Cauterize - Part lll
"I beg you, eat me up. Want me down to the marrow."
—Hélène Cixous
*Same content warnings for previous chapter still apply. Taylor is still underage.
She wakes in his bed.
Dawn is cool and slate gray, slithering in through the cracks in the closed blinds with gentle insistence, light that is silk-smooth and as sleepy as she is. She sits up, yawning, and folds her legs Indian-style as the covers pool around her waist. She rubs the sleep out of her eyes with both fists.
She's still wearing her sundress from the night before—wrinkled, now, gathered around the tops of her thighs when she pushes the covers off—and she flushes at the memory of who had just been between them several hours prior.
Had he really touched her? Brought her to completion? Had it all just been some strange fever dream, a heady cocktail of her most depraved, desperate fantasies?
She looks down, between her folded-up legs, and skirts her dress farther up her thighs, goose bumps pimpling over bare skin.
She isn't wearing underwear.
Her blush deepens, hot as a sunburn, and the weight of what had transpired settles over her in a way that makes the place between her legs throb in memory.
J, I—I love you.
The way he'd looked at her when she'd said that, the hunger in his eyes, the ravenous want. She had thought he would rip her open right there and just take, bleed her bone-dry and then feast himself on the shriveled carcass of whatever was left over of her when he was done. And the way she'd opened her thighs for him, inviting him in, so glassy-eyed with want and lost to pleasure she hadn't even stopped to consider whether or not she should. She'd waited—wanted—for so long.
Had he waited, too? Had he wanted her for just as long?
It was hard to pinpoint exactly when want and need had bled together, one spilling over into the cup of the other until there was no telling them apart, until they were one. This truth she had swallowed, lapped at with feverish intent, savoring every last drop, like her soul was nourished by the taste of her desperation. Her greed.
What was it that he had said to her? No going back?
Good, she thinks. She doesn't want to go back. Not ever. She's waited her whole life to feel the way she did last night—to feel wanted. Desired.
She crawls out of bed and pads to the door, combs her fingers through her hair, smoothing it out and neatly tucking it behind her ears.
For a moment, after the door clicks open, her hand drops back to her side and she can only stand there. She curls her toes into the curlicue fibers of the carpet, sucks in a slow, measured breath that makes her chest expand. Her heart thuds wildly—excitedly. She knows he's waiting for her.
When she steps out into the hallway, the coffee table catches her eye first—lying in ruin, still—and glass shards are scattered across the caramel-colored carpet, some stray pieces having skidded across the linoleum and into the kitchen. It's exhilarating—breathtaking—seeing the aftermath of his destruction, the evidence of his frenzy-fueled lust. It makes her spine prickle and her throat feel tight.
She finds him when she rounds the corner of wall that the couch is butted up against, and her heart clenches, bearing down, so heavy from the weight of everything she carries. Seeing him solidifies the memory of last night, remembering how good he made her feel, and she is so full of reverence—a kind of veneration reserved only for unholy gods—as she pads closer.
He looks up when she comes fully into view, and she can only see the glimmer of his eyes from behind the newspaper. She feels bashful, for some reason, even though her heartbeat flutters at the way his eyes rake over her—starting low, sliding up her bare calves, first, her thighs, the length of her torso, and then the column of her throat. When he finally settles on her eyes, a slow, wolfish grin splits his face as he lowers the paper, and her heart convulses once again. She can't help it. Everything is so different now. Even the air around them feels hyper-charged, lit up with something she's never felt. There's a new current of energy strung up between them, something crackling and hot to the touch—but even then she can't keep her hands to herself, can't ignore the sizzling heat, the call of livewire. Even then, she still yearns to touch.
"Morning, princess," he drawls.
She sinks her teeth into her lower lip, bounces a little on the balls of her feet. Eager. Impatient. She wants to run to him, curl up in his embrace, but she doesn't want to be overbearing. Too much. This is all so new. She doesn't know what's okay yet and what isn't.
"Hi," she says, excited—shy—but she's smiling. When was the last time she'd smiled at him like this?
Mr. J grins when he pats his thigh, and she practically jumps at the invitation, biting her lip to curb some of her smile, but she can't help it. She's so happy. Has she ever been this happy in her whole life?
She weaves carefully through the rainstorm of glass, tiptoeing around it as best she can until she's close enough to crawl into his lap. Relief floods through her when
she is able to melt into his embrace, when his arm comes up to circle her back, supporting her, while the other wraps under her thighs where her knees are bent, pulled up to her chest. She can't remember the last time she was cradled like this. Held like a baby.
"How's my sweet girl this morning?" he murmurs, looking down at her. Her skin prickles where he skims his knuckles along the back of her calf. Up and down. Up and down, all the way to the back of her heel and then back up, to the delicate, sensitive crease behind her kneecaps. She stares up at him in open fascination. He's so close she can see herself in the reflection of his dark eyes, and she can't help but feel transfixed. Awed. It's like they're looking at each other for the first time or something. Seeing each other.
She comes back to herself after a moment, nods bashfully in lieu of a reply, still biting her lip. She's good. Content. He doesn't have to ask. It's not like it isn't written all over her face anyway.
She can't help but think about how close she feels to him like this, when he's stripped of his jacket, his vest, all his usual modes of armor. She likes feeling the shifting muscles in his abdomen. The power in his long arms. And it's not often she gets to study the hexagonal pattern of his shirt so up close—how she never realized that inside each hexagon is a different design. She'd always thought there were little dots filled inside each hexagon, but upon closer inspection, she can see that some of them are tiny little squares connected to each other by thin lines. Other squares have a checkerboard pattern to them, almost too small to be seen by the naked eye. She shifts her gaze and reaches out to touch the green diamonds on his suspenders, the way they're arranged like rows of shark teeth along the edges. Everything about him feels somehow brand new and fresh, like she's seeing him for the first time. She is drawn to study every inch of him, map him out under new light, under the touch of her careful hands.
The thought of touching him in the way he'd touched her comes on so suddenly that it makes the blood rush to her head, makes her vision blur and fuzz around the edges. She remembers the thrill she'd felt when she'd realized he was hard, that he was turned on because of what they were doing.
But the way he had slapped her hand away when she'd went to reach for him… didn't he want her to touch him? Did he not think she was capable of bringing him to pleasure?
He had been quick to pacify her afterwards, though, slowly stroking her oversensitive clit with the pad of his thumb—curious, almost, watching her while he did it—making her arch up and squirm. Her little breathless laugh when her thighs closed around his hand, and then the easy way he'd opened her back up, his eyes so dark as he peeled her thighs apart, wanting one last look at her—all of her—before he'd picked her up bridal style and taken her to his room.
It dawns on her that he could've let her fall asleep on the couch. But when he'd deposited her on his bed, on top of the covers, it felt purposeful—the kind of thing done with intention—like he wanted her to know that this is where she'd be sleeping from now on. When she'd curled onto her side, facing him, the tendrils of sleep were already halfway to pulling her under. She remembers blindly pawing for him, wanting him in bed with her, and she thinks he might've chuckled as he pushed her hands away. Remembers him brushing the sweat-slicked hair back from forehead, and him hovering over her for a long time. Standing. Watching.
She swallows.
"I—I liked last night," she says, quiet, braving a glance up. She quickly finds that she's unable to endure the intensity of his black eyes. Has to look away.
"Did you?"
She can feel the rumble of his question vibrating through his chest. She focuses her attention on tracing her finger down the length of the suspender that's closest to her. Her cast feels bulky and useless as it lays cradled against her abdomen, and she's relegated to using only her left hand.
"It felt good," she says, so softly. Her cheeks flood with heat after, and she leans forward to bury her face in the crook of his neck, clinging to the front of his shirt with one hand, embarrassed, but she's glad she said it. It did feel good.
He hums, whether in agreement or acknowledgement, she doesn't know, but she feels the vibration of it, this time where her face is tucked against his neck, where she can feel his pulse throbbing beneath her cheek. She sighs when he nuzzles into her hair, nosing through the strands. It's a strange sensation, feeling the puckering of his scar tissue pressed against the top of her head, but she likes it, likes this intimacy with him. Somehow he makes her feel like she's the only girl in the world. The only girl that matters.
The moment takes on a familiar shape, like something out of her most tender dreams: the ones that cradle her softly during mid-morning, the dreams she has after she's woken but then accidentally drifted back asleep. The kind she wakes from so slowly, like if she could just keep her eyes closed long enough, lie still enough, she might be able to sink back into the comfort of its embrace, into the safety of a world where everything happens just as she has always wanted it to.
She can't help wondering how last night has shaped their future, what this all means. He loves her too, now, right?
"Mr. J?"
He hums again, his cheek still pressed to the top of her head.
"Am I your girlfriend?" she asks softly.
The movement of his hand stills against the back of her calf for a moment, just long enough for her to notice. He resumes stroking.
"Do you want to be?"
His voice makes her shiver, and all she can do is nod into his neck, incapable of speech, incapable of voicing just how much she wants that. A thousand times yes, she thinks. She wants it. She wants it so much.
Mr. J chuckles, and she thinks for a moment that maybe he can read her thoughts. She's embarrassed until she feels his cheek sliding through her hair, so she can feel the hot press of his mouth against the shell of her ear.
"You've always been my girl, though, haven't you?"
His long fingers curl around the fleshy portion of her calf, squeezing, and she swallows, nodding again.
She feels his other hand sliding up her spine, cupping the back of her neck, pulling her out of the place where she's sought shelter. He forces her to meet his gaze.
"I said, haven't you?"
She nods desperately, eyes wide, searching. "Yes." There's an incredible, gaping abyss buried within the depths of his eyes that she is afraid to prod at, so she doesn't. "Yes."
