Until I Break
Page 11

She recovers after a minute or so. I’m not surprised. As a rule, she’s pretty unflappable. “To that I would say this: You think too much. That’s always been your problem. I was hoping Dr. B might help you get out of that, and I’m not convinced that’s not still going to happen. Maybe this is some sort of proven psychoanalytical technique. What the hell do I know?”
“Funny, that’s just what I was thinking,” I tease.
“Well, smart ass, I’ll tell you just what the hell I know. I know you’re smart and funny and gorgeous and talented, and you deserve to be happy more than anyone I know. And, dammit, I’m gonna get you there if it’s the last mother fu—”
From the bedside table, my phone rings, effectively cutting off her rant. I pick it up and glance at the screen. “That’s Ari.”
With a sigh specifically engineered to let me know how put-upon she feels, Chris relents. “Fine. Go. Go and give all your precious time to your publicist. See if I care.”
“I know you care, Chris. And I love you for it. And maybe, just maybe, there’s still hope for me. Don’t give up.”
“Fat chance of that ever happening. I’m as tenacious as a pit bull. You know that.”
“Yes, yes I do know that,” I quip. “I just need time. That’s all. I’m not broken beyond repair.”
That’s more for her benefit than mine. I’m not convinced that I can be fixed. Ever. By anyone.
“None of us are.”
While I hope she’s right, I have my doubts.
I smile. “We have a more pressing issue at the moment, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I have to pee. Badly. And you’re on my feet. I suggest you get off them before we both get a golden shower.”
“Save that nasty stuff for your books, woman,” she says, screwing up her face and scooting off the bed. “I’m a good girl.”
Chris pushes her nose up in the air, giving me her best impression of a how she sees a good girl. I burst into laughter.
“Yeah, right! You’ve probably been peed on more than a urinal cake.”
Playfully, she swats my arm as she slips her shoes back on. “Brush your teeth while you’re at it. I’m gonna have to go pencil in my eyebrows as it is.”
“Hey, no one told you to come drag me out of bed.”
“I actually came to remind you about the carnival tonight.”
“Ugh!” I moan as I flop back on my pillow. “Why are you such a pain in my butt?”
“I’m your sister. It’s my job. Plus, I enjoy the shit out of it.” Chris is wearing a satisfied smirk as she sashays out of my bedroom.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Alec
I dreamed last night of what Samantha would look like tied to a bed of black silk, her alabaster skin glowing pale in the low light but for the red globes of her perfect ass. When I woke, I could almost feel the sting of her skin against my palm. I was hard for an hour afterward.
Now I’m wishing we were further along, to the point where she’d welcome a night like that. But first things first. I need to get her to that point.
I ignore the voice of my more…traditional self, the one who once abhorred people like me and fetishes like mine. Actually, he still does. It wasn’t until the accident that I even knew of the other side of sexuality, the one I’ve come to embrace. Almost against my will. Certainly against part of my will.
But it’s the other part, the other half, that loves it. And he’s very hard to control.
CHAPTER NINETEEN - Samantha
The carnival turn out this year is at least twice what it was last year. Children swarm the rides and the games, all of which are free for the night thanks to my parents. Adults of all ages stand along the paved pathways, watching their charges and mingling with the other foster parents.
Chris and I are the “success stories” of the night. My speech will be short and to the point, as it was last year. Still, I hate giving it. I am more comfortable as Laura Drake answering questions about the pleasure of being lightly bitten than I am as myself giving a speech about the life-changing effects of child-fostering.
How’s that for screwed up?
I’m milling about, smiling like a politician, awaiting my “spotlight” when my phone bleeps with an incoming text. It’s from Alec. My finger shakes with anticipation as I slide it across the screen to read the message.
Are you ready for the next step?
My stomach ties itself into a knot. No, I’m not ready at all. But I’m beginning to believe that taking the next step is as inevitable as my inability to orgasm.
Inevitable.
As the word goes through my mind, so does a little piece of Mason, further obscuring the lines between life and fiction.
Stop trying to convince yourself you should be resisting me. We both know you don’t even want to try. But only I know why. I’m your inevitability, Daire. I’m the one thing you can’t avoid.
I’m starting to feel that…that…inevitability. And, deep down, I’m starting to feel something else from my book. It’s the spark of hope that Daire never let go of—the spark of hope that there might be love and wholeness for a girl like her. Like me. Like us.
I answer.
I’m not sure.
There’s a pause, one so long I’m not sure he’ll reply. But then he does.
I’ll make you ready. Just trust me.
Trusting Alec isn’t the issue. It’s trusting myself, trusting what I’m capable of. And trusting that I can withstand the rejection that’s bound to come after…
I hope you’re right.
Another pause.
Where are you?
A carnival. Where are you?
On my way to a carnival.
He doesn’t ask for directions. After seeing him schmooze at the fundraiser, I have no doubts he’s well-connected and well-informed. If he doesn’t already know about the carnival, it probably won’t take him long to find out.
To find me.
The problem is: How am I supposed to concentrate in the meantime? And what if he shows up before I have to give my speech?
I think back to the appearance Tuesday, when I first saw Alec. I was completely distracted after I saw him in the crowd. And that was before I actually knew him, before I knew just how Mason-like he really is. I would never have imagined that the similarities would go beyond the physical, the superficial. But they do. They go deep. Very deep, it seems.
Knowing it will likely (hopefully) be a while before he arrives, I walk to the ball toss tent to watch a trio of young boys try and throw their fastest pitch for a prize. It’s obvious the three are brothers. Curly blond hair, bright blue eyes and freckles galore, they are practically identical but for their stair-stepped height. I’d guess they’re each probably two years apart, starting at maybe ten and going through fourteen or fifteen.
