Giving It Up (18 page)

I slid down the side of the bed, where the hardwood floor slapped my face. My knees jolted as they hit the floor, and then again with the impact of Colin’s weight from behind.

All over, my body was twisted or crushed. It was perfect.

I surrendered. There’s a freedom in not having to move, not having to think, but knowing it would happen anyway.

My clothes were yanked out of the way, and then he was fucking me.

Each thrust slammed my head into the ground and my shoulders from their sockets. Ah, bliss.

My mind took up a chant.
Hurt me, hurt me, hurt me. Make me hurt, cry, bleed. Make my outside match my inside. Help me get it out, because I can’t cry on my own.

And then my plea escaped my mind. “Hurt me, hurt me.”

“Oh, God,” Colin groaned.

“Hurt me.”

He reached around and pinched my nipple. I gasped. He pressed harder.
Yes.

“Allie,” he said. It sounded like a warning. I couldn’t think.

The initial pain of his cock stretching me had passed. I wanted more. I tilted my hips back to meet him. He took the cue and grasped my bare hips with both hands. His fingers dug into me as he rammed my body onto his cock. Fuck, it hurt.
Yes, more.

My mouth formed the words, but no sound came out. “Hurt me.”

“Fuck!” With a final, erratic surge and a long, almost painful moan, he climaxed. He slumped over me, crushing me.

He was right. Fuck.

What had I done? I couldn’t face him.

A tear slid down my face. That wasn’t strange. My face was wet—I’d been crying before we even started. But this one came from near my ear and slid down to my nose.

It wasn’t mine.

I jerked up, which only succeeded in slamming my body against his and then back into the floor. I finally threw him off, heavy and limp as he was, but he covered his face.

“Oh, Colin,” I said.

He was dressed, only his fly open. Like a drunkard staggering from a bar, he managed to stand and stumble into the bathroom. He slammed the door in a sick reversal of the scene in the motel that first night with him.

I just sat there on the cold floor, absently rubbing my bruised knees. What had I done? This was so much worse than I’d thought. It wasn’t just about turning myself into a whore.

I’d wanted to be hurt, but I’d hurt him.

Someone was watching me. I could feel it. If it was that damned cat in here again…

I opened my eyes to round, mischievous blue eyes. “Bailey!”

She blew out her lips, and wetness sprayed me. Nice.

I wiped my face with the sheet, wincing at the contact of fabric on abraded skin. “How did you get in here?”

“My fault,” Colin said.

I looked over at the bathroom where he was shaving with the door open. In jeans and nothing else, he looked delicious. How the hell did men get hip bones like that? Even though Colin was not skinny, nor really even lean, there they were. Mine were all padding.

“It’s no problem,” I said, pulling Bailey under the covers with me. She squirmed and kicked until she was free, lounging on Colin’s pillow like a princess.

I stretched, and my muscles screamed a protest. No, last night wasn’t a dream. Damn. I looked at Colin again, who was now pulling on a T-shirt, facing away. He headed for the door.

“Colin?”

“Yeah?” He definitely wasn’t looking at me.

I wasn’t sure what to say.
I’m sorry for being so fucked-up, but you knew that when you signed up with me.
Yeah, that’d go over great. They should print that on greeting cards. So I settled on, “What are you doing today? Want to hang out?”

“I’ve got to work. Early meeting.”

“Oh,” I said. “Okay.”

A beat passed. “If you want, you guys could come for lunch.”

“At the restaurant?”

He nodded.

The only time I’d ever been there was when I’d asked him out. He hadn’t asked me back. But here was an invitation, almost engraved. “Yes! We’d love to. Wouldn’t we, Bailey?”

“No,” she said.

“She means yes,” I told him.

“No, no!” she said. Goddammit.

Colin smiled faintly, I could see from the side, and then left the room. With a heave, I sat up and settled the pillows around Bailey. Then I went into the bathroom.

Oh, shit. That explained why Colin wasn’t looking at me. The left side of my face was…wrecked. It was all black, a little bit green, and my eye was puffy. Christ, it hurt more to look at me than it had last night. Maybe. I’d been pretty zoned out. He hadn’t hit me. More like the floor had hit me, slowly, in a long, painful punch that had pushed harder with each thrust from behind.