He searches her eyes too, looking for any traces of doubt, any signs of hesitation, but there is none. His mouth stretches into a satisfied grin, his black eyes glittering. He digs his fingers into the back of her neck and pulls her towards him, bends down to touch his forehead to hers.
"All mine."
Her heart throbs at his proclamation, this claim of ownership, like being branded all over again, and it doesn't matter that she has chosen not to prod at the abyss—it's going to swallow her up anyway, whether she wants it to or not.
She shivers as she looks at him, his eyes so close. Fever-bright.
"All yours," she whispers.
The next few days unfold like a dream.
She spends every waking moment with him—every sleeping moment, too—curling herself around him at night, and he lets her.
He lets her.
It's exhilarating, all the ways in which she is free to touch him now. She blossoms under this newfound freedom, no longer quite so shy to initiate contact when she wants it—and she wants it all the time.
Her curiosity is insatiable, and she lusts after pleasure and affection in equal measure. Now that she knows how good he can make her feel, she chases after the sensation at every available opportunity.
Maybe it's shameless—a little desperate—but she just wants to be close to him. She hungers to stake her claim in the same way he's staked his. She wants to own him. Possess him. Brand him—maybe not in the same way he's branded her—but she wants to leave her mark on him. Somewhere—anywhere. She wants her stain on his skin, a secret birthmark, one the color of red wine, something that cannot be removed, not without intent. Not without effort. She'll have to be pried off—excised—but even then it won't be enough. She'll make a home under his skin, bed herself down in the soft tissue of his bones. Tangle herself inside the spider-web network of his capillaries, build herself a nest within the valve of his pulsing aorta, gorge herself on his insides until she's blood-drunk and bloated, like a tick that's finally had its fill—except she'll never be sated.
She'll be parasitic. She'll be an infestation.
He'll never be rid of her.
Does he know how much she wants him? Can he ever possibly know the extent of her obsession—her need?
She savors the moments when she gets to wrap her arms around him from behind, laying her head down on his back, her ear pressed to his spine. Sometimes she imagines she can hear the sound of his breath pushing through the branches of his lungs, like when you press a seashell to your ear and can hear the echo of the ocean sloshing around inside.
Sometimes she spoons his back when they're lying in bed, although she likes it best when he's curled up behind her instead, winding his arms around her so tight it's as though he hopes to absorb her body into his, like she could be capable of liquefying into the heat of his embrace. Disappear inside him, two becoming one, where she could live inside of him like a second pulse.
When they're lounging on the couch, she makes herself cozy in his lap, between his spread legs. She likes when she falls asleep like that, trapped between the V of his long legs, turned on her side, one bent leg thrown over his, her head pillowed on his chest or his abdomen. Sometimes he rubs her back when she's like that, or combs his fingers through her hair, and she thinks she likes that best, the way his nails scrape against her scalp when he does it. She falls asleep with her fingers curled around one of the straps of his suspenders, and it's just another way in which she likes to anchor herself to him. Sometimes he carries her to bed, and sometimes he lets her stay like that on the couch until morning, and when she wakes, sleepy-eyed and drowsy, she's still lying between his legs, and he's still touching her back or her head or trailing his fingers along her spine, like he never stopped.
It's beyond her wildest fantasies—her most secret dreams. It's everything she's ever hoped for—this simple, domestic intimacy—and it feels so good she doesn't think she'll ever stop wanting it.
Sometimes she distances herself so that she can sketch him from afar—she likes it best when he works at his desk—that way she can sit in the overstuffed armchair in the corner and watch him from underneath the fan of her lashes, study the way his hands move, and the low, languid shadows that are cast upon his face from the gooseneck lamp. The way he habitually tongues at his lower lip, or tastes the ripple of scar tissue tangled inside his cheeks. The sharp, foreboding hunch of his broad shoulders, the crease between his brows when he's deep in thought. His hands are her favorite to draw, the ropes of veins there, and his greasepaint-stained fingers, the curly blond hairs creeping up his wrist. There's a long, vicious history scarred all over those calloused hands—violence and pain, death and destruction—and yet, somehow, there's tenderness there, too, a touch so achingly soft it makes her knees weak just to think about it. A touch he reserves just for her.
One night, when she's sketching him from the kitchen counter while he sits on the couch, he shoots up from the cushions, quick as a gunshot, and she instinctively snaps her sketchpad shut. He's on her before she can slip away, caging her against the countertop with his arms on either side of her. She clutches her sketchpad to her chest like her life depends on it, heartbeat slamming against the confines of her ribs.
"What's my girl drawing, hm? Let Mr. J see."
She shakes her head at him. No. No way. Too embarrassing. She doesn't want him to know she's been watching him. She doesn't think she can handle him criticizing her art again. She already knows he doesn't like it. She remembers what he'd said.
Not good enough.
When he tries to pry it out of her arms, she squeals. Mr. J is quick—lithe—but so is she. She ducks out from beneath one of his arms and slips off the barstool, dashing away from him and into the hallway before he can reach for her. In a split second decision, she turns right, into her bedroom, a place she doesn't spend much time in anymore since she's mostly moved all of her stuff into Mr. J's room.
There's nowhere to go in here, and she hears him behind her, even through the pulsing of her own bloodrush pounding in her ears. He has her pinned against her old bed before she can even blink, holding her down with his weight and then wrestling her onto her back, tickling her ribs and belly until she squeals with laughter and unwillingly relinquishes her hold. Something about the way he has her pinned feels good. Maybe she doesn't fight back as hard as she should.
"Mr. J, please—" she gasps, her fingers slipping from her sketchpad with ease. She never really had a chance, especially with her right arm trapped in the hard shell of its cast.
"Now, now, I just want to take a look at what's got my girl so preoccupied."
"It's nothing—" she starts, and then doesn't finish.
He rises from the bed, and she slips off the mattress after him, already at his heels, trying to reach for her sketchbook, but he shields her from it with his body, chuckling. She whines in distress.
"Mr. J, please, I don't want—"
He whirls on her so fast she instinctively stumbles back a step.
"What are you so afraid of?"
She blinks up at him. "What?"
"What are you so afraid of?" He advances on her until the backs of her knees hit the mattress, and she stumbles back, landing on her ass. She looks up at him.
"I—I don't know."
"Yes, you do." He opens up the sketchpad, and her heart lurches into her throat. "I already told you, I see you."
She swallows, anxious as she watches him lower his eyes, his gaze raking over her sketches with careful attention. He flips through the pages slowly, taking time to linger on each one.
Her face starts to burn hot the longer the silence stretches between them. After a long moment, he hums thoughtfully, and she bites her lip as he continues browsing.
"Looks like you see me, too," he says, a knowing smirk unfurling at the corner of his mouth.
She flushes, awkwardly crossing her arms. She can't wait to get this cast off. "It's okay if you hate them," she mumbles.
"If I had only known you liked my hands so much… " he trails off, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. Taylor gapes at him, not sure if he's serious or not.
"I—I don't—" she stutters.
Mr. J tosses her sketchpad onto the bed, his full attention on her. Goose bumps prickle over her arms when he cocks his head at her. "You don't?"
"I mean—I just meant that—"
He's advancing on her again, and when he pushes her to lie flat on her back and leans over her, one knee on the bed, the other leg planted on the floor, she stares up at him with wide eyes, hardly daring to breathe, like her very breath will threaten to shatter the moment completely.
"What did you mean?" he murmurs.
She can't speak, not when he's so hot and heavy above her. Not when he takes her arms and raises them over her head—so slowly, like he's testing whether or not she'll resist—pins her hands to the mattress with only one of his. And she can't speak when he traces along the line of her jaw with his finger, all the way to her chin. She exhales when he skirts a line down the column of her throat, down, down, down, between the valley of her breasts, cutting a line through the plane of her stomach, where her belly jumps beneath his hand. He stops, finally, when he reaches the button of her jeans shorts. Her hips lift off the bed, just slight, just enough for her to feel his puff of laughter against her cheek when he moves to hold her hip down with one big hand. His thumb smooths back and forth over the exposed skin of her hip bone, where her shirt has ridden up.
"You will always be a bad liar," he says, lowly. He chuckles at this, watching her as he tongues at his lower lip for a moment, and she can't help but follow the movement of his tongue with her eyes. He lowers himself further down to whisper in her ear, his belt buckle digging into her thigh. "Maybe next time you can be a big girl—" he says, and she squirms under his condescension, "—and use your words. Tell Mr. J what you really think."
She swallows. Nods.
"My girl knows how to ask for what she wants, doesn't she?"
"Yes," she says. Lying. His question feels like a challenge, and she can't help but feel like this isn't just about the drawing.
He chuckles again, glancing up at where he has her hands folded on top of each other, held down to the mattress by his. He grins, leans down low again to breathe into her ear.
"I like your hands, too," he says, breathing out the words in a conspiratorial whisper. She releases a puff of laughter, smiling a little as he pulls back to watch her face.
She shifts underneath him, all warmed up from his praise. There's a growing damp spot inside her underwear, and she wants him to know. She wants him to see. But when he pushes himself up from the bed, she has to fight down the creeping disappointment over the fact that their encounter didn't escalate further. She doesn't know exactly what she wanted to happen—she doesn't think she's ready for sex, and maybe he senses that—but she knows she wanted more.
She is always wanting more.
Despite the ease at which she is able to approach him now, the ease at which she can put her hands on him, invite herself into his space, she still finds it difficult to initiate things beyond their usual playful encounters—encounters that are innocent, mostly—when what she really wants is for him to touch her again like he had the night that everything changed. She wants it. Thinks about it constantly. But she can't bring herself to ask for it, can't bring herself to voice her need. She is still so afraid of his rejection, somehow paranoid that her orgasm from that night was a fluke, a one-time deal, that he won't want to bring her to climax again. It's her worst fear.
