Forbidden: A Standalone (26 page)

The color drained from his face.

As I got in the shower I held that in my memory, nothing else. Cleaning myself. Soap. Washcloth. Drained face. Wiping, scrubbing.

Don’t think about it
.

My busted ass, the pain inside and out. The pressure marks on my neck. I could think about all that. I could feel all of it.

But my vulnerability? My mortality? My pathetic, helpless whimpers? I wouldn’t think about those until I walked out the door.

I got dressed, wincing as I lifted a leg into my pants. No. No wincing. No pain. No outward manifestation of what just happened.

I didn’t know what I planned to do about Warren, but I was in control of that. I wouldn’t let the emotions of the moment dictate my plan.

“Hey,” Jonathan called as I walked down the hall.

“I was looking for you,” I said.

“Warren told me.”

I swallowed. I was edgy, raw, and a touch away from breaking down, but if I told Jonathan, he’d beat the shit out of the motherfucking psycho-rapist. Then Jon would be stuck in Westonwood, and Warren would get pity. That wouldn’t do at all.

“Good,” I said. “Margie’s picking me up. Wanna come say hi?”

“Nah. I gotta run.” He looked me up and down. “You all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“You sure? I saw Warren come out of the trees right before you.”

“I have to go.” When I went to hug him, he grabbed my jaw. I pushed him away. “What’s your deal?”

“There are red marks on your neck.”

“It’s nothing. God, it was grungy behind my ears. I probably just scrubbed too hard.”

He didn’t believe me. It was all over his face. He held up his hand. “I’m opening pledge.”

“No, you don’t.” I slapped down his hand. If he asked me one more time, I would tell him about not just Warren but Rachel, and we would both go into a tailspin. No, just no. I needed to stay together for five fucking minutes. I didn’t want to collapse.

“I don’t like that guy,” he growled. “He keeps bringing up Dad like it’s a joke.”

“Ignore him.”

“I’m going to punch him.”

“Don’t, Jon. You were right.” I took him by the shoulders. He was so tall, so much a man with his shaved whiskers and lines of rage. “Bite it back. Don’t do anything that puts you in a situation where you’re not in control. Do you hear me?”

In his green eyes, something flickered, a recognition of the truth, an openness to me I’d never had from him before.

“Are you hearing me?” I said.

“I’m not going to make it.”

“You are. You have to. Lock it down. Think. Plan. Will you? Will you be everything I fail at being?”

“You’re crazy, you know that?” The crack in his voice belied his words.

I hugged him so hard I thought we’d never separate.

***

I sat at the conference table as if my ass didn’t hurt. I concentrated on each breath and just getting the fuck out of there. Margie looked over the papers. Deeming them acceptable, she passed them to me to sign.

“This one verifies you have no complaints against Westonwood you’d like to file,” she said.

I signed it.

“This one,” Marge said, “is a non-disclosure agreement. You won’t disclose their treatment methods or names of any of the patients you met in here.”

I signed.

Frances passed her new papers. Margie looked them over, sometimes said this or that, and passed them to me, pointing to the little highlighted ticks indicating where I should scrawl my name. I smiled through the whole thing, even though it was killing me.

“I’ll bring the car around,” Margie said when it was done.

I counted six couches in the lobby, but I didn’t sit on any of them. I had no idea what I would do after Margie pulled around, but I would be out. I would keep everything under control.

Frances hustled through the glass doors. “Fiona.”

“Yes?”

She handed me a clipboard. “I forgot this release.”

“Oh, okay.” I looked for my place to sign, but everything looked hazy.

“Are you all right?” she asked, pointing at the line at the bottom.

“Excited to get going.” I signed.

“Have a good trip home, Fiona.”

“Thanks.”

She was gone in a moment. I glanced at the door. Elliot, a silhouette in the afternoon backlight, opened it and stepped into the building. My heart stopped.

I could have him. With a little effort on my part, and a lot of patience, I could be that perfect, monogamous, plain Jane. I could change my life completely. I pressed my lips together when he stepped toward me. I could be his.

But I couldn’t.

