Page 3 of The Eleventh Hour

“You know you’re mine, right?”

I smile at him. “I picked up on that fact four years ago, babe.”

“Jojo,” he gets all serious and sits up, twisting to reach into the top drawer of his bedside table. When he turns back, he’s holding a ring with a red-black stone. “Make it official so I can stop murdering all the men who come knocking, trying to steal your fine ass.”

I stare at the ring, and then put it aside and crawl up to straddle him again. I grind my cunt against his hardening cock and take his face in my hands.

“Yes.”

His eyes shine with a triumph that makes me feel like a goddess. He sits up and wraps his arms around me, kissing his way to my neck. He moans as I take him inside me, as I ride us to orgasm.

“Mine forever now, Jojo,” he whispers to my sweat-covered skin before he looks deep into my eyes. I stare back, needing him to see everything I feel, everything I’m promising.

“Forever, babe.”

My eyes burn, and I look up at the ceiling and try to think about something else. I have to protect what moments I can. He can’t have that one. I’ll die first. It’s too toxic. It’s one of the few I have left that hasn’t been dissected.

“Are you angry you never made it to the aisle?”

I swallow back the vicious retort. “I’m happier I didn’t end up married to him, to be honest, I can’t imagine how things could be worse, but if there was going to be anything that made it harder, that might have just been the straw that broke the camel's back.”

Dr Sparrow throws back his head and laughs, his jowls wobbling wildly. “That is a very fair point, Miss Shade. Your life could have been much, much worse had you, how do they say it, ‘put a ring on it’?” He chuckles again and dabs at his eyes with a handkerchief.

I grin back in what I hope is a casual way. I’d prefer to throw myself at him and strangle the life from his body, but alas, we are all prisoners of society’s constructs. My silence stretches as I wait for his mirth to die down.

“The time is up. I was going to go meet up with River,” I say hopefully.

He puts his notepad and his pen down with a slowness that screams danger. “I’m disappointed.” His eyes flick to my left, and I stiffen. A black wood door sits framed by two short bookcases. The door is shut, but just him glancing at it makes my heart thunder. I hear the threat that isn’t spoken.

“I’ll make sure I can stay extra long in our session in two days,” I say tightly, hoping my anxiety doesn’t betray me. Everyone says my light grey eyes give me away, all my thoughts and feelings exposed for anyone to read. I’ve worked hard to turn them into steel shutters, and slipping up in here would be the worst. I refuse to let my eyes slide to the door, fighting the urge with everything in me. There would be no way I could hide the terror if I did.

He frowns and leans forward. He seems to be searching for something in my eyes. I struggle to keep my facial expressions open and friendly. “All right, I guess that’s okay.”

“Thank you, Dr Sparrow.” My relief is a physical thing.

“You’re welcome, Jackie. Now, just remember, if you see anything, call me. If you hear anything, call me. Night or day. You aren’t alone in this fight anymore.”

Why does he insist on calling me Jackie? I had my name legally changed years ago. I hate Jackie. My name is Jax. I want to scream it at him. It’s probably some slick psychiatrist ploy to unravel me.

“I will. You’ve been so kind to me.” Argh, if I don’t get out of here, I’m liable to choke on the syrup I’m spitting out of my mouth.

He pats my knee. Two taps, but it feels like he’s branded me with something slimy. I stand up quickly, my muscles protest as I unfold. At the door, I pause and glance back. He’s watching me with a dark look on his face. I escape the room and shudder, working hard to make my legs move slowly and fluidly, trying hard not to run.

Dark shapes twist and twirl out of the corner of my eyes. In the darkness, always in the dark. How late is it? It looks like it’s nearing sunset. I must have been up there for hours. Sparkles of rainbow halos shimmer and vanish. I pretend I haven’t seen a thing. They can wait for their turn. For exactly four blocks, I march with even steps, pushing down the tide of emotion that is bubbling up inside me. At the fourth, I turn the corner and finally am out of sight of his window view.

I throw myself against the wall, banging the back of my head against the bricks. The pain does nothing. I stare across the road, ignoring the looks I’m getting from two old women who are wheeling a trolley down the street. Their brown and dull clothes hang off emaciated bodies, but one pauses, her eyes roving over me. I press my fingertips into my sternum, trying to erase it all.

“You good, girl?”

I jerk towards her, startled. She’s halfway across the road.

“I can help you,” she says.

I shudder. “No. I’m good!”

Before she can say anything else and get across the road to rob me blind, I take off.

I can’t escape my reality anymore than I can bottle that memory back up. His voice is clear as day, the sounds that he made when we were happy, his touch, his smell. I remember how much I loved him. I would have died for him. How good life was then. Food on the table, nice things, smiling, laughter, dancing, friends. Things I don’t have anymore. My life was great, and I thought I was the luckiest woman in the world.

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