Welcome to PAD's world.

I don't own anything, Stephenie Meyer, but I like borrowing her stuff.

(For those of you already here, I made additions and changes to chapters one and two; you may want to view those before you read this.)

Please let me know your thoughts.

Chapter Three

I feel as though I should be conditioning my body, bouncing off the pads of my feet, shaking loose my arms, rolling my neck, even punching out a few jabs in between my warm up, waiting for my match.

It should make me happy that I'm gearing up to confront him. But it doesn't. I mentally prepare myself for all of my business meetings, why not this, too? A part of me feels guilty. I'm sure this guy is in the same situation as am I—chronically apathetic, situationally depressed, just trying to become whole again. He doesn't need an ornery witch like me making this more difficult, but I can't help myself. It's a cycle, and I'm a bitch. When I'm threatened, I let loose, and because I do, I'm alone.

I need to learn how not to be.

.

Ever punctual, and with my new found sense of time, I know he's late, and because he is, it gives me even more reasons to dislike him and feel less guilty. My blood boils with this knowledge as I wait patiently to unleash my frustration on Mr. Unsuspecting.

He turns the knob and waits the ten seconds and three chimes it takes, giving me enough time to step behind the partition, preserving our identities, before he enters.

He dims the remaining light then shuffles and mumbles about something, dropping what sounds like a set of car keys onto the countertop. The noise signals he's here, and we're doing this!

I wait for my eyes to readjust, absorbing the darkness, and count to ten, mustering my courage before grabbing the handrail guiding me back to the counter so I can begin to disrobe.

He takes out what he brought, and I smile, imagining him fighting with the brown paper wrapper, silently cursing while trying to gain access into the skinny bag with his long slender fingers, the fingers that sometimes fumble over my body. My amusement, however, is short-lived as somehow he manages a victory, placing the tiny "nip" bottle down in front of me.

I shudder, thinking about what I'm doing, and reason I wouldn't ever be caught with one of these in my higher circles. However, with the approval of our crock researchers running this party, we're allowed to have something alcoholic to keep us calm.

For me, it was either that or Valium.

If it weren't his turn to buy this week, Grey Goose would be sliding over my tongue, gliding down my gullet, stomping out all queasiness while warming my stomach.

Somehow, I have the feeling I'm about to be disappointed.

Placing my hand, gingerly, atop the counter, I find the bottle immediately and can't get the cap off fast enough before gulping it—the single shot they allow that I need to endure this endeavor.

It's Tuesday, and though I don't make it a habit to drink anytime I'm expected back at work, I make this one exception two days a week; otherwise, I don't think I'd ever get through this.

The burn is immediate, and the taste vile. Hot Damn!

Blech!

It's the brand of alcohol and not my reaction to this experience! In knowing this, I nearly spit the contents from my mouth, in realization. It all comes flashing back with memories of an experimental youth with little parental control, filled with high school bashes, wild frat parties, drunken weddings, and grueling hangovers.

"Aah . . . Sorry, I ran late at work. I grabbed what was closest to the register at the package store. It was either this or Fireball. Something told me your wrath would be far worse with the whiskey than with the schnapps."

Although he's right about his assumption, I don't let on. Hmph, cinnamon schnapps, indeed! What was he thinking? My tastes are much more refined.

I process what tastes like plastic, molasses, and cod liver oil. Finally some cinnamon makes an appearance as the alcohol begins its descent, racing through my system.

Not fast enough as far as I'm concerned.

.

Four weeks ago, we were perfectly miserable, imperfect strangers cast together for the sole purpose of partaking in planned debauchery. Now that we're not so strange to each other, I can't truthfully say I'm any less miserable, and this makes me wonder if this treatment is even working.

Promising commitment to duration of our sessions, I reason it's only been a month, so I'll try keeping an open mind.

I guess it has to be open to do this!

I seriously thought I was going to throw up the first time we did it and truly grasp the concept of arranged marriages, understanding what my immigrant great-grandparents must have gone through when put together on their wedding night.

Maybe I'm being too dramatic. We're not married—thank God—don't live together, and aren't even acquaintances.

