Page 2 of Insatiable

I was right. Some things are just not meant to be seen. Standing with his back to me, James’s ass flexes with each quick thrust, pants clinging to his knees, he didn’t even bother to remove them. No surprises there; he never was a patient man when it came to sex. It was always all about him. His honey-brown skin glistens with a sheen of sweat as he fucks the woman from behind. One of his hands wraps around her braids as she braces herself against my marble countertop.

“Yes! Fuck me, James!” Precious shouts. I can’t help the gasp that escapes my lips. My hand grips my chest, and my heart pounds as I take rapid breaths. I can feel the shadow of a panic attack crawling up my skin as the life I’ve built runs down the proverbial drain. Precious continues to moan long and loud as James continues to pound into her. I guess his Spidey senses are tingling because the moment I take a step to retreat, he looks over his shoulder, and our eyes lock. His eyes widen for just a fraction of a second, just enough for me to believe he felt bad about what I was seeing.

Then he smiles. The type of smile that transforms a face into a monster. The type of smile that makes you second guess whether you ever knew the person in the first place. The mask I saw for five years slid off his face faster than butter spreads over warm hot bread. Cold. Calculating. Menacing. He looks away and picks up speed, letting his anger at being caught out in Precious’ pussy.

He fucks her so hard that her arms shoot out in front of her, and she has to brace herself so she doesn’t receive a concussion from the kitchen cabinets. She screams. Her head tips back, her mouth is wide as she makes incoherent noises that reverberate around the room. She is loving every minute of the abuse she is receiving . . . and all I can do is stand there. Legs frozen, wondering why the hell am I still glued to this spot? I was a damn fool, and I’ve been played like a fucking fiddle. I close my eyes and take another step. He can have her. I’m out.

“Tate. Don’t go!” James yells as he and Precious come together. “Tate!” he yells again. I don’t stop. I make my way through the house, retracing my steps until strong hands grab me from behind and lift me off my feet. In my already panicky state, I fight. He’s not the only one that needs to blow off some steam. I elbow him in the ribs, thankful for the self-defense classes I’ve been taking for over a year. Working in LA late at night can be dangerous, little did I know I would need it in my own home.

“Let me go!” I yell. James drops me with an audible oomph, and I fall to my knees, scrambling away from him. I quickly get up while he’s catching his breath and continue towards the door. Was he trying to stop me or hurt me physically? I don’t think I care to know.

“Tate,” James calls from behind me. “Stop. Don’t you want an explanation?” I can hear the glee in his voice as I slow to a stop and turn. James holds his ribs, but he is wearing the scariest smile I’ve ever seen. Instead of devastation and shame that I expect, he looks absolutely proud of what he’s done. He wants to hurt me. He didn’t care about my feelings one bit. Well, fuck him. I am not going to cry and rage. He doesn’t deserve my tears.

“I don’t need one. I love the show, though. You deserve an Oscar for the five-year performance of the doting fiancé. I guess I should have known better.” I laugh hollowly as Precious walks out half naked and wraps her arms around him protectively. She touches his tender ribs lovingly, shooting me a scowl. I scoff. “I thought it was me.” I take another step towards the door, and he takes one step forward. Precious clings to him like fungus, but James extracts himself from her arms.

“Go,” is all that he tells her. Precious doesn’t even look at me as she turns and walks towards my bedroom. My bedroom. I want to tell her to leave. This is my home. Everything is mine. Yet, it’s all tarnished, and I can barely breathe in this space now. James steps forward, and I hold my hands out to stop him. I want to keep my distance. If he touches me, I will crumble.

“You didn’t even stop, James. Complete disrespect for me and our home. I’m done.” I take one last look at him as bile rises in my throat and walk backwards to the door. I don’t trust him.

“Fuck you, Tate. We’ve just been going through the motions. I haven’t loved you for a long time.” He stops and smiles. The smile from the kitchen greets me as he folds his arms over his chest. “I planned on doing this in a few days, but you’ve given me a gift today.” James continues to speak, but I finally turn, taking my phone out of my pocket and dial my best friend. Work is not happening tonight. I need the stiffest drink I can find and drown my sorrows in it. I can hear heavy footsteps coming my way, but I ignore them as I bend down to pick up my purse off the floor.

“What’s up, Tate,” Paul’s voice booms through the speakerphone as a loud popping noise goes off behind me. I turn, and everything goes black. Excruciating pain spreads like crawling ants through my head. I’m blind instantly. Suddenly, my legs give out. The back of my head hits the floor with a bang, and I lose my grip on my phone. Every part of my body has locked up. I can hear my heartbeat slow as the sound of his footsteps come to a stop right next to me. All I can think about is where did he get the gun from?

