Текст книги "If You Dare"

Автор книги: Alessandra Torre

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CHAPTER 15

Past

“I HAD A break.” I lay on my bed and stared at the ceiling, the fan’s slow spin breaking up my peripheral view. My fan blades were filthy, a black carpet of dust along their edges. I should have Jeremy clean those. Bring a ladder over. Pull off his shirt to improve the view. All it would take is to run a wet paper towel over the top of each blade. It wouldn’t take long. Fifteen minutes, tops.

Dr. Derek didn’t respond. He rarely does, the habit enhancing the moments when he does speak. I hate the habit, but love the result, each word a coveted gift, though I typically hate what each says.

“Jeremy wanted me to meet his family. His family. Then he complained about us not being normal. It was too much.”

“Which part was the hardest? His mention of his family or normality?”

I swallowed. Considered. “I don’t know. It was like an avalanche, having all of it at once. I was jealous… of him having a family. And of him being normal. But I also felt inadequate. And… God… I don’t know. Frustrated.”

“I’m sure he is frustrated too.”

“That doesn’t make me feel any better.” It actually made me feel worse. One of the best things about my relationship with Jeremy was that he made me feel like I, like we, were great—just as we were. He didn’t make me feel like a circus freak. Until that conversation. Until those three sentences that stabbed a knife into our relationship and ripped out its heart.

“It’d be nice for you to meet my family.”

“For us to be normal.”

“Is that too much to ask?”

“What would you do, Deanna, if he broke up with you?”

“What?” I hadn’t even considered the possibility.

“How would you handle it if Jeremy broke up with you? Ended your relationship?”

“I’m familiar with the concept,” I said tartly.

“And?”

“And what?”

“And what would you do?”

“It’s a stupid question. Jeremy isn’t going to break up with me.” He won’t. He loves me. He tells me that all of the time so it must be true.

“But you’d be fine if he did,” Derek said gently. “I need you to mentally come to terms with that.”

“That’s like asking a child to mentally prepare for her mother’s death. It’s a stupid exercise.”

“Most relationships end, Deanna. It’s a fact of life, especially at your age.”

“Not this relationship.” I am the stronger party, I am the unfeeling one. He is the one who is in love, the one who pursued, the one who has stayed. He will never leave me. He can’t. Literally, he is unable to. I know it. Imagining anything else is a stupid, stupid exercise, especially right now, when I should be focused on other things. Like considering whether or not to break up with him. That’s what we should be talking about.

“We can talk about it at a later time. Tell me what happened.”

“He’s not breaking up with me.” Dr. Derek needed to understand. This conversation didn’t need to continue “at a later time.”

“Okay, Deanna.”

“Don’t talk to me like that!” I snarled, propping myself up on the bed. “I’m not a child. I’m perfectly capable of reading people, including your condescending tone.”

He sighed. There are times when I love his sigh. Love the caress of humanity it gives him. He is not perfect, he gets frustrated, he cares enough to sigh; I affect him enough to make him take a moment and breathe. Once, I stopped his breath. I described a sexual act and he stopped breathing, the line going so quiet I thought he’d broken the connection. He followed that with a sigh that was almost a groan, a painful release of breath that brushed lips down my neck and unzipped my dress. In that one sound, my fantasies around this man multiplied tenfold. That night, with every client, I fucked Derek. I imagined him on the other end, arched my back under his gaze, whispered his name through my moans. I came for him twenty different ways that night. Never again has he sighed that way. Never again has he asked about what I physically do with Jeremy, hasn’t opened that door for another moment. Never again has he given me that peek. Now, I only have the occasional sigh. I fall back on the bed and savor, for one long moment, the sigh.

“Please tell me what happened.”

“The white room didn’t work. And I needed… I mean, when he said all that, I got angry. Angry and I started to lose control.”

“Did you curl?”

“No. I—” I didn’t know what to say. I’d practiced it ten times in the shower since the moment, tried to figure out how to present it in the manner that was the least psychotic.

He waited. Of course he did.

“I fell off the chair onto the floor. The tile. It knocked me out. Very briefly.” There. Words spoken. Concept communicated.

“You knocked yourself out.” He spoke slowly.

“Yes. Briefly. I was only out for a couple of seconds.” Thirty or sixty, tops. Maybe a few minutes. I’d come to with Jeremy above me, his face tight and worried. There hadn’t been any discussion of family or dinners or being normal after that.

“And you were fine after that?”

“Yes. It kind of reset me.”

“You can’t go around knocking yourself out whenever you lose control, Deanna.”

I didn’t say anything. Instead, I ran my hand over the top of my head. Lifted slightly off the mattress and felt at the tender spot at the back of my head.

“Have you been to a doctor? Head injuries can have a number of complications.”

I snorted. “Says the man who doesn’t want me to leave the apartment.”

