Page 31 of Still Beating

Dean sighs, blinking slowly. He’s unconvinced, but also aware that there’s nothing he can do about it. He lifts me back up with reluctance and situates himself inside me once again, and I release a small gasp when he fills me. There is a strange, disturbing sense of relief at the feel of him between my legs. Maybe it’s a twisted case of Stockholm syndrome. Maybe I’ve gone mad. Or maybe Dean is warm and safe and familiar, and that’s all I have to cling to.

I’ll take what I can get.

When he finishes, Dean pulls out of me and buries his face against the curve of my neck like he always does. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Cora.” His breath tickles my ear and his tears dampen my skin. “Please forgive me.”

I do. I always do.

Dean is shoved back into his corner and shackled like an actual dog. This is normally when Earl leaves for work, but he pauses as he turns around, pinning his dark eyes on me. I shudder.

“My turn, kitten.”

What?

No. Please, no.

“I-I thought your turn is tomorrow,” I squeak out, inching my way back, wishing I could disappear into the pole.

Earl lunges forward and backhands me, forcing a cry from my lips.

“Hey!” Dean shakes his chains, anger radiating from him in waves.

“I take what I want when I want it, you stupid bitch. Understand?” Earl hisses.

I nod my head as tears leak from my eyes, my jaw throbbing.

Earl rips off his belt… and as it slides roughly through the loops, I notice a tiny piece of the latch fly loose. It’s so small, it hardly makes a sound as it lands by Dean’s foot—but Dean notices. I try not to make a scene or give us away, but my eyes widen as they lock on Dean, and I watch as he hides the metal clasp beneath his sock.

I don’t know what it means or what its purpose may be, but it’s something.

It’s all we have.

Chapter Ten

“Do you miss her?”

The sun pokes through the window on the eighteenth day, teasing us. We are facing each other from our respective corners, our legs sprawled out in front of us, our toesalmostable to touch. Dean is slouched back against his pipe, his eyes fixated just over my shoulder.

“Who?” he wonders absently.

He knows who, but I answer anyway. “My sister.”

Dean blinks, slow and lazy. There is a far-off look on his face as a wave of silence passes between us, and I wonder if he’s going through memories in his mind like a film reel. He finally nods his head one time, just as slow. “We were supposed to get married in two weeks. Mandy wanted a winter wedding with velvet shawls, a horse-drawn sleigh, and white Christmas lights.”

A nostalgic smile breaks through as I reminisce wedding planning together with Mandy. We had ruby red bridesmaid dresses with snow white shawls. It was magical.

It would have been magical.

I glance at Dean, silently begging him to look at me. Toseeme.

To assure me I’m still real.

“She was really excited to marry you,” I say, my voice a small whisper.

Amanda Asher.

My last memory of Mandy was her practicing her future signature on the bar tab that fateful night.

I watch Dean’s jaw clench in reaction to my words, his eyes closing as he accepts the fact that he might never marry Mandy. He might never get married at all. He might never have children or watch another football game or eat a medium-rare steak or pet a dog or sleep in a goddamn bed with an alarm clock waking him up to tell him, ‘Good morning. It’s early as shit and you have to spend ten hours at work today doing hard labor, but at least you get to breathe in the fresh air and feel the sunshine on your skin.’

---