Текст книги "Taking Connor"

Автор книги: B. N. Toler

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Текущая страница: 14 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

“Do you really love me?” he whisper-growls in my ear as he nips at my lobe.

“God, yes. I love you. I love you so much,” I pant, my heart ready to burst with emotion, my body riding high on the sensation of him inside of me.

“Then let me be your man, Demi,” he says, his pace picking up slightly.

“You are, Connor. You’re my man,” I promise, my voice rising an octave as he drawls me closer to release.

“Then let me handle this,” he continues before kissing my neck, the scruff of his day-old beard coarse against my delicate skin. “I need you to let me do this.”

“You need me to give up on you?” I manage between pants.

“No,” he murmurs in my ear. “Not give up on me. Just give in to me, Demi. Let me take care of you.”

I attempt to push up in a move of defiance, but his weight is too much, and the position of my arms is awkward preventing it. I open my mouth to protest, but he thrusts inside of me, hard, hitting the deepest part of me, that place that lies somewhere between pure ecstasy and pain; that delicious spot. I cry out, my mind waging war on my body; fighting to get him off of me or beg him to never ever stop.

“Connor,” I plead, unsure of what exactly I’m pleading for. But something tells me he knows. He’s breaking me; forcing me to fight the ingrained part of myself that would never let someone I love do something that would hurt themselves, especially for me, and instead submitting—handing over my free will in the name of love.

“That’s it, baby. Let it go,” he coos as he pulls out slowly and thrusts back in, hard, hitting that spot once more. I shriek and can’t understand why I can’t seem to fight him. I want to. I want to argue and yell and scream at him for asking me to sit back, for using his body to manipulate me, but the fight in me gets caught on a sob. I’m crying, sobbing really, as he moves in and out of me, kissing me sweetly, his hand fisting my hair, gripping me in a firm but gentle way. The moment is brutal in the most profoundly exquisite way. I’m agreeing to his terms. I’m agreeing to let him do something that he has no business doing. And I’m agreeing to it because I’ve given myself to him. He owns me. And while it breaks my heart to lose my voice in this argument, giving myself to him this way is the most freeing feeling I have ever felt. He needs me to give myself to him this way. To trust him. And I love him so much, I’ve just handed it over.

I can feel his body tense as he moves faster. He’s already wrenched my orgasm from me, the wetness slick between us, and he’s close to his own. His breath hitches and tiny grunts escape him as he pounds against me and between my sobs, I tell him I love him. I tell him how good he feels. I tell him to let go with me—that I’m here—that I’ll always be here. When he releases, he groans loudly as if it feels so good it hurts as he throbs inside of me, then collapses. Through ragged hot breaths, he kisses my shoulder and cheek that is wet with tears.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, slipping to the side and pulling me against him, my back to his front. “I don’t think you’ll ever know how beautiful that was; how much that meant to me.”

I nod, weeping quietly as I gather his fist in my hand and kiss it softly. He’s not talking about the sex, all though it was amazing and beautiful. He means how I succumbed; how I let him take his place in my life as my man. “No one has ever given themselves to me like that, Demi,” he continues. “It’s going to be okay, baby. I promise.”

In his embrace, I continue to weep, and he holds me, his arms strong around me. When I calm down, my breathing normal, I ask him in a husky voice, “Tell me what happened to Blake? Tell me about killing the man that hurt him.”

Connor presses his mouth to my shoulder and stays there, and I can tell he’s trying to decide if he should share this secret or not. “Blake was eleven. I was fifteen,” he begins. “Grams was a good woman, but her love always has come with unlimited forgiveness and her daughters took full advantage of it. My mother came back more often than Blake’s. And every time she did she’d bring some fucking loser home with her.”

I squeeze his hand and kiss it, letting him know I’m here; that it’s okay to share this with me.