How could I do that to him? I was a whore. I was the girl who gave up her ass for a few pills. Even though I knew in my mind it hadn’t been my fault and Warren was a piece of shit, another part of me begged to differ. I was a worthless piece of fuckmeat, and even if I kept a lid on my desires for the rest of my life, the fact that my heart was made of cunt wouldn’t change.

“Hi,” I said.

“Hi,” he said. “I was just around, and do you need a lift home?”

He hadn’t shaved, and he looked somehow wild and out of sorts. He was so good, so real, a chance at a different life than I’d been prepared for.

“I’m good. But thanks.” I couldn’t stand there another second. I walked to the door, steeling myself against looking back at him.

As I approached the doors, I felt him behind me. His hand went over mine as it gripped the bar. Margie’s BMW was coming around the corner of the drive. I had to just make that difference in distance.

“Fiona, listen,” he whispered.

“I can’t, Elliot. I can’t. I’ll destroy you. It’s not right.” I pushed the door open.

Margie pulled up as if she’d timed it so I wouldn’t have to wait more than a second. As I stepped across the concrete toward her, I saw something twenty feet to the right that wasn’t visible from the door. A black Range Rover, and a man in a charcoal jacket standing next to it.

Deacon.

It all became clear to me then. I had everything in the world I needed right with him, and he’d come for me as promised, as he always did. He protected me, loved me, worked with who I was instead of trying to transform me into something I’d never be.

I waved at Margie and walked past her. I knew Elliot was behind me, and I knew he saw me approach the Range Rover.

“Master,” I said, casting my eyes down.

“My girl.”

“May I come with you?”

“There are going to be rules. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“And consequences. This can’t happen again.”

“I understand.”

He took me by the chin. “Look at me, kitten.”

I did and felt safe. Deacon wouldn’t let anything happen to me.

“Who do you see?” he asked.

“My master.”

“I have you, darling.” He gripped my chin tightly. “I have you.”

As I got into the car, I saw Elliot in front of the building with his hands in his pockets. He and Deacon exchanged a stare as my master crossed in front of the car. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back.

I was free, and enslaved, and in control.

I had this.

------

break

fiona

T
hree words to describe the feeling of driving
[→2]
with Deacon, trying to sit as if my ass hadn’t just been ripped open. Vulnerable. Insecure. Guilty.

The paparazzi had been waiting outside the gates like fucking fuckers. Leeches. Slurping sucking animals who fucked you even when you said no. Who thought they were doing you a favor or at the very least thought they weren’t hurting you when they were. They were.

Deacon hadn’t said anything. He turned his face—blue eyes deadly, cheekbones of a god—toward one on the passenger side and stared down the man with the lens until he backed away from the car.

They knew who he was. A photojournalist. No more, no less. So they didn’t know shit, but when he looked at people that way, they had to know he was a force of nature.

I put my fingertips on my cheek, slid them over to cover my mouth. My hand shook. How long had I been shaking? I hadn’t even felt it. What parts of me were kinetic? I put my hand between my legs and hoped he didn’t notice.

“I moved us out of Maundy,” he said. “To the place in Laurel Canyon.”

“What did you do with my stuff?”

“Your stuff is safe in your room.”

I didn’t actually care.

Who was I?

What was I supposed to do?

This wasn’t new.

My ass hurt.

I was going to get Warren for this.

I’d said no.

One syllable and the same word in a dozen languages.

En-oh.

Deacon glanced at me. He was a dangerous man. If I told him about Warren, what would happen?

The easiest thing in the world. Like blowing up a building to take it down.

But they never talked about the mess it took months to clean up.

I’d said no. Clearly. And there I was with a ripped asshole while Warren was behind an electrified fence in a luxury institution.

The sun caught Deacon’s eyes when he looked at me.

Never seen blue like that on a face. Not before him or since. Never seen a nose that had been broken so many times look so seamless. Nothing like it. And the look on his perfect face? Fuck him too. He couldn’t tolerate lying, and I had to decide right then if I was going to do the intolerable.

Only Elliot had done things to me no man had before. He’d given me permission to choose to do things differently. He’d opened me the same way Deacon’s look had, and Warren had walked right into the wound and ripped out my guts.

