Disclaimer: Thank you to Janet Evanovich for creating wonderful characters and letting us play. Not mine.
A/N: Your reviews and feedback from chapter 47 have blown me away. Thank you, everyone! I'm thrilled with your enthusiasm and feedback.
A chapter can't go by where we don't give special appreciation to misty23y for her work as both my sounding board and beta. Thanks, Babe!
Chapter 48
Date/Time Stamp: Saturday, 22 SEP18 0900-1300
Morelli POV
"Morelli, you have a visitor," the Corrections Officer whose name I haven't bothered to learn yet calls out. I move forward in the cell, and he opens the door to escort me. Since being charged two nights ago, I was processed into the New Jersey State Prison conveniently located in Trenton. It is the only complete maximum security prison in the state, and I'm insulted to be housed next to the worst and most dangerous offenders New Jersey has to offer. I'm not a fucking murderer. Hell, I didn't even do anything wrong. I've put several of my new cellmates into this hellhole, and I'm pissed off those spics from the holding cell at TPD were transferred over with me.
I was threatened with solitary last night after I nearly got into a fight with the greasy, long-haired asshole with the tattoo sleeves, most of them representing gang affiliation bullshit. He fucking grabbed my cock out of nowhere, hard, and whispered in my ear, "Hector sends his regards," before tonguing my eardrum. And the fucking Corrections Officer acted like I was the trouble-maker. I can tell sleep is going to be an issue until I make some allies in this place. I need my mom to contact me so I can make bail.
Well, ask, and ye shall receive. Looks like good ole Angie Morelli has come to spring her baby boy from jail. I put on my most innocent and aggrieved face as I sit in the chair and pick up the phone. "Hello, Mom. Thank you for coming. I'm sorry you have to see me like this," I say, using my best Burg mannerisms.
"Hello, Joseph. I'm sorry to see you like this as well," she replies, and I'm instantly on the alert at the resigned yet determined look on her face. "I'm sorry to see you've decided to follow in the footsteps of your father."
Oh fuck. The conversation is not going the way I want it to progress. I need to do some quick damage control. I've always been able to sweet talk my mother. Now shouldn't be any different. "Oh, no, Mom. I didn't do anything. I've been set up by Ranger, that thug Stephanie works with from time to time. He's jealous of my relationship with her. I have to get out of here to prove my innocence and save her. Stephanie is missing, and I know he has her. Please help us, Mom. I love her," I say, placing my hand on the glass separating us.
"That isn't going to work on me anymore, Joseph. I was in the courtroom when your charges were read. You didn't see me, but I finally saw you. I also spoke with several of your former colleagues down at the station, and they confirmed several of the rumors flying around town about you. I know about all the women with whom you've been stepping out on Stephanie. I know about the betting you orchestrated against her at the police station. I know about the sex tape you were filming with that, that Mob whore, that slut, Terry Gillman when your former colleagues arrested you. It makes me sick to think of all the ways you manipulated and used Stephanie, poor girl," my Mom says with a sternness I've never heard from her, and I'm stunned into silence. I can't remember the last time things went so poorly for me. I need to think fast, but my mind is blank.
"I've failed you as a mother, and I came today to offer my apology. It wasn't until yesterday that I figured out that when I never defended myself from your father, you suffered, too, and that you learned the lessons of his abuse better than I realized. Joseph, real men, do not hurt, physically or emotionally, women or children. I always thought that if I buffered you, my innocent children, from your father's abuse and took it all unto myself, I was protecting you. I realized in that courtroom yesterday that instead, you became the very person I thought I was suffering to prevent from materializing. The Morelli legacy of abuse and womanizing stops now.
"I came here today to say how sorry I am and to start being the mother I should have been all along. To your detriment, I have justified and defended your actions for a long time. Neither I nor anyone in the family will be bailing you out. Your cousin Mooch reached a plea deal and will be serving two years upstate for his participation in your actions. Joseph, it's time for you to face the consequences of your actions and learn from them before it's too late. How much time you serve in here is up to you and your willingness to confess, learn from your past, and be willing to change your future. I love you, son. Be a better man," my mom pleads, tears falling freely down her face. She hangs up the phone and walks away before I can reply.
Fuck. Why me?