I'm thankful I only have to participate in this twice a week for just an hour each time even though, in my opinion, it's two hours too long!

I have more important things to tend to like work, needing my time. I keep telling myself this will be over in a few months, and I'll never have to see this man again. Well, it's not exactly seeing—it's more like being with—so I reason it's tolerable for now.

Tick tock, tick tock, I feel my need for control growing.

"You know, you could work a little faster and pick up the pace here. I have an obligation downtown at six," I blurt impatiently.

"What could be more important than your health?" He reasons, schlepping along at his normal, pathetically slow tempo while I take time to consider my answer.

I gather he's removing his suit jacket and imagine him loosening buttons before hearing the faint rustling of what I assume is worsted wool—as I'd now most likely smell the acridity of polyester—when he pulls the fabric away from his shoulders.

The pleasing mixture of his cologne, deodorant, and aftershave complement each other and swirl with hints of citrus, iris, cedar, and spice. They meld with his own musk, creating a unique scent, which pokes at my nose, as he opens what I gather is his dress shirt.

Well, at least he's got something right.

Unfortunately, it's short-lived as I continue prodding him along.

"My job is more important, mind you! I still need to fix myself up after this and make it back to my office through rush hour traffic to be on time for a dinner meeting I have with associates arriving from China. They are flying here specifically to meet with me."

"Lucky them." He slips the words out sarcastically under his breath, thinking I won't hear or maybe hoping I will.

"Hey! I understand there is no love lost between us, but my work is my work. It's important! The East doesn't appreciate waiting for the West! You aren't going to leave me much room to address that if you don't hurry up with getting yourself undressed and getting yourself off!" I clearly let my bitchiness speak for me.

"Excuse me? Hurry up getting myself off? We haven't even started yet. You must be kidding. I thought we were going for a joint effort here."

He's definitely getting upset.

Clunk! He casts down, no doubt, a fine heavy watch and, by the sound of the higher pitch and the fact I hear two objects, his cufflinks.

At least he appears professional, caring about his attire. He's middle, no doubt; he doesn't seem to have the finesse of upper management.

"Don't flatter yourself, Dig."

I spar right back, not curtsying to his idyllic thinking as I ease-off my heels, immediately sensing the touchy spot of my earlier debacle.

I flex my toes, trying to ascertain if any are sprained or broken, and realize I probably won't know until I try putting my shoe back on. Realizing there isn't much I can do about it, I continue undressing, clawing at my back with both hands, nearly pulling off the tab from the fabric while I unzip. After it passes my bra and lands below my waist, I slink the dress down, off my shoulders, over my boobs, and past my belly, shimmying a little, (who am I kidding?) shimmying a lot, trying to force it over my hips, cursing the one, two, or possibly three bags of Halloween candy responsible for my present predicament! Ugh! I finally slay anaconda swallowing me, allowing the fabric to reach the floor.

Victory!

Not wanting to chance soiling it from who knows who, doing God knows what prior to my visit, I speedily pick it up, slipping it onto one of the flimsy wire hangers left by, probably, a prior guinea pig handed my same ill fate.

It's a cheap hanger encased in tissue paper, one most likely left over from someone else's dry cleaning.

I hate tissue paper.

I sneer at it in the dark because it irritates me, and because it irritates me, I have to poke a hole through it with my nail just because I feel the need to be destructive.

Better it than him.

"I told you not to call me that." He slings his words as if throwing mud at the name I called him, making me feel the slight breeze as he dips down, hurriedly untying, I assume, his soft-soled dress shoes.

I'm not intimidated.

We were advised to either use our first names or come up with pseudonyms for this experiment. He went with Degare—a derivative of the surname Diggory—explaining that Cedric was his favorite Harry Potter character. I, on the other hand, was not so forthright in giving my explanation for Bellinda, which is a combination of my real name, Isabella, and Linda Carter, aka Wonder Woman, with whom I share a personal affinity.

Hey, a girl could be teased for divulging something like that so not wanting to suffer anymore embarrassment, I keep that explanation to myself!

