Sleeping with the Frenemy (11 page)

“What type of music do you listen to?” Bridgette asked as she came up beside her and handed her a glass.

Deborah took a sip and took out a CD case to look over the songs from a band she never heard of. “I used to listen to Top 40 music and some pop country.”

“You used to? You don't anymore?” Bridgette asked as she looked over the rim of her glass at her in skepticism.

“The people I was recently friends with had more selective tastes, like opera and classical music,” Deborah said, hoping Bridgette would change the topic.

“Seriously? I don't think I know anyone who listens to that type of music.” Bridgette made a face and shivered.

Deborah snorted. “I feel exactly the way you do.” She looked back down at the case she held. “The Bay City Rollers?” She snuck a peek at Bridgette, who watched her closely.

“You have to know the Bay City Rollers! They're my favorite band from the seventies. Their biggest hit,
Saturday Night
, is such a fun song to sing and dance to.”

Deborah shrugged. “Sorry, never heard of them. Or the song.”

Bridgette took the case from her and turned on the stereo, sliding the disk in. “You're going to be in for a real treat, then.” She fiddled with a few buttons and soon peppy rocklike music came on.

Bridgette swayed to the music and snapped her fingers as the phrase ”Saturday night” kept repeating. “Gonna keep on dancin’ to the rock and roll. On Saturday night…Saturday night. Dancin’ to the rhythm in our heart and soul. On Saturday night…Saturday night. I just can't wait, I got a date.”

Bridgette's off-tune singing made Deborah hug her waist and giggle as Bridgette twirled around the room. Rotquel lifted her head from her dozing, yawning widely, then lying back down, as if this was an everyday occurrence and nothing spectacular.

Deborah sat on the arm of the couch and tapped her fingers on her knee along with the beat as Bridgette sang. If she was brave enough, she'd join Bridgette, perhaps wrap her arms around her close.

Bridgette made the decision for her when she came over with her arms extended and grabbed her. “Come, join me.”

“I can't dance,” Deborah said over the music as Bridgette moved around her in circles.

“Come on! Let yourself go!” Bridgette practically yelled and reached for her hand.

Deborah gave in and soon she swayed with Bridgette, singing the chorus of “It's Saturday night.”

“I'm going to get dizzy,” Deborah said as Bridgette twirled her around in a circle.

Bridgette laughed, and they turned around the room until Deborah backed into a wide burgundy chaise longue, her arms flaying out as she tripped. Her ass landed on the chaise and she lay back as Bridgette fell on top of her.

She lost control and began laughing to the point where her sides ached. Bridgette joined in with her as the song faded and silence filled the room.

“That was great fun,” Deborah said through her titters and placed her hands on the top of Bridgette's back. She bit her lip when Bridgette rubbed against her and her legs opened on their own.

“Wasn't it?” Bridgette pulled back the hair falling around her face and when she lifted up on her hands, her nose bumped Deborah's chin.

Deborah tried to catch her breath, but it was a lost cause as Bridgette traced her finger across her cheek and mouth. She shivered and gulped when her nipples tightened and her pussy dampened.

“Are you cold?” Bridgette asked as she dropped soft kisses across Deborah's face.

“No-no…your touch makes me…”

“Want you like I want you?” Bridgette asked softly and pressed her mouth against hers.

Deborah gasped and grabbed hold of Bridgette by her head, loving how her springy curls wrapped around her fingers. She couldn't wait to find if they were just as curly over her cunt that she longed to lick and suck as Bridgette was doing to her mouth.

Her head tipped back as Bridgette mouth left hers and kissed along her collarbone and lower—tugging down the straps of her dress and peppering kisses across her shoulder. Deborah arched up as Bridgette pushed her knee between her legs and dug into her pussy. She sighed, wanting Bridgette's mouth on her breasts.

“What do you want, honey?” Bridgette asked as her hand went under her dress and cupped her between her legs.

“Oh!” Deborah squeaked and rolled her head to the side. Whimpers escaped her mouth as Bridgette caressed her through her wet panties.

“Your mouth on my breasts.”