“I thought you had a doctor on call. Something of that sort.”

“I do.” I dropped my hand and rolled over slightly. Pulled a blanket over me to fight off a chill. “I guess I can call him.”

“You should. And don’t do that again, Deanna.”

“It’s better than me hurting him.”

“Hurting yourself is a path you don’t need to go down. Can you hold off on seeing him for a little while? Have some extra sessions with me?”

Hold off on seeing Jeremy? I bit my bottom lip and considered the possibility. A horrible prescription for him to give me. “I don’t know.”

“One day at least. Let’s talk tomorrow at three.”

“Short this month?” I joked. “Trying to increase your hours?”

He didn’t respond.

“Fine,” I finally said. “Three.”

“Talk to you then.”

He hung up first. After a long while, I locked my phone and tossed it aside.

Then I looked up Dr. Pat.

CHAPTER 16

Past

SUCCESS, IN MY life, has been a balancing act. If one end of the seesaw got too heavy, I hit the ground. Game over. Or, as has happened in the past, I killed someone. My balancing act used to solely exist within the walls of 6E. I spent three solid years in these walls, not leaving once. Then, a year ago, I left the apartment. I told myself it was a one-time thing and believed the lie. But that step, that experience? It was a drug, one that itched through my veins and stretched my blood vessels, my body hungry for another fix as soon as I locked myself back up. So I took more hits in the form of evening jaunts to the convenience store across the street. Inhaled deep, bought a car, and put a few hundred miles on her. Visited a few stores. Killed someone else. After that death, I withdrew completely. I shut the door and vowed to not step back out. In the last nine months, I’ve occasionally cheated. Twice I went for a drive in FtypeBaby. I got wild and visited a dentist three months ago. Caught up with a few years of dental neglect and four cavities. Took the gas the doctor offered and managed to not hurt anyone. Other than that, I have behaved. Haven’t hurt anyone, though I’ve fantasized a thousand scenarios of screams.

My life as a recluse had been set up and coordinated very carefully over the last four years. Dr. Pat was a piece to that puzzle. He provided me the drugs I use to pay Simon. He also, in rare moments of ailments, stood in as my doctor. Dr. Derek wanted me to see a doctor, so Dr. Pat is whom I texted.

I need your services.

It took almost an hour to get a response, a record in the four years of our working relationship.

When?

Whenever you’re free.

Will I need visual?

No. I don’t think so.

He called me ten minutes later, his voice muffled, with a bit of an echo. Most likely in the bathroom, leaning against the wall as he took care of his dirty little secret’s medical needs. Our conversation was quick and efficient. I described my injury, he asked a series of educated questions, I answered truthfully. We determined, in the course of four minutes and twenty-two seconds, that I was fine, but needed to watch out for a handful of symptoms, the appearance of which should prompt a visit to the ER. Then I thanked him, we set up a time for payment, and the call ended. An eavesdropper would never have known the truth. That the happily married father of three liked to ride dildos while I watched.

CHAPTER 17

Past

“HEY, BEAUTIFUL.”

I relaxed against the pillows and pushed aside the keyboard. “Hey, Mike.”

“Long time, babe.”

“I know.” I didn’t say more, even though there were a hundred things I could have said.

My boyfriend doesn’t like you.

We’ve fought over these chats.

He resents you for his house.

He thinks I enjoy our cybersex.

I do enjoy our cybersex and maybe that’s a problem.

Tonight though, I needed Mike. I needed Mike in a way that none of my other clients would do. I needed the comfortable grip of a man who knew my buttons. I needed to hear someone breathe my name and to know that they found me attractive. The real me, not Jessica Reilly. The me that did evil and lied and lived a life of solitude. Mike knew me, and when he moaned my name, it was real and pure and fulfilling.

What will you do if Jeremy breaks up with you?

Damn Dr. Derek. His words haunted me, they stalked the empty corners of my day, and I wanted nothing but an escape.

“What do you want, baby?”

I grinned into the camera and curved into my pillow. “Aren’t I supposed to be the one asking you that? You are paying me for a reason.”

“Fine.” His voice deepened, a trace of masculine authority entering it. “Take off that shirt. I need to see your perfect body.”

I dragged the shirt up and over my breasts.

“Further. All the way off.” He growled into the mic. I arched my back off the mattress and worked my shoulders out of the material. “Perfect. Lie back down, baby. Lie back down and close your eyes.” I did as I was told, my eyes closing as I sank into the pillows. “Tell me, Deanna.”

I wet my lips. “I want you.”

“Keep those eyes closed. Keep them closed and picture me right now. I have my cock in my hand and it is so fucking hard for you. It aches it’s so hard. What do you want to do with it?”

