Applewild (14 page)

She believed him.

He pounced on her moment of weakness, taking her face in his hands and kissing her deeply. His lips were rough and desperate, tormenting her until she gasped for air. She kissed him back, sensation exploding in her veins and making her dizzy.

It was all she’d wanted since the day she left.

Alton pressed her lower half firmly against his, just the way she remembered, the way she loved, letting her feel his growing desire, making her squirm as her own heated need rose with every pulse beneath the fabric of his pants. She threw her arms around his neck and slipped her tongue between his lips, searching, exploring, drinking in the taste of cigarettes because it tasted like him. He groaned and slipped out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor as he gently guided her toward the settee.

He moved his lips to her neck and used one hand to release her hair. He tangled his fingers in the long strands and gave a gentle tug, exciting her and exposing her throat. She clutched his t-shirt, barely noticing when his other hand slipped beneath the fabric of her sweater to splay on her back. She shivered, reveling in his touch, but fear encroached on the corners of her mind, breaking through the ecstatic haze. When his other hand left her hair to move under her shirt, fear took over, and she froze.

She didn’t want him to stop. Not really. But his hands were going for her stomach and the idea of a man feeling and seeing her wounds was new and terrifying territory.

Alton stopped, hands resting on her waist, lips near her ear, breath tickling her neck. Her heart thumped fast against her chest. He had to feel it.

“What is it?” he whispered.

“No one’s ever seen them,” she managed. The act of admitting her vulnerability was difficult. “It’s not pretty.”

His thumbs moved to caress her stomach. The gesture was romantic and tender and so simple, but she’d never experienced it before. No one besides herself and the doctors had ever touched her there. She sucked in a breath as his hands moved, exploring the outlines of the small, ragged reparations of flesh. She trembled as he moved north, pausing just below the curves of her breasts. He hadn’t reached the scar on her left breast, where her father had missed her heart by just a centimeter, or the longest one, carved just below her collarbone. He moved to grasp the hem of her sweater.

This was it. He’d be the very first man ever to see her fully exposed. He’d be the first one to see the damage up close, to decide if he could love her in spite of her disfigurement.

“If they’re a part of you, they’re beautiful,” he told her softly.

Monroe pulled back and looked at him. She had to see his face. She had to search his eyes to see if he really meant it.

He did.

He let go of her sweater and took her right hand gently in his. He kissed the long-healed wound on the back of her hand, then exposed her wrist and the Frankenstein-like scar just above it, the one she’d earned trying to defend herself, the one that still caused the most pain.

Tears stung Monroe’s eyes, but she bit them back. With a deep breath, she grabbed the bottom of her sweater and pulled it up over her head. Her first instinct was to cross her arms over her chest, to cover herself, but she fought it. She let him see her. His eyes met hers again, making her stay with him, keeping her from getting distracted by her insecurities. Then he looked her over. A frown shadowed his face.              

Well, that was it. She grabbed for her sweater, but he snatched it away and threw it back on the couch, out of her reach. She didn’t know what to make of him. He was so quiet, so intense, and she was a wreck.

“What?” she asked. “I told you. It’s better if I just…”

He reached out to feel the marks with his fingertips, starting at her collarbone, moving to the one by her heart, traveling between her breasts to the collection of lines on her abdomen—and to the one lowest on her body, the one that had helped ensure her infertility. His eyes finally met hers again, and he shook his head, guilt and sadness clouding his gaze even as his mouth remained a hard line.

“I just can’t believe someone did this to you.”

“Shut up.” Monroe shook her head and turned away. “You’ll make me cry.”

Alton came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her. He moved her hair aside to kiss the nape of her neck as he unbuttoned her shorts. The garment fell to the ground.

“Do you need to?”

“Maybe. But I don’t want to.”

Alton spun her around and kissed her again. “A few scars aren’t going to change how I feel about you. They helped make you who you are. And I love who you are.”