“You got it,” Bridgette replied in a throaty whisper and her hand curved around Deborah's bodice. Deborah removed her hands from Bridgette's head and wiggled as the top of her dress loosened.

The cool air from the vent overhead met her heated flesh and her nipples became even more pointed.

“Wow, Sharon, you have amazing-looking tits,” Bridgette said in longing and circled one.

“My nipples are too large and always aroused.” Deborah swallowed, tears forming in her eyes from the pleasure Bridgette gave her.

A moan left Bridgette's mouth and her tongue came out and lapped over Deborah's left nipple. Deborah couldn't turn away as Bridgette licked her.

“I want you to come hard for me,” Bridgette said and swallowed her nipple whole as her fingers reached inside her panties and lightly scratched her pussy.

“Yes. Me too.” Deborah sobbed as Bridgette sucked down hard, her teeth biting once, making a trickle of her desire cover Bridgette's fingers.

“I want some of that.” Bridgette released her nipple and gave Deborah a deep, wet kiss, only to move down and lift up the hem of her skirt.

Deborah plucked her nipples with her fingers and tilted her head back as Bridgette removed her panties. Bridgette's bouncy curls brushed the inside of her legs. When a tongue came out and licked a line from the inside of her knee to the edge of her pussy, she yelped.

“Oh Bridge, eat me now,” Deborah lifted her leg to land on Bridgette's shoulder. She hooked her ankle around to pull her in.

“That's it…let go, my special girl…” Bridgette whispered and latched her mouth over her core.

Deborah's whole body stiffened upon hearing Bridgette speak. Her inner muscles clenched around the tongue and fingers that had given her such pleasure a moment ago now frightened her.

Yes, that's it, my special girl. My bad girl needs to be punished…

Genevieve's voice echoed in her ears and she sat up as Bridgette's finger moved in between her ass and near her rosette.

“
No!
” Deborah screamed and scrambled off the chaise, hitting Bridgette in the side of the head. She fell off to the side and crawled back; the loud sounds of barking and a woman's voice calling her name all became one.

“Don't touch me. Leave me alone,” Deborah sobbed and covered her head with her arms.

All Deborah heard was her panting in her ears. Then a second later, loud booms came from somewhere outside and she cried out. On trembling legs she climbed to her feet and backed away.

“Sharon, dear, calm down.” Bridgette took a step toward her.

“Don't call me that!” Deborah snarled and pulled hard on her own hair, wanting to feel the pain to drown out the aching in between her legs and chest.

“You're scaring me. Did I hurt you?” Bridgette asked carefully and held out an arm as Rotquel made her way over to her side.

“Yes, you did. You-you tried to rape me.” Deborah shook her head and wiped the tears away from her face. She was cold and scared by what Bridgette wanted to do to her. She'd touch her like Genevieve did, invading that part of her body with her fingers, mouth, and some sort of instrument that always made her feel dirty afterward.

Bridgette's face went pale and she looked stunned. “I-I would

never—”

“Yes, you would. She did! Gen never cared what I wanted and when I told her no, she'd laugh and tie me up and used—” Deborah cut herself off and covered her mouth. She shook her head again and turned, grabbing her bag and running over to the front door and out the house as Bridgette yelled out her name.

Deborah never looked back, and with shaking hands she unlocked the door to her house. As soon as she went in, she engaged the locks and ran upstairs. She hit the upper landing and went right into the bathroom, slamming the door.

Turning on the shower to full blast, she slid down to the floor, wrapping her arms around her knees and sobbing loudly. The dark room lit up as the fireworks went off and when they ended, she shook and cried until the water ran cold. Only then did Deborah turn off the shower and, soaking wet, climbed into her bed with the covers over her, regardless of the heat of the night.

The aria from
Tosca
played softly as Genevieve sat behind her desk, rolling the gold belly chain through her fingers. She stared at the well-dressed, detached man sitting across from her as he drank his coffee. He gave her the same penetrating look she was giving him. She had to respect him for that alone. Not many dared to look her in right in the eye, not even her faithless, rebellious wife—whom she'd soon have again.

