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I look down at myself, see the darker spot on the dress and hug the jacket closed. I hope they don’t see it and hurry up the stairs to my own room.
Once I’m inside I lean my back against the door wishing I could lock it. Although I don’t know if I want to lock it to keep him out any more, so I tell myself that even if I could, my devil has another way in. The one that leads to his room. What had he said? It’s for when he requires access to me? I can’t remember the exact words, but I can’t shake that feeling of being a possession. Being his.
I shudder, the jacket too big on my shoulders. I smell him on it. Smell him on me. And I shrug out of it, let it fall to the floor. I don’t look at the spot on my dress where my own arousal, my own pleasure, broadcasts my shame.
I came.
I let him make me come on the floor of the chapel.
I wanted it. God. What is wrong with me?
I set the clutch on my desk and walk into the bathroom, stripping off the dress as I go, dropping it right into the trash can. I don’t think that stain would come out anyway. I switch on the shower as hot as I can stand it, step into the glass enclosure, and think about his words.
Did Reginald Bishop really rape Mary St. James? And in a church? Is anyone capable of that? Yes. Of course, they are. That’s a stupid question. Julia is right. I’m naïve. She used the word innocent, but she was being kind.
But he could be lying. What’s to stop him? He can make up any story he wants. It’s not like I can Google it. Fact-check him.
But that’s not all that has me so upset and I know it. It’s the fact that I wanted it. That I wanted him. That I clung to his shoulders and didn’t want to let go.
It’s the fact that I came.
“Shit!”
The cuts from our game of chase burn in the flow of hot water but I embrace the pain. I deserve it. I pull out the pins that hold my hair in place and let them drop to the shower floor, tugging out strands in the process. More pain. Once I’ve freed my hair, I pour shampoo onto my palm and wash vigorously then repeat before scrubbing my body wanting to erase his touch from me. Wanting to erase my shame.
I fucking came. I let him do it. Didn’t put up anything remotely resembling resistance. What is wrong with me?
I stay in the shower until my skin is pink and raw. Once I’m out and drying myself off I remember my phone inside the clutch. I need to hide it before he finds it. So I hurry out of the bathroom, water dripping from me as I rush to my bedroom, half-expecting to find him standing there holding the evidence of my deceit. But he’s not here. No one is. I’m alone and the clutch is where I’d left it.
From inside, I take my phone in hand and press the power button, but it doesn’t turn on. The battery must be drained so I push the nightstand away from the wall and plug it in behind the bed, hiding the phone as it charges. As I dry off, I think about what Julia said about me having to marry to get out of here. Get away from Jericho St. James.
For better or worse. Until death do us part.
Her even stranger comment about my birth control pills. How does she know I’m on them? Did Carlton discuss putting me on birth control with her? The humiliations never end.
I open a dresser drawer to find pajamas and my T-shirt inside. Christian’s T-shirt. It’s an unexpected boon especially on this night of nights. It’s been laundered and returned just as Jericho said it would be. It’s a small comfort and I slip it on. I don’t recognize the smell. Well, I do, from Jericho’s clothes, but it’s not the same as it used to be. Although the shirt had lost its scent years ago and I’ve washed it many times since Christian’s death. Still, I’m glad to have it.
I return to the bathroom to double check the little plastic package of pills is still there inside my make up bag. It is. Everything is as I left it.
Okay. I set my hands on the edge of the sink and meet my reflection. I’m being paranoid.
My skin is flushed from my too hot shower, the mirror still a little foggy but I can see enough to know the heavy liner the make-up artist used hasn’t washed off completely. In my too-hot shower it has smeared to make me look more like a raccoon than anything else. I switch on the faucet to wash off the remaining makeup then brush my teeth like it’s a normal night and I’m going to bed. Although, it’s barely nine o’clock and I haven’t had anything to eat since earlier today.
As if on cue when I return to the bedroom there’s a knock on the door.
“Just a minute,” I say, and double check my phone is out of sight before I pull on a pair of jeans and open the door.
Jericho’s mother stands there smiling. She’s holding a plate with a sandwich and a bottle of water.
“I understand you never made it to dinner,” she says.
I smile at her and move aside so she can enter. She sets the dish and bottle down on the vanity then sits on one of the chairs, so I close the door because I guess she’s staying.
“Nope, didn’t make dinner,” I say and glance at the food.
“I’m sure you’re hungry,” she says, gesturing to the plate. “Please eat.”
“Thanks.” I sit down and set the plate on my lap so I can face her. I open the bottle of water first and drink while she watches me. I wonder about her. How much does she know about her son? How much does she know about what he wants with me? More than I do, I’m sure. And how much on his side is she? Would she help me against her own flesh and blood? I doubt it.
