
It’s that we both survived it.
Seven
Link
It’s late by the time I get home. I toss my keys on the counter and crack open an energy drink. I’m going to need it.
I drop my jacket on the chair and thump down the stairs to the supply closet in my basement. I tug on the string of the overhead light. The naked bulb illuminates the damp, musty space, allowing me to turn the combination on the padlock.
As soon as I pull the door open, the ammonia scent of piss fills my nose. I turn my head away and take a deep breath. And then I rip away the duct tape covering Aaron’s eyes. He moans, muffled behind his heavily taped lips. Pieces of glue are still stuck to his face, matting his eyelashes closed. Not that he can really see out of his swollen eyes anyway.
I lean down and smack his broken finger hard. He cries out behind his gag. His nostrils flare with each pained breath, but he’s unable to move. Kept secured to the chair I strapped him to.
“Are you ready to cooperate?”
It takes him a moment, but then he nods. I pry the tape from his mouth. He winces in pain, working his jaw.
“The names,” I demand. “Now.”
He clears his throat. The sound is rough and raspy. I wait, my arms crossed over my chest. He lifts his chin and I know what he’s going to say before he even says it.
“Fuck you,” he croaks.
I press my lips together, nodding. I want to hit him. I want to beat the fuck out of him. Instead I grasp his ring finger and yank hard. The snap echoes in the small space. He screams in pain¸ trying to jerk away, but his arms are restrained tightly. He has nowhere to go.
When he calms his cries, I tip my energy drink to his lips, offering him a drink. He hesitates at first, rejecting the liquid. It rolls down his chin, dripping, and soaking into his shirt. The taste must finally register because he opens his mouth wide, accepting it greedily.
“Why don’t you just kill me?” he asks when there’s nothing left for him to drink.
“Because you’re no use to me dead.” I squat, bringing myself closer to him. He reeks. Badly. I nearly gag. “This is your life, Aaron, until you give me your buddies’ names.”
“Someone’s gonna miss me—when I don’t show up to work or return calls—somebody’s gonna notice.”
“Well, Aaron,” I say, my voice soft and slow as if I’m talking to a child. “That’s the thing about waiting four years for your attackers to surface. All a man can do is wait and think. Make plans. Trust me when I say nobody will be missing you. As far as anybody of importance is concerned, you packed up and took off. And I’m guessing you aren’t the most reliable person. This is probably nothing new for the people unlucky enough to know you.”
“I have neighbors. One of them had to have seen you.”
I chuckle quietly. “If anybody was looking, all they saw was a guy about your size, wearing your hoodie, lugging your oversized trunk.” I replace the tape over his mouth, patting it into place much harder than needed. “Don’t worry, I covered my ass. You and I, we have all the time we need.”
I swing the door closed, plunging him once again into darkness.
***
I can’t stand being in the house knowing Aaron’s in the basement. After a quick shower and change of clothes, I take off. I drive without destination for close to an hour before ending up at Bo’s Bar.
I’m nursing my second beer when a familiar head of hair catches my eye. I have no idea how long she’s been here. I was too absorbed in my own misery to notice. I swivel my seat, leaning my back against the bar and watch as Rocky shoots pool with a guy old enough to be her dad. I’m fairly confident he’s not, judging by the way he stares at her ass as she leans over the table to line up her shot.
She sinks her ball, causing her to smile. She raises her head and looks in my direction. Her smile fades as she meets my gaze. I tip my head, saluting her with the head of my bottle. Ignoring me, she rounds the table, contemplating her next move.
She’s very pretty, I realize. The way her dark hair matches the color of her eyes. Jeans hugging a nice shaped ass. She’s small, but curvy. My eyes wander over her body several times, up and down.
The older guy she’s with places his mouth close to her ear. She flinches, but doesn’t pull away. I watch the way she holds her body, shoulders tense, hands rounding into fists. She takes a small, almost imperceptible, step backward, effectively putting some distance between the two.
