Selling Out (38 page)

“Did you talk to Philip?” she blurted out. Then blushed.

I suppressed a smile. “Not really. I did speak to Allie
earlier, so she told me how he’s been. Busy with work, I think.”

“Oh.”

I waited for the
did
he ask about me?
But it didn’t come. Smart girl. I understood the
compulsion, but they were light-years apart. She was a mostly good girl in the
senior class. Philip was a kinky bastard. She’d found a lifetime’s rebellion in
one petty crime, and he was in for life.

“Here.” She gestured to the bed. “You can sit down, if you
want.”

I eyed the bed. This whole high school bedroom setup hit a
little close to home. “No, thanks.” Then realizing it had been curt, I said,
“How has school been? Are you caught up?”

“Yeah,” she said. “Lots of homework to make up, but I’ll
still finish the year out.”

“Ah. Good.”

She rolled her eyes, and I saw hints of the spirited young
girl I’d come to know. “I’m sure you used geometry theorems every day.”

“Every night, baby. My work is all about angles.”

“Was,” she said tentatively. “That was your work, but not
anymore. Right?”

“Right,” I said. “Though don’t ask me what I’m going to do.
I don’t know.”

I had some ideas. Marguerite had asked me to join her at the
shelter.
“Who better than to teach Jenny
and the other girls how to function in society?”
she had said. I knew where
they were coming from, that much was true. But I wasn’t in a position to tell
them where to go next, not when I was still searching for that myself.

Claire shared a few stories from school, things about boys
and class clowns, before broaching the topic I dreaded.

“Did you ever find out why he took me? What started it all?”

I swallowed. I could tell her now, and it would make sense,
but it would break her. What started the whole chain reaction was her deciding
to be naughty, stepping out to the club with a fake ID. What started it all
happened nine months before she was born. No, it had started years ago,
lifetimes ago, endless cycles of abuse and betrayal. I didn’t want that for
her. I wanted this. The pristine room. The goofy friends who thought they knew
everything.

“It was random,” I said, and as the words left my mouth, I
realized there was truth to them. I would never know whether other decisions, other
roads would have kept me safer. I could be somewhere without this pain, without
these scars—without Luke. There was only now, tomorrow. There was only love in
all its forms, even the ones that made me lie to her. “His business was
struggling, and he thought a new girl would bring in extra cash.”

“Well,” she said after a moment. “That sucks.”

And yeah, it did. But I had gotten to know her, which
mattered more than I could say. “Will you come visit me sometime?”

She made a face. “Where are you staying?”

I laughed. “Not at Philip’s. I’m going to live outside the
city for a little while.”

A long while, if I had my way. But Luke’s job was here, and
so I was playing it by ear.

“I’d love to,” she said. “I have to thank you for what you
did in that hotel room. And after. I know no one else would have.”

It was my turn to make a face. I had wanted to shake this
need to please, this compulsion to keep everyone around me grateful to me. But
here I was, thanked twice in two hours. It seemed I would never escape it, and
maybe it had been a mistake to even try. These were my friends. Of course I
should help them. It hadn’t been the gratitude I needed then, but the company.
There had been a void in me, and I had frantically filled it with fawning men
and a neat collection of owed favors. The void was gone, filled with things far
more weighty. Filled with hope.

I left her room with the jade necklace in my pocket. It was
rightfully her inheritance, like those jewels had been mine. But they had been
like poison, infecting me with their very presence. If Jade had wanted to be
sure Ella received it, she could have sent it herself. By giving it to me, she
was leaving it to my judgment. I would throw it away like the trash that it
was.

From the bed, I watched the leaves drift to the ground
through the window, a mural of greens, browns, and reds as autumn arrived. It
was hard to believe that a few weeks ago, I had stared out the window, seeing
only the gray tones of the city.

Luke came into the bedroom, carrying a mug of steaming tea.

I took it with thanks, wrapping my fingers around the hot
ceramic.

“How’s your leg?” he asked softly, but he didn’t wait for an
answer.

