Take It - Part Two Read online

  After the long beep I sputter out an almost incoherent message. “Harrison, I’m not sure how I’m going to do this. How am I supposed to do this? I can’t do this.” My voice trembles as the sobs come, and I slam the phone down onto the receiver. There was no point to that call. I didn’t get to scream at him for what he’d done. I didn’t get to find out why. All I did was look like a feeble-minded idiot. If he’s trying to destroy me, I just showed him he had.

  But if the phone rings right now . . . I’ll pick it up.

  Chapter Five

  My mother places the same tray she used when I had the flu as a child across my lap. It’s a dingy brown metallic tray with legs that fold out on either side to keep it steady. On it wobbles a bowl of kids cereal and a plastic cup of orange juice, more pieces of childhood nostalgia. My mother’s sentimental streak is worrisome. When she tells a story, you would think she was recounting something she did last week when in fact it happened twenty years ago. Her brain is fixated on the best years of her life, back when her kids were small and before her husband revealed himself as a philandering cheater. As my eyes trace the angles of her tired face, I pray I don’t ever fall into the same trap. My time with Harrison was a powerful magic, and I hope my mind doesn’t continue to wander there dreamily for the rest of my life.

  One of my biggest realizations is that everything I thought I was never really existed. I tried to project myself as a powerful, well put together, and accomplished woman. But I was weak. Not just with Harrison, but with every aspect of my life. I allowed myself to be sexually harassed by my boss and convinced myself it was my fault for being a woman in a man’s world. Harrison didn’t leave me with just a broken heart—he left me with a devastating reality check. A power business suit and long-term employment don’t mean shit if, at the end of the day, you don’t value yourself. How could I think I was a strong independent woman when I let myself get steamrolled every day at work?

  My mother smooths my wild bed head down with her fragile hand, and I cringe inwardly. This time warp is making me feel smothered, and I’m wondering if I’ve made a grave mistake by agreeing to move in here.

  “I’m sorry the television in your old room doesn’t have many channels. I’ve rigged up the rabbit ears so you can get the classic movie channel you loved to watch. That’s about the only option.” My mother clicks the remote and the old boxy television hums to life. After it works out its static and kinks, the screen pops up with an old movie I haven’t seen in over a decade. I used to be glued to my mother’s side watching every glamorous movie from the thirties and forties. I can’t remember why or when I stopped watching them, but the large fluttering eyes of the actress makes long for the comfort they used to bring.

  With a spoon in my hand, the television tuned to an old movie, and my pillow thoroughly fluffed, my mother sneaks out of the room to head to work. “I’ll be back to check on you at lunchtime. I’ll make your favorite, that soup with the letters in it.”

  With a quick wave she’s gone, and I take a heaping spoonful of the sugary cereal loaded with marshmallows. Looking around my old room I see everything is just how I left it, in all its heartthrob-poster glory. Sadly, my mother left our rooms like little shrines to the lives we lead as children.

  As I finish my breakfast and awkwardly move the tray to the bedside table, I can still feel the ache in my hand and foot. I’ve never been without a plan. But what can I do? I’m too injured to job hunt. My mangled phone can be replaced easily, but I’m not sending my mom on that errand for me. Who knows what she’d come home with? If they made rotary cell phones in basic black, she’d pick it.

  Everything has been moved out of my apartment. Half's here, half's in storage. Not surprisingly, my mother did a horrendous job of deciding which clothes to bring here. Anything that looked like I might have worn it in high school made the cut. She’d even dug a jumper out of her attic that she thought might still fit me. I’m trying to find the humor in all of it, but honestly it’s starting to feel a little like a horror movie where the crazy old lady keeps a girl hostage and tries to relive her past, dressing her in clothes she hasn't worn since she was ten. If my mother were a psycho, this would be her MO.

  I draw in a deep breath and close my eyes, praying I can sleep. But images of Harrison flash behind my eyelids. Even if sleep overtakes me, he will be in my dreams, waiting to torture me. So I sit for a moment wondering what I really want. If I could have anything right now, besides a time machine or for Harrison to not be a bastard, what would it be? A shower.