Stephanie POV
Lester and I are rolling up our mats at the conclusion of savasana. "I'm glad you stuck around this time, Beautiful," Lester says, and I look up at the seriousness of his tone. When our eyes meet, he continues, "I am here to train you and to be your Rangeman partner, but first and foremost, I'm your friend. If something we are doing isn't working or you want to mix it up, I need you to tell me."
I stand completely still as I absorb his gentle admonishment. Lester is right. I shouldn't have snuck away yesterday. I look down again, fingering the edge of the mat. "I'm sorry. It's good you said something. I should have asked you to join me in the gym or told you what I was up to, and I'll do a better job of communicating in the future," I said remorsefully. It's not just Lester I've been avoiding talking to these last eighteen hours. I also need to speak to Carlos, write the letter to my grandma, and I've been remiss on my journaling and developing my words of affirmation. I know I'm reverting to my old habits of tucking the difficult stuff away under the guise of independence. That notion of freedom puts me in a prison of pain and misery. I have to trust, communicate, and put in the work of self-care to gain the strength I need to fly.
Lester places his hands on my shoulders, and I can tell he's restraining himself from giving me his typical bear hug. "It's okay. We're good, Beautiful, and I understand. As you keep working through things, your moods and needs are going to change. I'm here to help, and mixing your PT up is an easy way to adapt and make things better for you. After seeing you box, which was one of best shocks I've ever experienced, by the way, I'm excited to start training you in mixed martial arts," he says, his tone more compassionate yet light-hearted. I look up and give him a small smile in reply.
"Thanks, Lester," I say, initiating a short hug. "I'm going to take a break in my room now. I need to spend some time with my journal."
Lester looks down at me appraisingly as I take a step away. "Alright. I'm here to listen, too, should there be something you want to talk about," he says.
"I know," I reply automatically but not moving. "I know I'm changing and working through stuff, and I'm grateful you're here. I believe it when you guys say I'll heal and be stronger and all that stuff, but do you think I'll ever be the same person you liked in the first place again?" I say before I have a chance to stop myself.
Lester moves his hands so that they are lightly gripping my biceps. "No, Beautiful, I don't. I think you'll be better," he says earnestly. I shift my eyes to look back at him, surprise registering on my face. I'm not sure I can reply right now without bursting into tears, which is something I don't want to do, so I purse my lips together, nod my head yes several times and walk towards the master bedroom patio.
After I freshen up, pour myself a glass of water and grab my laptop, I walk back out to the porch. I sit down at the small table, not wanting to be so comfortable I fall asleep instead of working. I start by journaling my reflections and musings since yesterday, and I can feel some of the anxiety leave me as the words form on the screen. From there it's a smooth transition to write a letter to my grandma. I'm willing to let that first draft sit a day before I revise it. After that, I begin my words of affirmation.
I review the handout Dr. Anderson gave me. The first step is to make a list of my negative self-talk and beliefs. I sigh to myself as I begin the type — the words inept, unworthy, failure, and unlovable leap onto the screen. Not wanting to continue listing my numerous flaws, I jump ahead to the next step. Turn those concepts into affirmations. In other words, make the negative a positive. I stare at the page, my fingers still. That is a much harder step. I sit for nearly ten minutes before writing,
I am an intelligent, capable, and beautiful woman, inside and out, who gives love freely and is worthy of accepting love in return. I can fly.
Deep down, I don't feel that these words are correct, but I suppose, as I read the third step, that is the purpose of the exercise. I'm to repeat these words to myself three times a day for five minutes at a time. I'm supposed to learn to believe them. Well, it doesn't hurt to try. I feel silly, but I place my hand over my heart and repeat the statement. Surprisingly, I feel lighter by the end.
I put away my laptop and walk into the bedroom as a freshly showered Carlos walks out of the bathroom, his hair still wet from the shower. The smell of Bulgari moves ahead of him, and my stomach has butterflies as I shyly observe the sexiest man I've ever laid eyes on amble towards me. I set the computer on the bed and allow Carlos to pull me into a strong embrace. The hug is longer than I expected, and I feel as though Carlos is attempting to transfer his love through his body and into mine physically. It's both comforting and disquieting. He kisses my head as we break away, and the increasingly routine action sends a bolt of intimacy through me.
"Have you had lunch, Babe?" he asks. I shake my head no, and he takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen. I glance at the stove clock, surprised to see it's 11:30 already. I look in the fridge and see a container of the leftover black bean soup in the back.