Her hand tightened around the chain, Deborah's wedding band digging into her palm. “Thank you for meeting with me, Mr. Berlinoz. May I call you Hector?”

“If you'd like, Mrs. Murnay.” Berlinoz tipped his head and placed his cup down on the desk in front of him.

“I can't place your last name. What are your people?” Genevieve asked as she sat forward.

“French,” Berlinoz replied and folded his hands over his crossed knee.

Genevieve lifted an eyebrow. Berlinoz cleared his throat, clearly waiting for her to continue. She found the man fascinating, one who wouldn't crack under pressure from the predatory aura surrounding him.

She smiled widely and slid over a folder with various documents inside. “You come highly recommended from a colleague of mine. I've heard your success rate is amazing at retrieving stolen property.”

Berlinoz took the file and opened it. “And what property would you like me to find for you?”

“My wife. You may have heard she died. That's incorrect. She ran away and I want you to find her and bring her back to me,” Genevieve said in a deadly calm voice, much the opposite of what she was feeling inside.

Berlinoz raised an eyebrow and gave her a sharp look. “When I retrieve your missing wife, then what? What are your plans for her?”

“Not that it's any of your business, but I want Deborah back. I need to know she's safe and find out why she left me.” Genevieve twisted the chain tighter while keeping a congenial smile on her face.

“Do you have any idea where your wife may have gone?” Berlinoz asked as he held up a picture of Deborah from their wedding day.

Genevieve swallowed the annoying lump forming in her throat. “I believe she has gone to a town called Woodberry Creek. There are only two of these towns in the United States. One in Georgia, the other in Pennsylvania. She's most likely hiding out in the one in Pennsylvania. Her mother grew up there and she may be going by the name Sharon Wade or Wade Sharon, perhaps even her maiden name, Whilby. Also Deborah looks very different from when that picture was taken. She has cut her hair, darkening it to black and wearing facial makeup and living as a man or an unkempt woman. Deborah has a brown beauty mark in the upper right-hand corner of her mouth.” Genevieve pointed to the spot on her face. “She's destroyed everything I made her become,” she muttered, thoroughly disgusted Deborah would cut her long, beautiful hair that Genevieve loved feeling over her face or in between her thighs when Deborah went down on her.

Berlinoz flipped through the papers in front of him, skimming as he nodded. “I expect half of my payment before I leave here today and the second half when I locate your wife.”

“I anticipated that.” Genevieve opened her desk drawer and pulled out a bulky envelope, placing it on the desk.

He took the envelope and tapped it lightly against his palm. “Is there anything else I should be aware of?”

“Such as what? Why Deborah would run away from me?” Genevieve curled her lip.

Berlinoz held up his palms. “I'm not a couples’ therapist or a psychiatrist. Whatever issues you have in your married life are none of my business. I just want to make certain I'm not walking into something where I have to be forceful when it comes to your wife. It can get messy that way.”

“All I want for now is for you to find out where Deborah is and how she's faring. I just want Deborah to return to me as soon as possible.” Genevieve sat back in her chair and tapped her mouth with her fingers. “When you tell me what you know, it's a good chance I'll go to Deborah and try to reason with her.”

“Only talk, Mrs. Murnay?” Berlinoz lifted his brow and put the envelope in his suit coat pocket. “In my experience most people don't just want to talk with those who have…shall we say, screwed them over in some way. They tend to act without thinking. Then the consequences can turn deadly.”

“Mr. Berlinoz.” Genevieve pressed her palms on top of her desk as she leaned over. The man viewed her cleavage for a beat, then looked back up at her face. She gave him a relaxed smile. “Your past clients may have overreacted in ways that may have concerned you, but I can promise you I'm very level headed and don't want to harm one hair on Deborah's head. My ultimate goal is to work things out with her. Deborah has run away before. She tends to be flighty and unstable at times. She's the type who needs a strong hand to keep her in line. Plus, I want to help her get through her mother's death.”

“Strong hand? Oh yes, Mrs. Murnay, I know exactly what you mean. My father had the same opinion when it came to disciplining me and my brothers.” Berlinoz tugged down the hem of his suit jacket as he got up from his chair. “I'll be in touch. Don't be surprised if you hear good news from me in less than a week.”

