Текст книги "Asking for It"

Автор книги: Lilah Pace

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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 20 страниц)

Thirty

Jonah whispers in my ear, “Your dad?”

My breath catches in my throat, but I manage to answer. “He made it through. He’ll be okay.”

“Good.” Jonah brushes my hair back, kisses my forehead. “That’s good.”

I nod as I snuggle further into his embrace. Even the scent of his skin comforts me. Jonah’s arms are my fortress. His fingers brush against my cheek, and I turn my head to kiss them lightly.

Libby’s voice calls out again, even louder. “Aunt Vivi, who is that? Do you know him?”

That makes me laugh, and I even see Jonah smile. “Of course I know him, sweetie. This is my friend Jonah.”

“Hi,” Jonah says. Apparently he reserves his hellos for little children. But I can’t resent it, not when I hear how gently he speaks to her. “I came to visit Vivienne. That’s all right, isn’t it?”

Obviously Libby likes being asked her opinion on this subject. Her chubby little face becomes grave. “It’s all right, but you have to help me color later.”

Jonah gets a deer-in-the-headlights look. I whisper, “A little rusty with your Crayolas?”

“You’re the artist,” he says.

It’s only a small joke. But it’s such a relief to smile, to let everything else fade into the background for a moment.

On the porch stand Anthony, hands in his pockets, and Chloe, one arm slung possessively around her husband’s shoulders. Neither of them seems ready to welcome Jonah with open arms—or to welcome him at all. I glance up at Jonah. “Ready to run the gauntlet?”

He picks up his suitcase and takes my hand. “I’ve walked through a lava field,” he says. “I think I can handle this.”

•   •   •

“Well,” Chloe says as I show Jonah inside. “I hardly expected you to bring a date for the occasion, Vivienne.”

“I’m here for moral support.” Jonah holds out his hand. “Jonah Marks.”

Sometimes “Southern hospitality” is just another term for hypocrisy. But those good manners are carved into Chloe so deeply that she can’t resist them. With a small, pursed smile, she says, “Chloe Charles Whedon. This is my husband, Anthony, and our daughter, Olivia.”

“Call me Libby.” Already Libby thinks she’s made a conquest. “Are you Aunt Vivi’s boyfriend?”

“You’d have to ask your aunt about that.” He looks away from her just long enough to smile at me.

Anthony steps forward, almost a swagger. “What line are you in, Jonah? In soybeans, myself.”

Chloe chimes in, “He’s so modest. Anthony would never tell you his family runs the largest soybean farms in Tennessee and Mississippi.”

She always says this like growing soybeans is better than winning a Nobel Prize. Which makes it even more delicious to watch their faces as Jonah says, “I’m in volcanoes.”

“Beg pardon?” Anthony says.

“I’m a professor at UT Austin. I study volcanoes and earthquakes.”

Libby pipes up, “You study them in books?”

“Not only in books.” Jonah smiles down at her. “I travel around the world to look at geological hot spots. Sometimes I get a plane or helicopter to take me directly overhead. Every once in a while I even have to wear a heat-shield suit, so the lava won’t get me.”

“Coooooool.” Big-eyed, Libby stares up at Jonah like he’s the most fantastic person she’s ever met in her short life. So he’s won over the one family member whose opinion matters.

As for Anthony—it’s as if he’s deflating. All of a sudden he seems to realize he’s shorter than Jonah, and he sits in the nearest chair, like maybe that way nobody will notice.

The formalities have been dispensed with. Jonah turns to me, and it’s as if I’m the only person in the room. “When can you visit your father?”

I glance at the brass-and-marble clock on the nearest mantel. “Two or three hours from now. Mom left for the hospital right after the doctor called, but the rest of us have to wait for him to be moved to his room.”

“Okay.” Jonah slides his arm around me. “We’ll wait.”

Chloe surrenders with good grace. “Would you like some iced tea, Jonah?”

“I’m fine. What about you, Vivienne?”

