Rock Me (New Adult Rockstar Romance) (2 page)

Bellamy.

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply. “I’ll do it right away.”

“Thank you, Jodie.” She strides away. I spend the next hour organizing the hand-scrawled notes into a fresh document, being extra careful not to make a single mistake.

Bellamy had a notorious habit of ruthlessly crushing anyone who dared to present him with flawed or inferior work. Even in the short time I’d been here, I had heard his voice booming from the back corner office, inevitably followed by a crying employee dashing from his room in terror. I was just thankful that I wouldn’t have to bring the documents to him myself.

The clock hands swing by an hour as I put the finishing touches on the papers. As soon as I finish, I print them out and start to make my way across the office to give them to Carla. I approach her desk, but quickly realize that she isn’t there. My brow furrows.

“Aaron,” I quietly whisper to the man who works adjacent to Carla’s desk. He doesn’t hear me. “Aaron,” I say again, slightly louder. Still nothing. I clear my throat, way louder than I had intended. He whirls around, annoyed.

“What do you want?” he snaps.

I blush and look down at the floor before I respond. “I was hoping you could tell me … where Carla is?” My voice rises to a pipsqueak at the end of the sentence. My face reddens.

“She’s gone,” he says.

“Do you know when she’ll be back?” I ask.

“Not for the rest of the day,” he says. “Sudden emergency. She had to leave. What’s it to you?”

My heart starts pounding. “It’s just that she needed these documents from me, because Mr. Bellamy requested them right away, and I had to give them to her so she could pass them along to him…” My mind starts racing as I realize what has to happen next.

Please don’t say it, please don’t say it,
I’m pleading in my head. I don’t want him to say what I know he is about to say.

“Well, she’s not coming back anytime soon. Just do it yourself,” he says, clearly impatient with me. He spins back to his desk, ending the conversation.

I can feel a bead of sweat slip down my forehead. My cheeks are trembling, my knees feel weak and insubstantial, incapable of supporting my weight. The echo of Bellamy’s voice is booming in my thoughts. The mental fog is swirling.

Unthinking, I pivot in place to face Bellamy’s office. His door is cracked and the light is on. I move forward, so detached from my body that I don’t even know how I’m walking. I’ve forgotten how to speak. The only thing I’m aware of is sheer terror.

Before I know it, I am standing in front of his door. I raise a quivering hand, rap my knuckles twice on the thick wood. The sharp knock resonates like explosions.

“Come in,” says the voice of a nightmare.

The door swings forward.

I step through.

***

He is framed by the eerie light streaming through the opaque shrouds over his windows. He is tall, gaunt, with a half-day beard scraping across his hollowed cheeks. His eyes are a metallic grey. He doesn’t look up as I enter.

I wonder if he can hear my heart thudding in my chest.

“Yes?” he asks without looking from the page on which he is writing. “What is it?”

His words whip at the air between us.

I can’t stop my voice from shaking as I open my mouth to speak. “Mr. Bellamy… Carla asked me to prepare these documents for you, and she isn’t here to deliver them, so I brought them myself, and um…” I trail off like a fool.

Something catches in his eyes. He puts down his pen and glances up for the first time. As soon as he does, the mood changes.

It might be my mind playing tricks on me, but I could swear that the look in his eyes has gone from cruelly distant to … leering. Lecherous. Predatory. He stares me straight in the eyes, drinking me in.

I feel consumed.

His gaze leaks downward from my eyes and gyrates over every curve of my body. My hands are unclenching and clenching, waiting for some sign of release, but the pull of his stare is like a chain binding me to the point where I’m standing. He lingers on my breasts, the subtle bump of my nipple against the sheer fabric, and the valley of creases where my bulging thighs sweep together. His colorless eyes coast along my curves, savoring them.

“Bring that to me,” he says. His voice is muted, though still retains a callous edge, like he had ground it down with sandpaper. I obey unthinkingly, offering the stack of papers in my hand.

He reaches forward – slowly, so slowly, his hand takes years and years to cross the distance between us, I have enough time to analyze every sharp angle of the sinews stretched across his wrist – and grasps the file. He doesn’t take it right away, though. Instead, he extends one long finger, adorned with an obscenely gaudy ring, and strokes the thick bulge of my wrist, just once, before he pulls away. The touch feels like electricity and I can’t help but leap backwards, away from the desk. My sudden motion shatters the tension of the moment.

There is a long silence before he speaks again.

“Thank you,” he says.

The spell is lifted and I feel a sudden explosion of freedom. I practically sprint out of the office without waiting for another word. I run straight to the bathroom. Once inside, I slam the door of a stall shut and sink to a seated position on the sparkling tiled floor. My breath heaves in ragged stretches and I realize that I hadn’t breathed from the moment I first entered Bellamy’s office. I am sweating profusely and swimming in a feeling that I haven’t felt in a long time.

It is the same feeling I felt when that boy had undone my bra in the backseat of his car.

It felt like someone wanted to fuck me.

CHAPTER TWO

The cold is burning at my mouth and ears as I hurry down the sidewalk. My chin is tucked into my chest as I shiver to shake away the freezing air that stabs between every crevice and mislaid fold in my clothing.