And the idea of sex terrifies her, even though she wants it. She knows she does. But sometimes she still has nightmares about Nathan and all the things he used to do to her, terrifying recreations her subconscious mind is all too delighted to remind her of, feeding her images and sounds she's tried so hard to forget.
Sometimes when she dreams of that abandoned gas station in the woods and the back seat of Nathan's car, her dreams are so vivid she can feel his hands on her back, nails digging into her skin as he holds her down, the leather seats pulling at her sweat-slicked skin. She can feel the vicious, brutal snapping of his hips, the stranger's hands from the other side of the car rucking up her shirt, palming her breasts. She can hear the sound of Nathan's grunts and her own pitiful cries. And the humiliating eyes of the cellphone camera on her, when Nathan's friend, the one who had crouched between the center console to film, had shoved it in front of her tear-streaked face and made her say, "keep going" and "please" even though she was crying, drooling onto the seats. Someone's hands between her legs, trying to stimulate her, when all she felt was agony. The squeak of leather as bodies shifted and they all switched places, so the three of them could take turns brutalizing her.
She's relived the sensation of being torn apart from the inside over, and over, and over again.
She knows it'll be different with Mr. J. She knows that. But she's also afraid of the pervasiveness of her own memory, afraid of the stain Nathan's left behind.
Her body's never really been her own, and she knows that, but she's scared she might be broken—shattered beyond repair—and that Mr. J will have no use for her then. What good is she to him if she can't give him this part of her? If she can't give him all of her?
Still, she does everything she can to show her appreciation, to demonstrate how eager she is to please.
She cooks something for the two of them almost every night, excited by the prospect of pleasing him with how good she's gotten at it. She scours through recipes on her phone and tries to find ones she thinks Mr. J would like. He always cuffs her chin and tells her it's delicious afterwards—saying it in a way that makes her cheeks flush—and she's starting to think he'd eat just about anything she'd cook, just because she was the one to make it. Something about that makes her heart flutter.
And despite her fears, despite her reservations, she's growing a little bolder every day.
She thinks Mr. J likes it.
They are sprawled out on the couch together. It's a hazy, skin-slick afternoon, her skin glistening with a thin sheen of sweat even though she hasn't done anything to warrant it. The ceiling fan spins slowly overhead, providing little relief. The blinds are drawn shut in all the windows, glowing like they're on fire, golden yellow and warm to the touch from being battered by the sun. It's so hot, the kind of sluggish heat that makes her feel sun-drunk and sleepy. The kind that makes her irritated. Restless.
She is lying on the opposite end of the couch, next to the sagging A/C unit that protrudes from the window like a big, bloated belly. The inside of her cast itches like crazy. She's stuck a pencil down there a couple of times even though she knows she shouldn't.
She keeps thinking about the way Mr. J had laid her across his thighs that night, the feel of his hot fingers sliding between her legs, the way they'd felt inside of her. Her slick all over his pants, the way she had begged for him, and how it had felt to clench around his fingers as he curled them inside her. She bears down on nothing as she thinks about it, squeezing her thighs together, and she wants that pressure again, wants his hands on her. Inside her.
She wants so badly to allow herself to let go. Crawl into his lap. Straddle his thighs and put her hands on his chest. Tell him just how much she wants to be touched by him again. Anxiety curls in her lower belly, though, warping alongside her arousal, and she knows she can't bring herself to tell him. Not yet.
Instead, she allows her t-shirt to ride up when she stretches her arms over her head and stands, exposing her bare thighs to him, a little peek of her pink underwear. Too hot for shorts today.
She glides past him without saying anything—feeling his burning eyes on her back as she goes—and sashays to her bedroom. Shuts the door.
She lays down on her old bed, on top of the covers. She's a little nervous, but her underwear is already soaked when she peels them off. She's needed this. She hikes up her shirt so her belly and ribs are exposed. Bends her knees in that way she likes and spreads her thighs. Slides a hand down between her legs in a way she is well-familiarized with, now.
The camera's still in here, somewhere. She knows it is.
She tries to start off slow, but the edge of pleasure approaches faster than she anticipated. Her anxiety fizzles away, dissolving into nothing, like it was never even there. It's been almost two weeks since he touched her, and she's been so pent up. It doesn't take long. The thought of him watching makes her heart thud wildly.
Is he watching right now?
She chases the fantasy as far as she can, imagines him throwing open her door, her surprised gasp when he stalks to the bed, crouching down low over her, grasping her wrist and yanking it out from between her thighs. Growling, "You just couldn't wait, could you?" and then taking her fingers into his mouth, sucking them clean, laving his tongue all over them in a way that is obscene. Releasing her fingers from his mouth with a wet pop, maybe a little breathless when he says, "I couldn't either," as he crawls over her, finishes her off himself just like he did that night.
She comes to that tantalizing thought, stars the color of day-old bruises bursting behind her closed lids, her toes curling as she bites off a choked cry that she knows he must hear.
She lays there and pants as she comes down, absently trailing the tips of her wet fingers over the bare, soft skin of her tummy. After, she shimmies her underwear back up her thighs and slips out into the living room.
It's ridiculous—she should feel ashamed—but all she feels is wanton and hot, like an animal in heat, like she's preening for him or something. Fluffing up her feathers, crying out for him with a special mating call that resonates at a frequency only he can hear. She's done everything but get down on all fours to present herself, and even then she thinks about what it would feel like to do that, how good it would feel to have his fingers sliding reverently over the knobs of her arched spine. How willingly she would debase herself for him.
In the absence of shame, she tastes only desire, and she lays herself down at the foot of its altar, clothes herself in the metanoia that only the power of his touch can inspire.
In the living room, she resumes her earlier spot on the couch, perfectly innocent, and she bites her lip when she sees his phone lying next to him, face up. Screen dark. That wasn't there before.
Her eyes trail up to search his face, and her heart stutters to an abrupt stop when she finds his dark eyes already on her, boring into her, like he can see straight through her to the other side. She can't read his expression—what is he thinking?—and she folds her arms across her abdomen like she could close herself off from the penetration of his gaze.
The TV drones on in the background, forgotten.
"Did you, uh, want to ask me for something, princess?" The way he hisses the word 'princess'—full of saccharine sweetness, the kind that is only ever full of malice—makes the hairs on her arms stand on end.
She shakes her head 'no'—probably too quickly, she thinks—and then searches his eyes.
He doesn't say anything in response, but before he looks away, returning back to the TV, she swears his gaze flickers down, to the place between her thighs, just for a second.
She catches the twitch in his jaw, and then his arm is around her a moment later, pulling her against him, and something about it feels deliciously territorial, like he has to have her close. And even though it's hot, even though they'll both be sweating in a couple of minutes, she snuggles under the crook of his arm and curls her legs up underneath her, lays her head down on his chest. She bites down on her secret smile.
It feels so good to be wanted.
Mr. J lets her return back to work not long after. She didn't even have to ask. It surprises her, him allowing her this freedom after she so carelessly abused it, but she's grateful for the opportunity to prove herself, for this second chance. No mistakes this time.
She doesn't know where Ben fits into all of this, whether there's room for a friendship with him now that she's with Mr. J—like, officially—but she thinks she can make it work. Mr. J can trust her now, now that the two of them are together. He doesn't have to worry about Ben.
She is excited to see him, though, bouncing her knee on the bus, headphones plugged into her phone, her music pitched at a respectful volume so the old woman snoring softly next to her—chin to chest—doesn't hear. She figured out how to download music onto her phone last week, and she's obsessed. Songs suddenly carry new weight—a heightened significance—now that she has someone she loves to associate them with.
Love.
Her toes curl inside her shoes when she thinks about it.
She redirects her focus back to Ben, how eager she is to tell him that everything's okay now, that her and her 'uncle' have worked everything out. She can't wait to tell him how happy she is. How everything is perfect now. Ben doesn't have to be mad anymore on her behalf.
She tucks her headphones carefully inside her backpack as the bus slows to a stop. Mr. J got them for her—they're the really fancy kind—and sound cancelling. Sometimes when she's wearing them, she doesn't even realize that he's come home. She'll look up to find him standing in the doorway, staring, as she lays on her belly on their bed and flips through a magazine or plays on her phone. One time he came home when she was jumping on the bed, dancing and singing to herself, and it was several long moments before she noticed him, leaning up against the doorframe, smirking, and she immediately ripped her headphones off so they dangled around her neck, her face so hot.
"Well, don't stop on my account," he'd said. He made a shooing gesture with his hands as if to say keep going, but she got down off the bed and couldn't meet his gaze for the rest of the night, not until he'd cornered her in the hallway before bed, gently pushing her up against the wall, murmuring, "It was cute, baby," winding a strand of her hair around his finger, and she swears she was flying so high she saw stars all night long, even in her dreams.
She shoulders her backpack as she skips the last step to jump off the bus. She's missed the diner. It's been four weeks since the accident. Four amazing, blissful weeks Just her and Mr. J. But she misses her coworkers, and Ben sneaking her the leftover fries at the end of the night—the extra crispy ones at the bottom of the fryer—and sitting out back with him during their lunch breaks. And she misses the warmth of glowing neon and the checkered floors and the friendly little jingle of the old fashioned cash register as it opens and closes. She misses the little old man who comes in every Sunday morning and sits in the same booth and orders the same thing, who looks so longingly at the empty seat across from his that she just knows that's where his wife used to sit.
The overhead bell chimes when she enters, familiar and welcoming, and she waves to Peggy and then to Miranda, one of the college girls whose face brightens when she sees her. Miranda sidles up to her, balancing a heavy tray on her shoulder with one hand.