"Do you want some?" I ask as I pop it in the microwave.
"No, you take it. That's not enough for more than one person, anyway. Can I make you a salad or sandwich to go with it?" Carlos replies as he takes some lettuce out of the fridge.
"No, thank you," I respond. I can't shake the sense I got from Carlos' hug that he has something to tell me but doesn't want to. That coupled with the talk I keep talking myself both into and out of, I'm not sure I can even eat the bowl of soup.
I settle onto my stool with the soup and watch Carlos make a sandwich and a side salad. He moves with quiet assuredness, and I notice the little things he does to make my old idea of rabbit food tastier. He uses a dash of spice on the turkey before spreading whole-grain mustard instead of mayo to wet the bread, adding a few pickles to the tomatoes and lettuce. None of it looks particularly difficult or time-consuming. Perhaps another way to expand my kitchen repertoire is by knowing the value and purpose of the ingredients rather than working towards unrealistic ambitions of exceptional skill and technique.
We eat in quiet company, each of us lost in our thoughts. I want to give up on the soup, but I remember my promise to do better, and I persist despite my increasing anxiety over the conversation I know is looming. "I need to talk to you," I blurt out, putting my spoon down after the last bite.
Carlos turns towards me, and eyebrow slightly raised. "Babe?"
I stand and silently clear the dishes. As I load the dishwasher, I can feel Carlos' eyes following me. Me and my mouth sometimes, but I remember Lester's words after yoga, and I cling to my impulsive resolve. Carlos joins me, placing his plate in the sink. He reaches over and gently removes the sponge from my hands before turning me towards him. "What do you want to talk about, Babe?"
I don't want to have a conversation of this magnitude in the kitchen. I turn and, with Carlos' hand still in mine, lead us to the floating dock I discovered yesterday. I should have finished this conversation with him there and not let it fester so long. I think about leading us to the blissful hammock, but I'm too keyed up for that. I need to fidget, and I'm pretty sure I'd wiggle us into being flipped onto the ground.
Carlos unquestioningly follows me but jumps down to the wooden structure first before offering me his hand. I sit with my knees bent after I pulled up my leggings with my feet half in the water before wrapping my arms tightly around my legs. Carlos sits beside me; his body turned slightly towards my own. With his seemingly endless patience and self-control, I know he'll wait as long as it takes for me to begin talking. There's no getting out if it now, not that I want to.
I'm struggling to find the words to start. I don't want Carlos to think that I'm rejecting him, but if I say what's on my mind, he just might. Carlos grazes his thumb along my arm, and it sends a shiver through my body. Instead of being comforted as I usually would be, my heart begins to race as the sensation mingles with my thoughts and fears. The reality is that I love this man, I want this man, and I am terrified to go too far with this man.
I bury my face in the space between my knees. In my heightened state, the images of my dream last night flood behind my closed eyes. Joe Morelli is back, taunting me about how my inhibitions keep me from satisfying him in bed as he threatens to have his way with me someday to show me how wrong I've been. If I loved him, I would give him what he wanted. I begin to tremble as I recall the coldness of his voice, and I remember his hands roughly moving down my body to grip my ass, spreading my cheeks intimately. I had ten little bruises the next day.
I jump as Carlos moves behind me and wraps his arms gently over mine. "Shhh, Babe. You're safe," he quietly soothes. "Breathe with me."
I hadn't noticed how shallow and rapid my breaths had become before his command. I will work through this, but I feel immense relief knowing I don't have to do it alone. I don't lift my head but nod yes and press my back against his chest, trying to focus on his breathing to slow my own. I train my senses on his presence to chase away the ghosts of my mind. I listen intently to the cadence of his soothing, much of it in Spanish, to chase away the negative thoughts.
I actively work to shove aside my self-doubt, and I follow his instructions. I am determined not to lose myself to the threatening panic. I breathe with him, counting the seconds in and the seconds out. I remember Dr. Anderson's instructions on meditative breathing, and I visualize the air entering my body, filling my lungs and belly and feel it leaving slowly until I imagine myself empty. Soon, my trembling quiets, and the tension lessens as I relax my shoulders and back.
"Querida, te quiero," Carlos soothes quietly before kissing my head. "Are you feeling a little better? You did a great job calming down. I'm proud of you."