“Richard Malone,” Connor says the name, his voice stern. “He was a drug dealer that wore enough cologne to gag you. Fuck,” he groans. “Just the thought of it has me fighting a gag.” He pauses for a moment and clears his throat. “Taking care of a kid recovering from heart surgery was no easy job. Poor Gram’s did her best. One day, Blake was sleeping, and she needed milk and bread. She thought she could rush to the store and get back before Blake woke up. Richard came over looking for my mother, and when he knocked on the door, Blake woke up and let him in. He was too doped up to really sense danger at the time.” He stops and rolls to his back. I quickly turn and lay my head on his chest as he rubs his head with his free hand. “I skipped school that day. I was always doing something stupid, and I got caught by Grams, who happened to be on her way to the grocery store,” he chuckles for a brief second before letting the humor drop. “She sent me home.”

I look up and see Connor’s eyes are clenched closed as he replays what happened that day. “I walked in and heard Blake crying, but it was so soft. He was so tired and drugged he couldn’t even cry out or scream. He was too weak to fight . . .” Connor chokes out the last word, his voice thick with emotion. “I walked in,” his voice cracks again as he continues, “and that motherfucker was . . . goddamn,” he groans as he pulls his arm from under me and sits up resting his arms on his knees and hanging his head.

“It’s okay, baby,” I whisper. “I’m here.”

“I pulled him off Blake and got a few good punches in before he managed to grab Gram’s cast iron lamp and hit me over the head. He didn’t knock me out, but he did knock me on my ass and that gave him enough time to pull his fucking pants up and run.”

My chest feels hollow. My poor Blake. The horror he endured. My stomach knots at the thought he never confided this in me, as if he thought I would think less of him or something.

“By the time I was able to see again and move, Blake had slipped in his own vomit trying to get to me. I had to carry him in the shower and clean him off. He couldn’t get everything on his body wet at that time. He was sobbing so quietly, and I could tell crying hurt. I mean, what had just happened to him hurt, but the actual act of crying pained him, but he couldn’t stop. My head was bleeding, blood was running in my eyes, but I managed to get him clean and dressed and back in bed.” He holds a fist to his mouth as he stifles his sob.

“He grabbed my hand and begged me not to tell anyone, wouldn’t let me go until I promised not to tell. He said everyone would think he was a freak or look at him funny. I was a stupid fucking kid. I should’ve told. But I was a stupid kid, and I promised him I would never tell.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Connor,” I try to comfort him, but he pulls away and whips his head around.

“It was every bit my fault,” he argues.

“How so?” I ask as if it’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.

“Because that piece of shit tried to do it to me two weeks before,” he admits, dropping his head again. My heart squeezes. “Came over offering to take me out for a burger. Halfway there, he grabbed my hand and put it on his crotch. I almost killed myself jumping out of the car. If I had told Grams, someone, anyone, it wouldn’t have happened to Blake. He couldn’t even cry for fucking help, Demi.” He lets out a laugh, but it’s humorless. He’s laughing in anger, how upset he is with himself, how he can’t believe he let it happen. “But I was so wigged out, fucking grossed out . . . I was too embarrassed to tell anyone.”

“I can’t talk about it anymore, Demi.”

“Okay,” I whisper as I kiss his back. “Can you tell me what happened when you saw him again?”

Connor raises his head and stares straight ahead. “I was passing through Arizona, heading to Cali. I stopped at a Walmart to buy some deodorant, of all things,” he snorts. “I was standing in line, checking out, when I saw him. I didn’t even think about what I was going to do, I just went after him. I caught up with him in the auto parts section, he was looking at floor mats.” He runs a hand down his face and continues.

I asked him if he remembered me and I could tell he did; he had fear in his eyes like I’ve never seen. I wasn’t some little punk-ass kid anymore, ya know. I was a man—big fucking man and it scared the shit out of him.”

I kiss his forehead, reminding him I’m here. That I’ll always be here.

“If he had just run, I think I wouldn’t have followed him. But he didn’t do that. He goaded me.”

“How so?” I whisper.

Connor lets his head drop again. “He asked me if Blake’s ticker was still ticking or if he’d finally kicked the bucket.” His hand finds my leg and squeezes, the memory causing a physical reaction in him. I hug him tighter, my heart shredded with how cruel the world can be.

“What happened next?”