Monroe pressed herself against him and kissed his mouth briefly, wanting to taste him, feel the strength of his words in the flesh. She pulled his shirt up over his head and unbuckled his belt. He kicked off his shoes, peeled off his socks and pushed his faded jeans to the floor.

“You missed something,” Monroe said, glancing at his underwear.

Alton grinned and backed her up against the settee, making her sit down hard. He knelt in front of her. Excitement fluttered deep in Monroe’s stomach.

She knew exactly where this was going.

He started at the top, trailing kisses from her jaw to her neck, down the valley of her breasts. He worshipped each mound, teasing her nipples with his teeth and tongue until they were fully peaked. Monroe moaned. She’d never felt anything like it; she’d never had the nerve to let a man tease them, use them to his fullest advantage.

Alton didn’t release her until her head spun and she felt close to bursting. Then he moved his mouth to her navel, dipping his tongue in briefly, making her squirm. He kissed her thighs, touching everything but what she wanted him to touch the most, driving her crazy.

Finally, he ended her torment. He pulled her underwear down her thighs and took the tiny nub of her clit into his mouth, sucking and licking until she writhed beneath his touch. He reached up to play with her breasts. She grasped his large hands in hers, holding them in place, never wanting him to stop but still needing more.

“Stop,” she breathed.

Alton rocked back on his heels and looked at her.

“I want you,” she said. “All of you.”

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and obliged, releasing his erection and laying Monroe down on the cushion. He straddled her hips, breathing heavily, his control already hanging in the balance. Monroe could tell. And it turned her on even more.

She took a moment to do some exploring of her own, running her hands over his warm flesh—arms, chest, abs, ass. This was real. This was perfection. Alton leaned down and kissed her, keeping their lips locked in a long caress as he nudged her thighs apart and slowly pushed into her waiting warmth.

When she was filled, he broke the kiss, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. Monroe watched him carefully, wonder and realization setting in. The other times they’d been together, they’d had sex. This was different. They were making love. This was what it felt like. It was the most intimate moment of Monroe’s life. She touched Alton’s cheek, and his deep brown eyes opened.

“This…is going to be almost impossible,” he said with a breathless laugh.             

Monroe smiled. She was still sensitive from the magic he’d worked with his tongue. She was ready when he was. To prove it, she moved slowly beneath him, rocking her hips into his, moving methodically against him, then with him, as he took back control and delivered long, slow thrusts to her hungry body. With each thrust came a wave of pleasure, rising higher and higher until it threatened to take her over the edge.

Alton’s eyes were shut tight, the muscles in his neck tense as he clung to the last threads of his control. Monroe could feel the ecstasy building, her muscles clenching, her mind beginning its desperate descent into the brief madness of orgasm. He felt it. His eyes opened and met hers. His movements grew faster and stronger as he let his body take over. 

Monroe closed her eyes and gave herself over to sensation. She was close to exploding when she heard Alton’s ragged whisper in her ear: “I want to hear you say it.”

She knew immediately what he wanted. And she was ready to give it.

“I love you, Alton.” The words were caught between a gasp and a whimper, but she meant them.

Alton groaned, a deep, carnal noise that sent a shockwave through her core, inciting a sudden, toe-curling orgasm that left Monroe shaking and clinging to Alton for dear life. He gave two more powerful thrusts and spent himself inside her.

He remained on top of her for a long time, kissing and touching her flesh as they caught their breath. Then he stood to put on his underwear. She felt the loss of his warmth, of his flesh on her flesh, immediately. But she sat up and followed suit. She pulled on her underwear and sweater. He glanced her way and frowned.

“It’s chilly,” she assured him. “That’s all.”

He came back to her, reclaiming the closeness they’d shared, and rested his hands on her waist, beneath her sweater. She knew he was making a point, but she didn’t need convincing. She didn’t have to feel self-conscious around him. They kissed again, and Alton touched his forehead to hers.

