Physical Touch (9 page)

She was wild and hungry, wanting him to touch more of her, waiting for the moment when she’d feel his hands run across her naked breasts and he’d take them between his lips and suckle them until she was mindless and bucking against him. It had been so long since she had felt this way or had a
man touch her in this manner. She felt a spark had ignited a long, dormant flame and she was ready to burst.

A bark in the not-so-far-off distance and a loud ringing sound from the front door had Mitch reluctantly dropping his hand from Rylie’s breast and mutter a curse to whomever had interrupted them. Momentarily disoriented, Rylie was confused as to why there was the sudden departure of his hands and lips from her body.

Shifting her off his lap and on to the table beside him, he reached over to grab his crutch. “It appears I need that cold shower after all,” he grimaced, as he pushed himself off the table, landing his feet in a soft thud on the floor. 

“What? Where are you going?” she asked breathlessly, her swollen lips aching to be touched and tormented again. She felt the acute loss of his body and shame washed over her, dousing her with the realization of what they had been doing.

Mitch sauntered to the open doorway when he stopped to turn around and look at Rylie, who was now readjusting her blouse and angrily folding the towel.

“I was hoping I’d get to find out how wet I made you,” he shrugged, a slow, sexy smile drawing across his face. “But business calls. I’ll have to wait until next time to find out. Until then, you can let yourself out the back door here, the path will lead around to the driveway. Have a good weekend, IQ.”

A rush of embarrassment flooded her face. Shame and guilt penetrated her thoughts. Rylie felt a rage and anger - mostly at herself for her own uncontrolled actions and reaction to his touch - come boiling up to the surface. He had dismissed her so casually, after what they had just done and the intimacy of it all. She had let her guard down and opened up to his touch and he was walking away like he wasn’t affected at all by what happened.

All her frustration came barreling out in an angry squeal. “You ass! There won’t be a next time, I can promise you that.” 

Rylie stood up to follow after him, but he’d already made his way out of the room and up the stairs. She heard a boom of loud laughter echo down the stairwell and his smug response. 

“We’ll see about that.”

“I don’t give a good goddamn about your delayed shipments, Joe. This delay is unacceptable and creating a logjam for everything else we have planned.” Mitch expelled a loud exhale in his response, leaning back in his leather desk chair. “Get it the fuck together or I’ll find another vendor. You got it?” He hung up the phone and cursed again. 

From the hallway, a low whistle came from Jackson who leaned against the doorframe wearing an amused smirk. Stepping into his office, he closed the door behind him before sitting down in the chair directly across from Mitch. 

Jackson crossed his leg over his knee and his hand came to his pant leg, brushing a speck of lint from his tailored suit pants. He lifted an eyebrow. “Problems?”

“You could say that. The shipment is stuck somewhere out west and was supposed to be delivered to the site tomorrow. Joe doesn’t think we’ll see it until mid-next week, but can’t even fucking guarantee that.” Mitch swiveled around in his chair to face the window and jammed his hand roughly through his hair. “Have they ever heard of contractual commitments? Hey, wait, you’re a lawyer,” he said with a sarcastic snarl, turning back around to face his partner. “Why don’t you do something about this and earn your wages for the day.”

Jackson leaned back comfortably in his chair, shrugging his shoulders. “As your legal counsel, I will gladly advise you on any business and legal matter and can review the contract again for any penalties associated with delayed shipments,” he said thoughtfully. “But I don’t think your little outburst has much to do with Joe Simpson and the shipment.”  He paused for emphasis, gaining his partner’s attention. Mitch glared at him over his desk.

“Oh yeah? And what exactly do you think has gotten me riled up then, oh wise one?”

Jackson casually examined his friend, giving a discerning assessment. “I think your bitchy mood has a helluva lot more to do with a certain therapist you may have seen today.” He brought his hands up behind his head and clasped them together. “But hey, that’s just my attorney’s best guess. I’m no fucking mind reader or shrink, for that matter.”