"Hey, look who's back!" she exclaims. Her cheeks are rosy with her blush, her glitter eyeshadow an electric shade of blue and green. She reminds Taylor of those girls she's seen on Instagram and Youtube, the ones who buy all that really fancy makeup and then show you how to put it on. She likes watching those sometimes. Taylor stares for a moment at the pendent on the silver chain of her necklace—a black spider—as it winks at her in the sunlight streaming in through the front windows. "We've been swamped without you," Miranda says. "Doc said it was okay for you to work with that thing?" she asks, nodding to Taylor's cast.
Taylor nods eagerly. The doctor never really said—or maybe he did—but the memory of that night prior to Mr. J touching her is all kind of a blur now. Maybe it was the medicine they gave her at the hospital that made her forget.
Miranda says something else, but Taylor is too busy looking over the girl's shoulder, trying to see through the two porthole windows on the swinging doors that lead into the kitchen. Trying to see Ben.
She chirps something else that Taylor doesn't catch, the older girl distracted by a customer, and Taylor is free to slip away. On her way to the kitchen, she waves again at Peggy, but Peggy only offers a small, tight smile in return before she is hurrying off to check on one of her tables. Taylor frowns at this—Peggy is normally a bit more animated—but maybe she's just having a bad day.
She bites her lip as she pushes open one of the doors leading to the kitchen. Her heart leaps at seeing Ben, and he turns around at just that moment, as if he had sensed her there. Her face lights up, eyes crinkling with her smile, but before she can take another step, before she can even say anything in greeting, a big, heavy hand settles on her shoulder from behind, stopping her in her tracks.
Ben immediately turns away, ducks his head and sinks his gloved hands back into the depths of the sink, scrubbing furiously at the inside of an oversized pot.
The hand releases her a moment later, and she turns, wide-eyed and confused, as she stares up into the eyes of a man she's never seen before.
She knows immediately that it's Hank.
"Taylor," he says warmly. His voice is rich—deeper than she expected. She stares up at him with wide eyes, mouth parted. Instantly mesmerized. He's not at all what she was expecting. "It's so nice to finally meet you. I've heard so much about you."
She wishes she could say the same, but nobody has told her anything. Not even Ben.
Hank is tall—as tall as Mr. J, even—but boxier in the shape. Large throughout the shoulders and chest, but a little fuller in the abdomen. Silvery hair—crew cut—with the lines of time etched across his forehead. Clean-shaven and square-jawed. He's wearing a white, collared button-down tucked into pressed navy slacks. Nice, shiny black shoes. It's a lot more professional than she would have expected.
He's handsome in that fatherly kind of way, like sometimes when she was in middle school and she'd sit outside on the front steps and watch all the dads come to pick up their kids, their handsome smiles and nice suits, their briefcases laid carefully in the backseat. The way they'd get out of the car to greet their kid, lay a hand on their shoulder and ask how their day was, and what'd they learn?
One time she'd overheard the girls in the locker room talking about their gym teacher, Mr. Hayes, and how hot he was, how they wished he could be their dad.
"I bet you wish he was your dad," Lauren Wilcox had smirked, looking at her friend. Then one of the other girls moaned, "Ooh, daddy,"—a parody of a moment awash in ecstasy—and all the girls laughed. Taylor's cheeks had flushed beet red in shame even though she didn't really understand the allure of the fantasy. She just knew it was taboo. Wrong.
She thinks she gets it now.
She bites down on her lip in lieu of closing it. Ruby is standing behind him—she hadn't even noticed her until now—staring at her in a way that makes Taylor's cheeks feel hot.
"It's—it's nice to meet you too," she says, feeling a little off-balance, perhaps even starstruck. She offers her hand then, unsure of what else to do, and Hank smiles. It's a handsome smile, an old-fashioned one, charming and confident, like the ones old black and white movie stars used to flash. Megawatt. Full of charisma, like he knows exactly the effect he has on people.
He takes her hand in both of his, sandwiching it, and she gapes a little at how small her hand looks dwarfed in his.
"Very well-mannered," he praises, and Taylor can't help but flush from his approval. He has a pleased gleam in his eye as he grips her hand. "I like that in my staff." He steps a little closer, still clasping her hands in his, and Taylor has to tilt her head back a bit to look up at him. He smells clean, crisp. Like pressed laundry and a pleasant aftershave. "Might have to work on this handshake, though. Anybody ever teach you a proper handshake? You need a good, firm grip. Let people know you mean business. You can tell a lot about a person from the way they shake your hand."
She swallows. For some reason, she can't look away. "What can you tell about me from mine?" she asks.
He chuckles, looks over his shoulder for a moment to smile at Ruby. "Exactly as you described her," he says, and Taylor bites her lip, watching their exchange. What exactly did Ruby tell him about her?
When he turns back to look at her, his eyes are bright, maybe a little playful. There's something kind of boyish about him, about the gleam in his eyes.
"You're soft," he says, and the way he says it sounds so sincere, so genuinely complimentary that she can't help but smile a little. His words cut right through her for some reason, right down to the bone, and she doesn't know why she's feeling so weak-kneed, what it is about him that has her feeling so spellbound.
In the silence that follows, Hank pats her hand before releasing it, and then he's all business, standing up a little straighter. Shoulders pushed back. Assessing her from over the slope of his nose. Still that gleam in his eye. The kitchen feels a little quieter than it was before, like maybe everyone's slowed down a little to watch their exchange.
"Why don't you come into my office?" he says. "Ruby will come, too. We haven't really had the chance to get to know each other yet, have we? I take pride in my employees—you're family, when you're here. That's the environment I hope to foster. It's important to me that you feel welcome. Like you're at home."
In the background, the door to the walk-in freezer slams shut, startling her out of her reverie. Her gaze slides between his and Ruby's.
"I—my shift starts in just a few minutes," she says, a little stupidly.
Hank chuckles, and it reverberates over her in a strange way, making goose bumps prickle over her arms for some reason. "That's alright. This will only take a few minutes," he assures. He's friendly as ever as he puts his big hands on her shoulders—both hands, this time, and spins her around. "Besides, you're with the boss now, right? What I say goes. Nothing to worry about." He guides her out of the kitchen—past Ben—who she glances over her shoulder at as she passes. She tries to catch his gaze, not sure why she suddenly feels a little like a lamb being led to the slaughter, but Ben is determined not to look up at she passes, and she frowns at him as she's guided out of the kitchen, feeling hurt. Why won't he look at her? What's wrong with him?
"Ruby's told me you're a hard worker," Hank says when they're squeezing through the narrow hallway to his office, his voice even deeper here, where it seems to reverberate off the wooden panels of the walls, where even the carpet seems eager to soak it up. "Is that true?" She briefly feels his breath on the back of her neck when he talks, and it makes her spine prickle. She hears Ruby's soft footfalls behind them.
She nods. "Yes, sir," she whispers.
He releases her so that he can open the door to his office, and then he holds it open for both her and Ruby, even though it's one of those doors that will stay open on its own. He gestures with a nod of his head. Ladies first.
Taylor steps inside a little hesitantly, like she doesn't belong. Like she shouldn't be here. The last time she was in here was the day Ruby had hired her. It looks relatively unchanged since then. Maybe a little cleaner, like someone had taken the time to clear his desk and prepare for his arrival.
"Please, have a seat," Hank says, gesturing to the metal fold-out chair in front of his desk. He closes the door behind him, and the room immediately feels ten times smaller than it already is. She sets her backpack on the floor and swallows as she sits, trying to pull her skirt a little lower over her thighs. The metal is ice-cold on the back of her legs, and she flinches a little, trying to perch on the edge of the chair instead. She tucks her legs neatly beneath the lip of the chair, crossing her legs at the ankle. Folds her hands in her lap as best she can. She really wishes she didn't have this cast on. It makes her feel even more childish than usual. Small. Like she's something fragile—easily broken.
Hank settles into his own chair, and it occurs to her how big he looks, even while sitting. His folds his hands pragmatically atop his desk, even while Ruby sashays past and perches herself on the edge of it, turned towards him, looking at Taylor from over her freckled shoulder. The polarity of their postures is almost amusing: Ruby, so slouchy and cool, casual-as-you-please, and Hank, straight-backed and poised, the sort of practiced rigidity born only from prior military service.
She eyes the two of them uncertainly, hoping they can't sense her unease.
"It's important to me that my staff works hard, you know. I demand one-hundred percent. Always. In this kind of business, you can't afford to foster indolence, people who don't pull their weight. I'm sure you can understand."
Taylor hands are clammy all the sudden. Is he firing her?
"I'm sorry," she says, the panicked squeak in her voice so embarrassing, "did I do something wrong? Are you firing me?"
Hank looks affronted that she'd ask. "No! No." She heaves a relieved sigh without even meaning to, her shoulders relaxing. "Of course not. I have nothing but admiration for your work ethic. As I said, Ruby has told me all about you. She's spoken very highly. She's kind of my right-hand man," he says, chuckling a little, bumping his knuckles against her thigh in a gesture of affection. She thinks Ruby rolls her eyes, but she can't be sure. "She runs the show when I'm not here. I'd trust her with my life."
Taylor nods. Hank goes on.
"As I was saying, I admire your work ethic. I prioritize running a tight ship—and a ship is only as good as its crew."
She nods, shifting in her seat a little. Where is he going with this?
"As captain of this ship—if you'll pardon the continued metaphor—I also demand a certain level of respect, and a captain not respected by his crew can almost always anticipate a mutiny. Do you know what that is?"
Taylor nods. She read Treasure Island in eighth grade—well, most of it, anyway.
"A captain wishes to avoid a mutiny, if at all possible. He works to keep his crew happy. Satisfied. Well-fed and well compensated. Do you follow?"
"Yes, sir."
