Page 33 of Dark Knight

Me: I'm okay. Bored out of my mind. Wishing we could have brunch or go shopping.

It makes me sad when I look back at all the missed opportunities to do those things. I pushed her away just like I pushed everyone away all summer. It was too exhausting trying to put on a happy face. And once she knew the truth after spotting my bruises, I couldn't shake the feeling that she imagined me being hurt whenever she looked at me. I know now, like I knew then, that she wasn't trying to make me feel bad, which is why I didn't lash out at her. No, I would lash out at Romero instead.

Bianca: Me, too. This will all be over soon. And then you can come home.

Will it be that easy? The thing is, it doesn't matter where I am. The memories are always there. I can't escape my own head.

I drop the phone on the bed, scrubbing my fists over my eyes. I really should get moving—I’m breaking my pattern and was starting to like having more structure in my days. But damn it, I will not let him look at me the way he did last night. I'd rather stay up here all day than shrink under the crushing weight of his pity.

Something tells me Mr. Abs of Steel will pull me out of this room kicking and screaming if I don't show my face at some point today. He'll tell me it's for the best, that he's only thinking of me, and whatever else he thinks I need to hear because he's being paid to say it.

I need to stop obsessing because every time I think back on crouching in that alley and sobbing until I couldn’t breathe, I want to shrivel up and die. There's got to be a way to distract myself that doesn't involve showing my face downstairs.

Why, of all times, does the memory of Romero jerking off in the shower come up now? I guess my subconscious is trying to humanize him, reminding me he's just a man no matter how he pretends to be big and bad. I'm sure he's got his weaknesses, though he's damn good at hiding them. But if he wasn't so desperate to hide, he wouldn't be so against me being friends with Mrs. Cooper, right?

She's not who I want to think about right now, when the memory of Romero's moans makes my nipples peak. I brush my hand across them and suck in a surprised gasp at the intensity of the sensation that rolls through me. It’s sweet and hot enough that I do it again and bite my lip to stifle a moan.

Holy shit. I’m on fire, and all because of a few soft touches.

My eyes drift closed, shutting out reality to sink into something better. Somewhere, there isn’t any fear or pain or regret. A place where Romero walks in on me writhing on the bed, my hands rubbing my body over top of my sweater before that's not enough, and I have to dip underneath my clothes to touch my bare skin.

At first, he would only watch, shocked, until he could do nothing but let go for once. He would forget what he knows he's supposed to do and choose this instead. He would cross the room and crawl across the bed like a predator who’d spotted his prey.

“Touch yourself for me, Princess.”Instead of infuriating me, the word would roll off his tongue in a heated whisper, making my skin tingle like it is now.“I want to watch you come on your fingers. Can you do that for me?”

“Yes,” I whisper now, lifting my hips and yanking down the waistband of my leggings to give my hand room to find its way between my thighs. Oh, fuck, the first contact with my mound makes me gasp, even with cotton panties in the way. I jam my hand under them and note the wet patch on the crotch–but only vaguely, somewhere in the back of my mind because what’s at the forefront is how incredible it feels. The delicious tension builds in my core with every brush of my fingers against my wet folds.

“Take what you want,”Romero whispers in my head. I can almost feel his hot breath on my neck and I want so much for his lips to touch my skin. With my free hand, I stroke that spot and imagine it’s him and it’s enough to take my breath away.“Touch your pussy. Fuck yourself with your fingers. Nice and deep.”

Now both hands are in my panties–one to massage my clit, the other to drive two fingers deep in my hot, wet pussy. My hips lift and I grind them in slow circles, panting the way he did in the shower. I can hear him now, like he’s panting while he watches me, wishing he could take over. “That’s right. Come for me. Let me hear how good you feel…”

“Romero!” It’s a whisper, a breath, filling the room a second before everything explodes and I’m left writhing and moaning behind my clenched teeth. It doesn’t end right away, either, the blissful tremors going on and on until I’m left floating in a river of warmth and sweetness. Complete blissful relief.

Only to realize once I open my eyes that this is the first orgasm I’ve had in months. Since before Europe and everything that happened there. I tried more than once over the summer to make myself feel good, to feelanything, but I could never get anywhere close to the finish. This time, the finish was inevitable.

And it was because of… him?

Every fiber of my being pushes that idea away even as I pull my hands free, and my insides still flutter with aftershocks. The evidence is pretty straightforward. Thinking of him, imagining his dirty talk and what I wished he would do to me, got me over the edge.

Or it was simply a matter of not coming in months and finally being able to relax into it. I mean, my body was bound to need release eventually. I’m young. I’m healthy. He was just a convenient fantasy. It doesn’t have to mean more than that.

One thing is for sure: I can’t lie here forever after coming all over my hands. I doubt he’s upstairs, anyway, though if he is, he’s probably in his office with the door shut. Shutting out the world because his work is so important.

I’m like a wannabe spy in a cheesy sitcom, opening the door a crack and peering into the dark hallway. The office door is open, except the room is empty. I crane my neck to find the same true of the bathroom. I dash on tiptoe down the hall and let out a sigh of relief on closing the door.Congratulations. You made it to the bathroom, you dork.

After washing my hands, I splash my face like that’s going to wash away the weirdness of getting off on fantasizing about the man I’m hiding from. Like it’s not enough I have to hide from Jeff.

My jaw juts out when I meet my gaze in the mirror. No more hiding. If he tries to broach last night, I’ll shut him down. I don’t need to talk about it. I know exactly what happened and why. Performing a post-mortem isn’t going to change anything.

The first thing I hear when I venture into the hall is a noise behind the house. Probably Romero, but it sparks my curiosity. I'm not going to take the office as a sign that he trusts me—he probably doesn't leave anything he feels is vital in that room. Either way, my conscience doesn’t bother me as I cross the room and go to the back window to scan the yard.

And the sight of a trio of kids in bulky hoodies clustered around the door to the garage makes my blood boil. They can’t be older than twelve, maybe thirteen, and two keep a lookout while the third messes with the padlock on the door.

These little bastards! I raised my hand to bang on the window, but that's not enough. It would scare them away, but it wouldn't send the right message. Instead, I run full out down the stairs and to the kitchen, flinging the door open and relishing their open-mouthed surprise.

“Stay the fuck out of here!” I scream while they scramble away, two of them hopping the fence easily but the third getting his jeans caught on the twisted metal prongs running along the top of the chain link. I laugh at how he tumbles to the ground before scrambling to his feet. “We're installing a fucking camera! Think about that the next time you shitheads have nothing better to do!”

Okay, so I've become an old woman, screaming at neighborhood kids to stay off her lawn. But this is serious. They were trying to break into the garage. Granted, I have no idea what the hell is in there, but there has to be a reason there's a lock on the door.

---