Mitch glared at his partner and flipped him off before turning back around to look out the thirtieth floor window of the Prudential Tower, overlooking Boylston Street below. His friend knew him too well and it pissed him off. These types of hassles, like the delayed shipment, typically didn’t faze Mitch or get him this agitated. The truth of the matter was he was frustrated and keyed up. He wanted something, or someone, he couldn’t have. He was not a patient man and when he wanted something within his reach, he found a way to get it. His current physical condition, notwithstanding, didn’t help matters much, either.

He felt limited. Held back. He hated feeling weak and lacking control over any situation.

Mitch experienced the same feeling earlier in the year, looking down at the throngs of people on the street, both runners and spectators alike. The Boston Marathon was an event unlike any other in the city that brought an energy and vitality to the normally dry financial district. It brought together a connection and a bond, not just of those Bostonians, but anyone who shared the living, breathing kinetic spirit of the marathon. But that essence turned into something much darker and sinister when the bombings occurred. 

As usual, Mitch was at his desk working and on the phone that morning when he looked down at the street, the blast
sounds registering in his ears, rocking the building and bringing a plume of dust and smoke up the building’s exterior. Unable to comprehend what had just taken place, Mitch took immediate action and made his way down to the scene to seek out and assist anyone who needed help. 

What he found when he made it to street level was mass chaos and sheer terror.  Hundreds of bodies lay injured up and down the block, where minutes before two pressure cooker bombs had detonated in an act of senseless terrorism. A young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, had been knocked back against the building rubble, his arm partially mutilated from the blast. Mitch saw him the moment he came running out of the building
’s front door, his disheveled body covered in soot, dirt and blood. He hovered over the boy, who was silent. No sounds, or screams or even cries coming from his catatonic body. He just lay there in a traumatized state, rocking back and forth.

Mitch began to triage and comfort the only way he knew how and waited for aid.  He ripped off his suit jacket and tie and wrapped it securely around the boy’s arm to stop the bleeding and shield him from seeing the extent of his injury. He pulled the boy into his arms and held him around his small shoulders, as silent sobs came pouring out of the thin body. He wasn’t sure how long they sat there like that before paramedics rushed in and whisked him away, but in that time, he lost his faith in humanity. He had been brought down to the lower depths of hell, when a young boy could be torn apart through such an evil act of hatred. Mitch’s view of the world became even more tainted and torn. If he had been devastated by the loss of his brother before, his soul was completely lost and shattered now as a result of this act of terrorism. 

Now, even seven months later, the day’s events were still etched deeply in his memory, the anger still festering under the surface, especially in his current state of frustration. His guilt and hatred over the deaths and injuries of so many innocent victims. The loss of his younger brother, who went off to fight a war and never came home. A brother whom he should have been able to protect. He had failed him, just as he’d failed that young boy. 

His mood darkened even further, the tight lid that had kept his feelings about his brother’s death from creeping open, inch by inch, as they threatened to slay his heart again.

His brother was two years younger and had been his best friend through childhood. Matthew was impish, and a bit of a dare devil, creating chaos and mischief at every turn, making Mitch’s work as his older brother all that much more difficult. It was during Mitch’s sophomore year in college when Matthew informed him of his plans to join the military, throwing Mitch and his parents in a tailspin over his brother’s decision. It weighed heavily on him, Mitch’s grades plummeting that first semester after Matthew’s deployment to Afghanistan, his ability to concentrate on schoolwork completely thwarted by his powerlessness to protect his brother from such a distance.

“It appears you might need a drink,”
Jax said, interrupting Mitch’s tormented thoughts. “Let’s say we call it a day and start the weekend early. I’ve got tickets behind the Sox dugout for tonight’s playoff game, so let’s head down to Fenway early and have a few beers.” 