Connor raises his head, his dark gaze flickering. “I killed that motherfucker. I beat him with my bare hands until he was dead, and then, I beat him some more. That’s what happened.” There’s not even a semblance of remorse in his tone. He’s not sorry. Not one iota. “And I hope he’s rotting in hell.”

I close my eyes, letting Connor’s hurt and anger wash over me, absorbing it as my own. Sitting up on my knees, I crawl in his lap and meet his gaze, rubbing my hand across his stubble-covered cheek. His eyes are red from the tears he’s fought as he swallows hard. His hurt is prevalent. He’s weighted down with it. “Let me share this with you. Let me carry some of it, Connor. You’ve carried it too long, baby.”

He lies back, pulling me with him. My back is against his front, my body curved and fitted perfectly to his. He rocks into me, and I find myself pushing back, meeting his body. His hand finds my breast, rubbing it as he nuzzles my neck with his nose.

“I love you, Connor,” I whisper.

Gently, he pulls me to my back and climbs on top of me, slipping inside of me. He doesn’t speak, not with words anyway, but every touch tells me exactly what he wants me to hear.

He loves me too.

When I wake the next morning, Connor is beside me, lying on his back staring up at the ceiling. “What’s wrong?” I ask, my voice hoarse.

When he turns his head to look at me, his dark stare is riddled with worry. “What happened?”

I turn on my back and stare at the ceiling as well. Taking a deep breath, I do my best to tell him everything I can remember.

After I had left Mary-Anne, I ran across the street, afraid McKenzie was acting terribly to Mr. Jenson. After the way she behaved to him that weekend we kept all of the kids, I thought maybe she got into it with him. The Jenson’s house is on a bit of a hill, so I hiked it up the driveway. I could hear McKenzie shouting and some clinking, like tools being dropped on the floor, but I couldn’t see them because the Jenson’s garage doesn’t face the front of the house. So I ran around the side, and the bay door was open. Neither of them noticed me when I entered. Mr. Jenson had some kind of metal poker . . . like a fire poker . . . and he was jabbing it at McKenzie. She was screaming at him to let her go, but every time she made a move for the door, he tried to stab her. He’d always seemed so feeble and slow, but when he was going after her, he moved like a young man.

“What was McKenzie yelling at him?” he asks as he takes my hand and squeezes it.

“She was calling him a sicko.”

Connor’s brows furrow and then he says, “What happened next?”

He went ballistic and was swinging the poker around trying to hit her. I tried to grab him and pull him off, but he shoved me. He turned and swung at me, and I fell trying to dodge it. He raised the poker above me, and I was scrambling to get away, but he fell . . . right on top of me. McKenzie had hit him over the head with a wrench, and his head was gushing blood everywhere. I shoved him off of me and got to my feet; I was a wreck. He was lying there, bleeding out, gasping like a fish out of water.

McKenzie and I stood on either side of him, facing one another, the wrench still in her hand, hanging limply at her side. “I was eleven when he raped me,” she said, calmly. “Told me never to tell anyone or he’d kill you and my parents.”

My gaze shot to hers, my heart in my stomach. “Mary-Anne snuck over here while I was in the shower. When I came downstairs, your front door was open, and I knew exactly where she went. I came to get her. She was eating a damn candy bar while he had his hand up her dress.”

I collapsed to the ground right beside him. This man had violated both of these young girls on my watch. I trusted him. I thought he was a good man. I even scolded McKenzie for being so rude to him.

“I swear, Demi,” she cried, a sob breaking loose from her chest. “I’m not lying.”

Tears trickle down my face as I speak, my voice raspy with emotion. “He hurt them, and it’s all my fault.”

“No, it isn’t,” Connor speaks softly, rolling to his side and wiping my wet cheeks with the bed sheet. “These fucking creeps are good; they’re sociopaths. They know how to act and make everyone think they’re trustworthy. The feeble old man act was probably part of it. How could anyone think a man who can barely walk be capable of abusing a child like that?”

“I should have known, though.”

Demi,” he whispers. “This wasn’t your fault. Tell me what happened next.”

“Wipe that wrench off,” I instructed her, my calmness surprising even me.

“I’m going to go to jail, aren’t I?” she cried as she wiped at her nose.