“I’m good,” I say, thinking, now that Jonah’s here.

At first we all hang out together downstairs. Jonah and I sit on the long velvet sofa, me curled along his side as if we’d been together forever—as if this weren’t the actual day we’d realized how much we might mean to each other.

Jonah must be as rocked by this revelation as I am, but at the moment, his attention is divided. Libby has settled her lap desk on his lap, to make it easier for them to color side by side.

“You must really like volcanoes,” Libby chirps, as Jonah uses the goldenrod crayon to touch up some lava flow.

“I do,” he says, then adds more quietly, “and they’re the only thing I know how to draw.”

That makes me smile, but still, I can’t stop hearing the clicking of Chloe’s boots on the hardwood floor as she paces back and forth. Anthony buries himself in his cell phone, playing some game he doesn’t go to the trouble to mute. The hands on the brass-and-marble clock on the mantel move so slowly I could believe they’re painted on. Jonah’s presence makes me feel less afraid, less alone—but nothing can make me feel comfortable in Anthony’s presence, not even him. So when Libby goes down for her nap, I plead exhaustion and take Jonah upstairs with me.

“Do you need to sleep?” he murmurs as we reach the second floor. “You have to be ready to drop.”

“I am, but I couldn’t fall asleep now. Just come out on the gallery with me.”

Jonah frowns. “The gallery?”

“Like a balcony, except the supports go all the way down to the ground.” New Orleans Architecture 101. “Come on.”

Our gallery is screened in, which makes it a pleasant place to spend long summer nights. By November, the breezes are cooler, but Jonah and I are dressed warmly enough. I sink down onto one of the long bamboo “outdoor chaises,” and Jonah sits next to me.

Although I expect no more than the comfort of Jonah’s presence, after a moment, he speaks. “We never talked about our families. I thought I was . . . protecting myself. I never asked if you had your own stories to tell.”

“You picked up on that already, huh?”

“Kind of hard to miss.”

Jonah doesn’t know enough, and yet he knows too much. So I shake my head. “This isn’t the time to get into it. I just have to get through this, okay?”

“Okay,” he murmurs, pulling me down into his embrace. We lie there quietly for a while before he says, “Do you feel all right? After last night.”

The memory makes me blush. “Oh. Yeah.” Some of the most intense sex of my life was less than twenty-four hours ago, and yet it feels like a fever dream. “Only a little sore. And I scraped my wrist when I fell in the woods.”

When I point out the red place on my wrist, Jonah rubs just below it with his thumb. No idea why that diminishes the pain, but it does.

I murmur, “I feel kind of guilty. You came all the way down here, and we already know my father made it through surgery. I didn’t mean to waste your time.”

“It’s not a waste of time.” Jonah brushes my hair back from my face. A breeze outside rustles the oak leaves, but I don’t feel the chill. “I meant what I said on the phone.”

“About things being different for us?”

He nods, and I feel a wave of almost inexpressible tenderness for this strong man hiding so much vulnerability, so much pain. Maybe that’s what he sees when he looks at me.

It’s so hard to believe that someone might want me—all of me—fucked-up sexual desire, tangled family history, book-hoarding tendencies, everything. I never looked for that. I never even dared to dream about it.

Now, with Jonah, I can finally start to ask myself what it would mean to be totally honest with another person.

Right now, I know only one thing for sure: Whatever dark secrets Jonah has to tell, whatever his past has held, I can hear it. I won’t flinch, and I won’t turn back.

“It’s going to take a while to get there,” I say softly. “You know that.”

“I know.” Jonah’s lips brush my hair. “We’ll get there.”

Finally I can begin to believe that might be true.

When we go back downstairs, Chloe is suddenly occupied with the question of where to put Jonah—as in, tonight. “We haven’t that many guest rooms, and Anthony and I won’t want to drive Olivia all the way back to Metairie—”

I give her a look. My room has a double bed, after all. It might be a tight fit for me and Jonah, but if we made do on a backstage table, I bet we can manage.

