Page 12 of Dirty, Bruised Martini
I think about Tara and the other girls that worked for him when Mrs. Griffith brings me warm apple cider.
Two cinnamon sticks bobbing in the shiny, oversized black mug as much as her silver-haired head, encouraging me to ask her for anything I need. Don’t be shy, she urged me. Reminding me again that she’s happy to make me anything I want. Eager to provide me with anything I need.
I couldn’t control the tears that burned my eyes. But if I cried, she’d cry too, and I didn’t want that. So I nodded and hugged her with a strength I hope conveyed my appreciation. Her soft hand stroking over and over my back made me never wanted to let her go. A gentle yet firm touch conveyed a confident reassurance that she would help make everything better too.
Such a thoughtful person to remember what I like and try to comfort me. Yet she and her concern are also a reminder of the others who suffered along with me. Probably after I was gone too. I might be free, but I can only assume they’re still prisoners to his world. Left behind to navigate a new life without him. Figure out what to do when the boss is dead and your job suddenly ends in a burst of flames literally.
Because of me.
Because of you.
I’ve been afraid to talk to you about what happened when you found me. Frightened to know the truth. Terrified that the man I love would hurt anyone who didn’t deserve it. I don’t think so. Yet this entire experience stirs my doubt. Uncertainty circling in my heart faster and faster that maybe they didn’t survive. Did anyone protect them when you burned my prison to the ground? Or save the women and children living in the homes you attacked? Those men may have been guilty of crimes I don’t even want to imagine but I have to know if you harmed the other innocent people trapped in this nightmare.
Jane said I should ask you. That I have to genuinely understand what you’re capable of to genuinely understand you. But what if you’re not the man I think you are? Then what do I do?
I think about my secret when you ask me what happened when I stormed his mansion.
You were nervous when you questioned me. Clutching a coffee cup so tight between your small fingers I thought the ceramic would crack. Pretending to wander into my office by chance, you perched on the edge of the cushion. Ready to bolt if I spooked you. Almost as awkwardly adorable as when we first met. God I fucking miss those days.
Thank fucking god you didn’t jump away when I dropped down in the chair next to you. Weird sitting on the other side of my desk. Even weirder that we attempted and failed at small talk instead of open, genuine conversation like we used to have. Clumsy and unnatural because we haven’t found our way back to where we belong. Neither of us ourselves yet.
But I was stalling. Trying to figure out how to answer without scaring you more. Without making you hate me.
You surprised me though. Impressed me, really, when you took a deep breath and jumped in. Asking if the women who worked for him got out safely after the explosion.
Fuck me.
So damn compassionate to care about others’ well-being after you were tortured. Considering their safety beyond your rescue to worry about them. This is another reason I love you so much, rosy girl. And another reason for you to despise me.
I was as honest as I could be when I told you I wasn’t thinking about them. Didn’t care about anyone but you. Wrong or right, I didn’t give a damn about anything but finding you and bringing you home. It wasn’t my responsibility to take care of other men’s families.
You were quiet for a long time. Sipping your drink and thinking over my proclamation. Grasping my selfishness compared to your generosity. Hopefully understanding my love for you.
Instead, you ran your fingertip around and around the edge of your mug. Revolving as much as the uncertainty clouding your beautiful face. Finally, questioning if I’d killed anyone besides my enemies. Now that pissed me off. Regardless of how fragile you are right now and how gentle I need to be with you, I couldn’t let you think I’d knowingly hurt a woman or a kid.
Luckily you didn’t flinch from the harsh tone of my response. You actually seemed to welcome the ferocity of my answer, and the tension gripping your narrow shoulders released. Your hands ceasing in their anxious movements. Whispering “good” two times as you nodded. While relief flooded through me that you accepted my adamancy without argument. Giving me a sliver of hope that you still believe in me. Trust in my word.
You caught me off guard again when you asked about me. What was it like for me while you were missing? Tears welled up in your gorgeous eyes when I told you it was hell. God damn motherfucking hell. I couldn’t help myself when fat tears streamed down your pink cheeks, and I swiped the huge droplets off your silky skin with my thumbs. Probably too soon to touch you. To be so bold, but there is nothing I hate more than you crying, rosy girl. Especially for me when all of this is my damn fault.
I hated your sob when I admitted I didn’t sleep for six days after that motherfucker ambushed you while you stopped for a latte after that newborn baby’s first photo shoot. Passing out from exhaustion and the sleeping pills Danny slipped into my food. I would of beat his ass too if I hadn’t been so laser focused on finding you when I woke up.
We traveled the world searching for you. Racking up more miles on my plane in that one month than the entire time I’ve owned the jet. I swear to fucking god I could still smell your strawberry shampoo floating over the leather seats. That I could taste your essence on my tongue when I drank from the water bottles in the drawer were I kept your favorite snacks. Could feel your satin skin under my fingertips when I sat in the spot where you’d let me fuck you on the way to Barbados. You surrounded me. It felt like you were right there with me, and yet I had no fucking clue where you really were.
I ate just to keep going because everything tasted like shit without you. I only slept when I collapsed because you were always in my dreams, and I couldn’t fucking rescue you in them either. I worked out only to keep from killing my own guys with my rage. No one could fucking track you or that bastard down and I didn’t know what the fuck to do with the adrenaline running through my veins twenty-four / seven.
Then to finally find you. In a motherfucking cage. Terrified like a trapped animal. Not even trusting me or that I was really there, I about lost my damn head then. So when you asked me rosy girl if I worried or cared or wondered about anyone but you, I’m sorry but the answer is hell the fuck no. I wanted you. Only you. And by god I’d found you and wasn’t fucking spending any time thinking about anyone else but getting you out and home and with me.
I don’t think either of us was breathing when you finally looked up. Or when you slammed down your mug onto the side table and scrambled into my lap. Shocking the hell out of both of us. But when you coiled around me, I almost fucking cried too. Letting me touch you. Allowing yourself to touch me. I don’t think I’d ever been happier despite you weeping on my shoulder. You needed me and I was finally fucking there for you. I swear to god from now on I’ll always be here for you. I love you rosy girl.
I think about him when I wake up and find you watching me.
He would smile too. But his smile was for him. For what he was about to do. For his sick glee from taking me without permission.
Your smile was for me. For what you were about to do. For your pure joy to hold me with permission.
My hand anyway. That’s all I can do right now. You didn’t act disappointed even if you were. Instead, you nodded and folded my small fingers between your huge ones after you kissed each knuckle. You told me you like me being in our bed. Being next to you. Being with you. I like all of that too. Most of all, I like that you like it.
I think about that bastard monster when you shrink into yourself under my gaze.