“That’s not going to happen,” I told her. “Wipe that down good and go.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked, panicked.

“Go, McKenzie,” I ordered.

She finished wiping down the wrench and put it back on the table. She looked down at him one last time, then to me. “Should I—”

“Go.”

When she left, I was still kneeling beside him, his mouth still moving as if he was trying to call for help. If I had just left him, he probably would have died from his head injury, but I wasn’t taking any chances.

My gaze meets Connor’s, and his expression is stoic. “I pinched his nose and covered his mouth with my hand.”

I remember feeling something snap inside of me as I suffocated Mr. Jenson; the realization that I was taking a life, killing a man. It changed me, rightfully so. Before I was me, Demi Stevens, regular everyday person. At that moment, I was a soon-to-be murderer. But right now, reliving it, sharing the play by play with Connor, I feel no regret.

“And that’s when I came in,” Connor says.

Mr. Jenson, even with his head injury in his subdued state, began to struggle as he fought for oxygen. I laid half of my body over him in an attempt to hold him down but holding his mouth and nose were difficult in my position. After a few minutes, he stopped struggling and stilled. Collapsing against him, my head thunked against his chest, exhausted by the task. When I managed to look up, his mouth hung open, and his eyes were fixed on the ceiling.

He was dead.

I had killed him.

“Over there,” I heard McKenzie yell just before Connor and Dusty rushed in through the bay door, stopping dead in their tracks. They looked at me, then at each another, both wearing a ‘what the fuck?’ expression.

“Go back to the house with Mary-Anne,” Connor yelled over his shoulder. I knew they were there, but I couldn’t speak as I pushed myself off of the corpse in front of me. His head injury was so severe, there was blood everywhere, and I slipped in it as I attempted to stand, only to fall and cover myself in it, which panicked me even more.

“You fell hard,” Connor notes. “It scared the shit out of me.”

“I hit my head on something,” I state it more than ask it as I touch the sore spot on the back of my crown.

“Tool bench,” he states.

“The next thing I remember is waking up on the gurney.”

“We have to see Wendy and Jeff. Obviously the girls haven’t come forward with what that old fuck did to them, or we would have been questioned about it by now.”

McKenzie was frantic after she hit Mr. Jenson over the head. I have no doubt she’s lied about everything, terrified she’ll go to prison for murder. No matter what happens, I’ll take the heat for all of this—after all, I did kill him. But the most important thing is that the girls get help, counseling to help them cope and understand the feelings something so horrendous might make them feel. My heart aches as I think of McKenzie; the years of carrying the pain around must have been unbearable.

Tears fill my eyes. “I can’t believe that I didn’t know; that I was so blind.”

“You’re so good, Demi,” he murmurs as he kisses my temple, “you only want to see the good in people.” He rubs gentle circles on my back before lying back, pulling me with him. I rest my head on his chest and let my fingers dance over the quote tattooed on his chest.

‘Return good for good; return evil with justice.’

“Is it bad I don’t regret killing him?” I ask my voice monotone.

“I’m the wrong person to ask that question,” he replies.

“Looks like we’re not so different after all,” I sigh.

A loud knock on the door startles us, and Connor climbs out of bed, quickly tugging on his boxers and a pair of jeans that were crumpled on the floor.

“Police. Open up,” a deep voice yells as they knock loudly once more.

Grabbing my white robe, he tosses it to me, and I quickly slip it on, my heart hammering in my chest a mile a minute. They’re going to arrest him. Shit. This is happening.

“Say nothing,” Connor tells me, his stare direct. Then he opens the door, but only halfway so the officers can’t see inside the apartment.

“Mr. Stevens, we’re looking for Demi Stevens,” the officer says.

“And why is that?” Connor asks, closing the door more.

“We have a warrant for her arrest for the murder of Ned Jenson. Is she here?”

“She’s been charged?” Connor asks as if it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “On what grounds?” Connor’s shoulders are pulled back, his chest is out, his stance tense. He’s getting upset. I need him to calm down before he gets himself in trouble.

“Is she here Mr. Stevens?”

