Tight
Page 46
When he saw me, his shoulders dropped, his face relaxed, his arms reached out and wrapped around me. He buried his head in my neck and squeezed me tight, the bump of Miller’s body comical as he wound his way through our legs. “I was worried,” he said.
“You’re here.”
“Just for the night. I needed to see you. Is it okay?” He pulled back his head, his arms kept me close, as if he wasn’t ready to let go.
“Of course. I was just surprised. Didn’t know you knew how to drive American cars.” I grinned and tilted my head toward the car. That was good; I was good. I cracked a joke, so nothing was wrong.
He laughed. “It’s an airport loaner. They’re fresh out of Bentleys. You eaten?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. You?” I headed toward the house, my right hand digging in my jacket for my keys. I pulled them out with a flourish, spinning to Brett and shaking them. “Look. Locked up and everything.”
“God, you’re sexy when you’re safety-conscious,” he growled, his hand catching my waist and pulling me close for a kiss. “And no, I’m starving. Can I treat you to dinner?”
“Dare to try Beverly’s again?” I turned the key and shouldered open the door, kicking off my boots and shrugging out of my jacket.
“Absolutely.” He stepped in after me and pushed the door shut. There was a moment of eye contact, then Beverly’s was forgotten in a strip of clothes and inhibitions.
The next morning I smiled, lifted his bag, and passed it to him.
Kissed him back and laughed when he squeezed my ass.
Waved and smiled until the plane started up and rolled away.
Wondered if the trepidation showed in my eyes.
Questioned, at that moment, if I should just cut bait or walk away.
I cut bait.
As a child, I believed in research. The library was my babysitter, my teacher, my extra friend. Now, six days after the breakfast with my father, with no further information found, the DNA results still pending, I took the pieces I had and dove into the terrifyingly honest world of the Internet.
It didn’t take long. I took what I knew: that Brett spent his weekends in Central America and the Caribbean. That he had been questioned in disappearances of girls who ran drugs. That he disappeared late in the night on our trips, had ‘boat clients’ that didn’t exist, hung out in clubs and bars.
I was a small town girl. Knew how to drive a tractor and use my manners. I didn’t know, till that horrific Sunday night on my laptop, about the world of drug traffickers.
Google opened my eyes. Taught me everything I didn’t want to know and more. I put a TV dinner in the microwave and forged on. Stayed up till two and read until my contacts dried out. I found out that drug traffickers often use women to mule drugs to and from the US. Found out that South Florida has the highest percentage of drug millionaires. Found out that the majority of drug traffickers also deal in illegal arms. One helpful site provided the Top 10 Places Where a Drug-Related Crime is Most Likely to Occur. We, in the last six months of ‘romantic’ getaways, had hit seven of the spots. I closed my laptop, bolted to the bathroom, and vomited.
Then I threw my untouched Lean Cuisine into the trash and tried to think.
Maybe there was another explanation. Maybe the girls who disappeared, the ones he was questioned about, were innocent tourists. Had nothing to do with drugs at all. Maybe Brett was lying about his real name and job because he didn’t want me to know about his wealth. Maybe his late night meetings really were with boat buyers, and he acted as both a manufacturer and sales agent. Maybe I was fucking naïve and had fallen in love with a drug-running psychopath.
That night, when Brett called, I didn’t answer.
He called me three more times, then Jena called. Said he’d called her and was worried about me living out there alone. Was worried I was in trouble. I told her to let him know I was safe and had gone to bed with a migraine.
Jena didn’t ask questions, she repeated the instructions and hung up.
He texted me a few minutes later.
I love you. Hope you feel better soon. Please lock your door.
I turned my phone off and crawled into bed. Let Miller get in, the bed creaking under our weight, and hugged him. Worked my mind through every bit of our vacations, finding red flags I had overlooked at every turn. I fell asleep crying.
tight (tt)
(adj.) closely-matched competitors
“a tight game”
Everything changed after that cock bite, the moment when I left reason behind and became an animal. Suddenly, I couldn’t hide it anymore — the hate, the disgust, the vile rise of venom that came whenever the man came towards me.
We battled through Phase Two, every lesson a fight, a push of pain against wills. I refused his questions, and he punished. I refused his advances, and he punished. He gave up on rape, my efforts making the act too physical for him to bother with. I’d like to count that as a victory, but I don’t think sex is a motivation of his. Sex was just an item in his notebook to explore, a chapter that needs to be addressed due to its societal importance. He explored, he raped me enough times to ascertain that I - in no way shape or form - was growing attracted or attached to him. The pain... it wasn’t a stimulus either. He dished out the punishment methodically and without relish. Mind you, he wasn’t wincing over it, there wasn’t an empathetic bone in his body when I was on the floor before him screaming. But he didn’t get off on it.