I let out one last large breath and turn my head to the side, continuing to rest it on my knees. "I'm sorry. I know you don't want to hear it, but I am. I feel like I'm fucking everything up," I say, hating that I'm making this conversation harder than it has to be by being unable to control my emotions.
Carlos moves two fingers under my chin and gently pulls my gaze up to his. I match my eyes to his reluctantly, my chin quivering again. His looks at me thoughtfully, his eyes searching for answers to unspoken questions. "What has you feeling this way? I know something has been bothering you since yesterday. Are you ready to talk about it?" he says with concern, his eyebrows slightly scrunched together.
I break eye contact as I lean forward to rest my chin on the dip between my knees, staring steadfastly at the Miami skyline, my arms firmly grasped around myself as I gather my courage. He places his hands on my shoulders and gently massages my arms and back. I inhale the rich smell of this man, a sexy, earthy blend that draws my very soul to him. I can't imagine my life without Carlos in it.
"I'm scared of losing you," I blurt out in a whisper, tears flooding my eyes as the words take shape.
"Babe?" he questions, his hands pausing in their ministrations, and I hear the confusion.
"I don't know how to say this, so please bear with me. I'm scared of being intimate, but it isn't you, and I'm terrified that you are going to be so frustrated with me and all the conflicting signals I send that you'll throw your hands up and walk away. I know the first thing you are going to say is 'No, Babe, I would never,' but you have to realize that it's happened to me already, more than once. I know that you aren't pressuring me now, but we have an undeniable spark between us that you are going to want to act on, especially since we have before. You're doing so much for me that you have every reason to have certain expectations from me. Don't say anything yet," I stumble out, needing to collect myself again. I want Carlos to understand, and to continue; I have to slow my pounding heart.
I take a deep breath, and as I do, Carlos moves a hand over one of my tightly gripped ones. I let him take it, and hold onto his with white-knuckled desperation. "I am afraid to have sex right now for several reasons, and all of the scenarios in my head end with me destroying this relationship. You didn't know me in college, but some of my exploits could put Lester to shame. Simply put, sex feels good, and I used that pleasure to avoid dealing with how much pain I was in since that day Morelli raped me. Sex with you is the very best pleasure, and I'm afraid I'll use you as a distraction to avoid continuing to work through my demons. I know I have to face my past to have a future with you.
"Since college, I've only been with three men, including you. It's true that you ruined me for all other men, but even still, we've never made love. We have only ever fucked, and I can say the same is true with Dickie and Joe. To be clear, that's where the similarities end, which is one of many reasons why I'm with you now," I say, my voice having an edge of begging for his understanding. I'm sure I'm saying this all wrong.
"I don't talk much about my nightmares or my past, but maybe I need to try," I continue with a more detached tone, but my fingers gripping Carlos' fingers even tighter. "I have two types of dreams. One type has an ethereal quality. It's an imaginative take on people, situations, and what things could be. It's where I envision my death, find a way to fly, or am being consumed by voices with messages of condemnation or my fears. The second type is a reliving of my worst experiences in vivid detail. They are so realistic that I can't tell it was a dream when I first wake up, and I often have a hard time shaking the lingering effects all day, leaving me anxious and hypervigilant. Last night, I went through the evening that Joe left fingerprint bruises on my behind after he told me I was too big of a prude to satisfy him, and that he was going to take me however he wanted to show me what I was missing. The night before, it was about Dickie. The thing about Dickie is that he didn't play the mind games Joe does. He just got drunk and did what he wanted, and he never heard me," I manage to say, wishing I could find a way to make my voice stronger.
I squeeze my eyes tight as I work to open up to this man who deserves to understand from where I'm coming. I start my story again, my body coiled with tension. "Dickie always managed to come off with this good guy quality that made me feel like a terrible person if I denied him. I've never been into butt stuff, ever. It is a no for me; always has been. He was obsessed, as is Joe. Throughout our relationship, Dickie kept trying to cop a feel, sneak a finger in, stuff like that. The last time we had sex, it was after we'd gone out on a date, and we both had too many glasses of wine. I think we were both trying to make each other's company more tolerable as we kept running out of things to say to one another. Anyway, we came home and continued the date. He rolled me over to take me doggy style, but instead of doing it the usual way, he began to press where I didn't want him to be. I tried to pull away, telling him no and to come to do something else with me, using flirting as a distraction. He grabbed my hips and slammed into me instead. I think I might have screamed and struggled briefly before I froze. He ignored me, probably took my lack of fight as me consenting, and only pulled out when he finished.
