Tight (13 page)

“You can’t protect me,” I said quietly. “I can’t even do that.”

“I know,” she said. “But I hate it.”

I leaned forward and gripped her hand. “And I love you for it.”

“And me?” Tammy piped in, worry lacing her words. Jena and I laughed, and she threw her arm around Tammy.

“And you,” I reassured her. “I love you guys.”

4 months, 2 weeks before
Puerto Vallarta, Mexico

We laid back to front, his leg wrapped around me, every inch of us touching, the dark room illuminated in waves from the images on the screen. Before us, the final scene of
Romeo & Juliet
.

“Have you ever loved someone like that? Where you’d have given your life for her?” I whispered the words through the dark, his arms around my waist, hands cupping my breasts from behind. I felt the rock of his body as he moved slightly, a gap in the mold of our bodies.

“Yeah. A long time ago.”

I hadn’t expected an affirmative response, the words catching me off guard, the raw pain in his voice making
a long time ago
seem not that long ago at all. I wanted to roll over, wanted to see his face, but his hands tightened, nailed me back to his chest, like he could see my thoughts and wanted to block them.

Jealousy prickled through me, foreign and ugly in my veins. I knew that there had to be others, relationships before me, lives lived before we met at that casino. He wasn’t a man afraid of commitment, seemed custom fit for a relationship, but he’d spoken so little about his past. I’d asked; he’d evaded. It really seemed like, prior to meeting me, he had worked and traveled, little else. But
now
, a break in his tone, a weakness revealed. He had loved someone enough
to die
for them. Had I ever loved someone that greatly? Would I one day love him that much? I could feel it coming, the possibilities behind the jump that my heart was taking, each trip, each phone conversation, each gift another chip in the wall of my heart. Soon, he’d break through, and I’d have fallen. I only had to hope, at that point, that he’d have fallen for me too. “What happened?” I whispered, struggling to keep my voice light.

“She died.” He retightened his arms, gripped me closer, the dead tone of the words more scary to me than the raw shake of the prior ones. We laid there in silence, past the roll of the credits, past the intro to the next film. We laid there in silence until, at some point in the night, I fell asleep.

4 months before

Riley Johnson
&
Brett Jacobs

The words were in perfect calligraphy, the letters glimmering off the cream envelope at me. Of course Chelsea redid the envelopes. Of course she sent me a duplicate invite, one to replace the ‘Riley Johnson & Guest’ that she’d sent four months earlier. Pushy had always been a quick word used to describe her. She wanted Brett there, the invite one more hint just in case I didn’t get the first five. It was her wedding, her big day, and, for some reason, her walking down the aisle was an act incomplete if not paired with supreme discomfort on my end.

“I’m not bringing him,” I’d said, just three days earlier, our toes spread and perched upon pedicure benches, mine half-way on their way to becoming ‘Barefoot in Barcelona’ nude, while Chelsea went with a more appropriate ‘Señorita Rose-alita’ pink. “It’d be a disaster, trying to introduce him to all of Quincy at once. Plus, the focus and gossip should be on you and Jarad, not me and my weekend fling.”

“Seriously, shut up. It’s way past a weekend fling at this point. Stop assuming it’s gonna end and start looking at this like a serious relationship. It’d be an insult to that relationship to not bring him.”

She’d been right. I knew that. I was playing goalie with my heart, running around after it with a stick and whacking it into place whenever it got happy or hopeful, whacking extra hard when words like
I love you
threatened to spill out. Could a relationship survive in that environment? Could it thrive? When had I gotten so afraid of love and hope that I strangled it to death with my insecurity? Maybe it was easier to date an ugly man, one with obvious flaws, one who belched and couldn’t dress, and wasn’t so damn perfectly tempting. At least then I’d feel confident.

I tapped the envelope against my palm and checked out the postmark as I walked up the driveway. Three days earlier. That was what I got for not checking my mail every day. She must have left the nail salon and driven
straight
home, her fresh nails pulling out a new invite before the polish had even set.

I threw the invite, along with the rest of my mail, on the kitchen counter, fed Miller, and flipped on the bathroom light. Ran a hot bath and lit a candle. Submerged myself in bubbles and dozed a little, contemplating the idea of Brett as a wedding date.

It’d be horrible. Our bridesmaid dresses were
coral
for God’s sake.

My parents would be there. As would my ex. As would all of the girls. As would my boss. As would almost every other person in Quincy.

It’d put pressure on our relationship. Didn’t all weddings? I’m pretty sure I read that in
Cosmo
once. “Never Take a Man to a Wedding” … Something like that was the title. The article had had bullet points and everything. Something about how we’d look needy, and they’d feel pressured to flee.

Plus … this was Quincy. Not a five-star resort or a private beach home, or a steak restaurant with candles and champagne. I didn’t even know if our relationship would work in the light of an average day. Brett might be some finery vampire, whose skin might eat away in the presence of polyester, rednecks, and American beer.

By the time the water was cool, my toe thumbing the drain before stepping out, my mind had all but decided. I
would
, damn the consequences, invite him. Warn him of the perils involved, and let him make his own decision. He was a big boy. And if Chelsea McCrory’s wedding ended up being the demise of our relationship, then it wasn’t built to last anyway.

I dried off, got in pajamas, and found my phone, seeing a new text from him, a photo. I opened up the pic while sticking popcorn in the microwave—my dinner that evening. It took my mind an extra second to process the photo, the cream invitation in his hand identical to my own, just a few feet away on my counter.

Chelsea McCrory. That little witch. She’d sent him his own invite, my name casually beside his own in that damn perfect calligraphy script.

And … just like that, I lost all credit for making my own decision to invite Brett. Just like that I had to call him and explain that I really
did
want him to come to my best friend’s wedding, which was in two weeks … and I hadn’t made any previous mention of.

My hands tightened on the phone, and I seriously contemplated throwing the damn thing against the wall. Instead, I took a deep breath, collected my thoughts, and called Brett.

“Today’s lesson is about removal of hope. The strongest slaves hold out for an idea of release, of rescue. That makes it infinitely harder for them to adjust to and enjoy life as a slave.” He picked up his pen.

I will never adjust to this. I will never enjoy this.

“Do you have hope, Kitten?”

“No.”
Yes.

“Is there someone that you envision rescuing you?”

“No.”
Brett.

“I’ve told you about this cell. About the ten pounds of concrete that surround each of your bars. About the fact that, should you somehow escape this cell, that you will still be locked in the basement, a windowless space whose door has four deadbolts. The closest house is a half-mile away. I live alone. Your screams don’t carry past this room. Your hope for escape, or for rescue, should be dead.”

“It is.”
Brett will save me. He will look for me. He will find me.

“No...” He stood and walked in a small circle around me, my knees on the hard concrete, my hands on my thighs, my eyes closed. I was so tired. “I don’t believe it is. I believe you still have hope, Kitten.”

I didn’t know what that meant - his belief in my hope - but when he pulled my chin up and I stared into his eyes, I knew that it was bad. I knew I had failed another test.

My hardest day was not the first time I was raped. Or when I spent unknown hours handcuffed in my own defecation. Or when I was whipped. My hardest day was that one, when I lost my teeth. Four of them, molars taken out with a tool that looked like expensive pliers.