"Sir." Hank smiles. "I like that." He pauses to lean back a little, relaxing some. "You know, I'm retired military. First Lieutenant of the 24th Infantry Division. Desert Storm in '91—before you were even born." He pauses, shakes his head a little in that way adults often do when they're recalling the past, like they can't help but marvel over the passage of time, all the strange ways in which it ebbs and flows. "Feels like yesterday," he says. "I'll never forget those oil wells they set fire to in Al-Ahmadi—flames so hot I thought my gas mask would melt right onto my face." Her own face pinches at this—it sounds horrifying—and he goes on, shaking his head again as if to rid himself of the memory. "As I was saying, a crew respects their captain. And respect is something that comes in many different forms. I consider honesty to be paramount among them. Would you agree?"
Taylor swallows, still so unsure of where all of this is going. Doesn't he want her to start her shift now? It was really busy out there when she came in.
"I agree," she says, quietly.
"Good," Hanks says, and he flashes her that warm smile again, something behind his eyes softening a little. "I don't mean to frighten you, Taylor. I simply want us all to be on the same page. That's important in a family, that we all see eye to eye."
She nods again. She feels like she's being controlled by a ventriloquist with all the head-bobbing she's doing. She wipes her clammy hands off on the outside of her thighs.
"Where was I? Oh, yes. Honesty. Very important to a captain running a tight ship. Very important that his crew is honest. Respectful." He pauses for a moment to look at her—really look at her—and she squirms a little in her seat. His eyes narrow. "You respect me, don't you?"
She nods quickly, squeezing her hands between her thighs, sitting up a little straighter. "Yes, sir. Yes."
"Good," he says. He nods. "That's very good." He unfolds his hands, and she follows his movements as he leans back in his chair, gripping the armrests, looking even more intimidating than before. "Keeping this in mind, then," he says, glancing briefly at Ruby, who has taken to studying her cuticles, "is there anything you'd like to tell me? Anything you might have been… dishonest about?"
Taylor pales, suddenly.
Oh, God.
Her eyes betray her—she can't help it—her gaze darting desperately to the tall filing cabinet on Ruby's left-hand side. She swallows. Looks back at Hank, where he is studying her closely.
"If this is about my address—"
Hank's brows shoot up. "Is it?"
Taylor's mouth parts, her eyes darting helplessly between the two of them. She can't help but feel like she just put her foot in her mouth—but maybe that's exactly what he wanted.
It's pathetic—soft—but her throat tightens suddenly, and before she knows it, tears are pricking at her eyes. She's so fucking scared. She doesn't want to get fired.
"I—I'm sorry—" she chokes. "I didn't—I didn't mean to lie—"
Hank tsks, sympathetic, and this time Taylor knows Ruby rolls her eyes, she can see it even through the blur of her tears.
Taylor lowers her head, wipes desperately at her tears with the back of her forearm. In her peripheral, she sees Hank shift, but she doesn't register that he's right in front of her until she looks up, where he's perched on the edge of the desk, his legs crossed at the ankle. Ruby moves to take up residence in his former seat, still examining her cuticles as if they hold all the Earth's greatest secrets.
"Taylor, there's no need to cry. I'm not angry."
She sniffles. "You're not?"
"Of course not. Nobody lies without cause," he says. "Surely you must've had a reason for putting down that address."
She sniffles again. Licks the taste of salt off her lips.
When she doesn't respond, he prods her further. "We're family now, Taylor, and family take care of each other. If you're not… safe… where you are," he says, selecting the word carefully, "I have the resources necessary to take care of that."
Her head shoots up at breakneck speed—afraid, suddenly. "What do you mean?"
Hank chuckles at her panicked expression. "Nothing unsavory," he promises.
"I—I am safe," she sniffles, after a prolonged moment of silence has passed. God. The last thing she needs them to know about is Mr. J. Not when everything is finally where it's supposed to be. Not when she's so close to having him all to herself. All of him. "I promise I am." She tries to straighten some, but she finds she doesn't have the strength.
She pulls back slightly when Hank pushes himself off the desk, and then he's on the floor in front of her, kneeling down on one knee. He rests his forearm on his thigh, his hands clasped together. He looks resigned. Sad. Like he's about to tell her the truth about Santa or something.
But their eyes are level now, and she searches his, surprised by the gentle, calming shade of blue she finds there. Mr. J says she's a bad liar—but she remembers the advice he gave her about how telling a convincing is all in the eyes, in the things you don't say—and she tries to school her features into something cool. Collected.
"Are you?" he prompts. "Safe?" He shifts a little closer, lowers his head some, looking up at her from under his brows like Mr. J does sometimes. "Because I'm not so sure that's the same story I heard from Ben."
Taylor's eyes flash, and her heart pulses sharply. Fear clouds over as she looks at him. Her mouth bone dry. "W—what?"
"I said, I'm not sure that's the same story I heard from Ben. Something about an uncle, I think? Is that right?"
Taylor shifts back in her chair some—this is not good, she knows this know—but Hank follows after her, crouching in front of her now, still on one knee as he moves to grip the edges of her seat, his arms braced on either side of her thighs, caging her in. She squeezes her thighs so tightly together her legs tremble from the strain.
His eyes are still so soft. Sad. "Taylor. I'm afraid you're not… understanding me—"
"It's better now," she blurts. Her knuckles are digging into her thighs, where she grips the hem of her skirt with a vice. "I—I am safe now. I promise. I worked things out with my uncle. I was upset when I talked to Ben. I told him things that weren't true. I just—I wanted him to feel sorry for me…." She bites her lip, forces herself to maintain eye contact with him even though every single instinct inside of her screams for her to look away. His eyes are so blue, the color of arctic ice, and yet somehow they still burn her.
Hank seems to study her for a long moment, and then his eyes drift down. She watches him study the hilltops of her knees—can feel the warm exhale of his breath there as she waits—taut as a steel wire.
"You're a good girl, aren't you, Taylor?"
She looks up to meet his gaze. "What?" she breathes.
"A good girl," he emphasizes. His blue eyes are hard now. Unblinking. "Obedient. Well-behaved. You're not used to having to tell a lie, but when you're threatened—when the lie is told out of protection for another—then it becomes necessity, doesn't it?" Taylor swallows. How could he possibly know this about her? "It's part of our evolutionary design," he says. "Our survival instincts. What we're built for."
Taylor's eyes dart desperately to Ruby's, seeking help—an out, anything—but the woman offers her no such reprieve. She has her long, tanned legs crossed at the ankles, propped on the desk, and whatever signals Taylor is trying to send with her eyes go completely unnoticed. Why is Ruby even here if she's not going to say anything?
"Maybe," Hank says, drawing her attention back to him, "our problem is that we just need to get to know each other better. Families have to establish trust, after all."
She draws her shoulders up to her ears, traps her hands between her thighs again, trying to make herself smaller.
"Do you want to get to know each other better, Taylor?"
Her gaze slides past Hank to look at Ruby once again, and she withers suddenly at the way Ruby is staring at her, looking at her for the first time since they came in here. Ruby's gaze is hard. Predatory. Taylor squirms and tries not to show her discomfort. She should say no—she wants to say no—but she's scared of what might happen if she does.
"Does this hurt?"
She follows Hank's gaze to her cast. Without meaning to, she draws it up to her abdomen, laying her hand over it, almost as if out of protective instinct. She shrugs, half-hearted.
"It's okay," she says quietly, a little tremble in her voice.
"That must have been frightening, the car accident. Going to the hospital. You're very brave."
She nods in agreement. So they do know about the car accident. Did Ben tell them, or did they find out some other way?
"You know, I'm throwing a little fête this weekend—just something to show my appreciation for my employees. It might surprise you to know this isn't my only business venture. I manage several investments throughout the city."
Taylor's eyes widen a little, surprised to hear this. Maybe that's why he's never around much?
"Travel keeps me occupied," he says, as if reading her mind, "but I like to remind everyone I'm still overseeing my operations—and that their work is valued. Your work is valued," he emphasizes.
He stops here, and Taylor knows he's waiting for her response. She swallows to urge more moisture back into her mouth. Her face feels tight from where her tear tracks have dried on her cheeks.
"I—I'll have to ask first," she says, hating how small she sounds when she says it.
Hank smiles—like he's amused by this—and his eyes crinkle at the corners when he does. "There's no need," he says, so light, like the matter has already been settled. "You'll be paid to come. Think of it as just another shift."
"Oh—okay."
"Good," he says. He releases her chair—she feels like she can breathe, finally—and stands. "Ruby will make sure you have all the details. Oh, and," he leans briefly on his desk, supporting his weight with one arm, "Ben will bring you. Easier that way. I wouldn't want you arriving late. You can never rely on public transportation these days."
"But—but I—"
Hank turns to look at her. "Is that a problem?"
Yes! she wants to say. She doesn't want to be in a car with Ben. She doesn't even want to look at him. He betrayed her—he told Hank about Mr. J. How could he do that to her? She had told him those things in confidence. She thought… she thought she could trust him.
Even though her aversion is clearly written all over her face—in the crease between her brows, the downward pull of her mouth—she shakes her head. "No, sir."
Hank smiles again. "That's a good girl."
She doesn't say anything in response, taking this as her cue to stand, only, when she does, her knees feel week—Jell-O-ish—and she has to reach out for the back of the chair to steady herself. She looks up to catch Ruby's knowing smirk from behind the desk, and Taylor flushes in embarrassment despite herself. She's filled with hatred for Ruby suddenly—a feeling that comes on so hotly she knows she'll feel guilty about it later—but in the moment, the intensity of her hatred is nearly blinding. She feels patronized by her, betrayed, like Ruby was just sitting there the whole time, watching while she struggled to tread water, watching while she cried, while the sharks circled. Watching while she was drowned, and then eaten.
