If looks could kill . . .
That’s how the saying goes. Caleb doesn’t have to leave it to a look. I’ve seen what he can do with his hands. I know the sting of his belt, his shoe, or whatever is at his disposal. If we were alone right now I think he’d find a way to kill me with a Q-tip.
But we’re not alone. August stands behind me and Sarai is ahead, blinking sleepily at me from her father’s shoulder.
“What a surprise,” Caleb drawls, his eyes icy. “You just can’t stay away, can you, West?”
August isn’t touching me, but the very air stiffens. These two men hate each other. I’m only part of their mutual abhorrence, but I’m the part standing between them right now.
“Back so soon?” August’s words come easy, but there’s a tripwire running under his words, waiting for Caleb to take one wrong step. “That’s a shame.”
“When the cat’s away, huh?” A smirk distorts the firm line of Caleb’s mouth for just a second, but soon it flattens back into a hard line. “Iris, let’s go.”
He doesn’t wait to see if I’ll follow when he walks away with my baby girl. He knows I will. She looks at me over his shoulder. Her cotton-candy pink mouth wobbles, and her little chubby arms reach back toward me. She must have just awakened from a nap. She always wants me right away.
I’ve almost caught them when I’m pulled up short by my arm.
“Iris.” August stares down at me, his frown fierce and puzzled. “Don’t go with him.”
I tug free of his gentle grip. It’s the last gentle thing I’ll have for a while, but I can’t linger. Caleb has my daughter, and I’ll be lucky if social services isn’t getting another anonymous tip after this debacle. I’ll be lucky if he hasn’t already laid more traps and snares for me. I need to be a step ahead of him, but I’ve fallen behind. Surrendering to my weak desires today, I’ve fallen behind again.
“I’m not going with him.” I beg with my eyes, with my hand spread on his chest, with my heart—I beg for him to understand. I beg him with everything but my words. “I’m going with her. Sarai is my priority, August. She has to be.”
“Of course, Sarai should be your priority,” August says. “But I . . . you said I wasn’t fooling myself. That I wasn’t imagining . . .” He grimaces and tunnels long fingers through his hair—hair I clawed at and disheveled moments ago during my orgasm. It’s been so long since I came. So long since Caleb took the time to please me, to cherish me. August made me feel wanted, but not in the way Caleb wants me. Not tainted with selfishness. Not twisted with cruelty or stained with obsession. August gave me something brief and glorious, and I don’t know if I’ll ever have it again. If I walk out that door, I may never have it again.
“You aren’t fooling yourself,” I say. “It’s not that we wouldn’t be good together. Our timing’s bad.”
I hold August’s hand between both of mine, wishing I could confess everything.
What would I say?
Caleb blackmailed me? Lied on me?
He beats me? Rapes me?
He holds me hostage in plain sight?
August wouldn’t understand. He’d tell me to run. He’d say leave, but getting away is not enough. As long as Caleb has any claim to Sarai, getting away is not being truly free.
I glance over my shoulder, but Caleb’s out of sight.
I tip up on my toes and kiss August’s cheek. He reaches for my waist, but I step back, already aching for a touch I never should have allowed myself. It only makes this harder.
“I have to go.” Tears burn my eyes. “Goodbye, August.”
I turn and run from the community center, praying Caleb didn’t leave. I spot Ramone immediately, standing on the sidewalk, the jailor to my prisoner, his eyes insolent. I walk past him with my head held high and climb into the back seat.
I don’t know what I expected—probably a slap across the face as soon as I sat beside Caleb—but I’m met with eerie silence. It persists, the minutes stretching out on a torture rack while we leave the city and head toward my palatial prison. Sarai drowses in her car seat until sleep takes her again.
“Caleb, I can explain,” I venture softly.
The look he levels on me is a guillotine, falling and slicing through any excuse I could offer, any lie. He knows the truth, and there’s no way I’ll avoid paying for it. Wanting August West is a high crime to Caleb. It’s treason.
Off with my head.
When we pull up in front of the house, I unsnap Sarai and walk her swiftly inside and up to the nursery. I lay her down in her crib and linger there. My mind races over possible escape routes, but as usual, there are none. None that actually solve my problem.