Genevieve held out her hand for Berlinoz to shake. He didn't and walked out her office without a backward glance.

What an odd man
. Genevieve cracked her head from side to side and rolled her shoulders where all the tension over the past few weeks had built up. She could barely sleep or eat, and Deborah was to blame for all of it.

Soon she would see Deborah again, and when she did, her disobedient wife would
wish
she'd drowned in the river after Genevieve got through with her.

* * * *

Rotquel glanced up from her spot on the patio as Bridgette tapped her pencil loudly over her paper. She'd been strung tight over the last week and thought drawing the shed in the backyard would relax her. She couldn't concentrate, which had become the norm since Sharon ran out of her house in tears.

“I really screwed up and I don't know how,” Bridgette muttered as she threw a ball into the yard. Rotquel jumped up and went after it, returning with the ball in her mouth and dropping it at Bridgette's feet.

“Good girl,” Bridgette complimented Rotquel, who wagged her tail and let out a deep woof. She smiled as Rotquel ran after a squirrel.

Her cell phone beeped. A text message from Bryan popped up, asking her to meet him for lunch. She sighed, not answering him right away. She wasn't in the mood for company unless it was Sharon.

Sharon, the nervous and very frightened woman Bridgette couldn't stop thinking about. Now that she had her taste on her tongue, she wanted more, but didn't know how to go about doing it since Sharon had run away from her with fear and loathing in her eyes.

Something was off with Sharon and had been since the moment she met her. After thinking about the woman nonstop, Bridgette had come to some conclusions about her new neighbor.

Sharon wasn't comfortable around large groups of people, preferred to be alone, and jumped every time someone touched her. A few times, even when they'd kissed, Sharon trembled, not necessarily in passion but almost in fear or in anxiety—as if she expected Bridgette to hurt her.

Someone must have damaged Sharon very badly, to the point where she jumped at shadows. The signs were all there. Sharon had been a victim of abuse, either rape or molestation, at the hands of someone she'd trusted.

Knowing her touch dredged up those nightmarish memories for Sharon sickened her incredibly. Maybe that was why Sharon had moved to Woodberry Creek, to escape whoever had done it to her. Perhaps a marriage gone sour? The tan line on her left ring finger led Bridgette to believe Sharon's husband, or perhaps her wife, was the culprit.

Bridgette dropped her drawing pad on the table and stood. She whistled to Rotquel, who came running, and they went back inside. As she walked inside the kitchen, she spotted the pad she had used to slide a note under Sharon's front door, apologizing for what had happened on Saturday night. Six days later she still hadn't heard from her, even after knocking multiple times on Sharon's front door.

Bridgette couldn't stand it when people were upset with her, even if it was her fault. Yet another one of her quirks in a long list of ones she always wanted to work on but never did.

Pacing the kitchen, she came to a decision. She wouldn't allow Sharon to hide and ignore her. Bridgette was a woman of action and refused to let Sharon walk out of her life.

Bridgette slapped her hands together with a new plan and smiled. She pulled back her shoulders, fluffed her hair, and stomped out into the living room and over to the front door. She'd walk across the street and pound on Sharon's door until she opened it.

Right at that moment, a figure dressed in jeans and a gray T-shirt and wearing a blue baseball cap, pulling a rolling suitcase and holding a bag, walked down the front steps of Sharon's house.

“What the hell?” Bridgette asked herself.

Bridgette moved to the side so she wasn't seen through the window. Rotquel sat beside her, wagging her tail, ready to climb up on the window sill when Bridgette shushed her. For once Rotquel listened.

“Why is Sharon dressed like that?” Bridgette asked under her breath and shared a look with Rotquel, who tilted her head to the side and whimpered softly.

Sharon glanced up and down the street, tipped her head down, and walked away. Bridgette didn't know what was going on and why Sharon was dressed like a boy and with those bags, but she planned to find out. She had a funny feeling Sharon might be leaving town.

Quickly grabbing her house keys and pulling on her sunglasses, she locked her front door and followed Sharon at a distance as she made her way toward the center of town.