What he liked was the mindfuck.
“You’re here.”
“Just for the night. I needed to see you. Is it okay?” He pulled back his head, his arms kept me close, as if he wasn’t ready to let go.
“Of course. I was just surprised. Didn’t know you knew how to drive American cars.” I grinned and tilted my head toward the car. That was good; I was good. I cracked a joke, so nothing was wrong.
He laughed. “It’s an airport loaner. They’re fresh out of Bentleys. You eaten?”
I shook my head. “Not yet. You?” I headed toward the house, my right hand digging in my jacket for my keys. I pulled them out with a flourish, spinning to Brett and shaking them. “Look. Locked up and everything.”
“God, you’re sexy when you’re safety-conscious,” he growled, his hand catching my waist and pulling me close for a kiss. “And no, I’m starving. Can I treat you to dinner?”
“Dare to try Beverly’s again?” I turned the key and shouldered open the door, kicking off my boots and shrugging out of my jacket.
“Absolutely.” He stepped in after me and pushed the door shut. There was a moment of eye contact, then Beverly’s was forgotten in a strip of clothes and inhibitions.
The next morning I smiled, lifted his bag, and passed it to him.
Kissed him back and laughed when he squeezed my ass.
Waved and smiled until the plane started up and rolled away.
Wondered if the trepidation showed in my eyes.
Questioned, at that moment, if I should just cut bait or walk away.
I cut bait.
As a child, I believed in research. The library was my babysitter, my teacher, my extra friend. Now, six days after the breakfast with my father, with no further information found, the DNA results still pending, I took the pieces I had and dove into the terrifyingly honest world of the Internet.
It didn’t take long. I took what I knew: that Brett spent his weekends in Central America and the Caribbean. That he had been questioned in disappearances of girls who ran drugs. That he disappeared late in the night on our trips, had ‘boat clients’ that didn’t exist, hung out in clubs and bars.
I was a small town girl. Knew how to drive a tractor and use my manners. I didn’t know, till that horrific Sunday night on my laptop, about the world of drug traffickers.
Google opened my eyes. Taught me everything I didn’t want to know and more. I put a TV dinner in the microwave and forged on. Stayed up till two and read until my contacts dried out. I found out that drug traffickers often use women to mule drugs to and from the US. Found out that South Florida has the highest percentage of drug millionaires. Found out that the majority of drug traffickers also deal in illegal arms. One helpful site provided the Top 10 Places Where a Drug-Related Crime is Most Likely to Occur. We, in the last six months of ‘romantic’ getaways, had hit seven of the spots. I closed my laptop, bolted to the bathroom, and vomited.
Then I threw my untouched Lean Cuisine into the trash and tried to think.
Maybe there was another explanation. Maybe the girls who disappeared, the ones he was questioned about, were innocent tourists. Had nothing to do with drugs at all. Maybe Brett was lying about his real name and job because he didn’t want me to know about his wealth. Maybe his late night meetings really were with boat buyers, and he acted as both a manufacturer and sales agent. Maybe I was fucking naïve and had fallen in love with a drug-running psychopath.
That night, when Brett called, I didn’t answer.
He called me three more times, then Jena called. Said he’d called her and was worried about me living out there alone. Was worried I was in trouble. I told her to let him know I was safe and had gone to bed with a migraine.
Jena didn’t ask questions, she repeated the instructions and hung up.
He texted me a few minutes later.
I love you. Hope you feel better soon. Please lock your door.
I turned my phone off and crawled into bed. Let Miller get in, the bed creaking under our weight, and hugged him. Worked my mind through every bit of our vacations, finding red flags I had overlooked at every turn. I fell asleep crying.
tight (tt)
(adj.) closely-matched competitors
“a tight game”
Everything changed after that cock bite, the moment when I left reason behind and became an animal. Suddenly, I couldn’t hide it anymore — the hate, the disgust, the vile rise of venom that came whenever the man came towards me.
We battled through Phase Two, every lesson a fight, a push of pain against wills. I refused his questions, and he punished. I refused his advances, and he punished. He gave up on rape, my efforts making the act too physical for him to bother with. I’d like to count that as a victory, but I don’t think sex is a motivation of his. Sex was just an item in his notebook to explore, a chapter that needs to be addressed due to its societal importance. He explored, he raped me enough times to ascertain that I - in no way shape or form - was growing attracted or attached to him. The pain... it wasn’t a stimulus either. He dished out the punishment methodically and without relish. Mind you, he wasn’t wincing over it, there wasn’t an empathetic bone in his body when I was on the floor before him screaming. But he didn’t get off on it.
What he liked was the mindfuck.
