I raised an eyebrow. “If we were talking about some inter-office romance between two people in the mail room, no one would care. But this is you we're talking about.”
He looked startled and the expression almost made me laugh. “Excuse me?”
“Seriously?” I chuckled as I climbed out of bed. Having a normal conversation seemed like a good way to keep my mind off of things while I got ready for work. “Do you have any idea how many women at work want to get into your pants?” I paused, and then added, “And some guys too.”
He rolled his eyes good-naturedly and swung his legs over the side of the bed. I let my gaze linger on his firm ass for a moment before walking towards the bathroom.
“I'm serious,” I said as I stopped in the doorway. “People aren't going to like this.” I gestured between us. “And I don't just mean your family.”
Rylan shook his head and I could tell he still didn't believe me. I couldn't believe he was that clueless. Or maybe he'd just gotten so used to the admiring looks that he didn't notice them. Actually, I wondered as I walked into the bathroom, maybe it was because of work. When he was there, he was so thoroughly focused on the job at hand that there were times I wondered if he even noticed me. And, of course, he always assumed that everyone was as driven as he was.
I showered quickly, half-hoping Rylan would join me. When I stepped out of the bathroom, I knew why he hadn't. I could smell waffles cooking.
I tucked the towel more tightly around me and walked into the kitchen, my stomach growling as I went. I hadn't eaten much of anything yesterday, or the entire weekend for that matter. The fact that I was hungry made me feel better.
When I walked into the kitchen, Rylan was at the toaster, frowning at it. I couldn't help but smile. He was so cute, standing there in his jeans, the top unbuttoned. Chest bare, hair still mussed from bed.
“Problem?” I asked.
“How old is this thing?” he asked as he turned. His mouth was open, as if he meant to say something else, but whatever it was died as soon as he saw me. Lust flashed across his face. “Damn, Jenna. We'll never make it in to work with you looking like that.”
“Well,” I said, a teasing note in my voice. “I guess I'd better go get dressed then. Bathroom's free.”
I waited until I was almost at the hallway before dropping the towel. I laughed as I heard him swear. I was still laughing when he caught me around the waist and spun us until my back was against the wall. I wrapped my legs around his waist as he grabbed my wrists. His eyes were burning, but I could read the question in them. Even in a moment of passion, he was still thinking of me.
I nodded, my mouth dry. He'd been gentle last night, even at the end, but I knew this wasn't going to be like that at all.
He used his body as leverage and pinned my arms above my head with one hand. The other went between us and I felt the fabric of his jeans move against my bare thighs, then his cock was free. He entered me with one thrust and I cried out as he stretched me too far, too fast. He didn't stop, trusting me to use our safe words if I needed to. Each thrust was harder than the last, driving me into the wall, pushing the air from my lungs. Spots danced in front of my eyes and every nerve screamed. I came on the fourth or fifth stroke and continued coming even as he pressed his face against the side of my neck, teeth nipping at the skin. Just before it turned into pain, he buried himself deep and came with a groan.
His breath was hot on my neck and I felt his heart pounding in his chest, a rapid counter-beat to my own.
“Fuck, Jenna.” He kissed the underside of my jaw. “I can't get enough of you.”
My heart squeezed almost painfully in my chest. “I love you.”
We ended up sharing the shower in an attempt to hurry so we could get in early enough that Rylan could change into the extra clothes he kept in his office. It didn't exactly work as well as we'd intended. Well, as I'd intended. The gleam in Rylan's eyes hinted that his intentions weren't entirely noble, and he'd proven that shortly after we got into the shower.
Needless to say, we both showed up late. I was pretty sure some people noticed, but at least no one said anything. If they wanted to talk behind my back, I really didn't care. I knew how I'd gotten my job and I'd more than proved that I was better at it than anyone else in the building, including Rylan, and he'd be the first one to admit it. My mouth tightened as I walked into my office. As long as they didn't say anything about Rylan. That, I wasn't sure I'd be able to keep my mouth shut about. I doubted Rylan would look highly on having to fire me for punching someone.
Despite all of that, I was surprised at how good it felt to get back to work. The familiarity of numbers and coding, working through the complexities of a security problem, finding backdoors and solutions. I welcomed the chance to fall back into the rhythm and let it carry me to that place where nothing else existed.
I would've worked through lunch if Rylan hadn't called down to see how I was doing. We didn't meet for it, hoping to preserve some sense of professional distance after our morning arrival. It helped, actually, feeling like things were returning to normal. In the back of my head, I knew that I wouldn't really think of life as anything close to normal until after this whole Christophe mess was taken care of, but it was close enough.
I went home alone – though not without arguing with Rylan about it – and managed to eat real food and fall asleep without too much difficulty. Thinking about Rylan made it easier, and I wasn't too surprised when I woke up the next morning without having dreamed at all. He really was my anchor.
Wednesday passed with as much uneventfulness, and I was almost daring to hope that things would be quiet for a while. After the incident with Christophe, the insanity of the holidays and the grand jury, I would be grateful for a little boredom.
Thursday afternoon after lunch, however, I got the call that told me boredom wasn't going to happen.
“Miss Lang?”