  The one thing this old house does have is a water heater with a dial that snapped off years ago. The water is always blazing hot, nearly unbearable. I pull up the collar of my pajama shirt and realize I still smell like the hospital, like a broken person who can’t do anything for herself. I need to set my mind to something and accomplish it before I fall any deeper into the well of self-pity and loathing.

  I shift sideways and ungracefully roll out of bed. I’m supposed to be on crutches, but my mother intentionally parked mine by the front door. It’s not exactly the same as slamming my legs with a sledgehammer, horror movie style, but she is trying to make me stay put. Hopping like a wobbling fool, I make my way to the bathroom and spin the shower knobs until steam is billowing up over the lacey shower curtain. The side of the tub is higher than I remember, probably because I have to get into it using only one foot. I wiggle out of my clothes and feel a small sense of victory. I look down and see the stitches, snarling their way up my ankle, and remember I’m not supposed to get them wet. Damn.

  I’m committed now. I’m getting in this shower. I’ll hang my bad foot out over the side of the tub if that’s what it takes. Putting my back toward the tub, I rest my butt on the edge and whip my good foot over the side. Now all I need to do is stand up and leave the bad foot right where it is. Easy.

  I grab the shelf that holds the soap in one hand and the shower curtain in the other and gingerly try to lift myself up to a standing position. I’m nearly all the way up when both the shower curtain and the soap shelf come tumbling down on me. The porcelain shelf that broke free from the wall smacks me hard in the head right at my hairline and it only takes a second to see a dark pink trail of bloody water coming down. I’m deep in the tub now and can’t get enough leverage to push my body up. My foot hanging out the tub is making it impossible. Shaking and exhausted, I’m foggy from the smack to my head. Once again I’ve screwed up. This is becoming the mantra of my life. I can’t be trusted to make my own choices.

  I lie there under the hot water and let it wash away my blood and sobbing tears. I have no idea how I’ll get out of this. When my mother gets home at lunch, she’ll chastise me for being such an idiot. If she knew how stupid her daughter really was, she’d lock me up for my own good. I look down at my naked and mangled body trapped in a bathtub and think she might not be wrong to do so.

  Over the thundering noise of water pelting down on the plastic shower curtain, I hear something. I don’t know how long I’ve been sitting here. Maybe a half hour or so? It can’t be my mother yet. If it’s a rapist or murderer I might as well resign myself to my fate because I have absolutely no defense. Maybe he’ll just laugh at my pitiful situation and spare me.

  Tuning my ears to the noise, I realize it’s a knock on the front door. Murderers don’t knock, do they? No one uses the front door on Mom's house besides door-to-door evangelists and solicitors. Everyone else comes in the side door. I hear the metallic knocker come down again on the wooden door, and I hold my breath. Why I’m trying to be silent I don’t know. I should be screaming for help but do I really want some stranger coming to my naked rescue? As the water begins to run cold I have to face reality. I could be stuck here for hours if I don’t speak up right now. The blow to my head is making me dizzy, the soap made everything slippery, and the blood is coming a little faster now. I have no choice but to call out.

  “Help,” I say in a hoarse, pained voice, mustering all my energy to put more
volume behind it. “Please help me!”

  “Jenny?” I hear a voice call from outside. It’s a deep masculine voice. In the fog of my hazy mind I think it’s Harrison. He’s come for me. The lying bastard has finally tracked me down. My hate and affection for him is so intertwined I don't know how to react. I just know I need to get out of this shower. “Harrison, help me please. I’m in the shower. Help!”

  I hear a loud thud followed by others until I hear wood splintering and the front door slamming into the wall behind it. I picture Harrison kicking it open to get to me, and I call out his name again so he can find me. “Harrison, I’m in here.”

  “Jenny?” I hear as the bathroom door pushes open, and a man who is not Harrison steps through. Thinking it was Harrison coming, I did nothing to cover myself, but now as I try to identify this stranger, I frantically pull the shower curtain over myself.