Deacon pulled up the private road off Laurel Canyon. I wanted to go home, and I didn’t really have one anymore.

Why was I letting all these men do this to me? I was in the middle of nowhere, and I couldn’t even get out of the car and get home. The door, the seats, the ceiling, and dashboard were leather-padded.

I laughed to myself.

Oh, God of irony, thou art great.

fiona

O
nce we drove through the gate of the Laurel Canyon house, Deacon took my face and pulled me toward him. He kissed me in the way only Deacon did, owning me, sending a message that my mouth was his. I gave in to it, letting his tongue flick against mine, letting his lips guide mine in a dance of ownership. Even his hand was part of the kiss, pressing my jaw open. I breathed him in.

“Welcome back,” he said.

Sex was never the point with Deacon. Sex was optional. Getting off didn’t always mean unloading his balls on or in me, though when he did, I was in ecstasy. Getting off meant dominating me. And when I met him, it took me a while to understand that. Because I’m hot and horny, and he’s a man. A man I wanted a lot.

But I’d forgotten a lot of things in Westonwood. And when I stepped onto the leaf-padded drive, I knew I’d changed.

And my insides hurt.

And I didn’t know what to feel.

I was so confused. That caterpillar. Eating that leaf. And the pain. The same pain I’d felt a hundred times, but this time, I’d said no. I didn’t ask for it. And that confused me and pissed me off, and I couldn’t show it because Deacon’s reaction wasn’t something I could control.

The house was a classic, part of another small compound in the mountains. There would be coyotes, and he’d shoot them. There would be hippies and stoners, and he’d tolerate them.

Something about all of it made me sad. I should have felt relieved and safe, but all I felt was fucking sad. Not passive sad. Sad like I wanted to break something.

The house was furnished in hand-wrought chairs and wool rugs. I’d seen the place when he bought it, but I’d spent no time there.

“Where did you put me?” I asked before I could scream.

“Tell me what’s wrong first.”

We were headed into a conflict. We solved those by talking or by knotting. By me transferring my power to him. He’d ripped my memory from me in Westonwood without telling me what he was doing. Fucked me sane for half a minute. He’d do it again, and I wasn’t sure if I could stand it. If he opened me, I didn’t know if I’d be able to give myself time to think before he started making plans for Warren’s destruction.

“I’m tired,” I said. My guts were bubbling tar, foul and hot. Uncontainable. I wanted to destroy Warren. I wanted to do it myself, and I wanted Deacon to back the fuck up.

“You can tell me in bed.” He took me by the shoulders. “Speak.”

“It’s stressful, that’s all. Everything. What I did to you. And now I’m out, and I feel fucked up about it.”

And now you’re a liar.

Use different words to describe yourself.
[→3]

He didn’t believe me.

We went into the house. He took off my jacket. I didn’t have a thing to say. The house had windows like most houses had walls. He leaned on a chair and folded his arms. He had a leather band on his wrist, and a silver bracelet with a feather engraved on it. His hair was perfectly mussed, and his hands had built fences and dug ditches. They’d pulled triggers and tied ropes.

“Deacon, I…” Words failed me. They got in their own way.

He picked me up and carried me. I put my head on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“I know.”

He laid me on his bed. It was still daytime, but I was stone-dead tired, lost at sea in the white foam of his duvet.

“Do you think our limits move? Did you ever think you would have let anyone hurt you like that before?” The words slipped out like escapees. I hadn’t thought about them for a second, and there I was, watching them run into the field without looking back.

“Why do you ask?” he asked without reproach.

He was a picture in a magazine. Lit for his angles, the ruddiness of his skin, the light beard, the way his hair draped in a sideways S. Flawless and secure. A wish blown off a dry dandelion.

He brought his hand up and drew his thumb along my lips. Suddenly I wanted to open up to him. I wanted to be broken all over again. Now. Right there. I didn’t want to wait until I’d put Warren in a box or wait until my ass healed. I wanted to crack like an egg for him.

And yet, I didn’t want that at all. My intentions stabbed each other in the back.