Things Made Right

  * * * *

  Early the next morning, Ross threw his sneakers into the dryer with two dirty towels to help soften the noise and turned it on high for a few minutes to try to get some of the dampness out of them. It was a little after dawn, but already the normal morning sounds on the street outside were winding up as the city awoke and started its day.

  She fixed him scrambled eggs, wishing he didn’t have to go, but he needed to run home before class. When he had to leave, he pulled her close by the front door, holding her as she stood there in her bathrobe, her arms around him.

  She wished he’d never let her go.

  Finally, he pressed another kiss to her forehead. “When did I get here last night?” he softly asked.

  “Around seven,” she said. “I made us grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup, and then we spent the rest of the evening in bed before we fell asleep. I knew Emily would be gone so that’s why I invited you over.”

  “Such a good girl,” he whispered.

  Desperately, she clutched at him. “Please, don’t go.” An irrational fear swept through her.

  She didn’t know why she suddenly worried maybe she might not ever see him again, but it rushed through her like a strong, terrifyingly nasty flood of sewage.

  “I have to. But I’ll try to come back tonight around seven, if that’s okay?”

  “Yes. But Emily will be here.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll bring pizza for all three of us.”

  “Thank you.”

  He tipped her chin up so he could look her in the eyes. In the waxing morning light, his eyes looked sweet and brown, like the coffee she’d just served him, with milk and sugar.

  When she thought about the odors of gasoline and booze wafting from him upon his arrival last night, she shoved them away.

  That didn’t happen.

  “Be my good girl today, okay?” he softly said. “Go to class. Try to have a good day. Remember, I’ll be back tonight.”

  She nodded, eagerly.

  Then he smiled. That smile.

  He leaned in and pressed a tender kiss to her lips, mouth closed, before releasing her. “Lock the door after me,” he said.

  She let him out and heard him waiting there for the sound of her shooting the deadbolt, locking the knob, and putting the chain back on. Only then did she hear his footsteps head down the hallway toward the stairs.

  Rushing to the front window, she saw him emerge onto the front sidewalk a moment later, turning and waving to her.

  She smiled, waving back, and watched as he walked down to where his car was parked on the street on the other side and halfway down the block.

  Why did he park down there?

  Never mind. Doesn’t matter.

  Now with the apartment feeling hauntingly empty without his comforting presence, she turned on the TV, to the NBC affiliate, to listen to what was left of their morning news before the Today Show came on in about twenty minutes.

  She was back in the kitchen when the reporter’s voice hit her and the plate she was washing slipped from her hands and clattered into the sink, where it shattered.

  “To recap the local tragedy from overnight, authorities still haven’t officially identified the four victims in the fiery car crash late last night out on Cumberland Road, pending next of kin notification and positive ID. But initial reports say the car was registered to one George Kessling, of Pittsburgh…”

  The next thing Loren realized, she was standing in front of the TV, watching, her left hand jammed in her mouth as she bit down on it to keep from screaming.

  “…His son, Walter Kessling, is a registered student at UPenn. Authorities are currently trying to locate Walter…”

  Loren sank to the floor as she watched, rocking herself. The reporter was on the scene, where ambulances, fire trucks, tow trucks, and Highway Patrol cars were parked next to a section of road. The footage cut away to an aerial scene that looked like it had been filmed from a traffic chopper just after daybreak, smoke still rising from the charred husk of a vehicle lying at the bottom of the hundred-foot drop and in the center of a blackened circle of burned brush.

  “…And they still haven’t retrieved the bodies yet due to the hazardous conditions. Authorities needed to wait until daylight so they didn’t risk personnel…”

  Another cutaway to an interview conducted with a patrolman before daylight hit. In the background could be seen the glow from down in the valley, the wrecked vehicle still burning.

  “By the time someone saw it and called it in, the car was completely engulfed, as was some of the brush around it. We couldn’t get anyone down there fast enough or close enough without risking their lives. All we could do was dump water on it from a tanker truck up on the road. Still trying to put everything out, as you can see. Recovery will have to wait until daylight.”

  The camera cut back to the reporter. Loren couldn’t remember her name, but suspected she’d never forget the striped blouse and dark blazer the woman wore. “Once the fire was extinguished, they sent a man down the steep embankment to check the wreckage. He found the four deceased victims in the car, which had landed on its roof. Authorities will be sending more men down within the next hour to begin the grim recovery task. Roger.”

  “Kallie, do authorities know what happened yet?” the male anchor in the studio asked.

  “Well, Roger, from the evidence, it would seem the car was going at a high rate of speed on this dirt road, and plunged off the road just before the guardrail started.”

  “Is alcohol suspected as a contributing factor?”

  “Authorities at the scene declined to comment on that since they haven’t even officially identified the victims yet. That will have to await the autopsy results, but they assured me all avenues of investigation will be pursued. This is Kallie Swanson for NBC7. Back to you.”