She retrieves her backpack from the floor, and then Hank's hand is on her lower back when he sees her to the door. She looks back over her shoulder at Ruby for a moment, who has already unbuttoned the first few buttons of her top, and is shaking her hair out the bun she'd had it tied in. Taylor frowns as she's led out into the hallway, her cheeks turning hot again, and an understanding washes over her. Are they really going to—? After Hank had just cornered her into coming to his party? After she just sat there and cried?
"I'm glad we could have this talk, Taylor," Hank says.
She hugs her arms across her abdomen, clutching her backpack to her as if it were a shield. She feels cold, suddenly, now that she's out of the office. He walks her into the breakroom, stopping just short of it to regard her when she turns around to face him.
"Yes," she says, trying not to think about whatever is about to transpire between him and Ruby in his office. Trying not thing think about why. "Me too."
After he leaves, and the door to his office closes with a firm click, Taylor allows herself a moment to collect herself before returning to work. She takes her backpack and gently squeezes it into her locker—she doesn't want to squish her headphones—and tries not to think about what's going on behind that closed door. Her movements feel sluggish and slow. Faraway, almost, like she's not really here.
She closes her locker gently, lets her hand slide down the cool metal until it drops back down to her side, lifeless.
Her conversation with Hank swims around in her head, like a buoy bobbing aimlessly in open water. So much information, she doesn't even know where to start, what to attempt to masticate and digest first. What to think.
She feels—she feels angry. Angry at Ruby. At Ben.
How could Ben tell Hank about all the secret stuff she'd told him? Didn't he know that was only ever meant for the two of them?
She angrily wipes at the tear that slips down her cheek. Peels the elastic band off her wrist and ties up her hair in a high ponytail, the ends of which dusts between the backs of her shoulder blades. Ben's a jerk for doing what he did. And to think that she was excited to see him. All she wants to do now is go home and be with Mr. J. Curl up in his embrace, let him hold her. They can order take-out and watch a movie and then she'll fall asleep in his lap while he strokes his fingers up and down her back. And then he'll carry her to bed, lay her down on top of the covers. Maybe he'll lean down and brush his lips against her forehead, tell her that everything's going to be alright, before she drifts back to sleep.
She sniffles. Smooths out her skirt. Whatever. She's just going to ignore Ben. It doesn't matter.
Except, when she enters the kitchen, his eyes are all over her, wide and searching, and it's tempting to give in and look, but she doesn't. She feels proud of herself for the way she doesn't even glance in his direction as she walks past, forcing her shoulders back, holding her head up. She knows he stares after her as she pushes through the double doors and heads out into the diner. That's fine. Let him stare.
It's a busy shift, which is good—Miranda tells her it's always busy when Hank is in the house—and it keeps her pretty distracted. She goes back and forth between being hostess and bussing tables, and every time she drops off the square bucket of dirty dishes into the kitchen, she doesn't look at Ben when she does, even when he says, "Taylor, wait—" and tries to tell her he just wants to talk. It feels good to blow him off—empowering—like he's getting what he deserves.
Hank is out on the floor a little while later, making the rounds with the regulars, crouching down low to ask how the food is, making strong eye contact with everyone in a way that makes her shiver, for some reason, even when she watches him do it from across the room. People seem to be just as entranced by him as she is, something about the way he commands attention, the way he carries himself.
He gives good-natured back-pats and firm handshakes and throws his head back when he laughs, and she can't help but track him everywhere he goes, watch every little thing he does. He places his hand on the back of someone's booth or chair when they're talking, leans down a little so they know he has their full attention. He's the kind of man who nods respectfully to show he's listening, to communicate his interest, and sometimes he touches his hand to his jaw, strokes it thoughtfully with his fingertips, just for a moment, as if he has to coax the words out of his mouth, and then he's talking, and everyone listens with rapt attention. He's a good storyteller, that much she knows. She watches him from the hostess stand as he recounts different anecdotes from the various colors of his life—and there are so many. Watches him gesture widely, painting an entire canvas with just his words and the sweeping brushstrokes of his hands.
Later, a customer comes in with her seven month-old baby, and when Hank asks if he can have the honors of holding her, the mother is delighted and flattered that he would ask. She hands the baby over to him and is positively glowing as she watches him cradle her child.
There's something about the exchange that makes Taylor uneasy—perhaps how willing the mother is to hand over her newborn to a complete stranger, even if they are in the company of a full house and several watchful eyes—or perhaps it's because she's jealous, because she never had a mother or a father to dote on her the way Hank is doting on that baby right now. He cradles her in both arms, holding her so tenderly, like she's the most precious thing in the entire world, like her wealth is unparalleled. She watches him stroke a finger down the baby's soft, chubby cheek, and something about that makes her want to cry, makes her throat feel tight and her chest ache. She's never been loved like that. She's never been loved the way babies are loved—unconditionally—without anything expected from them in return. She has only ever been used to the kind of love that comes with conditions attached, a laundry-list of stipulations and requirements, and that is a half love, a fake love.
She thinks back to what Hank said earlier, we're family now, Taylor, and family take care of each other, and she has to work to swallow down the sour burn of bile that crawls up her esophagus.
What is family to an orphan? What is family to a girl who's never, ever been wanted by one?
She takes her lunch break a little later than usual. Miranda forces her to go when the dinner rush slows down a little bit, and Taylor is exhausted by the time she finally gets to sit down. Having Hank on the floor has made her even more stressed than usual, and Peggy has been treating her weird and Ruby has barely said more than two words to her, and between all that and her insistence to ignore Ben, she's completely drained by the time she collects her lunch from her locker. Peanut butter and marshmallow fluff smushed between two slices of stale white bread, a handful of pretzels. Sometimes she'll buy a cheeseburger and fries, but they only get a fifteen percent discount, and she's trying to be better about saving her money. She wants an art easel and some of those really fancy paints. She's been itching to try a new medium, tired of the familiar strokes of her pencils, and she's been fantasizing about how different holding a paintbrush will feel. She thinks it'll be messier—liberating—the liquid strokes of a paintbrush, the way she will allow colors to bleed instead blend. She wants to capture the exact shade of Mr. J's red mouth. His acidic black eyes.
She sits on the sun-dried stack of pallets out back and chews on her sandwich slowly, trying to make it last. The wood is rough and warm beneath her bare thighs, and a splinter is digging into her ass, but she shifts and ignores it. The bruises aren't as sore and tender as they used to be. She swings her legs and stares at the ground, enjoying the warmth of the setting sun on her skin, all the hairs on her arm prickling under the sun's rays after having been inside under the air conditioning all day. She sighs, thinking about Mr. J and how much she just wants to go home. Today has gone nothing like she expected.
She takes out her phone and decides to send him a text message.
7:53
hi
She munches on her pretzels and impatiently waits for a response. Sends another text.
7:55
i miss you
When her phone vibrates with his reply a few minutes later, she bites down on her lip, smiling.
8:02
Thinking about me?
She's smiling as she types out her reply. She should say 'yes', but another part of her itches to type 'always'.
The door to her right is thrown open suddenly, hitting the wall behind it, and she puts down her phone just in time to catch Ben bursting through the door.
"We need to talk."
The door swings shut behind him, and a waft of cold air swooshes out right before it closes, momentarily chilling her. She knows it's petulant, probably a little childish, but she puts her phone down so she can cross her arms, turning the other away, towards the open mouth of the alley.
"I don't have anything to say to you."
She hears his sneakers crunching through the loose gravel as he approaches. "Taylor, come on, please just let me explain—"
She scoots off the stack of pallets, brushing off her skirt, packing up her trash. She was finished eating anyway.
"Hey—" Taylor's heart pulses in her throat when he reaches out and grabs her forearm, his big hand encircling it completely. It reminds her of the game that some of the girls would play in gym, sometimes, sitting on the bleachers and giggling, taking their middle finger and thumb and using it to circle their wrists. The way they'd climb up their forearms with those circled digits until their fingers finally broke apart. That was how many kids you were supposedly going to have when you got married. Taylor could do it eight times.
Ben's grip hurts where he holds her, and she almost is tempted to ask, you want to break this wrist, too?
"Will you cut it out?" he snaps. "You're acting like a child."
"Well you're acting like a jerk!" She rips her arm out of his grasp. "How could you tell them about my uncle?" she cries. "I trusted you!"
"I know. I know that. I'm sorry, okay? But all that shit you told me… I was worried. What was I supposed to do?"
"You were supposed to not say anything—"
"Oh, yeah?" Ben's face is hardening, his brows furrowing together. He steps closer, so she has to tilt her head back to look up at him. "And when you show up to work with all that shit on the back of your thighs? Am I supposed to not say anything about that, too?"
Taylor's face burns hot with embarrassment. She didn't think anybody could see that. "That's none of your business."
"Like fuck it isn't. Jesus." Ben throws up his hands, clearly exasperated with her, and she thinks, good, as her nostrils flare. It feels good to be angry. It feels right. Ben shakes his head, and then he's pushing a hand through his hair. "I care about you, Taylor. Can't you fucking see that?"
His admission startles her, and for a moment she can only stare at him as some of her heat slowly begins to fade. Her shoulders sag, and she feels deflated, suddenly, like all the air's been sucked out of her.
"I trusted you," she whispers. She can't look at him when she says it. "How could you do that to me? I was so embarrassed—"
"I was worried about you."
"Well, you don't have to be." She scratches her fingernails against the hard shell of her cast, a new, anxious habit. She likes the sound it makes. "Everything is fine now. I—I talked to my uncle. Everything is fine."
"Okay," he says, a little defensive. "Okay. Good." Ben's shoes shift in the gravel, and the sun dips a little lower. Somehow they always find themselves out here during golden hour. He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans, clearly as uncomfortable as she is. "Can't we just forget about this?"
Taylor sighs. She glances over her shoulder for a moment, looking at nothing but needing to look away, squinting against the setting sun, so warm and comforting all up and down her back.
"Hank says you're supposed to take me to a party on Saturday," she says after a minute. "You get a new car already?"