I kept my eyes closed and pictured him, sitting back in his chair. Saw his pants unbuttoned and his legs spread slightly. Pictured his cock standing straight up, his hand tightly wrapped around it, the head swollen and ready. I ran my hand down my stomach and slid it under my thong.

“No.” His voice was gruff. “Over your panties. I want you to tease yourself and imagine it’s my tongue.”

“What would you do?” I asked, my fingers quick to obey, quick to slide over the satin and tease at the outside of my clit.

“Good, Deanna. I can’t even watch you without needing you.” He groaned the words and I imagined the pump of his cock, the squeeze of his hand, the jerk of his touch as his hips bucked underneath the action. “I want to worship you with my mouth. Go over your panties and suck you into my mouth. Tease your clit with my tongue before I pull aside your thong and bury my face in you. Taste your cum on my mouth. Feel you tremble under my hands. I—” His voice breaks and my eyes open, wanting to see, wanting more. God, if he was before me…

“Touch yourself,” he demanded hoarsely. “I want to see it.”

… I’d come apart if he touched me. If he leaned in and whispered these words. If he groaned against my pussy and jacked off his cock. I’d grip his hair in my fingers and ride his face shamelessly. I’d cry his name and buck my hips and wrap my legs around his head and come on his mouth, my body shaking, my legs squeezing, my voice cracking. I—

When I came, he growled my name over and over, his voice breaking, his harsh moan at the end telling me the moment he followed suit, the soft whisper of his hands, cool breath blown against my hot skin, his mouth kissing beads of sweat off my chest.

And, in the moment before he signed off, I felt the remorseful pull of guilt.

“Thank you, baby.” He whispered the words, his voice slack and sleepy.

“Anytime, Mike.” I dropped my head back and closed my eyes. Stretched out my limbs and wondered how long it’d be before I could move.

“I missed you.” His voice was quiet and lazy, but the emotion was there, pushing, reminding. Reminding me that, like it had been for a long time, there was something there. Something between us.

“I missed you too.” I said the words softly and wished, for the hundredth time, that he’d show me his cam. Let me see his eyes and know what lay there. If it was just lust, or if… Maybe it was better he didn’t. Maybe it was better for us if there was this layer of disconnect. Maybe he was about to turn off his computer and walk into MysteryBarbie’s room. Curl into bed with her and forget his online slut. I reached out a hand and clicked the mouse. Ended the session.

Twenty-six minutes. $181.74 earned. Because it was, despite the I miss yous and joint orgasms, a business transaction. Just like I keep reminding Jeremy. That’s all.

CHAPTER 18

Present

“MRS. MCCLINTOCK, WHY were you behind the Quik Mart at that time of night?”

“The Dumpsters are emptied on Monday mornings. I like to glance through them, see if anyone’s thrown out anything good. You wouldn’t believe the perfectly good stuff that people throw out, even in this neighborhood.”

“Ever found anything like this before? In or near the Dumpster?”

“A body? No. I’ve never found a body before.”

“Anything else? That stands out as odd?”

“Could I have a glass of water? I’m feeling a little light-headed.”

CHAPTER 19

Past

JEREMY KNOCKED AND waited. Pressed a hand to the wall and leaned forward slightly, stretching out his back. He should wear the brace. Too many heavy boxes lifted improperly. One day he’d be hunched over like the oldies on the loading dock. He rolled his neck and glanced at his watch. Tilted a head toward the door and tried to hear something. Considered just opening it. He knocked again.

Deanna’s voice came through, sweet and quiet. Such a contrast to reality. “Just leave it.”

His hand stopped an inch from the handle and he looked up, into the dead peephole. “What?”

“I’m in a session. Just leave the box like we used to do.”

Used to do. Right. In the first three years, back when he had never seen her. Knew only her voice and her cryptic insistence that he leave all packages and walk away. They’d left that stage a year ago. “What are you talking about? Open the door.” He wanted to reach out. Turn the knob and push it in. It’d be unlocked. He was a hundred times stronger than she was. But he resisted. Tried to respect the request, even if he didn’t understand it. “Are you okay?” Maybe someone was there. Maybe she was being held captive, against her will. Someone, right now, might be holding a knife to her throat. He should try the door. He stretched his shoulders back and clenched his fists, every muscle prepping for a possible confrontation.

“I’m fine. Just leave the fucking box.” She didn’t sound scared. She sounded irritated. Then again, the woman didn’t have the sense to be scared, her inner compass too fucked up for her own good.

He looked down at the box, a small one from a beauty store. “I’m not leaving until I see you.”

An irritated huff that somehow passed through the steel door. A string of curses that tumbled louder when the door snatched open, the girl who owned his heart, standing before him in a T-shirt and hot-orange boyshorts. “Happy?” she demanded.

