Page 27 of Black Roses

Back in my room, a few Tylenol and an ice bath have me relaxing enough to fall asleep, hoping exhaustion will stave off the nightmares.

~ ~ ~

Too many hands are touching me, each taking a piece of clothing off my languid body. I don’t fight them. I don’t want to fight them. What they are doing feels good. I recline on the massive bed and invite more. My body feels alive, like I’m floating on air. I look around the room at the drunken faces. Boys of different shapes and sizes, shouting and cheering me on. I randomly grab a hand and put it to my naked breast, relishing the razor sharp bolts going straight to my groin when fingers pinch my nipples. Rock hard penises are thrust at my face and onto my body, each one wanting a piece of my flesh. I reach out and rub the velvety steel length of one of them, unsure of the face it belongs to. I’m mesmerized by the silky softness of the erection as a small bulb of moisture exits the head.

Fingers move within me, the initial burn turning into something else that causes my insides to ignite with need and desire. Every so often, I feel spurts of warm wetness on my stomach along with blissful-yet-agonizing shouts of release. Pleasure builds within me. Fingers pinch my nipples and rub my clitoris. Hands take turns kneading the tender flesh of my behind. My hips are elevated and my legs held wide open. I scream out in painful pleasure as I watch the face of one of the boys as he fills my tight walls with his shaft. I move someone’s hand aside and take over the punishing assault on my clit until I’m screaming out exaltations into the cheering crowd. Then the boy’s face becomes another. And then another. The faces all blur together and I start to feel faint, exhausted from the pain. From the pleasure.

I don’t want to do this anymore. I try to push one of the boys away, needing to give my body a break from the punishing paces I’m putting it through.

He doesn’t budge.

Pain sears through me as he enters my raw channel. I try to throw him off me, but hands are restraining me. “No!” I scream. “Get off me!” I yell and lash out and kick my legs.

A loud cracking noise fills the room and another person jumps onto the bed. “Piper! Piper, wake up!” a voice commands, much deeper than the other voices in the room. Someone grips my shoulders, shaking them. “Wake up, sweetheart.”

I snap out of the nightmare, my blurry eyes frantically searching the room for the boys who were just here. But all I find is a half-naked Mason, holding me down in an attempt to keep me from kicking him.

“Piper. It’s me, Mason. You’re okay. Look at me. It’s just me. Only me. You’re okay now.”

As I wake further, he lightens his hold on me. He reassures me over and over and over, until I stop lashing out at him and collapse down onto the bed. I have no fight left in me as he turns me away from him, cradling me from behind, enveloping me with his comforting protection. “Shhhhhh,” his whisper sooths me as his breath rolls over my ear. The gentle rhythmic motion of his hand up and down my arm causes my eyelids to get heavy, sleep once again pulling me under as I hear him say, “I’m never going to let anyone hurt you again.”

~ ~ ~

Eat up, Princess. And call me when you’re ready to collect your winnings.

I rub the sleep from my eyes, staring at the note Mason left by the bed, right next to a large, domed tray reeking of heavenly breakfast food. Through the broken, splintered door to his connecting room, I can see that he’d packed up and vacated sometime after my nightmare.

My heart races when it comes rushing back to me. The nightmare. Mason breaking down the door and holding me until I went back to sleep. I can only imagine what he must think of me now. But then I recall the words he said as I fell asleep.

Momentarily forgetting what I did yesterday, I attempt to hop out of bed when my screaming muscles vehemently protest. I rub and knead the knots in my legs until I can finally move myself from the bed to the floor, where I stretch until I can no longer ignore the alluring smell of breakfast. I salivate knowing what must be under the silver dome. American breakfast. I missed it almost as much as good barbeque.

Two hours later, after the bellman insisted he accompany me to the train station, I’m riding the train back to New York, the soft side-to-side motion lulling my tired body until I drift off to sleep, still holding his note.

I startle awake, looking around to gauge if anyone heard me call out in my dream. And then I realize something momentous happened. I had a dream. Adream—not a nightmare. I was with Mason and he was walking me down the aisle at Skylar’s wedding. Everyone was there, my sisters, my family, friends and neighbors. Even Charlie was there. But when we got to the altar, we didn’t part ways to stand in our respective places to the sides of the bride and groom—wewerethe bride and groom. I was wearing a virginal white dress, the train extending back to the first row of pews. Mason was in the tuxedo he wore to the benefit. We recited our vows and then everyone cheered as we ran out of the church and right into our reception that was teeming with activity. The gorgeous three-tiered cake was cut, the pale-blue garter belt was slung, and the beautiful bouquet of black and white roses was thrown into the air to be caught by Charlie. It’s then when I shrieked in excitement, waking myself up.

I shake off the dream, writing it off as a product of all the wedding planning Skylar and I have been doing lately. But in the back of my mind, I wonder if deep down in my subconscious, it’s something I want. Over five years I’ve gone without having anything but nightmares. Five years! And the star of my first regular dream is none other than the author of the note I’m still clutching.

I stare at it. Who is this man? I’ve done nothing but push him away, despite his innumerable selfless deeds. And then after everything else he’s done for me, he finds my bracelet. I swear to God, if knights in shining armor do exist, I guess that would make him mine. I mean, he broke down a damn door for me.

I’m tired of letting the past define me. I’m tired of living in fear every single day. I look around at the men on the train. Surely notallof them are bad. I think of Gavin and Griffin and the happiness they’ve brought to my sisters’ lives. I think of the Playhouse and the show posters in illuminated cases. I realize for the first time, that if I don’t let myself have a life, I’m lettingthemtake it away from me. They’ve already taken so much. They made me a victim long ago. But maybeI’mthe only person who is forcing me to continue to be one.

I make a split-second decision and take out my phone to compose a text.

Me: I know what I want.

Mason: Anything, Princess. You name it.

Me: I want you to stop calling me Princess.

Mason: You beat me in the Boston Marathon and that’s all you can come up with?

Me: Actually, there was one more thing.

I hesitate so long, he texts me three more times asking what it is. I’ve already typed the words into my phone. I just haven’t had the courage to hit ‘send.’

Mason: Are you still there?

I think back to the dream I had earlier. I can’t ever remember having an honest-to-God dream that was all hearts and flowers and not some twisted version ofthatnight. I grasp onto this one sliver of hope and take the leap.

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