Page 87 of Pose for Me
I keep my steps measured as I walk down the residential street, waiting for someone to pop out and attack me. But it doesn’t happen.
Tired of being on the defensive, I whirl around to see if someone is behind me. When I do, I spot a woman with her dog about ten yards away. She raises her hand in a wave, and blowing out a trapped breath, I do the same.
Picking up my pace, I make it back to my apartment and head upstairs.
When I take off my shoes and toss my suit jacket on the arm of my couch, I beeline to the shower and turn it as hot as it will go. While it heats, I make my way to my room and look at the sheets on my bed. They’re all tucked in, just how I left them before I went to work. Sighing, I go to my dresser and grab a blue thong like the one Ryell brought for me. A lump lodges in my throat as I look at the material, remembering how he ripped the first thong from my body then fucked my ass hard and rough, sketching his cum that dribbled from my hole.
A sob threatens to break free, but I push it down and put the thong away, instead selecting a pair of lacy, full coverage panties. Ryell got me some like these as well, but they don’t bring back any memories that will undo me.
I bring my panties into the bathroom and take a long shower, trying to talk myself into letting go of my Daddy. There’s a guy that works in forensics that’s asked me on a date. He seems nice, normal, like he’s not a serial killer that poses bodies for the FBI to find. But he’s not Ry. He’s not my Daddy.
Maybe if I tell him yes, if I go out with the forensics guy, he’ll help me get over Ryell, and I can move on. If I see there are other options for me, that I deserve someone that didn’tkidnapme, I’ll be able to let Ry go.
Maybe.
Turning the water off, I step out of the shower and wrap a towel around my waist. Standing in front of the mirror, I detangle my hair. I wonder if Ryell would like that I let my locks grow out. He loved threading his fingers through my tresses while I was sucking him off or cockwarming. Maybe he would; there’s more to grab onto.
Sighing at the direction of my thoughts, I finish brushing my hair, then slide on my panties, my heart finally settling. This isthe only time I feel…anything. I usually walk around feeling like I’m all carved out.
Trudging back into my room, I reach into my nightstand and remove the ankle monitor I got from an online site. It’s amazing what’s available on the internet.
It took me weeks to figure out why I tossed and turned so much after I got back home. It was only when I tied a sock around my ankle before bed as a test that I got a full night’s rest. I kept the habit up until I was able to order an ankle monitor for myself. It’s the only thing that helps me sleep.
I attach the monitor then climb into bed, tucking my blanket around me. Then I drag my sketch from under my pillow and open it carefully. Over the past few months, it’s become smudged because of the oil from my fingertips, so I’m careful not to touch the actual drawing or the note when I press it flat to the bed.
“Love you,” I tell the picture as if I’m talking to Ryell and close my eyes, fighting back tears. I used to cry every night when I got home, but I’ve gotten better, and I’m able to keep the weeping at bay. In another six months, I should be able to go an hour without thinking about him.
Letting out a long breath, I do an exercise my therapist told me about for when I can’t sleep; I relax every part of my body individually, starting with my toes, then my calves, up to my thighs, my belly, chest, arms, and fingers. When I’m relaxed and tired, I close my eyes and slip into an uneasy sleep.
Like I do most nights, I wake up suddenly, my heart racing. I don’t move though, I just stare at the ceiling, hoping the thumping organ behind my ribs chills the fuck out so I can get some rest. Sleep is the only time I escape the pain.
But there’s another reason for my racing heart. There’s…someone here. On my bed.
I sit up suddenly, reach under my pillow, and pull out my gun, my finger poised to click the safety off.
I stare at the man at the end of my bed. I blink to bring him into focus in the semi-dark room.
Then I blink again. And again.
Ryell smiles at me, raising his hands in the air in mock surrender. “Looks like you’re not being good for me, Agent.”
Thirty-Two
Ryell
Lane clickshis bedside lamp on, his gun still pointed in my direction. I don’t lower my hands, even though I know he wouldn’t harm me if I did. I want to give him a moment to adjust to?—
A second later, Lane tosses the gun onto the bed, then launches himself at me, barreling into my chest. I let out an “oomph” and fall to the floor, but I’m careful to keep him from hurting himself.
“Ryell, Daddy, is it…” he sits up and looks at me with watery eyes. “You’re here.”
“I’m here, baby boy,” I say, running my hand over his face. “I missed you.”
Lane buries his head in my chest and sobs, and I hold him close, gently rubbing his back.
Then he sits up and slaps me hard across the face before I can stop him. He does it again, with more force this time. With a growl, I lock my hand around his throat, squeezing, but not hard enough to hurt him.
Still, Lane doesn’t let up, hitting me in my face and chest over and over while he cries, “You fucking left me! You broke your promise! I fucking hate you, Ry!” I finally have to grab bothof his hands in mine before Lane can slap me again. He still struggles, trying to wiggle free from my hold.
