Page 197 of Felonies are Forever

After passing out jumping from the bed, I woke with Jack holding me in his lap, a cool cloth on my forehead as he reassured me in a deep, calm voice everything was going to be okay now. Things were going to be different.

Oh, how I want them to be different.

I told him I just jumped up too fast, and after the orgasms my blood just wasn’t pumping to my brain fast enough. I got dizzy and the room started swirling. He nodded, making sure I stood up slowly, holding my hands, then when he was finally satisfied I was back on terra firma, he had me hop on his back and gave me a piggyback ride into the kitchen and sat me in a chair, telling me not to move.

“It’s almost ready.” His voice is low as he works over the sizzle and steam. The counter is a hurricane’s aftermath ofvegetable pieces and scraps as the comforting scent of the chicken and veggies he’s stir frying has me almost drooling. “About sixty seconds ‘til done.”

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” I answer on autopilot.

“You are not fucking fine,” he barks back and I do my best to not to shrink into myself but I hate seeing him like this. “This is my fault. I’m not mad at you baby. From now on, we eat together. Three meals a day and snacks as necessary.”

“That implies we are going to be together an awful lot. Have you thought about—”

He holds up the spatula, cutting me off. “What matters number one on top of every fucking list is your health. Denying yourself food is old news. I see how you play when you eat. I’ve seen the little ways you try to hide that you’re not actually eating. I’m going to help, Layla, not make it worse. Whatever and however long it takes for you to figure out food isn’t your enemy, I’ll be with you every step. I’m here now, I’m going to take care of you in ways no one ever has.”

My cheeks blush at the intensity of his words and the darkness in his eyes. He turns, flicking off the knob for the burner and plating up the food in two bowls, dribbling some soy sauce on top before coming around to sit next to me at the kitchen table.

“You scared the shit out of me, Layla.” His voice takes on a softer tone. He’s wearing just his jeans and I’m in one of his long-sleeved flannel shirts which hangs down to my knees. “I know being a dancer there’s a lot of pressure to be thin, but not to the detriment of your health. I won’t allow that.”

He brings a bite of food on his fork close to his lips and I think he’s going to take the first bite, but instead he blows on it, blows again, then touches it to his lips the way a mother does before she gives a bite to her child.

With a nod, he brings the fork to my mouth and I open, somehow the guilt I usually feel when eating evaporates in that moment. Maybe it’s because it’s not my choice. It’s Jack’s, and something inside me says if it’s what Jack thinks I need, I trust him.

“I need you healthy. Not thin. Whatever weight feels good to you, baby. Not what you think you should be. Not how you think you should look. You get to decide for you. Nobody else.” He scoops another bite as I swallow the first, sighing as I open for the next. “You want a nice big booty, some thick thighs and a poochy little belly? I’m down for it. All of it. But it’s up to you. I love you. Size, shape makes no difference, as long as you’re healthy.”

I stop chewing, frozen in the moment. I don’t think he even knows what he said, but I heard it. Loud and clear.

“What’s wrong? It’s not good?” He takes a bite from his bowl, the steaming food burning his mouth as he pants and takes a quick drink from the glass of water on the table. “Tastes pretty good to me.”

I finish chewing and swallow, holding my hand in front of my mouth for a moment, trying to decide what to say.

“It’s great,” I tell him, the other thing I want to say sticking down deep.

We alternate taking bites as Jack asks me questions about different things. He asks if dancing is still my passion and I give him an honest answer.

“I’m not sure. No one has ever asked me before what I want to do. It was my mother’s dream for me to be in a ballet troupe and her sheer willpower drove me to excel to the best of my ability. But, even I knew deep down, I didn’t have what it would take to rise to the top. I didn’t have the passion, and the whatever…X-factor.”

“You can do whatever you set your mind to, Prima. If you could do anything, what would it be?”

I mull his question for a moment, realizing I’ve never put serious thought into that question, but there are some things I do know. “I know I want a life where I can make my own decisions but still feel safe. It’s as though Mom and then Carter have taught me you can’t have both, and deep down I know that’s not true. I’ve also always seen myself as a mom. A different kind than I had. More sort of…” I screw up my face, thinking of the right descriptive. “A little bohemian maybe? Like, practical but a little hippy-ish I guess. Fun. Free. Not losing the little child inside.” I shake my head. “Those aren’t really goals though. I know I should want to achieve something, I’ve just never felt like it was possible, I guess.”

“You can achieve everything, baby. I’ll be there to keep you safe, but let you feel free. That’s what a Daddy does. He holds you up while making sure you know you have a net to fall into. I’m your pedestal and your champion.”

The way he describes it makes me smile, and before I can stop myself I stand and march over to my purse, pulling out my phone and tapping the screen, making my way back.

“What is it?”

“Something I want to show you.” I’m still looking at my phone, pulling up my TikTok and IG when he stands, guiding me by my hips over to the overstuffed brown velvet chair flanking the fireplace, and pulls me onto his lap.

“I don’t understand. Who is TutuDance—oh…”

“Please don’t be mad. I know Carter would never be happy with me doing this, but I need you to support me. I love making these videos and, well, I feel like I’m helping people.”

He nods, taking the phone from me and clicking through a few older videos. “This is amazing, baby. You did all this yourself?”

“I guess I just want to help girls be strong so they can protect themselves, you know? It doesn’t always have to be gyms and dojos, you can be any size, any shape, but you can still pack a punch. Thin and strong, curvy and strong, big and strong. You don’t have to choose…” I take the phone back from him and click through to a much more recent video, one I shot just a couple of days ago and haven’t had much chance to look at its stats. “Look at this one. It’s getting a lot of views. You can be elegant, you can dance, and you can also deliver a killer throat punch.”

I hand the phone back to him and he stares at the video, a little smile playing on his lips until it cuts to the punch, then he laughs. “I love it, baby. Of course I’ll support…”

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