"I fled and locked myself in the bathroom only to discover I was bleeding. When I came back into the bedroom, Dickie was waiting for me. He said, 'See, I knew you'd love it, baby. That was the best sex you've given me.' I told him I didn't like it, and I would never do it that way again. He looked at me with disappointment and said, 'I thought the Burg taught you how to be a better wife than that,' before he laid down on the bed and passed out. I slept downstairs on the sofa. The next day I went to a private GYN practice outside the Burg, and when I came back, he was fucking Joyce in the ass on our new dining room table.
"I hurt more the next day, and the doctor gave me a couple of stitches. When I walked in on the two of them, something snapped in me, and I channeled my physical pain into anger. When Dickie slunk away to 'Let me cool down,' I took everything he owned, including the table, and made a bonfire in the front yard. I'm proud of the way I stood up for myself that day. As things progressed negatively between Joe and me, and when you kept qualifying our relationship, it added water and fertilizer to the seed of doubt Dickie had planted. I began to believe I'm not good enough because I wouldn't do everything they wanted," I don't want to continue, but I know I have to. I'm desperate for Carlos to understand, and maybe, possibly, still want me anyway.
"I know you said you'd wait and take things at my speed, but I don't know how long it's going to take for me to feel healed enough to take that step. I'm scared of liking sex and retreating into it, I'm scared of the random flashbacks where I relieve the times when sex was terrifying, and I'm scared of not being good enough. The only thing that I know right now is that you love me, and it's my anchor in a very emotionally turbulent world. Please don't think for a second that I don't completely love you. I'm terrified that what I just said will be the thing that makes you realize my love has more conditions than you thought and that you can't do this after all. I would understand, and I would let you go," I say as tears spill down my face forlornly, and I collapse my head forward so that my forehead rests on our clenched hands.
Carlos lifts his free hand, which had been gently resting on my back, and sets it on my head, smoothing my hair out of my face. "Oh, Querida," he says quietly, and I hear a husky waiver in his voice. "Te quiero incondicionalmente, siempre," he whispers as much to himself as to me. I feel him struggling with his emotions, and I turn my head to peek at him through damp lashes. He matches my gaze, and his brown eyes are bright, and his face is sorrowful. I'm convinced this is the moment he's decided to let me go. I kiss his hand before releasing it. As I begin to move away, Carlos rushes to pull me back. (I love you unconditionally, forever.)
"No, Babe, no," Carlos says, his eyes searching mine as he turns so that we are facing one another, his hands holding mine. "Don't go. Please," he pleads. "I love you. No conditions. No time limit."
My mouth opens slightly, and I tilt my head as I try to make sense of everything. Carlos senses my questions and, leaning forward slightly, continues in a heavily accented voice, "I understand everything you have said, and I respect you for sharing it with me. I know it's hard for you to share your history, and I'm grateful you've entrusted me with it. You're right. We have never made love. Neither one of us has ever been that emotionally available to the other. As this week has gone on, I've fallen deeper in love with you with each passing day. I can never imagine just having sex with you again. You, Stephanie, are worth waiting for, as long as it takes. I know you will heal. I have absolute faith in you, and I've seen you come farther than I ever expected this week already. When the time is right, we will make love, and it will be incredible. I will always respect your boundaries. I promise to never take advantage of you and to honor you with my words and body. When you want to try new things, I'm here, willing and waiting, but with no pressure. You can say yes, and if the next second, it's a no, that's completely acceptable, and we stop. It isn't a mixed signal to me. It's your right, and I will respect you, always."
Carlos moves closer, spreading his knees to the outside of mine, and he places his hands on either side of my head. "Babe, I love you. Unconditionally. Forever. No qualifiers. I will spend every day proving that to you. I believe in you, and I believe in us. I'm not going anywhere," he says, passion pouring through every word.
Tears come again as my hearts bursts at his declaration. I surge forward, wrapping my arms around him and burying my face in his neck. He catches me and presses me into him. I kiss him at the place where his neck meets his collarbone as tears of relief come unbidden. "I love you. I love you so much. Thank you for understanding," I choke out. He kisses my cheek, and I turn my face back towards his. Our lips meet, and the kiss is gentle but fervent, our souls connecting as we open ourselves to one another.