His eyes danced over her, then shot left, to her pink bed, brilliantly lit by ten thousand watts of professional lighting, a pile of sex toys front and center on its bedspread. To the kitchen, the table empty, counters clean. The door to the bathroom open, shower curtain pulled, green tile showing. The right side of the room, where stacks of novels framed a box spring and mattress, a messy pile of sheets and pillows. Further right, the sea of cardboard boxes encroaching, almost pushing to the door frame. No one else. Just her, the loft apartment empty. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

Her eyes rolled upward and she leaned forward, yanking the package out of his hands and tossing it in the general direction of her bed. “Nothing. I’m working. I’ll call you later.”

She pushed the door closed and his hand shot out, stopping it. “Kiss me.”

Her eyes narrowed. “No.”

“Tell me what the fuck is wrong,” he growled. “Is this about dinner with my family?”

“Move your hand before I chop it off.” Her upper lip curled into a snarl.

He lifted it and stared her down, her eyes darting away from his in the moment before she slammed it. Then, to his absolute shock, there was the click of a lock.

A lock. He wasn’t even aware she had a lock on that side of the door. She prided herself on keeping it open during the day, had some fanatical obsession with it. Yet here, now… she didn’t let him in and locked the door. Locked him out. Wouldn’t kiss him. He stared at the peephole and wondered if she was looking through it. Wondered, with a pain in his heart, if this was the beginning of the end. Was it his invitation to dinner? He knew he shouldn’t have asked. Damn Lily for pressing it. Damn him for bending under the pressure. Damn—

“She’s a fucking peach.”

He kept his eyes on the peephole, fought an inner war with himself before turning to the voice. Of course. The blonde. What was her name? He searched his mind and came up blank.

“I gotta say, I think you can do better.” She sauntered forward, her hands pushing into the front pockets of her jeans, the motion pushing them farther down on her hips, the edge of yellow lace giving a hint at her panties.

He said nothing, just pulled his eyes from her impressively tight abs.

“The strong silent type?” she asked, stopping before him, a hand leaving her pocket to brush through her hair, her back arching from the motion. He noticed her breasts. She grinned and he wanted to leave. Didn’t want another moment of this. Wanted to be inside Deanna’s fucking apartment and sliding his palms over her ass. Taking her mouth as he pushed her against the wall and pulled her against his body. Wanted to beg against her ear for five fucking minutes inside her, his cock pushing against his brown pants, her hand freeing him, gripping him, guiding him inside her. The catch of her gasp when he pushed inside, the hot grip of her body when she took him in, the widening of her eyes, dig of her nails, moan of her voice when she came.

Instead he was stuck with this woman, who was stepping closer, her hand reaching out to trace over the badge of his sleeve. “UPS, huh? So… if I order something, you’ll handle the package?” She raised her eyebrows suggestively.

He said nothing and glanced toward Deanna’s door. Wondered if his girlfriend was catching this. If she cared. If she was about to open up the door and yank him inside. His cock awoke at that thought, at the reminder of what the last interaction with this woman had led Deanna to do. Wondered what it would take to push her buttons back to that point. He let his eyes return to the blonde, whose hand slid lower and wrapped around his bicep. “Wow,” she gushed. “You’re so strong.” He reached across and gently wrapped his hand around her small wrist, pulling gently, her grip releasing at the contact. He glanced at the door and willed it to open. Welcomed whatever punishment his beautiful brunette wanted to dish out.

“Don’t worry about her,” she whispered. “Simon says the freak never comes out.”

“She’s not a freak.” He dropped his hand from hers and met her eyes, which widened slightly at his tone.

“I’m sorry. It’s just… he said she—”

“Simon should mind his own business,” he said darkly.

Her eyes fell downward, as did her hand, the returning push to her pockets drawing her pants a little farther down. Her panties were sheer lace. High on the sides. She didn’t, from this angle, appear to have tan lines. His cock refused to soften from his earlier fantasy; it pushed stubbornly. He needed to turn around and leave. Fuck provoking Deanna. “I’m sorry,” she repeated, softer this time, a whisper of submission.

I’m sorry. Had Deanna ever apologized to him? Ever? Maybe at the hospital. Maybe. She wasn’t the apologizing sort, not like this woman, who was now meekly glancing up, through thick lashes. Meekly. It activated a sudden, unnecessary, caveman urge to protect her. “It’s okay,” he said quickly, stepping back before he reached out. “I’ve got to run. Other deliveries.”

“Sure.” She stepped back, mirroring his move, the space between them stretching farther. “I’ll see you around.”

“Chelsea, right?” Her name came to him like manna, and her mouth curved at the name, a smile spreading over her face.

“Yeah.”

“See you later.”

When she waved good-bye, her breasts shook a little from the motion. He turned quickly and walked toward the elevator. Fought the urge not to run.

He’d turned into a pussy.