“Meet me in the bedroom, Iris,” he says from the door. “Stop dawdling. We need to talk.”
Talk.
I know better.
Once in the bedroom, my eyes rove the corners and surfaces for a possible weapon. I’ve resisted before. It usually makes it worse for me, but tonight I can’t imagine just taking it. That’s usually when he brings out the pistol, against which I have no defense.
“Strip.”
That one word is the slap I was anticipating. I hesitate, unsure how to play this. He sighs impatiently and pulls the pistol from his pocket, holding it up.
“Why does it always have to come to this, Iris?”
“Don’t ask me to pretend this is normal,” I say harshly. “You raping me at gunpoint is not normal, and I won’t pretend it is.”
“I bet West wouldn’t need a gun, would he?” His eyes narrow. “I said strip, you low-class swamp whore.”
He tries to demean me with his words, but I don’t feel it anymore. His words are a dog with no bite. They have no teeth with me.
But who needs teeth when you have fangs?
With unhurried movements, he unbuckles his belt.
Eyes trained on the pistol, I unsnap my overalls, dropping them to the floor and pulling the T-shirt over my head. I undo my bra and take off my panties.
“Bring those to me.”
I freeze, staring at him in disbelief.
“I said bring me the panties, Iris.” False calm is a needle threading his words.
I walk over to him and he snatches them from me, squeezing them in his fist.
“Wet,” he growls.
Oh my God.
“Your panties are soaked.” He carves a barbarous smile into his face. “Were you thinking of me?”
I shake my head, a denial springing to my lips. “I didn’t . . . it wasn’t—”
“Biiiiitch!” he roars, spittle ejaculating from his mouth. “Don’t lie to me.”
The walls seem to tremble, and so do I. The air goes subzero, freezing my blood. His fury emerges, fully formed and dangerous. Instead of shoving me onto the bed and taking me fast and rough like he usually would, he sits down on the edge, one hand clutching the panties, the other gripping the pistol.
“Come here,” he says more quietly, but with no less threat.
I stand in front of him, naked and determined not to show fear. A callus has formed over my dignity and my self-respect. I barely feel them anymore. They’re casualties of my survival and of my eventual escape.
“Make me believe you want me, Iris. Ride me.”
My eyes fly to his, stunned and stupefied. I can’t. I don’t even remember what it feels like to want Caleb.
“I . . . well, I—”
“Kiss me,” he says softly, almost persuasively. Like he cares, but I’ve played this game enough to know his gentleness is always a trick card.
I gulp down my disgust and lean tentatively to place my mouth over his. I nearly gag when his tongue sweeps against mine, rough and thorough like he’s scrubbing the taste of August from my mouth. It’s a nasty mimicry of the perfect passion I felt not even an hour ago. His hand snakes out to clamp around my throat, barely squeezing, but exerting enough pressure to remind me he could snap my windpipe if he pleased.
“I said ride me.”
Every command is more confusing than the last. He pulls me by the throat to his lap, spreading my thighs over his. He doesn’t wait for me to position myself but snatches me up and slams me down onto his dick. The air whooshes out of me when he spears up into my tightness. He grips my hip painfully, coaxing me into a rhythm I can’t find. He pulls me flush to his body, crushing my breasts to his chest and shoving the pistol into my side.
“You’re still wet. You came for him, didn’t you?” he snarls. “When was the last time you were this wet for me?”
Fear ripples over my body. This could be the night he kills me. He reaches for my throat, fingers tightening until there’s no air.
I grasp desperately for the manacle at my neck. Black spots speckle my vision, and cotton fills my head. Just when I think I’ll pass out, he releases my throat.
“Did he touch you here?” Fury strains his voice to the point of snapping. “In your pussy, Iris? My pussy?”
“Stop.” I choke on the word and the nausea filling my throat the longer he fills me. “Please stop.”
“I’ll stop.” He lifts me off his lap and shoves me onto the bed behind him. “You asked for it.”
Relief floods me, my body releasing the fear that held my muscles tight. All I want is a shower. I’m sure there will be repercussions when I least expect it, but maybe not tonight.