Undeterred, Chloe continues, “No doubt Vivienne will ask our mother if you can stay here, but I’m not at all sure what she’ll say. Momma’s old-fashioned, you see. Even after Anthony and I got engaged, he still had to sleep in the guest room, or on the sofa when Grandma visited. Didn’t you, hon?”

I remember Anthony on the sofa, and I flinch. Jonah catches the movement, perhaps from the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t react. Instead he calmly answers, “I made a reservation at a nearby bed-and-breakfast. Only four or five blocks away.”

Normally I get a little weary of the touristy trappings of the Garden District, like the endless walking tours of sloppily dressed gawkers who shamble along the sidewalks. At this moment, however, I’m profoundly grateful. I know the place he means; it’s so close, I could stay there with him and not even Momma could take it as an insult.

That means I won’t have to spend the night under the same roof as Anthony.

When we finally head to the hospital to see Dad, Jonah goes to check in at the B&B. “I wouldn’t want to intrude,” he says, which is gracious and polite and makes even Chloe smile in approval. Even now, I’d rather have him with me—but this much, I can manage.

The hospital is both better and worse than I thought it would be.

Better, in that Dad seems more or less like himself, just tired. I’d braced myself for the sight of my father semiconscious, delirious, frail, and waxen. He does look a little pale, but otherwise, switch out the hospital gown for a polo shirt and khakis and he could as easily be lying back in his recliner at home. “They won’t let me eat anything yet,” he grumbles. “Not a bite!”

“You know they have to watch that stuff right after anesthesia, Dad.” I pat his arm. “But I bet they’re going to bring you something soon.”

“Applesauce and Jell-O, probably.” Dad scowls, deliberately over-the-top to make me laugh. “How about you run by Bud’s Broilers and sneak me out a number four?”

“Maybe that should be your welcome-home meal,” I say. “Give your arteries at least one day off, okay?”

Probably I should encourage my father to take up lean chicken and fish, lots of greens, and no more alcohol. The thing is, that will never happen. Dad without burgers and barbecue shrimp and po’boys is . . . not Dad. He’s never going to order sparkling water instead of a Sazerac. He truly would rather live large and die at sixty-five than count calories all the way to ninety. That’s not what I want for him, but he wouldn’t listen to me.

Mom brushes my father’s graying hair away from his face. “You look a sight. I should’ve brought you a comb.”

“Nobody cares what I look like in the hospital, Renee.” But he pats her hand fondly. Whatever deficiencies Mom has as a parent, she makes up for as a wife; my dad has always been devoted to her, to the point that he’s blinded to her faults—still, after thirty-two years of marriage.

Mom and Chloe decided that Libby could manage a visit, which makes me happy. Libby piles up in the hospital bed with Dad and shows him her new sticker book, which makes him laugh. Just the sight of her in his arms helps me relax. For once, it seems like things are going to turn out okay.

That night, everyone else in my family wants to rest, which means I have a good excuse to leave and spend some time only with Jonah. Thankfully some of my clothes still linger in the back of my closet, so I’m able to change into a fresh outfit, a sheath dress and cardigan that can go anywhere.

Forget finding a table at a fine-dining restaurant at the last minute on a Saturday night, but New Orleans is even richer in cuisine options than Austin. I take him to one of my favorite neighborhood haunts, a little place with tile floors and cane-backed chairs that serves the kind of dishes you can’t find anywhere outside Louisiana—crawfish etouffee, shrimp creole. The clatter of silverware and chatter of other patrons echoes slightly off the tile, but I don’t mind the noise. It gives us a paradoxical privacy.

“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather be at home,” Jonah says. It’s not a question. I shake my head, and he adds, “You don’t get along with your sister and her husband.”

Despite everything, I laugh. “Small talk isn’t your wheelhouse.”

“Never saw the point.” Some of the steel has returned to his voice. “We might as well tell the truth. How else do we get started?”

