Page 97 of The Dom with a Safeword

“But it'll be hard for me to give you the attention you deserve. I'll be swamped. I remember my brother going through it. We barely heard from him for two years. Sabrina…” he looked at her, “you have something to lose here too. Do you think you could keep this up indefinitely?”

This time the silence seemed so solid the air might be glass. Q’s heart stopped.

Sabrina avoided eye contact, her lips turned down in a frown. “No.”

And so easily, the glass shattered.

“No. I can’t,” she added, frowning. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey.” He reached and patted her hand. “It’s okay. I thought so. This just makes it simpler, for all of us.”

Except me.

As if shaking herself from some heavy thought, Sabrina cleared her throat. “It’ll be weird to go back to just dating vanilla guys after this. Though, I guess it’s time to look for a real partner.”

“A real partner?” A ringing started in Q’s ears. She didn’t feel well. They were done with her. Simple as that.

“Yes.” Sabrina still didn’t look her in the eye. “It’s not that this wasn’t real but it couldn’t last, you know? We can still be just…friends. I mean, we have for five years, right? We can do that, can’t we? You promised.” Her final wistful tone might have given Q hope if this was the start of a relationship, but now it said precisely nothing to her numb heart.

“Sure.” She nodded. In her head she worked fast, trying to build the wall back up. But it was too late. There was nothing left to protect herself with. She stayed in her seat, trying to look as blasé as they did. They glanced at her intermittently, but she knew she couldn’t trust herself to speak. When the topic changed she excused herself, grabbed her bag, and escaped to the bathroom.

She bit her lip hard all the way there, trying not to cry before she was somewhere safe. With a gasp, she rushed into the room. It was empty. A flood of tears erupted, her hands unable to hold them back. Her heart fractured, grinding down into dust. She locked a stall door behind her. The sobs were too loud and she tried to quiet herself – she didn’t want to be the girl that made scenes in public restrooms. It’s okay, it’s okay, she kept telling herself, frantic to calm down before Sabrina came looking for her.

Her default fix popped into her mind but she pushed it away. There had been therapy for this, when she was younger. After her parents died. Unbidden, the thought came back again. The knife in her bag was sharp. It would only take a couple of minutes. She could go somewhere quiet.

Shut up. She’d promised Sabrina they could still be friends no matter what. And Jude? Neither of them deserved the guilt she’d leave them with. This is what they’d agreed on. She could do this. Splashing water on her face helped a little, but she still looked red and blotchy. She’d tell them she’d had an allergic reaction and sneezed a lot. A little sob escaped her, and she bit the next one down. Her stomach knotted and she felt nauseous. Breathing slowly, she calmed.

She started to reframe. What had she learned from this? When she walked out of the restroom, the girl who cared too much would stay behind. The old Q would be back. Trying to be loving had been a mistake. First Nico, now this. Getting attached to people was for idiots – no more making a fool of herself. Her inner cyborg shut off the part of her that craved love. Violence, and how it made her feel, would have to be enough. She left the room awhile later, the last of her tender feelings ground beneath the soles of her boots.

Chapter 17

Jude

One of his lecturers had mentioned his father’s favorite saying today and it had hit home. The old medical saying that was supposed to help with diagnosis: If you hear hoofbeats, expect horses not zebras. He hadn’t been to see his dad yet.

Study and hospital rounds absorbed his time. Shit. Jude slammed shut the laptop and beat a short drum solo on the lid with his hands. The words in his head pattered in time with the beat.

An-atomy, an-atomy, path-ology and zebras. Fuck-ing zebras.

He slumped back in the chair and scrubbed his fingers through his hair. Fact was, he hadn’t done much at all for two months except try to settle into studies, and he was still a fish out of water…or was that a zebra?

And he still missed the girls – missed them so much his gut ached. Just yesterday, he’d come across a photo of the three of them Sabrina had emailed to him a month ago.

Every night he shut his eyes and went to sleep remembering the feel of their hair in his hands. The feel of their bodies too, but mostly he pictured their hair gliding across his fingers. Sabrina’s tousled blonde. Q’s dead-of-night black. His beach bunny and his goth. The sexiest chicks ever and he was obsessed with their hair…and the way they talked. And what they’d said. How good they’d made him feel just by being there. Sometimes he wafted into dreamland thinking of them both lying with their heads on his chest, snuggling.

Snuggling for chrissakes. He was destined to study medicine, to be a doctor, not to be a playboy Dom with girlfriends left and right.

Fuck. He set both elbows on the desk and leaned his forehead on his palms. Fuck fantasies. Fuck swearing when there was no reason. Fuck everything.

He sat up and shoved back the chair then went in search of his jacket and a pair of pants suitable for visiting his father. Far as he knew, all that was clean was a blue T-shirt and a pair of faded brown pants. Maybe he should start just buying black, like Q. At the sudden ache, he froze, halfway to the closet, and put his hand to his chest. Heart attacks didn’t happen to men this young, did they? Not commonly. Think horses, not zebras. He squeezed his eyes shut.

Fuck horses too.

As soon as he pulled into the parking lot at the nursing home, he felt queasy. He hated visiting this place. In fact, he hated all places with the sick. The accumulation of illness and sadness overwhelmed him every time. Blood, he could handle. Puke, wet diapers, kids vomiting on him…all those were okay. Just not this. Not places where death poked its scythe in way too often.

He stared at his hands on the steering wheel. Some doctor he’d be. The smell of fresh-cut timber excited him, and the firm feel of a hammer in his hand. Making things. Building. That was him. Sick people made him sick.

The nurses smiled as he went past. The entertainment room was packed with elderly men and women in wheelchairs watching TV, playing cards and gossiping. IV drip stands stood like strange metal trees. His march down the corridor was as lonely as that of a soldier coming home from war without his buddies. His soles squeaked on the floor. He took the right turn to the door, and pushed it open.