Page 16 of Dirty, Bruised Martini
I think about you when you find me in my little studio.
My happiness to be back in this comfortable space and to see you in it faded when I saw the worry lining your face. Highlighting the dark circles under your intense brown eyes. Neither of us sleeping well. Together in the same bed, but barely touching or talking. An ocean of guilt and fear keeping us apart. Neither of us able to fight through the undertow to find each other.
Despite my doubt I accepted your outstretched hand. Strong fingers wrapping around mine with love and refuge you imbue with your resolute touch. Nodding as you explain we have a guest. Someone who I didn’t realize I would see again.
My feet stalled from the stranger jumping to his feet when we entered your office. Familiar dark eyes, almost black, greeted me. A hesitant smile flickered on his face before vanishing. I couldn’t stop trembling when I heard his accent. The recognition of who he is. What he saw. What he did.
I had to swallow down vomit on my tongue when he called me kitten and jerked away from his handshake. Stumbling backward into your hard, broad chest to not let him or the insult touch me.
I thought I wanted to see him again. To thank him. To ensure he knows how appreciative I am for his actions. But the memories of that night flooded my head, and I couldn’t form thoughts or words or emotions. I could only lean on you to keep from falling.
I could feel your body shake with rage in spite of the thickness of our clothes between our bodies. Biting out through a tight jaw that my name is Giselle not kitten.
All I could do is nod when he apologized. Unaware of the faux pas. Of the shame imparted in that nickname.
When you pulled me onto your lap, I should’ve been embarrassed. Insulted to be treated like a child. Yet, I couldn’t bring myself to be. I loved your possessive touch to remind him I was yours. To remind me I was yours. Not anyone but yours.
Tight arms curled around my waist trapping me within your embrace. Protecting me from the monster he resurrected with his presence. Shielding me from the evil we experienced together.
He sat down hard. Almost slamming into the gray leather guest chair. Uncertain with his hands curling and uncurling into fists on the fat arm rests. Explaining slowly at first about being under cover and unable to endanger his case. Too damn powerless to act lest he jeopardize the other agents planted in the organization.
The words came more quickly when he described the shame he felt to watch me be violated. His confession rushing out in a flurry of guilt and shame as he admitted to the nightmares that had plagued him for weeks afterwards. That he wanted to contact you to let you know where I was but he was so deep inside he couldn’t risk being caught. Desperate for a chance to message you that never happened. Almost pleading forgiveness when he said he did all he could. It wasn’t enough, he certainly realized, but it was all he could do.
I’m sorry. Two simple words that were unnecessary. A genuine apology he offered and I accepted. Because I believed him. For as horrific as the situation was, he really did all he could and I was grateful.
The tears wouldn’t stop. I couldn’t stop my sobs to thank him. So I showed him my gratitude the only way I could.
But of course you didn’t like it. And at that point I didn’t like you.
I think about your now dead husband when I grab the back of your dress.
The heavy blue fabric ripping from the force of me jerking you back when you attempted to jump out of my arms to hug that motherfucker. Who didn’t kill that bastard when he had the chance. Who didn’t do a damn thing to stop him. Who didn’t do a damn fucking thing to save you.
I would never have introduced you—never let him into our home—if I knew how he failed you. You hailed him as hero. But he’s nothing but a fucking cock sucking coward. But my rage was nothing on yours. Not at him. But at me.
Your petite body swirled around, ready to battle with me when I told you not to touch him. When I reminded you that you’re mine and no man but me touches you.
Blackness filled my view. Stealing all the light from my vision when you murmured he kept all the men from touching you. Your voice raising higher and higher. Shrieking with hysteria as you explained how that motherfucker raped you. Many times. Before that night and after that night. Mornings and afternoons too. Any damn time he wanted.
But that night, that horrible night, was the worse, you yelled at me. He raped you in front of this stranger and a room full of all the other men who wanted to take their turn too. If it weren’t for this man, they would have each touched you and I wasn’t there to stop them. Not then. Not any of the four weeks you were gone. Not once during the entire month you were kidnapped was I there to keep him from touching you. So don’t you dare blame the one person who helped you.
This time it was me who freaked out. An enormous melt down that destroyed my office. The furniture smashed, the art work shredded, the carpet soaked with the wet bar toppled to the floor. Bad enough I fucking scared myself. Bad enough my men came running to restrain me. Bad enough that Jane ushered you out as I fought four guys pinning me to my desk while the biggest battle raged inside myself.
I’m losing you and I can’t fucking take it.
I think about you when Jane tells me she’s proud of me.
I don’t like her praise. I don’t deserve her praise.
I hurt you.
I hurt you with my honesty. With my anger. With my thoughtlessness.
The words just burst out of me, and now I can’t take them back. No matter how much I want to. I don’t blame you. I really don’t. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t frightened and doubtful and vulnerable. All I wanted was for you to come for me. All I wanted was for you to stop him. All I wanted was for you to kill him.
Which isn’t what I should have wanted. I shouldn’t wish death on anyone. I never thought I was capable of thinking that.
I don’t know myself any more.
