Page 39 of Shattered
CHAPTER 12
Mel
It took me a moment to realize what was happening: the soft skin enveloping my lips, the warmth of his touch. The tickle of facial hair. An act on the other end of the extreme, capturing the worlds that existed between us. Rourke could show me how violence and pleasure intermingled, and how sensuality still existed in the barest of touches.
The heat of his body lingered over mine. His hands, still gloved, stroked my cheek. A drip of sweat dropped from his brow, one of the most real moments of contact we had ever had. The sweaty Rourke. The human underneath the mask. The scruff of facial hair… His eyes. My eyes flicked open, but a piece of fabric was there, so I closed my eyes again. I wanted to see him, to fill in the picture conjured in my mind. But if he didn’t want me to see him yet, then I would respect that, even if it killed me.
This was the Rourke that I hadn’t expected. The tender side was harder to expose than anything else.
“Dream of me,” he whispered. He squeezed my hand, then the bed gave way, lifting without his presence. The nearly inaudible pads of his boots on the ground, so quiet that I could have imagined it. The creak of the stairs as he descended. The turn of the door handle as he let himself out into the backyard.
He was comfortable in my home. Like he owned it. Like he owned me.
Silence fell upon the house, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t dread the quiet. Sleep overcame me, and I dreamed of him. Only him.
***
I awoke to erratic banging on the front door, the sounds searing my brain, causing an instant headache. I sat up, staring down at myself. Brushes of paint had dried on my skin, and my shirt was still torn open at my sides. My ankles tied to the feet of the bed.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Hold on!” I yelled. “Coming!” I was coming as quickly as I could, anyway, not that I could explain that to anyone. I touched my cheek, expecting to feel the mask there.Rourke. He had kissed me. With his own lips.
On the windowsill, a pocket knife waited with the handle angled towards me. Rourke must have left it. I quickly cut the length of the rope tying me to the bed, letting the knotted restraints hang on my ankles. Pants. I needed pants. I pulled some out of the laundry; they weren’t clean, but they weren’t smeared in paint. I sniffed my armpit; the smell of arousal hung in the air. I shrugged. Nothing that a sweatshirt wouldn’t hide. Probably.
After I discarded the torn shirt and pulled a large sweater over my chest, I glanced out the window to see if I could tell who it was. Beth’s car was parked in the front. I sighed. I almost would have preferred to interact with Detective Foreman right then, but of course, that was an exaggeration. I had no desire to talk with the police. Each step I took closer to Rourke, was another step away from traditional justice. I could follow my own moral code too. Like Rourke.
That is to say that I would never kill freely, but I would kill to protect.
Still, dealing with Beth wasn’t my favorite activity, especially after ditching the interview. I’m sure she wasn’t thrilled with me.
As I went down the stairs, I braced myself for a rehash of the lectures I had heard growing up.You disappoint me, Melissa. What are you doing with your life? Where is your drive?The truth was that I had once had plenty of drive, just not in the direction she would have preferred.
I tripped over one of the strings hanging off of my ankles. Yikes. I found scissors in the kitchen and quickly cut them off, hopping to the door as I did. I left the ropes on the floor.
“—didn’t even show up,” she said before I opened the door the entire way. She stormed past me, letting herself into my living room. “Did you even think about how that would embarrass me? In front of my colleagues? Begging them to give you a chance, only to be humiliated by the fact that you couldn’t even bother to show up?”
Guilt crept into my gut, but I forced it down, waiting for her to finish.
“I could have saved you from that forsaken hell hole,” she said, pointing to the side of the room as if the house itself represented the Dahlia District. “You don’t have to give sad blow jobs for a living anymore. You could inspire children! People like you!”
Those words made me more upset than anything. Children? People like me? How could I inspire kids when I had so little inspiration myself? And sad blow jobs? Blow jobs? Yes. Sad? No. I was comfortable with what I did. I might not have kept every cent that I earned, but I was good at my job, and I enjoyed it. Most days anyway. Better than I could say for teaching.
“Think of those people you let down. You let me down! Youembarrassedme. Can’t you see that now? How much you hurt me?”
“Are you finished?” I asked. She straightened, looking around suddenly as if she hadn’t realized where she was. Her movements were frantic, taking in the house that I had lived in for the last few years. A place she had never been inside of, until now.
“What’s that?” Beth asked, pointing to the cut ropes on the floor.
The frustration inside of me urged me to say the truth. To be authentic with her for once.
“My lover tied me up last night,” I said.
“Oh.” She blushed and faced away from me. Pretending like I hadn’t said that. Like the ropes weren’t there.
“I’m tired, Beth,” I said. Her shoulders cringed, but it was the only way I could stomach addressing her then. I refused to call her ‘Mom’ or ‘Mama’ ever again. “I’m tired of pretending to be what you want me to be. I can’t try to bend myself to fit your expectations anymore. I can barely meet my own. I’m twenty-three. If I’m not your idea of the perfect daughter by now, I never will be.” I shook my head. “I have to be me.”
Her eyes welled with tears, and I rubbed my forehead. Damn it. Damn it. Damn it. I hadn’t made her cry like this since before I had left for art school. I couldn’t let her change the focus, shifting it back to her.