She replies, gesturing with her head toward the bathrooms. He nods, takes the cue from her hand, and places it across the pool table. I follow them with my gaze as they disappear around the corner. I finish off my beer, throw a couple of bills on the bar, and then head for the bathroom as well.
Eight
Rocky
What’s-his-name leers at me with heated eyes. He paws the door, looking for a lock. There isn’t one, but he doesn’t seem to care much. His hand slides away and he fondles his cock over his jeans. I trace the shape with my eyes, knowing I won’t ever come in contact with it.
For an older man, he’s pretty good looking. But it was the slow, sensual way he licked his lips that had me inviting him to play a game of pool. I would have laid back on the table and let him eat my pussy right then if there hadn’t been so many people here tonight.
It’s been that kind of day.
I know I shouldn’t be doing this. I know I’m making every mistake Link warned me about in self-defense class. But I need this. I need to get off, distract my thoughts, and prove to myself that Garrett Marshall isn’t inside every man I meet.
I’m in control.
I pop the button on my pants and gradually lower the zipper. My fingers dip inside, skimming across my panties. I relish the silky feeling. What’s-his-name saunters closer, tugging at his own zipper.
I shake my head. “On your knees,” I command.
He smiles as if knows my game, and he wants to play. I watch him drop to one knee, then to both. His head is level with my stomach. He licks his lips in the same way that first caught my attention. My lower belly tightens with anticipation.
In this position, with him hot and horny and on his knees, I’m the one in charge.
I love it.
I hate it.
Pulling my hand free of my pants, I grip the waistband. The door opens with a long, loud squeal. I look away from the man on the floor to the man in the doorway.
“Get the fuck out,” Link says, his voice leaving no room for argument. My partner in crime tries anyway.
“Come on, man. Give us fifteen minutes. We’re in the middle of something.”
The muscles in Link’s jaw twitch. He inhales deeply and crosses the room in three strides. He grabs What’s-his-name by his shirt collar, hiking him up so they’re face to face.
“I said get the fuck out.”
“Link…” I don’t finish my thought because he turns that searing gaze on me. My words die in my throat.
“You know this guy?” What’s-his-name asks. He jerks out of Link’s grip, taking a stumbling step back.
I shrug. He puts his hands out, palms up. “Sorry, man. Didn’t know.” I don’t correct his assumption. Neither does Link. We both stand there silently waiting for him to leave. The door hinges scream in protest, opening and shutting before either one of us speaks.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” I spit. “You have no right to stop me from hooking up with someone.” I’m pissed off and grateful at the same time.
“One of these days,” Link says, “you’re going to walk into a bathroom with the wrong guy, and you might not walk out.”
“It’s my life. My choice. My mistake to make. You don’t get it.”
His eyes narrow as they flick over my face. “I get it.”
“No,” I whisper, “you don’t.”
“I do.” He keeps staring, his eyes intent on me. Without a word, he lowers himself to the dirty floor, kneeling in front of me. He reaches for me and my body stiffens in response.
His movement slows, but doesn’t stop. Each motion is exaggerated, deliberately gentle, showing me what he’s doing. I bite down on my tongue as I watch his large, bruised hands work my jeans down my legs. He lifts my foot, slipping my shoe off. Then repeats it with the other.
Link raises his head, gazing up at me just as he hooks his fingers into the waist of my panties. He’s silently asking for permission. I nod numbly, one jerky bob of my head.
“You can tell me to stop at any point, and I’ll listen to you,” he says, his voice husky.
My eyes fill with tears.
He glides my panties down to my ankles, baring me. I feel his breath caress my skin. I feel the roughness of his unshaven chin as it scrapes across my thigh. My eyes flutter shut. His tongue, hot and wet, slips between my folds. My hips buck, trying to move closer. His hands fold around my hips, holding me in place.
My eyes pop open and I inhale sharply.
“Stop,” I whisper.
Link pulls away, but his hands still hold me. He tips his head back, trying to read the expression on my face. He nods, his hands falling away.