To my right is an older couple, proudly looking on. They are, no doubt, the foster parents. And good ones, I’d wager. To take all three boys, probably so as not to separate them, and then care for them, which they so obviously do—it’s what makes the carnival shine. Not the lights or the rides or the sparklers, but the foster parents who up-end their lives to help a child. Or three. A surge of the gratitude that’s never far from my heart rises to the surface.
I’m thankful when I see my foster mother heading my way, coming to round me up.
“It’s almost time,” she says when she finds me.
I’m relieved. I’m glad they’re doing it a little earlier this year, especially now that Alec is on his way.
We make our way to the small podium centered on the only-slightly larger stage that’s set up near the concession stand. My nerves jangle. Anytime I’m in the public eye, I worry that someone will recognize me. I reason with myself that it’s about as likely as me meeting an alien at the grocery store wearing my panties, but that never completely eradicates the fear.
It’s not that I’m ashamed of my work. It’s more that I don’t want people to know about the scars I carry. I don’t want them to ask questions and make the inevitable connections and deductions. Most of them would be wrong anyway, but there would probably be one or two that would get it right. And I don’t want people that close to me, that close to the real me. Everyone has the right to hide if they want to.
And I do.
A few minutes later, after her short speech, Mom introduces me and I make my way to her. She hands me the microphone. I look out into the crowd and smile.
“I, too, would like to thank you all for coming out tonight in support of the foster initiative. I am living proof of how the program and the wonderful people who participate in it can change the fate of a child. Without the love and direction of my parents, I don’t know where I’d be today. I tell everyone that Andre and Deandra Johnson saved my life. And it’s true. They did. As you look around the crowd tonight, know that the children you see here will one day grow up to say the same things about you. So on behalf of them, and from the bottom of my heart, thank you.”
I smile again and hand the mic back to my mother.
Short and sweet. And over!
When I turn to move off the stage, I nearly trip when I see Alec standing at the periphery of the crowd. He’s watching me, his eyes hooded and mysterious, penetrating as always.
Hesitantly, I make my way to him. I stop just short of where he is. He says nothing, but continues to watch me. His forehead furrows into a frown just as Chris begins to speak. Out of respect for her and a desire to avoid Alec’s probing gaze, I turn to listen.
I feel Alec move in behind me. He’s close enough that I can feel his warmth against my back, but he doesn’t touch me.
I make an effort to focus on Chris’s tearful, heartfelt testimony. It always makes my insides hurt to hear her talk of her life before Mom and Dad took her in.
Chris’s biological mother died when she was just a baby, leaving her in the care of her father. Over the years, his anger and resentment over being left with a child and no wife turned into violence. Luckily, his abuse was discovered quickly, after only one incident.
The first night Chris spent with the Johnsons, her arm was still in a cast. She hasn’t had a broken bone since.
As Chris talks about her life now, she mentions how she wouldn’t be where she is—the owner of a thriving business—without the support of her foster parents. As she always does, she mentions me in passing. She thanks me for working alongside her every day, as her coworker, her support system, and her best friend as well as her sister.
I smile, never taking my eyes off her as others look my way. They see us both as the success stories we’re representing—me as an accountant, her as an entrepreneur. It’s only half true, of course. I’m no accountant. But since Chris has her own business, fabricating a story about working for her just made the most sense.
“You work with your sister?”
I turn to look at Alec. I swallow and do my best not to stumble over the lie. It’s the only one I can tell halfway convincingly.
“Yes, I do her books.”
“I’m sure most people find that both believable and appropriate.”
My heart stutters. There’s no way he could possibly know. Could he?
Most people don’t bat an eye when they hear that I’m an accountant. Evidently it suits my personality to perfection—bland and predictable. Alec Brand isn’t most people, though. I fear he’s the one person on the planet who can see into my soul.
“But you don’t?”
Alec doesn’t answer; he just stares at me with those sharp jade eyes. I turn away from the perceptiveness in them, hoping I didn’t wait too long, praying he didn’t see right through me.
When Mom regains the microphone, she says a few more words then introduces a woman from Social Services, explaining that she’ll be available for questions at the end of the night. Not long after, the crowd begins to disburse, people gradually making their way back to the games and the lighthearted fun of the night.
Reluctantly, I swivel back toward Alec. My eyes meet his easily, as though I never turned away, never turned my attention back to the stage. I can’t help but wonder if he would’ve looked away at all had I not. I don’t know what he thinks he sees or what he’s hoping to see when he looks at me so intently, but I find it both unnerving and exciting.
Without a word, Alec reaches for my hand. After a few seconds, he turns and leads me away. I don’t ask where he’s taking me, I just follow.
He pulls me across the crowded pavement to The Tunnel of Love. The line is short and moving quickly. In no time, we are loaded into a small car, the last one in a string of many, which carries us into a dimly lit passageway.
Our bodies are pressed together from shoulder to knee within the confines of the open-air compartment. I’m beginning to become uncomfortable with the protracted silence when he finally leans in close to my ear and speaks.
“You’re hiding something,” he says. “And it intrigues me.”
My heart is fluttering wildly. I want to start making excuses, rationalizations and denials, but I don’t. I hold my tongue.
“I think I’ve underestimated you,” he admits. “I think you might be more ready than I first thought.”
Before I can stop myself, the question is out. “Ready for what?”
“Ready for me.”
I feel like every nerve beneath every inch of my skin is waiting at attention—waiting for him to move, waiting for him to touch me.
“Would it make you feel better if I confessed something to you?”
I glance over at him. Despite the low red glow of the tunnel lights, his face is still the most handsome I’ve ever seen. And his eyes… Dear God, his eyes!