“So do you have a bed in this place?”

“Mmhm. Upstairs.”

“Can I stay?”

“Please.”

She led the way and let him use her spare toothbrush. This—him in his boxers and her in a sweater, brushing their teeth next to one another in comfortable silence—was bliss. She’d never felt this comfortable with or loved by another person. Not since the death of her parents, not since she’d closed herself off emotionally to the rest of the world, almost without realizing it.

They spit in the sink and climbed into bed, Monroe on the right and Alton on the left, like it was the most natural thing in the world. He lay on his back, and she snuggled into him, drawing circles on his bare chest with her fingertip. He sighed, and she glanced at his face. He looked down at her and gave her one last kiss before rolling her over and holding her. She held his hand and drifted off, feeling safe and secure and at peace.

XVII

There were no nightmares, no dreams at all, but Monroe still woke at 4:00am. She reached beside her. Alton wasn’t there. She sat up and found him sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, forehead in his hands. She’d zonked out. He looked as if he’d barely slept.

“What is it?” she asked.

He turned and tried to give her a reassuring smile. “Nothing. Go back to sleep.”

Monroe watched him, waiting for an explanation.

“I’m going to New Zealand for three months to film,” he said finally.

“When do you leave?”

“Saturday.”

Disappointment hit Monroe hard, but she knew what his job entailed. They’d figured out the simple part. Love. Now they had to sort out everything else.

“I’ll still be here when you get back,” she said, sitting all the way up, cross-legged, keeping her hands under the warmth of her comforter.

“I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t. I was awful to you.”

“I wouldn’t call it awful. Unfair, asinine, selfish—”

“Thanks, I get it.”

“Are you going to be awful again?”

“Of course not.”

“Do you plan on fucking every girl in New Zealand?”

“No.”

“Then we don’t have a problem.”

Alton smiled and kissed her, laying her back down on the bed, giving her just a taste of the heated embrace they’d shared the previous night before pulling back.

“You could come with me,” he said.

She didn’t have to ask to know he was serious. The word
yes
sat on the tip of her tongue, but she hesitated. Her friends were here, her horse was here, her life was here. Her father, on the other hand, was also here. Leaving the country could be the best thing for her.

But she and Alton would be photographed together. When they came back to the U.S., the paparazzi would be there, waiting for them, drawing her father yet another road map to her exact location.

She shook her head. “Not yet.”

“I don’t want my career to keep us apart.”

“I know. I get that. I’m worried about putting my name in the press.”

“We’ll keep it low-key.”

“We tried that, remember? It’s impossible.”

“Is it because of your dad? He might not be after you.”

“You don’t know him. And I don’t, either. And that’s what scares me the most.”

Alton frowned. He was disappointed, but she could tell he was trying to understand. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah. I’m gonna go for a walk. Clear my head.” He got dressed and kissed her cheek. “I saw a convenience store down the road. I’ll grab us coffee and breakfast.”

Monroe let him go. He needed some time alone. She got that.

She stood and stretched, discarding the previous day’s underwear and pulling on a fresh pair, along with jeans and a button-down shirt. For once, she left the top button undone, allowing half of the scar beneath her collarbone to peek through. It was a small step, but it was a step.

She was brushing her hair when a knock sounded on the front door. Alton had just left. He must have forgotten something. She went downstairs to let him in without thinking. It was a simple mistake—a simple, stupid mistake.

Instead of Alton’s handsome face, Monroe found herself staring into her very own eyes, set in her father’s gaunt, unshaven face. She froze. This was a nightmare. A new one. It had to be. But even as she tried to convince herself it wasn’t real, she knew it was. Fear gave her father the advantage, and he pushed his way into the room. Her gun was upstairs. He kicked the door shut and locked it.

“Hi, ‘Roe. Hope it’s not a bad time.”