  “Thank you, Kallie. She will remain on the scene throughout the morning, and we’ll be updating our viewers with any news we receive. Stay tuned to—”

  Loren shut the TV off, her left hand still jammed in her mouth.

  She knew who the victims in the car were.

  With certainty.

  Would have known exactly who they were even if the reporter hadn’t identified the car’s owner.

  What had Ross said when he arrived?

  I made something right tonight.

  Walter Kessling.

  Charles Van Hardy.

  Lawrence Busch.

  David Corning.

  Their beds would be empty this morning.

  And remain that way.

  Then the giggles started, staying with her as she walked into the bedroom, one hand still jammed in her mouth as she grabbed her clothes for her shower. She finally pulled her hand out of her mouth as she stripped to get into the shower, the giggles turning into laughter that at some point turned into relieved sobs, heaving, quiet ones as she rested her head on her arms against the cool tile of the shower wall.

  Never again would she have to look over her shoulder.

  Never again would she have to worry—however remote the chance—about facing them at a trial.

  Never again.

  He made it right.

  He couldn’t fix it, but he kept his promise to make it right.

  Chapter Eight

  Now…

  Sully slowly stirred his iced tea with his straw. No way in hell would he ever reveal what Loren had just confessed to him.

  Not to mention he now respected Ross even more than before.

  Was he a retired cop? Yes.

  Did he blame Ross for what he did?

  Nope.

  Had they been friends at the time, Sully would hope he could have been the kind of friend Ross could have asked for help. Because he would have gladly helped those four asshole rapists make their way into the hereafter. Men like that used women, thought nothing of them, believed they were merely there for the taking. No better than worthless, disposable property.

  They also tended to b
reed future generations of men who didn’t treat women any better.

  “You do realize,” Sully finally said, speaking slowly and very low after a careful glance around, “that you probably were not their first victim.”

  “I know I wasn’t. They told me that much, that they’d gotten away with it before. And because they were on the football team, they could pretty much do whatever they wanted. When they threatened me they said they’d do it again, even worse next time, if I didn’t let it drop. And then there was the other girl who came to me and told me they’d done it to her, too.”

  “You also have no proof he had anything to do with their…accident.”

  Loren arched an eyebrow at him.

  “No, seriously,” he said. “It’s all circumstantial. Reasonable doubt. You don’t know what happened. Ross never admitted to you what happened.” He shrugged. “Coincidence.”

  “If I refuse to talk to this woman, it’s going to look suspicious, isn’t it? If she’s dug something up that I don’t know about and confronts me with it, what am I supposed to do?”

  “For starters, if there was anything, any evidence, it would have come to light long ago. Secondly, like you said, it was thirty years ago. Memories fade, change, get distorted. So what if your recollection differs? And thirdly, but most importantly, you don’t have to go talk to her. Or if you feel you must talk with her, then do it over the phone.”

  “I think part of me wants to see what the sister of a monster looks like.”

  “Do you want me to go with you?”

  “No, that’s okay. I need to do this myself.”

  “Or wait until Ross is back in town and let him go,” Sully suggested.

  “I don’t want to do that, either. I promised him I’d never bring this topic up to him.”

  “I’m sure he didn’t mean in a situation like this.”

  “It doesn’t matter. I don’t disobey him. And I want this done as soon as possible so she goes away. I don’t want her anywhere near him.”

  “Or you know he’ll say no.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe.”

  “Then it sounds like you’ve made up your mind. You’re not my wife, nor are you my slave. I’m not going to order you one way or the other, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “I…” She took a deep breath. “My college roommate, Emily, she died ten years ago in a car accident. Other than Ross, and the girl who came to me after it happened to me, no one knows. Well, and the asshole campus cop who blew me off. I don’t think Emily ever told Mark what happened. I know Ross didn’t. I’ve never even talked to a counselor about it. I was afraid to, that they might report it. I needed to get it out of me to someone I trusted. I think that’s mostly why I came here today.”

  He reached across the table and gently squeezed her hand. “Thank you for having that level of trust in me.”

  He hoped if Clarisse ever needed to talk to someone the way Loren was now talking to him, that she would go to Ross to unburden herself.

  Although in Clarisse’s case, maybe she didn’t feel even the slightest bit of guilt.

  Nor should she.

  Chapter Nine

  Then…

  Emily and Mark had gone home for the weekend. It was a Friday night, and Ross and Loren had the apartment to themselves. She’d fixed him dinner and he’d promised tonight they would talk after they ate.

  It took him a few moments to gather his thoughts before he spoke.

  “If you want to be with me, there’s something you need to know,” Ross said. “And I honestly don’t know, after what you went through, if it’s a good idea for you.”

  It was two weeks after the “tragic accident.”

  Loren wondered if it made her a horrible person for feeling so at peace, especially with Ross.

  Because of Ross and what she knew deep in her heart he’d done.

  For her.

  He’d made it right, just like he’d promised.

  She lay curled up on the couch, her head in his lap. Ross stroked her hair with one hand, the fingers of his other hand laced through hers, tapping that three-beat rhythm.