“Tate!” Paul yells. I can’t speak. He won’t know what’s happened to me. I can’t tell him this lying, cheating bastard shot and killed me. I am going to die. My life flashes before my eyes in a display of too many regrets. James being one of them. My biggest one is maybe not choosing to be with one of the good guys when I had the chance. But I couldn’t choose one. Why are they my last memory? It’s been . . . it’s been . . . my thoughts slip away.

“Die, bitch,” James whispers.

Bang. He shoots me again. Pain explodes in my stomach. I can’t scream. They are the last words I hear before I die.

Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep

Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep

Beep . . . Beep . . . Beep

The beeping sound is not music. Why can’t the first thing I hear when I wake up be the soothing orchestration of Donny Hathaway’s “I love the Lord, He heard my cry.” Because somebody upstairs did. I’m alive. Instead, the first voice I hear is James’s.

“Die, bitch.” Bang.

“Tate.” My name is called. Tate. That’s my name. Tate Charles. My memories are fuzzy. They aren’t lost completely. Thank God for that. In just a few minutes the confusion gets less and less. Everything that happened comes back to me.

“Tate.” A name I can’t quite recall, calls my name. My eyes feel superglued shut. There’s a disconnect between my brain and every other part of my body. I can’t make anything move. If I had the strength I would panic. Instead, I try to will my eyes to open.

I didn’t die. That’s all that matters.

I’ve been in and out of consciousness for a few weeks now, or at least I think it’s been a few weeks. Today I am more coherent. I can think straight. That’s a win. I can hear the nurses and the doctors as they come in and out of the room. Medical jargon that I don’t understand falls from their lips as I lay here. The pain has eased finally, so they’ve stopped pumping me full of pain medicine, and I am able to stay awake longer. At least I heard someone say they were reducing my morphine. I can’t remember if I’ve had visitors. I don’t know what’s happened outside of this room. But, this voice, this voice has been constant. If only I could remember his name. His face. Anything.

“Tate, I know you can probably hear me. Please know that I will continue to do what I can to help you,” the voice says. The familiar cadence of his words brings up memories of late nights and laughter, yet his name and his face slip through my memories like grains of sand. The moment I think I grab hold of something concrete, it’s gone. I can feel the pressure building inside my head if I strain too hard. My head begins to pound. To avoid the pain, I have no choice but to relax.

‘Why can’t I remember?’ I think to myself. ‘Oh, yeah, that may have something to do with the fact I was shot in the head. Is that why I can’t wake up? Will I be like this forever?’ My heart rate picks up, instantly the monitors and the beeping of the machines around me gets louder as the man's voice rises asking for assistance. Doors open and close as people and things move around me.

Memories of James, his menacing smile as he morphs into a monster before my eyes. ‘How did I not see him for what he really was? Why did he turn on me like a rabid animal, eager to see my demise? Where the hell did the gun come from?’ Every day my thoughts swirl in the same pattern. The memories of that day have me questioning everything. I should have gone to work. I shouldn’t have waited in my car. ‘Then you wouldn’t have seen what he had planned for you. He wanted you dead,’ I think to myself as my panic skyrockets. The machines sing out my distress, betraying me, as people move frantically around to respond. Someone holds my hand, strong and firm, their grip grounds me, easing my panic. Despite the fact that I am living in darkness, unable to see or move, the beeping slows, mirroring the slowing of my heart.

“Do you think she’s trying to wake up, Dr. Morgan?” a female voice asks from somewhere in the room. I can hear the concern in her voice. I think it’s my nurse. She is always in and out, checking me over, making sure the beeps keep beeping and the drip keeps dripping. There are others, but she is my favorite. Sometimes she even reads from her latest smutty romance novel. I am a sucker for a good shifter romance. If she only knew how much I appreciate her company on my darkest of days. If I can open my eyes and show my gratitude, I would. I’ve been trapped inside my own head for far too long.

“It’s a wait and see, especially considering the trauma she’s gone through. After three months in a coma, we must let Ms. Charles come back in her own time. This is a good sign, though.” The familiar voice is confident and strong, reassuring even to me. I honestly feel like an old computer trying to reboot itself, my brain is the spinning icon in the middle of the screen, rotating endlessly. I can’t get my brain to load. I was here but not here.

“Something made her heart rate spike, so maybe she can hear what’s going on around her. In her state I am sure it will spark anxiety. Also, a good sign. Let’s do hourly checks just in case. I don’t want her to wake up alone and confused,” the voice says. I feel someone squeeze my hand gently. ‘Who is this man? Why is he touching me like this?’ This is not normal doctor behavior. The last thing I need, on top of everything else, is a handsy doctor taking liberties with the unconscious patient. If I could snatch my hand away, I would.