* * * *

Sweat poured down Deborah's back from the sun as she read through the train schedule brochures. Her hair was plastered to her head and her legs felt like insects were running all over them from being encased in her denim jeans. Soon she would be on a nice air-conditioned train to—

To where? That was the big question at the moment.

Looking up from her reading, Deborah leaned back against the brick wall of the station. She could go inside where it was cool as she decided on her next destination, or head over to the Internet café one last time. Maybe then she'd also give her mother a call before she disappeared.

Sighing, she hiked her bag up higher around her shoulder and pulled her suitcase along. Beads of sweat dripped down the sides of her face and she kicked a stone, wishing she was in her kitchen with the overhead fan twirling above her head as she got ready to paint the room.

But that would never happen. She ruined everything by freaking out on Bridgette.

Sweet, amazingly kind, and innocent Bridgette, who just wanted to give her pleasure.

Deborah's eyes went blurry and she turned her face to wipe it against her shoulder as she walked, passing people without saying hello. No one said anything to her in return. To them she was a stranger again, not worthy of their regard.

A refreshing breeze brushed over her face as she went inside the café. Other than the servers behind the counter, no one sat at tables or ordered coffee drinks. Deborah scanned the drink menu as the bell above the door jingled. She barely gave any notice until she spotted flaming red hair and that slight citrus smell she associated with Bridgette.

When a soft body pushed up against her back, she closed her eyes and inhaled slowly to stop her now-racing heart.

“Hello, Sharon. Or is that even your real name?” Bridgette asked softly, an undertone of irritation coloring her voice.

Deborah pulled off her hat and faced an incensed Bridgette.

The moment of truth had arrived.

* * * *

The iced coffee soothed her dry mouth and throat. She and Bridgette sat on a bench in the park under a group of trees that shaded them from the sun and the late morning heat.

“I sure do love hazelnut coffee.” Bridgette slipped the straw into her mouth and sipped.

Deborah remained silent as she drank, noticing the short distance between them as Bridgette sat too far away, near the corner of the bench as she faced front.

Placing her plastic cup in between her legs, Deborah flicked her straw. “I'm sorry for the way I reacted Saturday night when we…were at your house.”

“You shouldn't be the one apologizing. I should. I never meant to force you or make you do something—”

“No. It's not that at all.” Deborah looked at Bridgette. “I'm to blame. I…I had a flashback that made me act the way I did.” Deborah placed her hand on Bridgette's arm, and when Bridgette didn't push her hand away, she relaxed.

“Were you raped?” Bridgette asked bluntly.

Deborah flinched from the question. She cleared her throat, taking another sip of her drink. “I'm not sure if you would call it rape. My wife used to—”

“Your wife?” Bridgette interrupted, clearly troubled by the reaction on her face.

Deborah wiped her palms over her cheeks. She grimaced when they came away damp with her sweat, and she smeared them on her jeans. “It's probably best if I start from the beginning.”

When Bridgette nodded for her to continue, she shifted in her seat and leaned her elbows on her knees. She'd treat this as if she was telling a story about another person and not herself. That was the only way she'd be able to get through it.

“You're right about my name. It's not Sharon. My real name is Deborah. The reason I'm going by a fake name is that I've run away from my wife. I had no choice after four years of being abused by her.”

“Where do you come from…Deb-Deborah?” Bridgette stumbled over her name.

“Nevada, three hours outside Las Vegas,” Deborah responded and glanced at Bridgette. She sat on the bench with her one leg on the seat. She moved in closer and her knee brushed against the side of Deborah's leg.

“When you mean abuse, do you mean physical, or more the sexual kind?” Bridgette asked softly.

“A combination of both. My wife was into kinky things, such as using toys and bondage. Most of the times I was tied up or played the victim. My wife didn't like to lose control, so I always took on the role of the submissive while she was dominant. While we were dating, our lovemaking was typical, but then when we got married, things change. My wife wanted to push the envelope. She also grew jealous and possessive. A few times…” Deborah covered her trembling mouth. “More than a few times I've been on the end of her rage, and I had my share of bruises and cuts.”