Monroe couldn’t take her eyes off his jacket pocket. One hand remained inside, and she could see the outline of a knife. It was dark out, early morning. No one would have any idea something sinister was happening in their complex. She was stuck here, alone, with a known killer.

Her father made sure the blinds were closed, then removed the knife from his pocket, letting the blade shine beneath the living room light. She was sure he only did it for effect, to terrify her, and it worked. She tried not to show it, tried to stay brave, to stare death in the face like she’d always hoped she would if it came to this. But her hands shook and her heart hammered in her chest.

“How did you find me?” she asked.

He toyed with the knife, barely looking at her now. She glanced toward the stairs, wondering how quickly she could make it to her room, if she could get the gun before he got her.

“Read the papers. Not much to do in that
institution
except read. I was just catching up on some celebrity gossip when who should I see gallivanting around with that kid movie star but my own daughter.” He paused, looking her up and down. “You’ve grown up. You look like your mom.”

“Yeah, well, I’d really prefer not to follow in her footsteps.”

Her dad laughed. It wasn’t maniacal, it wasn’t particularly menacing; it was just a laugh. But it made Monroe’s blood run cold. She was so cute, so funny. No threat. He could toy with her as much or as little as he liked.

“No escaping that, my dear.”

Monroe clenched her fists, trying to keep her fear at bay, to keep him talking, to give herself just a few more minutes to live or die trying. She glanced at the stairs again.

“Why do you want to kill me?” she asked. “Why don’t you just go to your parole officer, get things straightened out, and start a new life?”

“I don’t have a life. I never will. Your bitch mother made sure of that when she married that worthless piece of shit you call ‘step-daddy.’
Called
step-daddy.”

He grinned, proud of his work. Monroe felt sick.

“Don’t try to talk your way out of this,” he continued. “I have nothing left to live for except making sure
you
have nothing left to live for.”

“I don’t have much,” Monroe said honestly. “Thanks to you I’m orphaned, infertile, and insomnious.”

“But you still exist.”

Monroe’s mind and body were trying to shut down, trying to save her from the physical and emotional pain of impending death. With each sentence, her body trembled, her sanity threatened to break. There was nothing more terrifying than a man with nothing to lose. He’d do whatever it took to ensure her end.

“That doesn’t explain how you found me,” she said.

“I don’t have to explain it,” he snapped. “But your Hollywood boy toy helped in that department.”

Her eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”

“I followed him. I’ve been watching that place. Applewild. I’ve been watching people come and go, hoping one of them would be you or lead me to you. None of them did, but when
he
showed up I knew I’d find you. You and him…You were
so
in love…”

Monroe flexed her right hand. Her blood pumped hard and fast, her body was tense, her hand ached. She looked to the stairs again. Her father followed her gaze.

In that moment of broken eye contact, Monroe lunged for them. The odds were against her. She stood such a shitty chance. Her father was bigger and she barely had a head start. But she’d survived before. She could do it again.

She managed to scramble up the stairs and keep out of his reach until she had to open the bedroom door. She only had time to turn the knob before a hand grabbed her hair and yanked her back. Pain burned her scalp and she felt cold metal against her throat. The knife. This could be her very last moment in existence. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed for it to end quickly. She knew enough about her sadistic father and knife wounds to not ask that it be painless.

But her father turned her around and shoved her into the bedroom. She kept her balance until he grabbed her shirt and threw her to the ground. She landed hard. Next to the bed.

“Well, I
was
trying to be nice about this.”

Monroe kept her mouth shut. The gun was mere inches from her fingertips, but so was her father. She needed to move back just a bit more, without arousing suspicion. So she kept her eyes on her father’s, trying to anticipate his next move while silently pleading with him to stop. He knelt down in front of her, the tip of his knife tilted toward her chest, almost touching her. She drew back, but her fingers still wouldn’t land on her only hope of defense.

“This healed up nicely.” He gestured to the scar half-visible beneath her collarbone.

“Not really,” she answered.