Autumn has sluiced away quickly in the last few weeks, forcing the temperature to plummet into single digits. The streets are full of people, like me, hunched over and gasping as they bustle from place to place.

I turn the corner and my apartment building comes into view. Heaving a sigh of relief, I pick up my pace.
A hundred yards until warmth.

Suddenly, as I stride across the icy street, my foot hits a patch of ice on top of a manhole cover. It slips out from under me. The entirety of my weight pitches forward, and because my mitten-encased hands are squeezed under my arms, there is nothing to break my fall. I try to twist in midair, but only get a quarter of the way turned before I smash into the ground.

My shoulder immediately erupts in pain, followed a millisecond later by my lip and the side of my face. Everything throbs agonizingly –
boom, boom,
every heartbeat sending daggers coursing through my skeleton.

Boom.
Ow.
Boom.
Jesus.

I think I tore something, a ligament, maybe, in my shoulder. I can feel the ice cooling over the long scrape forming on my cheekbone where it struck the pavement. The blood from my lip is dripping onto the pavement,
plink
-ing in time with the pounding pain of my arm.

I don’t want to move from my curled fetal position, though I can feel a cold puddle soaking into the hem of my jacket. I close my eyes and breath heavily.

The ever-present clouds lurking behind my eyes – that dull, persistent unthinking fog – contort and pull up a random memory:

I’m seven years old, sitting on the floor of my kitchen, cramming myself into a dusty, hidden corner. There’s a plate on my lap – a few minutes ago, it was heavy with freshly made brownies my mother had made for her book club. Now, though, the plate holds nothing but crumbs and the corners of my mouth are streaked with chocolate.

I’m content, my stomach feels warm and full, and I am licking the last remnants of a melted chocolate chip from between my fingers when a series of sharp
clicks
– like chipping ice – cascades down the hallway.

She is coming towards me.

I panic, try to stuff the plate behind me, but there is nowhere to go and nothing to do. My stomach, seconds ago so pleased, is now churning with bile and fear. I know what is coming.

Mother whirls into view. She is almost ready to leave the house, judging by the pearl necklace that bounces on her veined neck. A svelte black dress chases down her wire-thin frame, following closely along her bony hips. The legs jutting out from beneath the hem are skin, bones, and little else. She looks lovely.

I note all this subconsciously, though, because I can’t look away from her eyes. They are the eyes of a jungle cat and at this moment they are writhing with a torrent of bloody anger that makes me want to vomit.

So, submitting to the urge, that is exactly what I do. I lean forward, legs still crossed, and spew half-eaten brownies in Mother’s direction. The thick, half-digested tidal wave roils out across the kitchen floor, streaming in rivulets along the tiled grooves towards her night-black heels.

She steps backwards away from it. A note of disgust creeps behind the rage in her eyes.

“You animal,” she growls. “You disgusting, vile, despicable animal.”

I try to stutter out an excuse –
You didn’t let me eat dinner!
– but the lingering nausea and my abject fear of Mother seize the words in my throat.

“Stand up. Stand up this instant,” she commands. I do as she says. “Step forward!”

I tiptoe around the puddles of puke until I am standing in front of her. My chin is wobbling; I realize that I am crying. “Look at me,” she whispers, and I can hear the venomous tension stretched like wires between every word.

I raise my head slowly, my eyes tracking up her body, until they meet hers.

She slaps me. I collapse to my knees as my tears ratchet up to a wailing peak. Pain is bursting in my face and lip.
All I wanted was a bite to eat.

The blast of a car horn snaps me back to reality. I open my eyes and look up to see the grill of a taxi, breathing its exhaust in my face. A bald man with a thick accent leans out of the driver’s side window and yells at me.

“What the fuck are you doin’, lyin’ in the middle of the street like that? Get out of the way, you fat bitch!” He squeals around me, shoving a middle finger in my direction as he goes by.

I struggle to my feet, wincing at the pain that jags in my arm with every step. Pedestrians on the sidewalk look; no one stops to help. Limping, I cross the street, mount the sidewalk, and reach my building.

Something is seriously damaged; I can’t even lift my arm to grab the door handle. An elderly man coming out from the lobby holds it open for me. All I can offer him is a weary grimace, without even the energy to look him in the eyes.

Up in my dingy apartment, I have to bite my lip to stop from screaming as I pull my shirt off of my battered body. I can already see bruises - thick, mottled, purple, ugly bruises –spreading across my chest and hip where the brunt of my weight landed.

I drop the garment into a wet pile at the foot of my bed and stagger towards the shower. Slowly, I remove the rest of my clothing.

I squeeze my feet out of the tight, worn-thin ballet flats. I unclasp my belt, unbutton, unzip, and start the arduous process of stripping the tight khaki pants from my ass and thighs. Going slowly – it hurts to pull down with my injured right shoulder – I slide them over the curve of my ass, wiggling my hips from side to side to help them move. At last, they let go of their stranglehold on my waist and drop to my ankles. I step out of them, shivering in my bra and panties. My room is freezing.

It takes forever to unclasp my bra, but eventually I twist the hook with my left arm and get it off of me. I crank the shower to full heat, remove my purple lacy panties, and step under the stream.