  “My God—what happened?” Pierce, the firefighter, asks as he rushes to turn the shower off. The reprieve from the thundering water pummeling me is a relief, but nothing else about this feels very good. “What are you doing in the shower? You aren’t supposed to be up on your own yet, I’m sure.” He looks around the bathroom and grabs a towel off the rack.

  My body is quivering fiercely now. Blaming it on the frigid water that had been blasting down at me, I’m overwhelmed. I’m at a breaking point and not sure my mind can take anything else.

  “You’re freezing. I need to get you out of there. Can you move at all?” Pierce asks, assessing me from head to toe. He appears to do so clinically, not an air of curiosity about my bare body, just the injuries.

  “I can’t,” I croak out, my body suddenly wracked with heavy sobs. Maybe I can move; I don’t know. I just want to close my eyes and make the world disappear. I want the pain to end: the one in my heart and the one in my banged-up body. I give up. If I could fit down the drain I’d gladly follow the water down the dark pipe into the abyss.

  “Don’t worry,” Pierce assures me, pulling the shower curtain off me and replacing it with a plush towel, staring away from me the entire time as if making an extra effort to disregard my vulnerability. “I’m going to lift you up, is that all right with you?”

  I nod my head and wipe some of the blood trickling down my face out of my eyes. Pierce scoops me up, placing his hands around my shoulders and under my legs, lifting me as though he’s lifting a feather. I feel his biceps under my naked body, and I close my eyes, avoiding this moment.

  “Stay awake, Jenny. Stay with me.” Pierce pokes his head into a few rooms before finding mine. As delicately as possible he places me on the bed and sits on the edge of it so he can get a better look at the cut on my head. “I’m going to call an ambulance,” Pierce says as he digs his phone out of his pocket.

  “No,” I say catching his hand with an urgency that surprises him. “Please don’t. I don’t want to go back to the hospital. Please don’t make a big deal out of this. I just want my life back.” I know those words mean nothing to him. He doesn’t know me, or the mistakes I’ve made. The foolish way I’ve ruined my life. But I’m guessing it’s the tragic look in my eyes that makes him hesitate. My desire to lean forward and kiss him is completely irrational. But my naked body, covered only with the thin towel, is shivering not only from the cold but also from the desire to be held, touched, pleasured. I’ve been shown what it’s like to be teased and titillated in the perfect way. Every day, no every minute, I go without it is a withdrawal I can’t manage. I want a fix, and this man with all his muscles and kind eyes looks perfectly suited to give me what I need.

  “Jenny, you need to get this cut closed up,” he insists. There isn’t an ounce of passion in his eyes. He’s all business right now. His only concern is my current condition.

  “Can’t you do it? Please don’t make me go back to the hospital. I’m sorry I tried to take a shower. I just wanted to feel normal again.” I’m still holding his hand, and his face softens.

  “You’ve been on my mind since the accident. There was something in your eyes that day. It’s why I came by to check on you today. You’ve just stuck with me. It’s normal for victims to feel this, Jenny. There is far more mental trauma after an accident than people realize. Yours was particularly violent. You need to recover both physically and mentally. Give yourself some time.” He squeezes my hand in a comforting way, and we both seem to pull away at once. Couldn’t I make a move on him right now? How could he say no to a soaking wet, desperately horny woman who throws herself at him? But something he said stops me in my tracks.

  “Victim?” I say, mulling the word over. I hadn’t really thought of myself as a victim, but maybe he’s right.

  “I’ll get my first aid kit out of my truck and glue that cut shut. It’s right at your hairline so you probably won’t even see it.” He leans so close to my head that his broad chest is right in my face. I used to love to nibble on Harrison’s neck, down his shoulder, and across his chest before making my way down to a blow job. The path I blazed across his body seemed to increase the excitement for him. Would Pierce like that too?

  His white shirt is wet from carrying me. Total traitors, I feel my rosy buds begin to poke up, thoroughly aroused. I realize Pierce may be professionally cool and collected, but I'm toxic and restless—unsuitable to make decisions. Maybe running my hand up his powerful thigh until I hit his cock then stroking it until it’s pulsing and hard isn’t wise. He could be married. Maybe he’s in a serious relationship with someone.