“Yes, I’m here,” I call as I round the door, tugging my robe closed.”

“This is bullshit,” Connor yells. “They’ve already charged me.”

“Connor,” I plead as I place a trembling hand on his arm. “Please, calm down. Call Jim for me. I need you to see Wendy and Jeff as well.”

The officer pushes his way inside and begins reading me my rights, while his partner more or less, blocks Connor from me. My entire body is trembling as he cuffs me.

I’m being charged with murder.

And I’m guilty.

I’m going to prison.

“Let her put some goddamn clothes on!” Connor shouts. “She’s half naked.”

But the officer doesn’t listen. He turns me and pushes me out the door and down the steps where a herd of reporters are waiting, snapping photos, and yelling questions at me. I lower my head, letting my hair hang over my face as I’m led to the car when I hear someone shouting.

“You killed him!” Mrs. Jenson shrieks. “He gave candy to those kids! He was kind to you, and you killed him!” She’s sobbing as she wipes at her nose with her forearm. The reporters are snapping photos, flashes from their cameras blinding me.

“Grab her!” The officer holding my cuffed wrists shouts as he pushes me forward. The other officer grabs Mrs. Jenson and pulls her away, and I’m pushed forward toward the car. This is humiliating. I’m practically naked, being shoved into the back seat of a cop car.

“Don’t worry, Demi,” Connor is right beside me all of a sudden. “It’s going to be okay, baby. I love you,” he whispers in my ear before the officer leading me shoves him away. His words slice right through me. Here, we just found one another, finally came together, and now I’m probably going to prison.

A vigilante.

That’s what the newspapers were calling me.

Demi Stevens—takes justice into her own hands.

After my arrest, Connor went straight to Wendy and Jeff’s and told them everything. McKenzie reluctantly came forward, confessing her part in Mr. Jenson’s death, and she also shared the horrific details of what he did to her years ago. Mary-Anne also came forward. Just as I had suspected, McKenzie had coached her, made her swear not to tell what happened that day, terrified she’d go to jail.

The prosecutor dropped the murder charge on Connor and for me, but then I was charged with voluntary manslaughter. The coroner’s report showed that ultimately Mr. Jenson died from suffocation. Jim showed me the photos from the crime scene, and I was immediately confused. Nothing looked as I remembered it. Mr. Jenson was positioned differently, and there was blood in places there wasn’t from what I remembered.

I knew immediately what happened. Connor and Dusty had altered the crime scene. They did their best to make it look like there was a struggle between Mr. Jenson and me; and that I killed him out of self-defense.

My mother refused to post bail for me; apparently I’m disowned now. But lucky for me, I have another mother . . . of sorts. Grams came to the rescue and bailed me out. Like I said, God might close the doors, but he always leaves a big beautiful window open somewhere.

As soon as I got out, I came home and hid from the world, refusing to leave the house. Connor has stayed with me, and Lexi comes by to visit every day. Wendy and Jeff have stayed away, but Wendy does call every day. The prosecutor didn’t charge McKenzie as she hit Mr. Jenson in an attempt to defend me. But with Mrs. Jenson living across the street and the horrid things she’s been saying to the newspapers about us, they have no choice, but to avoid my home. Not to mention the reporters circling my house like buzzards about to feast on a dead carcass.

Pulling my curtain aside, I peek out my side window. “They’re only three today. At least they seem to be decreasing.”

“I’m sorry you have to deal with that. I can’t believe you’re national news.”

Plopping back on my sofa with a huff, I ask, “How is McKenzie doing?”

“She’s doing okay,” Wendy tells me over the phone. “I hate myself for not realizing there was something going on with her. I just thought she was a pissed off teenager; that it was hormones.”

“I’m so sorry, Wendy.”

“I met him several times, Demi. I thought he was the sweetest old man alive,” Wendy admits. “I never thanked you, though.”

“Thanked me?” I ask. “For what?”

“For killing him,” she states plainly. “I know that sounds awful, but . . .”

“I know, Wendy. I know,” I assure her. Connor walks in the living room where I’m curled up on the couch, wiping his hands on a shop rag.

“Babe, can you come in the kitchen?” he asks.

