Amy.” He strove to keep his voice calm.
Staring at him, she rested her chin on steepled hands. “No.”
Dean dropped it. She’d have her reasons aside from a non -disclosure agreement. He’d put Randy on it and ferret the information out. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what the asshole had done to his woman that stopped short of murder, but also necessitated a fair chunk of change as a settlement. Her beautiful face showed no signs of violence, and he didn’t recall any scars on her body, aside from a few tiny marks. One marring the smooth expanse of her belly, another near her left breast, one at her navel. He conveniently ignored the fact he’d just called her his woman. If she could tell him what happened, he’d listen.
“He ruptured my spleen, fractured my left cheekbone, gave me a concussion when my head hit the wall, broke my left wrist, my jaw, three ribs, and apparently raped and sodomized me afterwards. I don’t remember that.” She spoke as though it happened to someone else.
“Fuck!” He’d never felt so furiously impotent. “Why?”
“Because he wanted to , and because he could. He paid for me, and I suppose he saw me as a disposable toy. Boys play with and break their toys.”
Dean went to her, wondering that he could even make his body move without exploding in violence against a faceless enemy. Her eyes were dry, calm and untroubled–unnaturally so. She willingly went into his arms however, huddling against him as if for comfort. A wave of possessiveness left him feeling hollow , and he rocked with her in place, resting his lips against her temple. His eyes closed against the picture she’d painted. A brave, hopeful survivor, and he’d thought to treat her like the other women he fucked—he’d never allowed himself to get to know any of their stories. But this was Amy. Rich boy was going to meet someone, or two someones, in a dark alley a time in the future, and whether he lived or died depended upon how nicely he begged for his miserable life.
“Go put some clothes on, Amy. I want to sit and talk with you somewhere besides these uncomfortable stools. Not your bed. It makes me think of other things.”
She stepped out of the circle of his arms and reached up to touch his cheek, a drifting gentle contact that tugged at the middle of his chest. At his heart. She went.
****
The lounge featured some comfortable privacy booths and a fully stocked bar. Music played softly. It was early afternoon—they’d both required several hours of sleep to recharge. Amy refused a drink, accepting some water with lemon, and curled into his side. He was relieved that booze wasn’t something she used on a customary basis. A few regulars passed by and nodded to him, their eyes drifting to Amy. He knew they attracted attention; anything he did out of the ordinary would be whispered about. It didn’t matter to him at that moment, he wanted to talk with Amy and not drag her off to fuck her in new and enticing positions. At least not until they talked.
“You were a call girl?” He didn’t want to think of her in that profession.
She laughed, but the sound was devoid of humor. “No. I hadn’t quite gotten to that level, but close. My parents died in a car crash when I was just over two. Both were only children, with few surviving relatives, and I guess with no life insurance the initially interested ones decided sixteen years of parenthood, after raising their own kids, went beyond family loyalty.” There was no bitterness in her voice, simply acceptance, and Dean knew she’d dealt, because he’d done the same thing.
“I grew up in the System, foster homes at first , a scrawny, miserable, little kid crying all the time for her mommy, or so I recall being told when I got older. Wouldn’t bond with any of the foster moms, so got shuffled around. My file was like a horror show to read, but it was as if it happened to someone else, you know?”
Dean didn’t know. He hadn’t dissociated
Staring at him, she rested her chin on steepled hands. “No.”
Dean dropped it. She’d have her reasons aside from a non -disclosure agreement. He’d put Randy on it and ferret the information out. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what the asshole had done to his woman that stopped short of murder, but also necessitated a fair chunk of change as a settlement. Her beautiful face showed no signs of violence, and he didn’t recall any scars on her body, aside from a few tiny marks. One marring the smooth expanse of her belly, another near her left breast, one at her navel. He conveniently ignored the fact he’d just called her his woman. If she could tell him what happened, he’d listen.
“He ruptured my spleen, fractured my left cheekbone, gave me a concussion when my head hit the wall, broke my left wrist, my jaw, three ribs, and apparently raped and sodomized me afterwards. I don’t remember that.” She spoke as though it happened to someone else.
“Fuck!” He’d never felt so furiously impotent. “Why?”
“Because he wanted to , and because he could. He paid for me, and I suppose he saw me as a disposable toy. Boys play with and break their toys.”
Dean went to her, wondering that he could even make his body move without exploding in violence against a faceless enemy. Her eyes were dry, calm and untroubled–unnaturally so. She willingly went into his arms however, huddling against him as if for comfort. A wave of possessiveness left him feeling hollow , and he rocked with her in place, resting his lips against her temple. His eyes closed against the picture she’d painted. A brave, hopeful survivor, and he’d thought to treat her like the other women he fucked—he’d never allowed himself to get to know any of their stories. But this was Amy. Rich boy was going to meet someone, or two someones, in a dark alley a time in the future, and whether he lived or died depended upon how nicely he begged for his miserable life.
“Go put some clothes on, Amy. I want to sit and talk with you somewhere besides these uncomfortable stools. Not your bed. It makes me think of other things.”
She stepped out of the circle of his arms and reached up to touch his cheek, a drifting gentle contact that tugged at the middle of his chest. At his heart. She went.
****
The lounge featured some comfortable privacy booths and a fully stocked bar. Music played softly. It was early afternoon—they’d both required several hours of sleep to recharge. Amy refused a drink, accepting some water with lemon, and curled into his side. He was relieved that booze wasn’t something she used on a customary basis. A few regulars passed by and nodded to him, their eyes drifting to Amy. He knew they attracted attention; anything he did out of the ordinary would be whispered about. It didn’t matter to him at that moment, he wanted to talk with Amy and not drag her off to fuck her in new and enticing positions. At least not until they talked.
“You were a call girl?” He didn’t want to think of her in that profession.
She laughed, but the sound was devoid of humor. “No. I hadn’t quite gotten to that level, but close. My parents died in a car crash when I was just over two. Both were only children, with few surviving relatives, and I guess with no life insurance the initially interested ones decided sixteen years of parenthood, after raising their own kids, went beyond family loyalty.” There was no bitterness in her voice, simply acceptance, and Dean knew she’d dealt, because he’d done the same thing.
“I grew up in the System, foster homes at first , a scrawny, miserable, little kid crying all the time for her mommy, or so I recall being told when I got older. Wouldn’t bond with any of the foster moms, so got shuffled around. My file was like a horror show to read, but it was as if it happened to someone else, you know?”
Dean didn’t know. He hadn’t dissociated
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