I’d be able to patch this up some—some ice and a heavy foundation job would do wonders. But for now I looked hideous. I fretted about whether to say something about it to Colin while I got ready, but when Bailey and I went downstairs, he’d already gone. Ugh, avoidance was contagious.

I puttered around the house, making breakfast and doing some chores, mostly waiting for lunchtime. My face was a half an hour project, so that was a nice distraction. In the right light I looked like someone who’d done a horrible job with her makeup. Looking like an idiot was preferable to looking hurt.

I packed up Bailey’s lunch in the kitchen. Hmm, dessert. I eyed the chocolate tart that I’d taken out of the fridge earlier. I did want some. Badly.

More importantly Colin might like it. He was freaked, justifiably, and possibly mad at me—also justifiably. It would be a peace offering, even if I’d initially made it for myself. I mean, if I gave it to him, he’d still share, wouldn’t he? Two birds with one stone and all that.

I wrapped the tart in plastic wrap and then bundled us into the car. It only took ten minutes to arrive at the restaurant, and then the unbundling process commenced. Finally Bailey and I sat at a table in the corner near the office hallway. I was debating whether to knock at the door when he emerged.

“You came,” he said, sounding surprised. That gave me pause. Did he think me so unreliable? Or worse, did he think our relationship was irreparable after last night? Please, no.

“Of course,” I said. “And I brought a cake. You do like chocolate?”

“You made it?”

“Yes…did you notice the bowls and pots covered in black goo in the kitchen?”

He considered. “No.”

“Okay, that’s…disturbing. But yes, I made it. Do you have a fridge or something where it can sit?”

“Sure.” He took the tart from me and disappeared into the kitchen. I returned to Bailey and pulled out her lunch. I hadn’t been sure what they’d have here for her, so I’d packed the full complement—pasta, mixed veggies, and milk to drink. We hadn’t had much opportunity for eating out, but we’d been here before, at least. Bailey took to her restaurant high chair with aplomb. It was the eating part she struggled with. In minutes the floor around her was littered with lunch. So much for planning.

Colin returned and took a seat across from me. “I ordered for us already. Hope you don’t mind.”

“No, not at all.” I smiled, fishing for one from him. “I bet you know what’s best here, don’t you?”

He gave a short nod. He looked out the window, at the table, at Bailey crunching carrots—anywhere but my face.

I sighed. “Is it that bad?”

“Is what bad?” he said.

“My face.”

He looked at me, and then away. “Yes.”

Well, damn.

Our food came shortly. I suppose since he owned the place, he’d better get prompt service. So we busied ourselves with eating. When we were done, I offered to go back and find the tart, but he went into the back himself. I liked the way the employees looked at him, both with respect and a sort of affection that I recognized in my dealings with Rick. It was a contrast to the formality he’d been dealt at Philip’s house.

He returned and, for the first time that day, looked me in the eye. “I’m sorry.”

Crap, it’d probably ended up sitting on a lukewarm burner and melted or something. “It’s ruined?”

“Sort of. I put it in the back, and my manager thought it was available. He moved it to the front case.” He paused. “It’s gone.”

“Wait, like sold?”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Well.” So much for my apology cake. “That’s okay, I guess. At least someone enjoyed it.”

“Several someones,” he said. There was a note in his voice. Pride? “At eight dollars a slice and ten slices, your cake was eighty bucks.”

Shit. Eighty bucks. That was more than the bakery would charge, though I guessed that by-the-slice was the way to higher profits than selling full cakes.

Yes! There was a smile, however small. “Do you want it?” he asked.

“Want what?”

“Your money.”

“Uh, no thanks.” That barely covered the grocery bill from yesterday. Plus, it’d been made with ingredients bought with his money. “But I was just thinking. Do you think they liked it?”

“It was gone in twenty minutes.”

Okay. “Could I bring in more?”

He paused. “Yes, but you don’t have to do that.”

“I want to. It will give me something useful to do, and besides, I love to bake.” And this could be just what I was looking for—a way to pay Colin back, at least a little.

He looked doubtful.

“I really will enjoy it,” I said. “And I won’t let it interfere with the house cleaning or anything.”

He scowled. This wasn’t helping.