“Agent Matthews.” My stomach clenched. “What happened?”
“Mr. Constantine agreed to a plea.” He got right to the point and I appreciated that. “The specifics are still being hammered out, but we have your restraining orders, and he will be undergoing mandatory therapy, be registered as a sex offender and be on probation. We're working on how long.”
“That's good, Agent Matthews.” I couldn't manage anything more enthusiastic. While I appreciated the importance of what a deal like this could mean for hundreds of kids, I wasn't happy about Christophe not paying for what he'd done. “I appreciate you calling to let me know.”
“That's not the only reason I called.”
Shit. That didn't sound good.
“One of the things we had to give in on for him to take the deal was bail.”
I started shaking my head before he even finished what he was saying.
“He wanted to be out on bail until we got things solidified. The judge granted it. Half a million. He got it bonded within a couple hours.”
“Are you telling me that bastard's out?” I spoke through gritted teeth.
“I'm sorry, Miss Lang. We didn't have much choice.”
I wanted to tell him that they did. That the FBI could do whatever the hell they wanted to do. The US Attorney could've demanded Christophe be kept in solitary until he cracked. Or, better yet, for someone with an arrest for child pornography, general population would have been a better idea.
“We have the restraining orders in place, Miss Lang. If Mr. Constantine comes anywhere within a thousand feet of either you or Mr. Archer, call me and I'll have him arrested again.”
“But it won't void his deal,” I said.
“If it's before he gives us the information, no,” Agent Matthews admitted. “If it's after, then yes. He'll serve out the maximum sentence.”
“So I just need to hope he waits a while before he decides to finish what he started.” I couldn't keep the bitterness out of my voice.
“You knew this was a possibility,” he said. “I couldn't promise any jail time.??
?
“I knew,” I said. “But I figured I’d have some time where I didn't have to worry about coming home and finding him in my apartment.”
“I can spare a couple agents to watch your place,” he offered. “I can't say for how long, but maybe if he sees that we're protecting you, he'll think twice.”
“No,” I said immediately. “No protection detail.”
For a moment, I thought he would try to persuade me, but he didn't.
“If that's what you want. If you change your mind, all you have to do is call.” He paused, and then added, “And Miss Lang, I still fully intend to try my best to get Mr. Constantine off the streets for as long as possible.”
He hung up before I could respond and I wondered if he felt guilty for not keeping Christophe in jail. Not that it mattered, I reminded myself. He'd been right. Even if Christophe hadn't been given bail, the possibility of more than a slap on the wrist was pretty much non-existent. Christophe would've been out anyway.
It didn't make the knowledge any easier.
I turned back to my computer screen, but I wasn't able to concentrate. The language I knew turned into meaningless ones and zeroes. Even the simplest algorithm made no sense. The things I'd been working on since I was a teenager wouldn't come together in my mind.
I spent the next couple hours trying to regain my focus. Trying to get back to that place where everything was automatic, where things came together in a way that only occurred in things like mathematics and computer technology. Unfortunately, it didn't happen. By the time I was ready to leave, I knew I needed to find something to do to take my mind off of things.
The easy solution would have been to call Rylan, to lose myself in him, in his body. My body tightened at the thought. I wanted him, wanted the forgetfulness he could offer, the shelter.
But I'd never been one to take the easy road, and I wasn't going to start now. As much as I loved Rylan, I refused to lose myself literally, to become a shell of what I was. I'd already fought past having no identity. I wasn't going to do it again. I would find a way to fight what I was feeling on my own.
Fight, I thought. Now there was an idea.
While I'd spent some time running and doing some basic exercises over the past few weeks, I hadn't been to the gym in a while. Maybe spending an hour or so beating on a punching bag would ease some of the tension inside me. It certainly wouldn't hurt, and if I was lucky, it'd exhaust me enough that I'd be able to sleep tonight.
Chapter 25
The gym was practically empty, which was nice. Not that it was usually crowded to begin with, but on a Thursday night, there were only a couple people present. I recognized them both, but didn't know their names. We'd never spoken aside from a general greeting, and I didn't intend to change that. I wasn't here to make friends.
I always kept an extra set of workout clothes in my locker here so I quickly changed out of my work clothes and into my sports bra and shorts. I pulled sports tape from my bag as well. I didn't want to do any sort of running or anything like that. I needed to vent some anger.
I stretched off to one side, enjoying the feel of my muscles moving and pulling. After sitting at a desk all day, stretching felt good. Once I was done with that, I taped up my hands and headed over to the small speed bag. I always liked to start here and then go to the bigger bag.
The steady thump of my hands on the bag started slow, but rhythmically. I timed the hits with my pulse and kept my breathing event. Focusing on the sounds, the familiar smells of sweat and leather, I was able to close out the world. It was only me and the bag, nothing else. No one else.
I wiped the back of my hand across my forehead as I took a step back from the small bag and turned towards the bigger one. I centered myself the way I'd been taught and started with a series of basic jabs. After a few, I went through a combination that my self-defense teacher had taught me. He'd started with specific combinations, but also taught me how to mix it up, how to adapt for specific situations.