Ben chuckles, looking relieved that she's opted for this out. "Nah. He's gonna let me borrow one of his. He gets them cheap from one of those used car lots. Got a thing with the owner, I guess."
"Oh. Okay."
Ben is looking at her in a way that makes her feel all blushy, for some reason, and she folds her arms across her abdomen as she looks up at him.
"What?" she asks, a little hotly.
He smiles. "Nothing. It's just really good to see you. It was boring without you here."
The corner of her mouth lifts some, secretly pleased. "Yeah?"
"No one appreciates my impressions like you do."
"Someone has to laugh at your jokes."
Ben chuckles, and she smiles a little, too. He peels his apron over his head and sits down on the stack of pallets. When he asks about her arm, she sits next to him, lets him touch her cast as he laments how he never got to draw anything on it.
"Maybe you can later," she says, hopeful, and Ben looks at her almost a little sadly, but she doesn't understand why.
They both head inside together when her break is over, and as Ben returns back to the kitchen and she tucks her phone inside her locker, her heart somersaults when she sees the notification for an unread message.
8:07
I'm thinking about you, too.
It's dark when she gets home, and she's exhausted. She waited over thirty minutes for the bus with Ben, and when it never came, he walked her to the subway station instead. The closest she can get to home is where the subway dumps her out on Edgar Street, which is a thirty minute walk from home. It's tempting to ask Mr. J if he can come for her, but she's half afraid he'll send Ressling instead, so she doesn't. She walks fast, trying not to draw too much attention to herself even though the streets are mostly empty. It's hot, too, the night humid and black, the sound of cicadas and other night things growing louder the closer she gets to their neighborhood. She watches a little bat flutter beneath the pale, washed-out light of a streetlamp, and she scrunches up her nose. Bats freak her out. One of her foster families had some in the attic, and she could hear them flapping their wings at night when she was lying in bed, trying to sleep. It makes her skin prickle just to think about it. She walks a little faster and brushes the sweat-slicked hair off her forehead, exhaling a puff of air. Her shirt is damp and clinging to her lower back and under her arms, and she can't wait to shower.
She sighs into the cool relief of the air conditioning when she opens the front door, slides her backpack off her shoulders. Most of the lights are off, and she finds Mr. J at his desk when she crosses the threshold to their bedroom. He's standing, hunched over, hands propped on the edges of the desk to support his weight. There's a halo of light surrounding him from the low-bent gooseneck lamp as he looks down at whatever has his attention. She drags her feet across the carpet towards him and throws her arms around him from behind, pressing herself up against his back. Sighing.
"Mm," he hums, turning his head to look at her from over his shoulder. "Miss me?" His voice sounds low. Gravelly. It sends a shiver of goose bumps scuttling down her spine.
"Today sucked," she mumbles. She nuzzles her face into his back, squeezes her arms a little tighter around the hard plane of his abdomen. He's wearing a white t-shirt tucked into his purple slacks, his suspenders dangling around thighs. She inhales the smell of his skin, sweat and salt and blackened smoke.
He peels her arms off of him so he can turn around, and then she's squealing in surprise when he lifts her from under her arms, sets her on the edge of his desk so her legs are dangling. He picks her up as if she weighs nothing, and it makes her heart flutter, especially when he steps between her thighs. Her lips part when he cups her face in both hands, stroking his thumbs along her cheeks.
"Poor honey," he coos, that nasal lilt to his voice, "why don't you tell Mr. J all about it?"
Her eyes drift down to his mouth, where the greasepaint is a couple days old. Faded and a little smeared. She licks her lips.
"It's nothing," she says. She feels hypnotized from the way he is looking at her, his thumbs stroking along her cheeks so softly.
"No?" he prods, cocking his head a little.
She hesitates. She's not sure if she should tell him about Hank, or Ruby, or Ben. Somehow it doesn't seem like a good idea.
"I broke a bunch of plates today," she says, which is true. It was so embarrassing. She had been so busy staring at Hank from across the diner that she'd run straight into Peggy, making the older woman drop the stack of plates she had been carrying back to the kitchen. The sound of glass shattering had been deafening, drawing everyone's attention, and the heat of everyone's eyes on her had felt scalding. And the way Hank had smirked at her, like he'd known he was the reason for the mishap.
Mr. J chuckles at this, and she can't help but smile a little with the way he is looking at her. She marvels at the feel of his bare hands on her face, the affection in his eyes. All the little slivers of pale skin bleeding through the cracks in his greasepaint. Her eyes drift down to his mouth again.
"Is that all?" he prompts.
It takes her a moment before she can pull her eyes away. Gather her voice. "It was just really busy today," she says quietly, and he nods in understanding, stroking his thumb a little higher, across the arch of her cheekbone. She follows his eyes, where he's staring at the little sweat-damp curls around her forehead. Something about that must make him laugh, because he huffs out a breath, his mouth stretching into a lopsided grin, and she can't help but preen and smile shyly under his attention. It feels so good to have him looking at her like this, she can hardly believe it's real. He always makes her feel so good. So warm. She licks her lips. Maybe he'll touch her again?
She dares to spread her thighs a little wider, biting her lip as her skirt rides further up, but, a second later, his hands from her face are gone, and he's slipping away before she can even blink, his attention redirected to the mess of papers next to her.
She tries not to let her disappointment show, tries to rework her frown into the shape of something else. She scoots off the edge of the desk and has to peel some of his papers from the back of her thighs when she does.
"Sorry," she murmurs. She places them neatly back where she found them, trying to meet his eyes, but he's already far away, muttering to himself, his mind somewhere else.
She takes a long time in the shower, the events of the day playing on loop in her mind as the hot water rains down from overhead. Ruby and Hank. Her fight with Ben and their subsequent reconciliation. How weird Peggy treated her today. Her skin is pink and hot to the touch by the time she gets out, and she runs a brush through her wet hair while she stands in front of the mirror, staring at herself for a long time, even after she's combed all her tangles out. She takes her time weaving her hair into a long, single braid that trails between the backs of her shoulder blades, leaving a damp circle on the back of her oversized t-shirt.
Mr. J is sitting at his desk when she reenters, the lamp pitched a little lower than it was before so the circle of light is smaller, more concentrated where he needs it, and she slips under the covers without saying anything. She knows he doesn't like to be bothered while he's working, and she'd caught that familiar flash in his eyes earlier, like he'd just remembered something, or had some idea—something that couldn't wait—and she knows better than to try and pull him away again.
She turns on her side and watches him from the bed for as long as she can, staring at his back, the way his hair curls at the nape of his neck. She'll paint him like this when she has enough money saved for that canvas she wants, she thinks.
It's a while later when she wakes with a sharp gasp, a breath that feels as though it's been punched out of her. The tendrils of her nightmare are quick to fade as her eyes blink open into a room so black and so sticky-hot it's almost hard to breathe. She shifts in bed, startled for a second by the hard heat of Mr. J behind her. She relaxes back into his embrace only a second later, his long arm draped over her waist, his hand splayed flat against her belly and ribs, bleeding so much heat onto her skin, even through the cotton barrier of her t-shirt.
It always surprises her to wake up with him crowded behind her—Mr. J sleeps so very little, sometimes going days without more than fifteen minutes of sleep—and on the nights where he does lay down with her, she relishes in the feel of his body pressed up against hers, how clingy he is during sleep, his hands always on her in some way, his body pressed so tight to hers. Sometimes she'll wake and find that their legs are tangled, and it feels right, all their hard and soft edges somehow aligning just the way they're meant to, the two of them molding so perfectly together.
This is how she knows she's made for him.
Just him.
She whines a little as she pushes the covers off with her legs. Mr. J never sleeps under the covers—he runs too hot, plus he always sleeps with his clothes on—and she lets the sheets bunch at the end of the bed near their feet.
It's so quiet she can hear the sound of her own breathing. The air conditioning has cycled off, and the room is sweltering, beads of sweat gathering between her breasts and under her arms, between her pressed-together thighs. Her hair still a little wet from her shower, her pillow honey-and-vanilla damp. She huffs irritably, tries to relax back into Mr. J's embrace where her back is pressed solidly to his chest, but sleep won't come. She feels pent up and fire-hot, like she's on the verge of combustion.
She touches her hand to where his is pressed against her belly, and she absently trails her fingertips over the bump of his knuckles, spends a long time tracing over his long fingers with the pads of her own.
When she gently takes his hand and moves it a little lower down her stomach, it's experimental only. She just wants to see if he wakes.
He doesn't.
Emboldened, she pulls his hand farther down—slowly—over the apex of her thighs, and her mouth parts with the smallest exhale. His hand is so big and so hot. She waits another moment, just to make sure he's still asleep, and then she's dragging his hand even lower—impatient, now—laying her hand over his, forcing his fingers to curl so that he's cupping her between her legs. She bites down on her lip and squeezes her eyes shut. Even just the pressure of his hand there is so good. She presses down on his fingers with her own at the same time she cants her hips, and the sensation makes her blink back stars that are fire-bright, even in the black of their bedroom.
She knows she's playing with gasoline—but now that she's started, she can't bring herself to stop.
She turns over so she's lying flat on her stomach, pulling Mr. J's arm with her, trapping the length of his forearm beneath her belly. He shifts some behind her, half draped over her back, now—and for a moment she's terrified that he's woken. She waits, holding her breath for several agonizing moments as her heart thuds anxiously against the mattress. When he doesn't move, she releases a shuddery exhale in relief.
She has to shift to fit his hand between her thighs just where she wants it, lifting up her hips some, and then his fingers are there, just where she needs them, and she rubs herself up and down against them, circling her hips so slowly, chasing delicious friction. She uses her own hand to make his curl against her, forcing him to press harder. It doesn't take long for her underwear to grow damp, not when his fingers are so warm trapped between her thighs, not when the palm of his hand is so calloused and rough. She exhales a puff of breath into the mattress, pushing her pillow away, lifting her shirt up some so her bare skin is pressed against his—frustrated. Needy.