I made big eyes, wishing I had Bailey’s baby blues. “Please?”

“Don’t work too hard,” he said.

Score! “I’ll be the laziest supplier you ever had,” I promised.

A smile flickered on his face. His smiles were like a collector’s item for me.

We said our good-byes, veiled in politeness.

Back at the house I declared Quiet Time, my nap replacement therapy while Bailey had her midtoddler crisis. She got a couple of plastic books I’d borrowed from the library. I pulled out a magazine—something I’d thrown onto the conveyor at the grocery store on a whim. Who had $3.99 to spend on articles about sex? That would be me, apparently. I opened to “Ten Ways to Blow His Mind with Your Thumb.”

I’d only gotten to “deep tissue massage” when Shelly showed up. She should write for Cosmo. Her tips blew more than just minds, I felt sure. She wore a gauzy blue dress that looked at once both naive and flat-out sexual. That contradiction was her specialty.

As she gave Bailey a kiss, I dropped the magazine onto the coffee table. “Do you think Colin wants me to put my thumb in his mouth?”

“Maybe.” She sat down, flipping her hair back. “But he’d like it better if you put it in his—”

“Okay.” I glanced pointedly at Bailey to stop her. “That’s what I figured.”

She grinned. “You’re cute.”

I scowled. “Shut up. It’s not like I’m innocent or something.”

“Compared to me, honey, everyone’s innocent.”

I wasn’t so sure about that. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

She examined her nails.

“You got it, didn’t you?” A way to contact Jacob.

“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

“Shelly, I have to,” I said. “It’s the best way.”

“You don’t just have a conversation with your rapist.”

“It’s something I have to do. And I think maybe I can even convince him to walk away. Now that he’s had time to really think about it, to get over the shock.”

She traced the wood knot on the side table with her fingertip. “Philip says if you press charges, that he wouldn’t have a legal claim.”

“I can’t believe you talked with him about it.”

“He brought it up,” she said. “I figured I might as well hear what he had to say.”

“Well, it’s more complicated than that.”

“I’m not saying it would be easy, but…” She’d always wanted me to report it, to press charges. And I’d tried, she knew that much. She looked up, anguish in her eyes. “At the hospital. What happened with that cop?”

The lunch in my stomach threatened revolt. The doctors and nurses had left, leaving only the two cops to question me. I could smell the alcohol and sickly hospital smell.

I shook my head to clear the memories. “Why did you push so hard?”

She demurred and sat back. I’d hit my mark.

I’d guessed long ago why she had been so ferocious toward Jacob. A friend would have supported me, but she’d practically taken up a war cry. She was a victim too; that was why. I didn’t know the details, but it explained a lot. Not just her reaction that day, but her subsequent profession. One day while I was nursing Bailey, she announced that she was an escort, as easily as if she’d gotten a paper route. It had been part of our tacit pact. She never brought up the rape—or the hospital—and I never questioned her work. She pretended like my “date nights” were normal, and I pretended like selling her body on a nightly basis was A-OK. We were enablers of the best sort.

“Give me the number.” My gaze held hers, willing her to do what I asked.

She pressed a few buttons on her phone, then slid it across the table to me. It was opened to a contact—
JW
, it said. Jacob Williams. We used to joke about the fact that our last names started with the same letter. Said I wouldn’t have to change my initials when…

I hit the Call button and waited.

“Hello,” and just like that, I was back in my childhood room, calling to tell him about the drama of second period. It took a second to return to the present.

“Hello,” I said. “It’s me.”

“Allie? Are you okay?”

I almost laughed at the concern. It felt real. No, it probably
was
real. Our friendship had been real, except for that one time when it wasn’t. “I’m okay. I think we need to talk.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Remember Pop Rocks?”

I smiled at the memory. There was a diner where we’d hung out and gorged on cheap cheese fries and free refills of soda. Then Jacob had made a miniature explosion with his drink and the fizzy candy, and we’d been banned. Not that it mattered now—only two years later and we were both unrecognizable. “I remember.”

“Meet me there in thirty,” he said.

“Okay.” I hung up the phone and handed it back to Shelly. “Can you watch Bailey?”

“Of course,” she said. “I miss my girl.”