"Very well then, Gar. You already know the only reason I'm here is because I've tried nearly every antidepressant known to man and have run out of options. I can see that this clinical trial will work no better than anything else, so although I've already written myself out of this equation, there isn't any reason why you shouldn't reap the benefits of my company. Since I've now reluctantly signed on and am therefore required to participate in this study, have at it Diggory, Degare, or whoever you are. Just make it snappy." I make my demand while sticking my chest out, huffing while trying to loosen the hooks of my bra.

I hear him let out a deep sigh before beginning to toss his stuff forcefully and a little more hastily onto the provided counter. He "oh shits" quietly when I hear what sounds like loose change falling to the laminate floor. He's right behind it as I note the sound of his toes crackling and popping while he lowers himself to the fake wood, probably balancing on the cap of one knee as he undoubtedly crouches with the other to gather his stray coins and whatever other strange male things guys keep hidden in their pants pockets.

"Oh great, not another interruption!" I take the extra time to pin up my cumbersome curls so it won't appear as though I've had late afternoon sex—even though I will. I know I definitely won't have enough time to take a shower or shampoo my hair, so putting up my hair will have to do.

"I'll never get out of here. Just leave it for the cleaning crew. You're always so damned meticulous about everything. It takes you forever." I rant peeling off my stockings, thinking he's far worse than any female roommate I've ever had.

"Bellinda?"

He gruffs out my alias forcefully, emphasizing the B, questioning me as he rises to his feet.

As I stand near him, he seems a little less flustered, maybe more confident. I guess he's found everything he was missing.

"I, um, like Linda, if you don't mind." I offer my words calmly, knowing I'm probably pushing a bit too much and am now starting to abrade him, which is funny when I think about it because I don't actually think you could "rub" a guy the wrong way.

"Look! It doesn't matter whatever pardon-my-fucking-French fake names we give each other. This isn't going to work!"

I sense his growing aggravation.

"You seem hell-bent on killing my erection every time we do this, and I no longer have any shred of anticipation regarding this arrangement . . ."

If he were any other man, I'm sure he'd be pummeling the wall by now.

"I don't know how much more of this I can take. Your condescending attitude and lack of cooperation toward me is something else . . ."

In this moment, I actually feel a little bad for him. I didn't want to push him this far.

"It's no wonder you're depressed and not presently in a relationship. Frankly, I don't see how any man could tolerate you . . ."

I take that back. Everything I want to unleash on him, he now has coming!

"I didn't agree to this. This is torture!"

He sums up his tirade, offering his painfully brutal observation, pissing me off to my tipping point.

He must have had a shitty day, and it catches me off guard. He's never this forward or ever even swears—unless he's right in the middle of an orgasm. I suppose I should cut him some slack. Sadly, though, my inability to tamp down my outspokenness doesn't have me winning any popularity contests and, sometimes, even sends men running because of it. However, I draw the line when people criticize or raise their voices to me.

That's unacceptable!

"How dare you! You have no right, speaking that way! You know nothing about me!" I bellow back, acknowledging his truth when considering yet another, presently looming, failed encounter.

"How dare I? I think I have every right, and I think I just did. I know enough to know that you have an extremely difficult time with males and intimacy and might be better off switching teams, rooting for man-hating women with your pompoms. If you don't acknowledge the need to relinquish some of your control with what we are doing, you'll leave me with no choice but to bail."

I take a swing at him and miss. "You prick!"

"Yes, I do have one."

Now he's mocking me!

"Only in in the last month, it hasn't been relishing the idea of 'pricking' you."

"Asshole!" I spew.

"Yes, I suppose I am acting like one in this moment, but you bring it out, honey. Trust me. I'm not any happier about being stuck with you and your venom for the next eight weeks! What the hell was I thinking, agreeing to this arrangement? I've been told I'm generally a very polite, very nice guy who rarely speaks up and is certainly never this rude to women. I can't believe I'm letting you turn me into this, this crazed animal, I'm not."

I know I'm difficult to get along with, but I'll be damned if I'm going to simply allow this insulting doormat to just fuck me, regardless of the rare confidence he's presently exuding while given this confrontation.

I remove my panties, neatly tucking them under my dress belt, before deciding I'll hit him where I know I can.