  Trying to distract myself, I notice he's wearing a crucifix, a rather ornate one for a man, though how am I qualified to judge—Miss Lapsed Baptist? When he leans forward, the tiny cross swings forward, thumping my injured cheek.

  "Sorry,” Pierce apologizes as he tucks the pendant into his shirt, sending me a waft of his masculine cologne. It’s very musky and, while it suits him, I can’t help but note how different it is from Harrison’s earthy scent. It’s amazing how the brain works. While I was getting the best fuck of my life, I could smell Harrison, and now no other scent compares.

  “This was my mother's. It's all I have left of her, so I keep it close to my heart. But I can’t tell you how many people I’ve whacked in the face with it over the years, treating victims on the scene. It’s a hazard really.”

  "I'm sorry to hear about your mother," I offer, feeling the blazing fire between my legs start to dwindle. The odds that anything will happen between Pierce and me right now are slim. Likely my thirst will never be fully quenched again. I can’t even find a damn vibrator in the things my mother brought over from my apartment. She’s likely moved them over to storage. I might as well be lost and wandering through a celibate desert. I’m guessing there is no such thing, but that’s how I feel.

  "She's been gone quite a while now. Cancer.” He pulls in a deep breath and steadies his hand as he finishes up what he’s doing. “There, you should be comfortable for a few minutes while I go get my first aid kit. It doesn't look bad at all, now that I've wiped away the blood. Is there a nightgown or some pajamas I can get for you before I go?” He pauses to take note of my still flowing tears. He probably thinks I’m in pain or depressed about my accident. If he only knew I needed so much more from him than first aid, maybe he’d oblige. Pierce seems like a really accommodating guy, but I don’t have the guts to show him what would make my tears run dry right now. Apparently, only Harrison brought out the bold, demanding side of me.

  “These things have a way of sorting themselves out. All you have to do is get through right now.”

  "I-I'm sorry. It's just I really wanted a bath. I feel so dirty. I must look terrible."

  "You look fine, Jenny. Once we've taken care of your cut, maybe I can rig something up so you can take a bath. Then I'd better get going."

  "Do you really have to?" I whine. I hate the woman I've become. Whining has never been in my repertoire of persuading a man. I didn’t have to employ any tactics. "I really could use someone to talk to other than my mom."

 
"I'd love to stay, but it just wouldn't do for your mom to come home and find a strange man in her daughter's bedroom. I'd never want her first impression of me to be something like that."

  "I hardly think you're a stranger now, Pierce. You’ve saved my life . . . twice.”

  "Just take it easy so I don’t have to do it a third time. I'll be back in a minute," he assures me with a wink as he disappears to go get his first aid kit.

  I close my eyes as soon as he's gone, but of course, I can’t relax. There's way too much junk spinning around in my injured head. Harrison's betrayal, my job, my mom—this new man trying to help me.

  True to his word he returns quickly, taking care of my cut with cool tenderness. All done, he straightens up and replaces his medical supplies in the first aid kit. I tell him where to get the items I need for a bath, wickedly hoping he'll volunteer to give it to me. It isn’t that I am wildly attracted to Pierce, although he is attractive. It’s more that I want to feel better. To feel pleasure rather than this pain.

  He does as I've asked, blushing when I coyly ask if he wants to stay while I bathe. A discreet distance away, of course, out in the hall or something, I suggest. Harrison would have jumped right in, in fact, his hands would be all over me by now, but Pierce shyly says he'll get a chair and sit out in the hall in case I need him. I could use you now.

  "There," he says, as he fetches one of Mom's kitchen chairs and sits just outside my door. Since he can't see me, I have my privacy, but we can still talk. The wicked part of me is hoping he takes an occasional peek through the space between door and threshold.

  "I know next to nothing about you except you're a terrible driver and you’re living here with your mom. You don’t expect her home from work soon?"