Those instructions had probably saved my life when Christophe had come after me. Granted, when it came down to it, things never moved as smoothly as they did during practice, but being prepared was a big part of it.
I shook my head to get rid of the thoughts. I didn't want to think about anything, not even what I was doing. I wanted muscle memory to do all the work and just let my mind go. For me, that generally wasn't an option, so I resorted to counting. It kept my brain busy enough not to think about other things, but was pure monotony, nothing that required an effort on my part.
The impact of my foot against the bag was solid, comforting. Two hits, then a kick. Mix it up with two rapid kicks and then a hit. A punch, elbow and back kick. Spin kick. Lather, rinse, repeat...
I went over and over the combinations, sometimes mixing them up, but always letting my body do the work. My mind wasn't quiet, but it was at least focused on a single goal. Counting each time I heard the thump of skin against leather. Each time I felt the hit or kick. Every time thoughts of Christophe threatened to come forward, I hit harder. I knew my hands and feet were going to be bruised tomorrow, but I didn't care. I just wanted some time where I wasn't a bundle of nerves, wondering when something bad would happen next.
Sweat poured down my face and tendrils of hair stuck to my wet skin. My muscles began to ache, my hands and feet throbbing. My breath came in harsh puffs, controlled but faster than usual. I knew I needed to stop soon, but a part of me didn't want to. I wanted to push myself until I couldn't stand, couldn't think. I wanted to make myself pass out from exhaustion and not wake until all of this was over.
Maybe never.
It was that thought that made my rhythm falter. My hands fell to my sides and I bent over, putting them on my knees. My hair fell on either side of my face, hiding it. That was good. There weren't a lot of people here, but I didn't want anyone to see the expression I was sure was on my face.
I hadn't thought of suicide in years, no matter how dark things had gotten. And this time, it hadn't been a real thought, not exactly. Just an errant thought, not really directed by anything. And it wasn't like I was really wanted to end my life, I thought. It had been more like I just wanted to sleep forever. That wasn't the same thing.
I straightened and yanked the tape from my hands as I walked towards the water fountain. I took several swallows and then headed to the locker room. It was empty, but I still went into the shower stall before taking off anything. Modesty might not have been one of my virtues, but when people saw my scars, they tended to ask questions. Being in the locker room seemed to make people think it was okay to get personal.
I frowned as I stepped into the shower. I kept the water cold at first, letting it rinse away the sweat and heat. I'd never thought about it before, but was it possible that anyone who'd seen my scars could've figured out who I was? Granted, the men I'd slept with over the years probably wouldn't have been watching any of those videos, but what about men here at the gym? I wore a sports bra when I worked out and while my tattoo on my back covered those scars, the ones on my arm and side were visible. How many men out there had seen them and realized who I was?
I started to shiver and fumbled for the steel knob. A few moments later, the water began to warm. Still, I couldn't get rid of the chill. The water was nearly scalding but I let it beat down on me, working into my muscles. Hopefully, it would keep me from being too sore tomorrow. It usually worked, but I generally didn't work myself this hard.
Maybe I should change gyms, I thought. Go somewhere new. Make sure I only wore shirts that were long enough to cover my side. I looked down at my arm. I could do something about that. I'd covered my back with a tattoo. There was no reason I couldn't do the same here. A nice little design, maybe something that looked similar to the barbed wire tattoo around my wrist.
I stepped further under the spray and let the water roll down my face. I'd never gotten a tattoo that didn't mean something. I felt the water pounding against my back. Sure, the angel wings covered s
cars on my back, but I'd actually gotten them as a reminder. A reminder that I may have been broken, but that it wasn't my fault and that I had been innocent. If I got a tattoo on my arm, it would have to mean something.
Dammit! I slapped my hand against the wall.
What was I thinking? Changing gyms? Hiding my scars? What was the point in dying my hair back to my natural color if I was just going to hide again? These scars were part of who I was, evidence of what I had survived. I had no reason to be ashamed.
But it wasn't shame that made me want to hide. It was fear. Fear that someone else would try to pick up where Christophe left off. Fear that they might succeed where he had failed. In the years since I'd been rescued, I'd never considered that anyone would be able to recognize me by my scars. It hadn't seemed possible. But I also hadn't thought anyone would recognize me older and with different colored hair, with piercings. Christophe had managed it though. Who else was out there? Every man I passed could be someone who'd enjoyed watching me being abused, someone who was still watching children being hurt.
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly, fighting the tension in my chest. I needed to get a grip on things or I would have a panic attack right here.
“Get a grip,” I whispered. “You're safe. Christophe's in jail. You've been coming here for a long time and no one has tried to mess with you.” Hearing the words out loud helped some. “You're safe. No one knows anything.”
Gradually, the tight feeling in my chest eased and I could breathe again. The panic receded and I was able to step out of the shower feeling almost normal. I dried off and dressed, putting my work clothes back on. I'd need to bring extra clothes the next time I came. I stuffed the sweaty ones into my bag.
I walked back to the apartment, staying in the light as much as I could and resisting the urge to run. The best way to get over it was to not let it change me, not let it change my actions or routines. Walking instead of running. So that's what I did. I walked and ignored the fear pricking across the back of my neck.