Without warning, so quickly she almost didn’t realize it had happened, he slashed the scar open again. Monroe flinched and shrank away—against the bed frame.

“Didn’t really toughen the skin up much,” her father said casually.

Pain slowly registered in her brain. This would be neither quick nor painless. He wanted to torture her, as if the last ten years hadn’t been torture enough. Her fingertips touched the butt of the gun. This was going to end badly—very badly—for one of them. She had to grab the gun, point it, and shoot before he could maneuver the knife. Could she do it? She had to try. Someone pounded on the door below, distracting him for the split second it took Monroe to draw the double-barrel shotgun and point it at her father’s chest.

She hesitated. She wasn’t a killer. She didn’t want it to come to this.

Her fresh wound burned, her right hand ached, and her body trembled. But she did everything in her power to keep the gun steady and the fear out of her eyes. Her father rocked back on his heels and looked at her. His expression was bizarre, as if to say
“How could you? How could you take this one thing away from me?”
He really was fucked up in the head, but it wasn’t the kind of fucked up any doctor could cure.

“Do you even know how to use that thing?” he asked.

“I spent ten years on a farm. What do you think?”

A terrifying expression of acceptance settled on his face. “Do it then.”

“Give me a reason.”

He raised the knife, and she pulled the trigger. She watched the whole thing without blinking. As if in slow motion, she saw the shock register on his face, heard frantic pounding on the front door, watched her father fall, and stood over him, bruised and bloody, to watch the life leave his eyes.

*

Alton heard the gunshot, and his stomach dropped. He’d seen a man approach the row of houses as he was leaving and assumed he was a resident. But that man must have been Monroe’s father because now she wasn’t opening—or
couldn’t
open—the damn door. Alton had left her alone and vulnerable just so he could sneak a smoke and grab some food. She could be dead right now.

Fear and desperation made him try to kick down the solid front door. When that didn’t work, he grabbed a rock, ready to smash in the living room window.

But the door opened.

“Jesus Christ, Monroe,” he breathed, letting the object fall to the ground and embracing her. “What the hell happened?”

“Exactly what you think,” she said.

His eyes followed her trail of bloody footprints up the stairs. “Is he…dead?”

She nodded against his chest. He could feel hot tears through his t-shirt. “It’s okay. It was self-defense.”

Monroe shook her head.

“No,” she managed. “I’m not upset. That’s the problem. I’m happy. I’m really, really happy.”

She burst into sobs again. He grabbed her by the shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “Monroe. He killed your family. He tried to kill you twice. He had every chance to leave you the hell alone, and he didn’t. You are well within your right to kill him and be happy he’s gone.”

She nodded but was crying too hard to speak. He looked her over. Her clothes were spattered with blood and one spot was growing just below her clavicle. He pulled her collar aside and found the gash. It wasn’t deep, but it was familiar. Had that son of a bitch actually tried to reopen her old wounds? As if reopening the mental ones wasn’t bad enough? Alton glanced down her shirt, checked her hand. It was the only fresh cut he saw.

“Monroe,” he murmured.

She looked up at him, eyes red and puffy, cheeks streaked with tears. But she’d quieted. He’d always known she was strong. Now he was beginning to see just how deep that strength ran. He’d thought he had problems. He’d thought he had trouble staying sane. His ability to get through each day was nothing compared to hers.

“Are you okay? Does it hurt?”

“Not much,” she hiccupped.

“I’m calling the police.”

“Okay.”

Monroe pulled away and walked to a kitchen chair. She sat down and put her head in her hands. Alton closed the door behind them and stood in the foyer to call 9-1-1. The phone rang.

She could have died.

He had to turn away to keep his emotions in check. The pain he felt at the very idea of losing her was intense. And he’d wasted three months on other, less-deserving women because he couldn’t see a good thing when it was looking right at him, because he hadn’t believed her, because he hadn’t fought for her—for
them
—because he was in denial and hell bent on being miserable.