There's no room for fantasy this time, no time to orchestrate the illusion of what she thinks he would do if he were awake. There's only pleasure, and need, and chasing after its inevitable, sweet crest.
She rubs herself against him for a long time, but it's not enough. She works herself into a frenzy, almost tipping over the edge before she unceremoniously slips and loses her peak, her pleasure receding until she builds it back up again to the edge. It happens again and again, and she feels possessed. Rabid. Like an animal in heat. She's too slick. There's not enough friction.
She stops long enough to peel off her soaked underwear, pulling it down to her knees, too impatient to take it off all the way. She shifts further up, panting as she rubs herself against the inside of his thick wrist, squeezing her thighs tight around it, and this time the pressure on her clit is just right. She clings to his forearm with one hand, uses the other to fist the sheets, pulling herself up and then back down in a way that makes her moan. The slide is perfect. She gasps softly, her cheeks so hot, the pleasure dizzying, her brows pushed together from the strain of trying to find release. She doesn't care if he's not sleeping anymore. She just needs this so badly.
She huffs into the sheets as she gets closer and closer. It's kind of hard to move beneath Mr. J's weight now—did he shift more on top of her?—but she's so close to ecstasy it doesn't matter. She clings to his forearm and whimpers, humping him so desperately, and when release finally shudders through her, she's crying, open-mouthed, into the sheets.
Her eyelids are heavy as she struggles to catch her breath after, her cheek pressed to the mattress, a circle of drool cooling beneath her cheek as she blinks into the blackness of their room. Her heart thuds wildly, trying to come back down. She hears the click-click-click of the air conditioning as it stutters back to life, and it washes its cool breath over her sweat-dampened skin. Mr. J's arm trapped beneath her stomach is all slick from her excitement, but she doesn't have the energy to move it.
Tears roll down her cheeks as the pleasure wanes.
She cries because she knows it's wrong, because her shame runs so rampant and so wild it pulses inside her without boundaries—fenceless—but she also cries because the pleasure is earth-shattering, and she knows that, if given the choice, she would do it all over again.
She would do it all over again in a heartbeat.
On Saturday, Ben texts her asking for her address.
She doesn't text him back until several hours later, when she's ready. She makes up some excuse about already being in town, that she was out running errands. He picks her up near Piedmont.
In the end, she elects not to tell Mr. J about the party. She doesn't really know why. Maybe she's afraid he won't let her go. Maybe she's afraid of the subsequent fallout of her not going when Hank takes her into his office the next day, talks to her in that soft, fatherly voice, making her cry when he tells her he's disappointed that she can't follow orders, when he tells her she doesn't respect him. He's shaking his head when he fires her, and Ruby is there behind his desk, too, her eyes hot as coals, smirking, like she knew it would come to this.
No, it's better this way. It's just another work shift, really, that's what Hank had said. She's getting paid, after all, so it's really no different. That's what she tells herself.
She's nervous, though, as she smooths down the pleats in her skirt and makes sure her polo is tucked in. Even though Mr. J isn't home when she leaves, she's still wearing her uniform, just so it won't look suspicious when she comes homes later that night. She made sure to wash it the night before at the laundromat, so it's nice and clean and doesn't smell like fast food and grease. She brings a change of clothes just in case, but hopefully she won't need them. She doesn't want to stay long.
"Have you ever been to one of these things before?" she asks Ben, turning to look at him. He's super intense today, she thinks, his eyes laser-focused on the road ahead, gripping the steering wheel with both hands. He's barely turned to look at her since she got in the car. She notices the sweat beading along his brow, and the sweat-stain blooming through the pits of his grey t-shirt. Maybe he's nervous about driving after the accident?
It's a moment before he responds.
"Yeah, I've been before," he says, quieter than usual.
"Will there be a lot of people there?"
"A few," he mumbles.
She tries to pry him open with a few more questions, but his replies remain just as cryptic, and Taylor frowns, turning in her seat to face him.
"I can drive if you're nervous," she offers. "I mean, it's been a little while, and I don't technically have my permit, but as long as you—"
"It's not that," Ben interrupts. He does look at her then, briefly, his eyes softening some when he does. "It's fine."
Taylor bites down on her lip and shrugs back into her seat. "Okay," she says, equally as quiet.
With the radio off, the silence between them feels magnified, but she leans back and stares out the window, trying not to let his weird mood exacerbate her anxiety. It's a nice, sunny day—not too hot, for once—though she thinks it's supposed to rain later. She frowns as she takes in the scenery—trees cushioned on either side of a narrow, one-lane road. Sunlight filters happily through the foliage, and kudzu is snaked around old, crooked telephone poles. The sound of crickets, even though it's only half-passed six, and the hum of the city no longer present. It makes her nervous not to be able to hear it, not when she's lived with the constant soundtrack of the city playing in the background for her entire life. It makes her feel far away from Mr. J. Makes her anxious.
Sunlight dances playfully over the dashboard and her bare thighs, warm and friendly, but her frown deepens when it dawns on her why she feels so unsettled.
These woods are familiar.
This is where Ben had taken her the night of the accident, isn't it? She didn't recognize it at first because of how different it looks in the daylight.
She turns to look at him, feeling a little panicked, suddenly, although she doesn't know why. The car shudders and dips beneath them when the paved road falls away into loose gravel—reddish, orange dirt—and the road narrows even further, even as the trees start to open up on either side, becoming distant.
"Hey, Ben," she starts, "I don't think—"
"I don't want you to hate me," he says suddenly, cutting her off.
Her brows pull together in confusion. "What?"
"I don't want you to hate me. Please don't hate me." He's still not looking at her when he says it, and she frowns at the way he's clenching and unclenching his hands along the column of the steering wheel, and, okay, now she's really freaked out. Something about this just doesn't feel right.
She leans forward in her seat, one hand braced against the dashboard and the other gripping the edge of the door.
"Ben, I—I think I want to go home now," she says, the words getting tripped up all over her tongue in her haste to get them out. "I—I changed my mind. I don't wanna go anymore."
Ben shakes his head 'no', looking pained—conflicted—but he still won't look at her.
What the fuck is going on?
She swallows, eyes darting around the car. "Let's go back to your place," she says, trying to keep her voice friendly. Light. "We can watch a movie or something," she offers, edging closer to him to try and get his attention, "or—or you can draw on my cast, remember?"
She can hear the rising panic in her voice, but Ben only stares straight ahead, the car starting to slow some, and that's when she sees it.
The woods open up into a large clearing, where a two-story house comes into view, nestled just along the edge of the tree line. It's old, one of those houses clearly built in the 70's, all faded brown wood, rain-soaked and bloated from the humidity. The front porch is large and sprawling, raised up to the second level and built on stilts. Near the side of the house, shaded by the trees, a handful of old, broken down cars, and a hodgepodge of decaying metal, old oil drums and other rusted junk. She sees a black SUV with tinted windows in the driveway, and then several men emerging from around the side of it, all of them dressed in black, three—no, five of them—in total.
The gravel shifts beneath the tires as the car comes to a stop—and then her heart plummets into her stomach as she watches the men start to approach. Her heartbeat thuds in her ears.
"I really like you, Taylor," he says, the shudder in his voice audible. "I didn't want to do this. You were—you were different."
"What are you talking about?" she asks, panicked. Fear prickles all up and down her arms and legs in a way she hasn't felt in a long time, different than the fear she felt that night of the accident, or when Mr. J handed Ressling his belt.
She unbuckles her seatbelt with trembling hands, maybe with the intent to flee, she doesn't know, and she is breathing hard as she rips the belt away from her chest and scoots to the edge of her seat.
"Ben, what is this?" She looks desperately at him, and then back at the men, men she doesn't recognize, who have divided up and are starting to approach the car from both sides, descending on them like vultures.
Ben doesn't look at her, keeping his head down, staring at the steering wheel, and her eyes dart urgently between him and the men who are only getting closer.
"Ben, what's going on?" she cries. She reaches across the center console to grab him by the shoulder, shaking him. "Please, please just tell me!"
Taylor screams when her door is wrenched open, and she tries to hold onto Ben even as she is viciously ripped out, dragged into the gravel, one meaty forearm locked around her throat, the other around her waist, trapping her arms against her sides as she kicks her legs and desperately twists to get free.
"Ben—Ben!" she screams.
Author's Notes: The song Taylor is dancing to in the chapter when she realizes the Joker is watching is 'Always Something There to Remind Me' by the Naked Eyes. She's a hopeless 80's girl, what can I say?
'Where she could live inside of him like a second pulse': credit where credit is due, this line was inspired by the beautiful Marilyn Hacker quote, "You were inside me like my pulse." It's one of the most poignant things I've ever read, and I wanted to put my own spin on it and pay homage to it here.
'Metanoia' refers to a change in one's way of life resulting from penitence or spiritual conversion. I'm fascinated by the idea of Taylor thinking she's been "born again" now that she's been claimed by the Joker in a very physical way. This has happened once already, in JK, when he branded her, and I think she would feel this "spiritual conversion" tenfold now that he's broken through this second physical barrier and put his hands inside her.
Thank you all so much for your incredible feedback so far. I'm still working through responding to all of your reviews for the previous chapter(s), but your enthusiasm for this story always renders me speechless. It's also been incredibly humbling, the amount of you who have come forward to say how cathartic this journey has been for so many of you (as it has been for me, too) especially for those of you who have suffered through similar traumas/life experiences as Taylor, or those of you who simply identify with her and have found common ground with her. It really means a lot to me that you would share that with me. Thank you so much for reading.