"Maybe that's your problem. You're just a wimp, a pussy of a man who can't even stand up for himself. I bet you let people walk over you all the time, men, women, even your mother. Hell, if I did that in my world, I would be eaten alive. You seriously need to stop sucking on your mother's tit, grow a set, and learn how to assert yourself."

I turn around, groping in the dark until I find the handrail. Using it as my seeing eye dog, I let it guide me to the bed where I lower myself, listening attentively, recognizing the signs of his perturbation.

I hear him running his hand over his face and scratching his five o'clock shadow while probably clutching—make that pulling—his hair before letting out a breath I can feel over here even with the ventilation system on.

I must have struck a nerve. Maybe he has mommy issues.

"Assert myself? You want to see me assert myself? I'll give you assertion."

His dress belt whirs through the loops of his trousers like a ripcord being pulled from a lawnmower.

I'm surprised I missed that. I thought he'd already removed his slacks.

He quickly whips free the leather, and like a snake, moves himself so stealthily I don't even have time to consider his intentions.

Before I even realize it, the waist-warmed hide slips around my wrists, pulling my arms tightly above my head as he fastens me, anchoring the tether to the metal bar attached to the bedframe.

"What the fuck are you doing, you jerk? Take it easy! I bruise!" I chastise him without reasoning that my attitude always gets in the way of my common sense.

Unfortunately, however, it's after the fact as he's now the one clearly in control.

I'm fuming and attempting to keep my anger in check, but I'm just as equally impressed that he has this much skill in the dark. Maybe he knows how to harness horses or rope steers.

Nah, his hands are too soft. He's probably never even been in a barn. But, seriously, could I somehow be underestimating him? Should I instead be worried?"

"What are you d-doing?"

This is the first time since we were partnered I'm actually a little concerned, maybe even a little scared. I'm wondering now whether I shouldn't have coerced him this far.

"Something I should have done weeks ago when we first started—shut you up!"

Finally, maybe the man is stepping up, and although I don't care much for brashness other than my own, I'm curious to see where he takes this.

I suppose I should be careful what I wish for.

"Yes, please prove to me that you're worthy of my company and not a disappointment like all of the others," I retort one last time, hoping I don't regret what's in store.

Me and my damned mouth.

"You really shouldn't have said that," he threatens, menacingly with no amusement in his voice.

Should I swallow my pride and red flag, telling him to stop?

His cold words have the hair on my skin standing on end as I hear him walk around the platform bed I'm presently lying on, naked, and anchored to. It's as if he's contemplating, calculating, sizing up what to do with me.

I swallow as if I'm pushing down a cork, trying to gather saliva as I feel my heart begin to gallop.

He stops circling and, I think, moves over to the counter where we set down our things. I immediately sense the loss of heat, his heat, as he steps away, leaving the air conditioning pouring over me alone.

I can't be certain what he's up to, as it's always pitch black in this room, but I think he's rummaging through our clothing left there.

I can identify the repositioning of my shoes against the formica when he raises and lowers them, the movement of my clutch as the sterling chain slinks from side to side, and the sliding of my belt buckle, before hearing the pads of his feet coupled with snaps of his toes as he makes his way back toward me.

He wouldn't.

"What are you—" I manage the weak attempt at voicing my concern, barely getting the words out as my lungs strain to breathe with my arms overhead as he decides to join me again.

He isn't.

I catch a whiff of my own body wash and recognize the after-shower moisturizer I use while feeling the silk and lace of my previously shed undergarment hastily touch my neck and rub over my chin as he fumbles in the blackness of this room but still manages to maneuver my panties, eventually stuffing my mouth shut.

He did!

A/N:

So, we've gotten a glimpse of our mystery man.

Forget the boxing metaphors, we have moved on to fencing ones.

Is this En Garde or Invitation?

How's Bella going to handle this?

How should she handle it?

How should he handle her?

Btw, who is this handler? (and what is his backstory)

All right, enough handling!

How were the changes to the other chapters?

Give me your feedback.

Thank you, Chayasara. (My post-beta stubbornness is my own.)

Thank you for reading.

PAD