We’re supposed to open up to each other. Jonah’s method is about as subtle as dynamiting a locked safe—but he’s right. For two people as skilled in silence as we are, only the direct approach will do. “No,” I say. “I don’t get along with them.”

“Why not?”

The truth hangs above me, heavy and sharp, a Sword of Damocles. I’m not ready for that, and even if I were, I wouldn’t blurt it out in a restaurant. So I start with the pettier reasons. “They’re—status obsessed. Shallow.” I have to smile. “You saw how quickly they started bragging when you came in.”

“I noticed,” he says dryly.

“You shut that down pretty fast, by the way. Good job.”

Jonah shrugs and smiles, but he sticks to the subject. “That’s not the only reason you don’t get along with them, though. You’re not a judgmental person. You wouldn’t react to that on its own.”

It takes me a minute to decide how to answer. Telling the full truth remains impossible, but I don’t want to lie. “Anthony’s a . . . horrible human being,” I finally say. “He wasn’t faithful to Chloe when they dated in college.”

The only proof I have of that is what he did to me. Equating my rape with sex, suggesting even momentarily that infidelity is Anthony’s worst crime—it kills me a little inside.

A place to begin, I remind myself. It’s only a place to begin.

I continue, “Right before they got married, I told Chloe what kind of man she was marrying. She didn’t believe me. Ever since then, she’s thought I was a liar, or jealous of her, or just plain crazy—I don’t know. Anthony has fed her resentment, of course. Mom took Chloe’s side.”

“That’s not easy,” Jonah says. I can tell he senses there’s more, but maybe he thinks he’s pushed enough for now. “Were you two ever close?”

“When I was little, I thought Chloe hung the moon.” To my surprise, I have to swallow a lump in my throat. “She was so grown-up, and glamorous. So beautiful. You saw for yourself.”

“I didn’t notice.”

Most guys would be flattering me. Jonah means it.

He hesitates, as if he doesn’t know what to say next, but finally comes out with, “Sibling relationships are tough. I get along with my sisters and my brother, but—let’s call it a negotiated peace.”

Jonah knows I read the article online; there’s no point in pretending I don’t know a few basic facts about his family. “I thought you only had one sister.”

“Maddox and Elise are technically my stepfather’s children, but he married my mother when I was very young. Elise and I barely remember life without each other. Maddox and my biological sister, Rebecca, are even younger—as far as they’re concerned, there was never a time when we weren’t a family. We all consider ourselves brothers and sisters, close as blood, full stop.”

That sounds like loyalty. Like love. “Then what’s the negotiation about?”

He stares out the window at the busy street, unwilling or unable to meet my eyes. “As you know—as half the damned country knows—our parents’ relationship is troubled in the extreme. My mother isn’t well. The four of us don’t agree on how to handle that. However, we all understand there’s no easy answer.”

“It’s good that you don’t blame each other,” I say softly. “Chloe and I do, sometimes. I wish we didn’t.”

Jonah nods and turns back to me. “Maybe we get better at this over time.”

“Knowing people? Or loving them?”

“Both.” His hand covers mine, and we fall into a comfortable silence.

Yet I cannot forget how much more I have to tell. How many secrets I still keep. Even today, when Jonah has traveled here to stand by me—when we’ve agreed to learn how to love each other—I still can’t bring myself to tell him the truth.

My secrecy grows heavier during the evening. Darkens.

Changes shape.

“You’re sure you wouldn’t rather sleep at home?” Jonah asks as I park my car in front of the B&B.

“No. I’d rather be with you.”

He opens the front door with a heavy brass key, and we climb the carpeted stairs quickly, hoping not to attract attention from either the hosts or other guests. Neither of us feels like making small talk about the city for another thirty minutes.

The bedroom here is done in grand style—an enormous four-poster bed carved out of wood polished until it gleams, a marble-fronted fireplace, and an armoire so tall it nearly reaches the twelve-foot ceiling. Lace curtains cover the window, so we’re hidden away from the rest of the world. Good.