He crouched in front of me and carefully pulled up the long
sheet. He cradled my foot gently as he examined the wound. It had completely
closed, so the bandage was off. The raised, jagged line ran from my knee down
along my calf. It would probably scar, just like the round wound in my
shoulder.

Some days I felt like I was nothing but a collection of scars—a
cautionary tale. Other days I found a certain quiet glory in the pain of my
past. I had survived them. Sometimes triumph wasn’t a fanfare but a series of
small events: the first breath of morning, a warm body sharing the sheets, the
sight of green eyes watching me as I came awake.

“It looks like it’s healing well,” he said. “How does it
feel?”

“I barely notice it.” At his disbelieving look, I said,
“Except when I walk. Or, you know, move. Sitting’s good, though.”

“We’ll sit, then.” He sat on the edge of the bed, careful
not to disturb my leg.

He had already been up and dressed for an hour. The cottage
needed a lot of work before it was livable, but I had refused his requests to
stay in a hotel while he did the work. I wanted to be here, even if the kitchen
needed new cabinets, even if the water heater kind of sucked. I never wanted to
see another hotel again in my life. Besides, this place filled a part of me
that had long been empty. The wound on my leg was healing. More than that,
I
was healing. Both outside and inside
were a slow-ass process, I was finding, but at least it was progress.

“I got a call from the captain today,” he said.

My gaze sharpened. We had carefully avoided the subject of
what would happen after his leave of absence. I strove to match his casual
tone. “What did he say?”

“He asked about you.”

“Really?” I laughed in surprise. “Has he found something new
to charge me with?”

I immediately regretted my outburst. The captain of the CPD
had put me through hell, and I wasn’t sure I could get over that. Far worse,
he’d made Luke an outcast for fighting for me. So the guy had reinstated Luke.
I still didn’t have to like him.

Except I sort of did, because he was Luke’s boss. I would answer
the phone when he called the house for Luke. I would see him at the
department’s Christmas party. And I would deal with it, for Luke. It would just
be another way of faking it.

Luke watched me with a resigned look. “You hate him.”

“He’s not my favorite person. But it’s not like I have to
work for him. And when I see him, I’ll be on my best behavior, I promise.” I
never wanted Luke to feel ashamed of me. It was bad enough that everyone he
worked with knew what I had been. That would already hang over him. I wouldn’t
make it worse.

He looked amused. “You realize your best behavior is also
your worst.”

A smile curved my lips. “You love that about me.” I pouted.
“At least I thought you did.”

“I do.”

His voice had gone low, his eyes a dark emerald color. He
teased me about how much I talked about sex, but really he loved it.

“I’ve been here a whole week,” I said in a singsong voice.
“I’ll start to get a complex.”

“You’re hurt,” he said quickly. “You need to rest.”

“I have been resting. In fact, I’m exhausted from all this
rest.”

“Oh yeah?” The glint in his eye said I wouldn’t be falling
asleep anytime soon.

I raised my eyebrow in challenge. “Yeah.”

He climbed up beside me. I barely had enough time to put the
mug on the bedside table before he pulled me up against his body, my back to
his front.

Snuggling back into the warmth of his body, I said, “Not to
complain or anything, but cuddling counts as resting.”

“Hush,” he said. His hand snaked over my hip.

I sucked in a breath. It had been so long…really, never. Never
exactly like this, with Luke. We had a hundred different ways to explore each
other, a million times to make each other come. I looked forward to every
single one.

I had taken to the habit of wearing his undershirt to bed.
Now he lifted the hem from my thigh and walked his finger beneath the waistband
of my panties. I jumped at the touch of his hand on my mound, realizing I
hadn’t shaved all week. It had been hard enough to shower with my damn leg
hurting every time a drop of water touched it. Plus it had felt kind of nice to
take a shower without doing that sort of primping. Just getting clean without
preparing myself for a man.

“Sorry,” I said quickly. “Maybe this isn’t a good time.”

His hand froze. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m…bristly.”

He laughed softly. “Bristly?”

“You know, like a beard. But less sexy.”