“Yeah, sure,” I reply. “Can I call you later Wendy?”

After hanging up with Wendy, I head into the kitchen and find Jim seated at my table with a small woman about my age. Connor has made four cups of coffee for all of us and pulls the only empty seat left next to him where he sits and pats the seat. “Have a seat, baby. You’ll want to hear this.”

“Demi, this Leslie Jenson.”

My brows furrow in question.

“This is the Jenson’s daughter, babe.”

I tense immediately, wondering if this woman has come to thrash me for killing her father. What am I supposed to say here? Nice to meet you?

“She’s come forward with information that may help us,” Jim adds.

“Information such as . . . ?”

“My father sexually abused me,” Leslie pipes up. Her blue eyes meet mine for a brief moment before dropping again. “Until I ran away when I was sixteen.”

“You haven’t seen them since you were sixteen?” I ask. I never knew the Jenson’s even had children.

“Not once.”

We spend the next two hours together, where Leslie shares details of a horrific childhood; a father sexually assaulting her, a mother who called her a liar, and a family doctor that never reported obvious signs of abuse.

“We’re meeting with the prosecutor this afternoon so Leslie can share her experience,” Jim informs me before sipping his coffee.

“I appreciate her willingness to share such a painful experience, but how will this help me?”

“Because he deserved to die,” Leslie states blatantly.

“Leslie, I appreciate how both of us feel in this situation. But the judge may not agree,” I point out.

Jim stands and straightens his tie. “Maybe not. Or maybe he has a daughter or granddaughter and just maybe the thought of something so terrible happening to them at the hands of a sick man will make him think. But we need to go now. We’re meeting the prosecutor in an hour.”

After they leave, Connor and I finish our cup of coffee in silence. I can’t seem to get my thoughts together, my mind is scrambled with what ifs? What if the prosecutor doesn’t care about her testimony? What if I go to prison? I’m a knot of worry and tension, which Connor must sense because he stands and takes my hand, looking down at me with his dark stare.

Again, no words.

He wants me to follow him.

He leads me upstairs and undresses me slowly, kissing me softly. I don’t want to think about the trial or prison or assholes that hurt innocent children right now. I want my mind to go blank, and Connor knows this. He knows exactly how to suck all of the worries out of me, at least for a little while, and I’m grateful for it.

He undresses and climbs on the bed, seating himself upward, his back against the headboard. “Come here, beautiful,” he orders me.

I crawl on the bed toward him, then straddle his lap, relishing the rush that runs through me when his erection slides against my wetness. Cupping my cheek, he slides his hand down my body, squeezing my breast and grazing my nipple with his thumb. I trace the curves of his muscles, wanting to touch every inch of his exquisite body. Our gazes are locked, the conversation flowing between us.

I want you, I say.

You’re my everything, he tells me.

He’s a master of sex. I’ve decided this. He knows taking his time, torturing me until I’m about to combust with want for him makes it that much more intense. By the time he finally lets me sheathe him inside me, I can think of nothing but him, us, this.

I ride him slowly, but I come quickly when he places his thumb on my clit. We never look away from each other and when I feel his body tense, feel him nearing his release, I do my best to memorize every single detail of this moment. I want to lock it away inside of me because there may come a time, very soon, that we will be forced to part ways; a time where I’m forced to let him go and move on with his life. If I’m convicted and sentenced, I now understand I could go to prison for up to eleven years. I would never ask him to wait that long for me, not after he’s just gotten out of prison himself and has barely had a chance to live again.

His hips thrust up, meeting me as I ride him faster, his hands gripping my hips. “Don’t,” he growls as he thrusts harder. “You’ll never lose, no matter what happens.”

His words, his expression, the way he knows me so well, send me flying high again and my orgasm breaks me into a million emotional pieces. When he finishes with a loud deep groan, I’m crying, again, but he sits up and crushes me to him, his hot breaths against my breast.

“You’re mine . . . and I’m never letting go.”

I hold onto him for dear life as I weep, not minding that I can barely breath because he’s holding me so tightly.

Connor Stevens is my everything.

And I’m about to lose it all.