Jonah puts my bag beside the armoire. “You didn’t have this much stuff last night. Did you find some things at home?”

I nod absently as I step out of my shoes. Then I slowly pull off my cardigan and unzip my dress, which crumples to the floor. As soon as it’s off, I look Jonah straight in the eye as I begin to unhook my bra.

He takes two steps toward me and kisses me, long and deep. As I shrug my bra off my arms, his hands find my breasts. His touch is gentle. Too gentle.

“We would have to be quiet,” I whisper against his lips. “But we can still play.”

Jonah goes still. At first I think he’s already there with me, preparing to unleash his darker side. Then I recognize the confusion in his gray eyes . . . the hurt.

Tonight he didn’t want to play. He wanted to make love.

I remember how he was in Scotland, the strange distance between us when I insisted on bringing my fantasy into our bed there. He obliged me, even though I could tell he wanted something else from me. Jonah doesn’t need this fantasy the way I do.

But I do. Right now I need it worse than ever. I don’t know why, and I don’t care. I just want Jonah to take me without mercy.

“Come on,” I whisper as I slide my hands under his shirt. “Last night we were interrupted. Don’t you want to pick up where we left off?”

That makes him smile—the dangerous smile that makes me hot in an instant. “I knew you wanted it.”

Then he shoves me onto the bed, hard.

I gasp in genuine surprise. Jonah’s with me in an instant, standing by the edge of the bed to peel off my panties. He tears them from me roughly, then leans over my body and bites my breast—not hard enough to break the skin, but hard enough that I have to stifle a cry.

He hears the moan in my throat. His palm covers my mouth, fingers hard against my face. “Don’t you fucking scream. Do you hear me? Don’t scream.”

Jonah rolls me onto my stomach. I hear the zipper of his jeans, and I realize he’s not going to get me ready. He’ll fuck me right away, as hard as he can. It will hurt. He wants it to hurt.

There’s a price to pay for demanding our game tonight. I want to pay it.

His hands clutch my waist and pull me down until my legs dangle off the bed. He parts my thighs roughly, then grabs my hair and tugs hard enough to bring tears to my eyes. The whole hot length of him fills me as he thrusts inside.

“You’re already wet,” he says, as if it disgusts him. “You’re such a filthy slut.”

Jonah starts taking me hard and fast, every stroke meant to punish. His grip on my hair tightens as he pumps into me. My blood has rushed to my clit, my cunt, and already I know I’m going to come hard, soon.

“That’s right,” Jonah pants. “You know you have to take it, don’t you? Don’t you?”

Yes, yes, I have to take it, no matter what you give me, no matter what—

And then Jonah says, “Good girl.”

This room vanishes. Jonah vanishes. The past decade of my life is gone. I am a fourteen-year-old girl; I am lying on the couch; Anthony is raping me. He is inside me right now.

Within one breath I know what this is. A flashback. I’m having a flashback. I haven’t had one in years, not a real one—a moment where I am back there, and Anthony’s on me, and it is real. It is completely real.

I gasp, “Silver.”

Immediately Jonah stops moving.

“Silver, silver.” Tears have begun to flow down my face, and even as the nightmarish image of Anthony fades, the horror remains.

Jonah pulls out. He rolls me over, and at first the sight of him frightens me. He’s naked; his still-hard cock stands out from his body, ready to fuck me again. But then I see the expression on his face—concerned. No, stricken.

He’s not going to hurt me. Jonah would never hurt me.

“Are you all right?” he whispers. I shake my head no. He begins to lie down beside me, then pauses. “What should I do?

“Hold me. Just hold me.”

Jonah stretches out by my side and pulls me into his embrace. I start to cry—deep, racking sobs that hurt my throat. When did I last cry like this? Have I ever let go so completely? I can’t remember. I can’t think.

All I know is that Jonah is with me, pulling a blanket over me and holding me close, and it feels like the only safety I have ever known.