“I don’t know,” he mused. His fingers resumed their
stroking. “I think it would be pretty hard for me not to find this sexy. A
little bristle isn’t going to cut it. Besides”—he touched my clit lightly, then
backed away—“this was the spot I was going for. Not bristly at all. Very
smooth. Only a little wet, but we can fix that.” He dipped his finger lower,
into the dampness that had pooled between my folds. Drawing it up, he circled
my clit again.

“Oh, Luke.” My heart swelled along with my clit. He made me
feel so wanted, inside and out. I knew he enjoyed my body—the hard ridge
pressed against my ass from beneath his jeans paid testament to that—but the
way he touched me, it was as if that didn’t even matter. Whether my hair was
the old blonde or the lingering brown, whether my cunt was shaved or not, he
was just as hard for me, just as ready.

“It’s okay, Shelly. You can let go.” He knew the effect he
had on me. “I’m here with you. I’ll do anything to be with you.”

I felt myself clench at his words. He said it to me every
day, reminding me that he didn’t just want me for my body, for what pleasure I
could bring him. I was trying, but it was hard to believe. It was hard to
remember. He understood that too.

“That’s right,” he murmured as my hips began to rock into
his hand. “More.”

“Ahh.” I let out a small cry as pain shot up my leg.

He stilled. “What’s wrong?”

“My leg. Sorry. It’s brushing against the sheet.”

He pulled the sheet off, then gently placed my leg over his.
This way nothing could accidentally brush against the wound. The position also
left me completely exposed, cool air wafting against my sensitive clit. I
shuddered from the chill.

“Shh,” he soothed, his hand reaching for me, fingers pushing
inside. I shuddered again, this time from pleasure.

Held open by him, probed by him, I felt vulnerable. It was
bittersweet, the lingering sense of shame tainting the overwhelming pleasure. I
whimpered.

“I know,” he said, and the most incredible thing was, he
did. He knew what it felt like to be afraid to let anyone close. He knew what
it felt like to be used. “Just tell me if you want to stop, and I will. I won’t
be mad.”

I relaxed into his hold, leaning my head back. His mouth
found the skin behind my ear, nibbling down to my neck. I pushed my hips into
his hand, practically riding him as I sought my release.

“Yes,” he muttered. “Do it. Use me.”

My whole body tightened, squeezing his fingers and bucking
against his palm. I couldn’t find the peak. I could just push and writhe and
plead with tiny moans, reach until I felt wrung out and stretched taut.

“Shelly.” He sounded lost when he said my name like that.

I realized that my body was pushing back into his, that my
ass was rubbing his cock, and he was probably about to come inside his jeans.
That’s what pushed me over, the thought of him spurting that way, making a mess
of himself because he couldn’t hold it back. With a cry, I came, grinding down
onto his hand, bucking in his arms. He groaned, sucking at my neck as my body
released liquid onto his hand. His fingers stilled as the last of the orgasm
ran through me.

With a small sigh of contentment, I settled back. He jerked
against me.

I smiled without opening my eyes. “So you didn’t come in
your jeans.”

He laughed, a short, rough sound of strain. “No. It was
close.”

I pressed the curve of my ass against his erection, and he
groaned. “Almost there,” I said.

“Is that what you want?” he murmured. “Does it turn you on?”

“Yes,” I said, strangled, and he chuckled hoarsely.

He pushed against me, once, tentative.

“Again,” I whispered.

He held my hip this time, and just like that, his hand
keeping my body steady for him to rub his cock against me made my arousal burn
hot.

“Again, again.”

He wasn’t just pushing into me but pulling me back onto his
body. His hands scrabbled for a better grip, as if he could get closer, as if
he could pull me inside him and merge with me through the denim.

His groan was low and tortured and selfish—a man desperate
for his release. Like every other time, I was a sex object being used purely
for my partner’s gratification. But this was different, because I was hot
instead of cold, slick with arousal instead of slippery with lube. I was with
Luke.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he panted.

I smiled.

His movements grew jerky. I knew he was close, but I didn’t
want it to end. I wanted to go with him.

“Wait,” I said, turning slightly. “Can you… Can we…?”