No sooner has the thought formed than Caleb rises over me and flips me onto my stomach. A prickle of foreboding tickles my consciousness. “Caleb, what are you—”
“You think I’ll follow behind West?” he growls.
“You aren’t,” I say, desperate and struggling to loosen his hold. “We didn’t, Caleb.”
“So I’m a fool now?” A laugh, void of humor, whips the air. “I’ll just go somewhere he hasn’t been.”
I can’t submit to this. I squirm loose and spring off the bed, sprinting toward the bathroom, but I’m no match for Caleb’s long arms and legs, for the lightning speed of his well-conditioned athlete’s body. He’s at the door ahead of me, blocking my way, laughing in my face. I turn to flee in the other direction.
His arm snakes around my waist and he lifts me from the floor, tossing me back onto the bed. His hold feels bionic when he jerks me to all fours, and I buck my back into his chest, trying to dislodge him. My arms flail wildly. I claw at his thigh and feel his skin curl under my fingernails. I slap any part of him I can reach, until the cold steel of that pistol at the base of my skull petrifies my fight.
“How dare you let him touch what’s mine?” he growls behind me, jerking my hair painfully.
Tears crawl from my eyes and over my cheeks. His large hand slams between my shoulder blades and he grasps my hip, lining himself up with my ass.
“Please don’t,” I beg unashamedly, fisting the sheet. “God, Caleb, don’t do this.”
It’s not like in the movies where the woman wrestles for minutes, and you keep thinking there’s a chance she’ll get away, undefiled. That someone intervenes just in time to save her.
No, it’s not like that for me.
With one brutal thrust, Caleb invades a place no one has ever been. He’s hinted at it, threatened it, but never taken me this way.
There’s no lubrication. No preparation. No warning.
Just dry agony.
The pain steals my breath. It snatches my words. I can’t even scream for a moment. It’s that dizzying hurt that muzzles you, silences you completely. Every part of you is focused on surviving that injury, and you can’t spare the energy to even speak.
I feel tissues tearing as he knifes into me repeatedly, a sharpened weapon wielded mercilessly. Tears roll unchecked into my mouth. My words dissolve into a pleading litany, pathetic syllables that spill out of me while he grunts and moans and pistons, a tireless machine. I don’t even know how long he goes. I feel wetness between my legs and know it’s blood. My elbows slide from under me, my chest collapsing to the bed.
“Fuck, stay still,” he rasps. “It’s not all in.”
Oh, God. There can’t be more, but he shoves himself in farther, and I scrape the very bottom of my soul for the scream that rips through the bedroom. I pray for numbness, but I feel every thrust, like a burning poker ravaging me.
“Please stop. Please. Please,” I beg, my voice scratchy, my heart racing, my body wretched.
But Caleb is lost in a paroxysm of wicked pleasure, coming long and loud inside my raw, stretched entrance.
Once he has milked himself empty, he slaps my ass almost affectionately and pulls out. The relief is immediate, but the pain lingers. He flops onto the bed beside me, releasing a long exhale.
I lie completely still, a woman mauled and afraid the predator could return. I play dead, except I’m not sure I’m pretending. Some part of me has withdrawn—is curled up in a tomb begging for death. Welcoming the end with open arms.
Caleb strokes a finger over the faint bruising August caressed and soothed. “You always do stupid things that make me have to hurt you,” he says. “Why do you do that when I love you more than anything, Iris?” He sounds genuinely perplexed and sincerely irritated.
I’m dealing with a madman.
I turn my head in slow inches until my eyes settle on his handsome face. “Fuck you, Caleb.”
His expression freezes, eyes narrow, and his lips flatten. “You stupid bitch. You’re such a masochist, aren’t you?”
I’ve been careful all these months. Plotting. Looking for just the right moment, just the right time. But caution’s gone, and though provoking him might ultimately hurt me more, I look for a way to hurt him. After what he just did, I want to hurt him back.
I gingerly scoot to the head of the bed, wincing at the discomfort between my legs and the pain of his invasion. I dispassionately note the streak of blood on the sheets. I know it’s mine, but I feel no fear, no connection to it.