  “What?” she asked.

  His sigh sounded weary, world-worn. “I’m not exactly a normal guy, Lor. Not when it comes to what I want, what I need in life.”

  “Are you gay?” she quietly asked.

  “What? No. Why did you ask that?”

  “You never made a move on me before, so I just wondered.”

  He finally chuckled. “No, I’m definitely not gay.” He squeezed her hand. “I’ve always wanted you.”

  She looked up at him. “Then why didn’t you say anything before?” Maybe if he had, she wouldn’t have ended up at that stupid party in the first place—

  No. This isn’t his fault.

  “Because it’s not easy to open myself up. Not about this.”

  She sat up and looked at him. “Then tell me.”

  His gaze seemed to search her face, examining every inch of her as if he was worried this might be the last time he’d see her. Finally, he stroked her cheek. “I’m the kind of guy that I need a woman who will submit to me.”

  She felt her heart sink a little. “What do you mean?”

  He tucked her hair behind her ears, as if stalling for time. “I need to be in control,” he quietly said. “In bed, and out of it.”

  “Like, you’d tell me what to do?” Then again, after what happened that night, hadn’t she let him do exactly that? Ever since then, Ross had taken control of her life, gently steering and guiding her. Taking care of her.

  “Sort of. Not to be a doormat. I don’t want that.” He gently clutched her hands in his, brought them to his chest.

  A feeling of peace and calm settled over her.

  Safety.

  Being loved. Cared for.

  “You know how in the 1950s, how women ran the home, and they did what their husbands said, and they had traditional roles?”

  She nodded.

  “Sort of like that. Only…not.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  He smiled. “I know. It’s hard to explain. I want you to finish school and get your degree. I want you to have a job, to work, if that’s what you want.”

  Her heart skipped, racing as she realized he was speaking as if they were together.

  “But,” he continued, “while we will discuss things, while I’ll ask your opinion, there might be times you don’t like my decisions. I will still expect you to abide by them. And if you disobey me, I might spank you.”

  An image flashed through her mind, of his hand stroking her bare ass before bringing his palm down against her flesh. Of her writhing over his lap while he kept one hand fisted in her hair and spanked her with the other.

  She wanted it.

  “And there might be times I spank you because I want to,” he added. “I’m a sadist.”

  A chill settled in her. “You like to hurt people?”

  “Only if they want it. Not like…not that.” He stroked her cheek, so softly, so tenderly, she couldn’t ever imagine his hands hurting her. “But see, that’s the problem. I’m the way I am. There are lots of people who want a partner who is like me. I don’t want to force someone to be what I need them to be. It needs to be inside you already. You need to want to drop to your knees in front of me. You need to have that desire to serve me.”

  Dropping to her knees would be easy. She’d already thought that before, that she wished she could do just that.

  Hold onto him, never let him go.

  She’d been through hell and back. A little pain?

  Easy.

  “What if I say I want it?” she whispered.

  “I wish I could believe that. I think you think you want it. But is it something you can be for the rest of your life? I’ll never force you to stay. But I plan on getting married for life and staying that way. So if you can’t give yourself to me and understand that I will be in charge, that I will have the final say, that I will be
the head of this household, then don’t make me a promise you can’t keep.”

  “Is it all about just doing what you say?”

  He leaned in, his hand gently cupping the nape of her neck, his forehead touching hers. “No, sweetheart,” he said. “It’s about me being able to take care of you. Protecting you. Not about restricting you. It’s about me kil—” He closed his mouth on what she suspected he was about to say.

  About me killing for you.

  “About me caring for you,” he said. “Dying for you, if that’s what it takes. Giving you all of me. In return, I expect you to give me all of you.”

  “I want to work,” she said. “I want to get my degree.”

  “I know. And I want you to have that.”

  “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

  He let out another of those sad sounding sighs. “If I told you to assume a position and hold it for me as long as I told you to, would you do it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If I put you on your knees on the floor, and told you to stay. An hour, maybe two. Would you do it?”

  “I…I don’t know if I could. I’d try.”

  “Failure means punishment. There might be times I set you up to push your limits, to see how far you can go before you fail.”

  “Why would you want me to fail?”

  He gently kissed her. “So I can catch you when you do and show you that, no matter what, I’ll always love you. That nothing you could ever do would ever make me stop loving you. And then we try all over again.”

  He pulled away, staring into her eyes, the corners crinkled. “And because I’m a sadist. Sometimes, I want to see you fail so I can punish you. And you’ll know it, too. It’s a cat and mouse game. And for training. Because punishment is always followed by a reward.”

  “Reward?”

  His brown eyes looked deep, warm, inviting. An eyebrow deliciously arched. “Orgasms,” he said. “Every punishment followed by an orgasm. Until your body gets to the point it craves pain to get the reward. Until the two are so mixed up together in here”—he gently touched the center of her forehead with his right index finger—“that one equates to the other.”