Everything hurts. The hot water rushes over my neck. It streams down between my pale breasts, hanging heavy and full, follows the gentle bend of my stomach, gushes through the soft thicket of my short-clipped pubic hair.

I can’t find the strength to bring my hands up to my head. I’m aching so badly, every cell in me pulsing with dull pain. There’s a knot in my throat that is building and building – has been building for days now, fed by the constant notices of late payment and the meager paychecks and the heat that rises to my cheeks every time I have to scramble for change in the grocery store just to afford soap or a loaf of bread to get me through the week.

The pressure behind the knot reaches a crescendo and before I know it, I am sobbing hysterically. My tears mingle with the shower and they both pour, keep pouring, for far longer than I can afford.

I shuffle into the office a few days later, gritting my teeth in an attempt to conceal my pain. I haven’t been able to go to the doctor and I don’t think I’ll be able to find the money for a medical visit anytime soon. Two debt collectors, one for my tuition and one for my utilities bill, had called over and over again on the way to work, like they were racing to see which of them could make me crack first. I’m close to the breaking point.

Inside, wreaths adorn the walls and a Christmas tree towers in one corner, beaming with ornaments and gift-wrapped boxes stashed underneath the sticky branches. I weave between the desks, smiling and nodding at everyone without making eye contact.

I keep my gaze firmly on the ground.
One step at a time
, I counsel myself. Everything hurts still. The bruises wrapping around my torso have faded to a hideous yellow-orange, but the one on my face has remained a stubborn lavender.

I reach my seat and lower gingerly into it. Plucking the top page from my inbox, I scan its instructions and start working. The rest of the day passes by blearily in a haze of memo writing, alphabetizing, and spreadsheets that stretch for miles. Carla drifts in and out of my area, dropping off various tasks and picking up completed work.

Around 4:30, she walks past, then pauses, spins on her heel, and comes back towards me.

“Jodie,” she says, “can you do me a favor?”

“Of course,” I say. “How can I help?”

“The cleaning staff had today off, and Mr. Bellamy is hosting an important client for a meeting in his office tomorrow morning, but it’s a bit messy. Would you be able to step in and just touch things up?” she asks.

I gulp, remembering the last time I had entered Mr. Bellamy’s office. Carla arches a questioning eyebrow. “Sure thing,” I chirp, as cheerily as I can manage. “I’ll get right to it.”

“Thanks, Jodie,” she offers over her shoulder as she walks away, her ass sashaying wildly from side to side.

I take a deep breath to quell the panic rising in my stomach, then stand up and head towards the dark office. Mr. Bellamy has been gone all week, so I’m not scared of running into him. We haven’t made eye contact since the day in his office when he brushed my hand. I’ve convinced myself that the touch was an accident, but deep down, a little voice keeps reminding me about the hunger in his eyes when he stared me up and down. I shudder and open the door.

Silence. The office is empty, just as it should be. I flick on a light and hesitate for a moment, as if I’m waiting for something to pop out at me.
Don’t be ridiculous
, I tell myself.
He’s just a creepy old man.

I take stock of what needs to be done. Stacks of papers are strewn around the desk, the plants need watering, and several tables and bookshelves are crying out desperately to be dusted. Grabbing a feather duster from a closet just outside, I start sweeping off the bookshelves, straightening the crooked volumes as I go.

Most of the titles on the wall-to-wall shelving are boring – old accounting tomes, mostly, with texts on psychology and finance mixed in. I hum to myself as I scan through them. Gradually, I recede into the fog behind my eyes…
Wait, what? 
Something jerks my attention back to the bookshelf.

A thin magazine, wedged in between two thick volumes. Someone had clearly shoved it in there in a hurry, trying to hide it. I fight my curiosity, trying to convince myself that it isn’t worth getting in trouble, but I can’t help reaching up to tug the magazine free.

As soon as I glimpse the cover, I stifle a scream and drop it.

The magazine lands with a soft thumb, pages fluttering until they lie open on a centerfold. Depicted on the unfolded page is a big, curvy woman –
not bigger than me
, I think – on her hands and knees.

She wasn’t wearing any clothing, unless you count the ball gag in her mouth or the handcuffs binding her wrists together. Behind her, a ruggedly muscular man is captured mid-thrust, burying his cock deep inside the woman. Her eyes are bright, sparkling, and if she could talk, I’m not quite sure whether she would moan with pleasure or cry for help.

Every other page in the magazine contains similar pictures – fat women, bound and fucking, fingering themselves, wrapping their lips around members that seem to pulse and twitch. The cover page bears the title in stark red letters – “BIG AND BOUND.”

My heart is pounding in my chest. The magazine has to belong to Mr. Bellamy. I am repulsed, though I am beginning to understand why he touched my wrist so many weeks ago.
He wants me. He wants me like he wants the women in this magazine.

I can’t handle the flood of thoughts rushing through my head right now. I need to get out of here. I pick up the magazine and stuff it back into its hiding place, being sure to conceal it fully. I turn out the light, shut the door behind me, and grab my stuff from my desk as I hurry out.