“I never answered your question,” I say quietly.
“What question?” He bends his brows into a perplexed frown.
“You know.” I deliberately look at him and smile. “You asked if I came for him.”
A tornado touches down on his face, his brows. Lightning strikes over stormy eyes.
“I did.” My voice is soft, but my eyes meet his unwaveringly. “It was the best orgasm of my life, Caleb. In a closet with August West. What are you going to do? Break his other leg? Break my leg? Keep breaking everything around you like a spoiled little boy smashing his toys?”
He lunges for me, his teeth bared, and his fist drawn back to strike. But I’m drawn back, too. I grab the bedside lamp, jerking it so the cord wrenches from the wall.
I smash it against his head. Pain and shock skitter over his face, quickly followed by fury. He touches the line of blood skating from his hairline, bemusedly rubbing the wetness between his fingers. I know the shock of seeing your blood drawn from a blow you didn’t see coming.
“You have a death wish,” he bellows, reaching for me. As quickly as my soreness will allow, I run-hobble to the door. I get it open, not caring that I’m naked. I have to run. After all these weeks of waiting and watching, I’ve chosen the worst time to fight back. The worst time to run. When there’s no escape route. No plan.
No chance.
His booted foot slams into my back, the momentum sending me forward and skidding across the marble floor, chafing the bare skin of my stomach. I rise only as far as my elbows. I try to drag myself up, but that boot connects with my ribs, forcing all the air from my body. Doubled over, I’m shocked when maniacal laughter unspools from my belly. I flip onto my back, meeting his rage head on and with a bedlam smile.
“Now what? The pistol?” I taunt. “That’s the only way you can keep me under your control, right? The big man with the gun? You pitiful coward.”
“A gun?” His own demented grin cracks the polished surface of his face, and we are two witless loons in a death match. “I could kill you with my bare hands.”
With blood smeared on my thighs, bruises blooming on my ribs like African violets, and a new defiance boiling in my bones, I look up through a tangled curtain of hair and say the most reckless words of my life. “Then fight me like a man.”
And he does.
I was there when the levees broke.
Though I was safe in my ward when the monster lost all restraint and unleashed watery havoc on New Orleans, I lived in the city.
I later saw the devastation left in the wake of the beastly storm. We frantically gathered our things, fled our home for higher ground. My family left to survive.
There were those who stayed too long. Remained when they should have fled.
They did not live to regret it.
In this torrent, this chaos of cruelty, I realize I’ve made the same mistake. I’ve remained when I should have fled. Now, I witness the exact moment when this monster loses all restraint. And his fury, his rage rushes at me like a wall of water. Like a gale-force wind, he blows over me, and I am the devastation left in his wake. His fist and his open palm are untiring anvils that bruise my flesh and crack my bones. His fury is swift and efficient, a mesmerizing brutality of syncopated slaps and perfectly spaced blows.
The mind is a master strategist, knowing instinctively when to advance and when to withdraw. My mind is a haven when the pain is beyond bearing. With no escape in sight, I seek the only freedom left to me—my thoughts, my dreams, and my memories. I remember a magical night under the stars, under a streetlight on the eve of greatness. A night filled with laughter and confidences, pregnant with promise. And I see him so clearly, my prince, asking for a kiss.
Sometimes, we stand at a juncture on which our path, our very life can turn. A fork in the road. Sometimes the heart speaks in whispers, and by the time we hear, by the time we listen, it’s too late and we don’t know. We don’t know that we should have turned right instead of left. Chosen one instead of the other. But now, in the retreat of my mind, I know.
And I kiss him.
In my dreams I choose him, my prince, instead of the fraud. In this parallel universe, at this second-chance juncture, I turn right instead of choosing wrong . . . and there, only there, we are together.
But that’s not my universe, not the one I chose. So the world goes black, in a galaxy of pain and brutality, and I see stars. A flash of brilliance. A light I should have acknowledged long ago.
As the stars dim and the darkness encroaches, I understand I’m like those in my ward who stayed too long, assuming their survival. I fear that I, like them, will not live to regret it.
