“Oh, bullshit. This is the one. I can feel it. I can see it on your face. You just have to give him a chance.”
Common sense tells me she can’t possibly know that. But I desperately want to believe her, to throw caution to the wind and just jump.
“I wish you were right.”
“I am right.”
“If you are then I’m wasting a lot of money on this therapist you forced me to talk to.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“She says I should stay away from him. From Alec.”
Chris is quiet. I’m sure she doesn’t know what to say to that. She was convinced that Dr. B would be able to help me with all of my problems, sending me off after a month or two to live happily ever after with the man of my choosing. What Chris fails to realize is that happily ever afters are reserved for fiction. I write them, but that’s probably as close as I’ll ever get to one.
She recovers after a minute or so. I’m not surprised. As a rule, she’s pretty unflappable. “To that I would say this: You think too much. That’s always been your problem. I was hoping Dr. B might help you get out of that, and I’m not convinced that’s not still going to happen. Maybe this is some sort of proven psychoanalytical technique. What the hell do I know?”
“Funny, that’s just what I was thinking,” I tease.
“Well, smart ass, I’ll tell you just what the hell I know. I know you’re smart and funny and gorgeous and talented, and you deserve to be happy more than anyone I know. And, dammit, I’m gonna get you there if it’s the last mother fu—”
From the bedside table, my phone rings, effectively cutting off her rant. I pick it up and glance at the screen. “That’s Ari.”
With a sigh specifically engineered to let me know how put-upon she feels, Chris relents. “Fine. Go. Go and give all your precious time to your publicist. See if I care.”
“I know you care, Chris. And I love you for it. And maybe, just maybe, there’s still hope for me. Don’t give up.”
“Fat chance of that ever happening. I’m as tenacious as a pit bull. You know that.”
“Yes, yes I do know that,” I quip. “I just need time. That’s all. I’m not broken beyond repair.”
That’s more for her benefit than mine. I’m not convinced that I can be fixed. Ever. By anyone.
“None of us are.”
While I hope she’s right, I have my doubts.
I smile. “We have a more pressing issue at the moment, though.”
“What’s that?”
“I have to pee. Badly. And you’re on my feet. I suggest you get off them before we both get a golden shower.”
“Save that nasty stuff for your books, woman,” she says, screwing up her face and scooting off the bed. “I’m a good girl.”
Chris pushes her nose up in the air, giving me her best impression of a how she sees a good girl. I burst into laughter.
“Yeah, right! You’ve probably been peed on more than a urinal cake.”
Playfully, she swats my arm as she slips her shoes back on. “Brush your teeth while you’re at it. I’m gonna have to go pencil in my eyebrows as it is.”
“Hey, no one told you to come drag me out of bed.”
“I actually came to remind you about the carnival tonight.”
“Ugh!” I moan as I flop back on my pillow. “Why are you such a pain in my butt?”
“I’m your sister. It’s my job. Plus, I enjoy the shit out of it.” Chris is wearing a satisfied smirk as she sashays out of my bedroom.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN - Alec
I dreamed last night of what Samantha would look like tied to a bed of black silk, her alabaster skin glowing pale in the low light but for the red globes of her perfect ass. When I woke, I could almost feel the sting of her skin against my palm. I was hard for an hour afterward.
Now I’m wishing we were further along, to the point where she’d welcome a night like that. But first things first. I need to get her to that point.
I ignore the voice of my more…traditional self, the one who once abhorred people like me and fetishes like mine. Actually, he still does. It wasn’t until the accident that I even knew of the other side of sexuality, the one I’ve come to embrace. Almost against my will. Certainly against part of my will.
But it’s the other part, the other half, that loves it. And he’s very hard to control.
CHAPTER NINETEEN - Samantha
The carnival turn out this year is at least twice what it was last year. Children swarm the rides and the games, all of which are free for the night thanks to my parents. Adults of all ages stand along the paved pathways, watching their charges and mingling with the other foster parents.
Chris and I are the “success stories” of the night. My speech will be short and to the point, as it was last year. Still, I hate giving it. I am more comfortable as Laura Drake answering questions about the pleasure of being lightly bitten than I am as myself giving a speech about the life-changing effects of child-fostering.
How’s that for screwed up?
I’m milling about, smiling like a politician, awaiting my “spotlight” when my phone bleeps with an incoming text. It’s from Alec. My finger shakes with anticipation as I slide it across the screen to read the message.
Are you ready for the next step?
My stomach ties itself into a knot. No, I’m not ready at all. But I’m beginning to believe that taking the next step is as inevitable as my inability to orgasm.
Inevitable.
As the word goes through my mind, so does a little piece of Mason, further obscuring the lines between life and fiction.
Stop trying to convince yourself you should be resisting me. We both know you don’t even want to try. But only I know why. I’m your inevitability, Daire. I’m the one thing you can’t avoid.
I’m starting to feel that…that…inevitability. And, deep down, I’m starting to feel something else from my book. It’s the spark of hope that Daire never let go of—the spark of hope that there might be love and wholeness for a girl like her. Like me. Like us.
I answer.
I’m not sure.
There’s a pause, one so long I’m not sure he’ll reply. But then he does.
I’ll make you ready. Just trust me.
Trusting Alec isn’t the issue. It’s trusting myself, trusting what I’m capable of. And trusting that I can withstand the rejection that’s bound to come after…