Mitch appreciated his friend’s positive spin on life. Even when he was in one of his darkest moods, Jackson could always find a way to lift his spirits and be the glass half-full kind of guy. The Yin to his Yang, the Dumb to his Dumber. Jackson had been there for him when he and his parents had learned of their family’s devastating loss and never failed to provide an outlet. A distraction. A deep trust and comfort that he had lost with the death of his brother.

“The dugout, huh?  How’d you score those gold-plated treasures?”

“Remember
Jenni Schmidt?”

Mitch had to sort through the number of women he met on a monthly basis that seemed to flock to his handsome and charming friend. He was drawing a blank on this one.

“Remind me again?”

“The art dealer. We met her at the exhibit last month. We’ve hung out a few times and it just so happens her uncle works for the Sox and offered up the tickets. Unfortunately for her, she’s out of town at another art show in New York this weekend, otherwise she would have been my date. Instead, I’m left with your ugly ass to tag along. And believe me...I would definitely prefer
Jenni’s hot little ass sitting next to mine over yours any day.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my ass,” Mitch balked, making an act of turning his head to mockingly grab his butt. “You’re just jealous of my perfect David-like gluteus
maximus.”

Jax
snorted as he stood up. “You just keep thinking that, my friend.”

Five minutes later, they had decided they’d get changed and head down to the pub before taking the T down to Fenway. The idea of catching the game and a few beers had already lifted his mood and Mitch was excited to see the Red Sox pull out another win in the post-season, and maybe even take a pennant. Possibly another World Series. 

Ready to close up shop for the day, he glanced once more at his Inbox. A new email from Sasha M. Lee, MD caught his attention. Clicking the email to expand the view, he read through the professionally written correspondence.

To: Mr. Mitchell Camden

From: Sasha M. Lee, MD, Lee & Associates

Date: October 8

RE: Change in your therapist

Dear Mr. Camden,

Due to a scheduling change, I’d like to inform you that Rylie Hemmons, MPT, will no longer be available. Effective immediately, your new therapist will be Carmen Flores. Carmen has over twenty years of experience and is a highly regarded physical therapist.     

As we have previously arranged, Carmen will continue to provide you with your in-home services, so there will be no interruption in your schedul
es or create any inconvenience.

Thank you for your continued patronage.

Best Regards,

Sasha M. Lee, MD

Lee & Associates

WTF
?

Mitch all but roared as he read and reread the email. What in the world was this all about? This couldn’t possibly have anything to do with what happened between them, could it? Well if it was, this was a ridiculously childish thing for Rylie to pull.

There was no doubt in his mind that they had a powerful attraction, which he felt instantly when he met her at the bar the other night. And that heat seemed to only intensify and gain momentum the more they were together. He could only describe it as a hungry desire. Was it possible that she didn’t feel the same way? Was that the reason she withdrew so suddenly? Was she just trying to get back at him for leaving her wet and unsatisfied?

Mitch felt a sharp pang of regret. Maybe he had brought this on himself, given how he had left things earlier in the day. He certainly hadn’t meant to leave her high and dry, given the compromising position they had both been in when the doorbell rang. He had been caught off guard, and more than a little surprised, by her physical reaction and response to his kiss. He’d wanted to keep tasting her, run his hands up and down her beautiful body before their little interlude was interrupted. It pissed him off to have to leave Rylie in that state of desire. In his own state of desire – he was hard as a rock.  Damn, if he could just go back in time. She was so warm and tasted like sunshine on his tongue. He wanted more of that feeling. More time with her, to devour her. That girl made him want to be a better man.

Each one of her touches blazed through him. They turned him into the equivalent of the Greek god Dionysus, making him burn with ecstasy. He wanted – no, had to – experience more of her. This would not be the way this would end, not if he had anything to do with it. And when Mitch wanted something, he got it. He would fight this and he would win. He would get what he wanted, come hell or high water.

Without even a second thought, Mitch began to type out an email response to Sasha Lee. To say he was demanding or unrelenting in any of his pursuits was an understatement. Mitch would not be deterred and would use his power and influence to see that his wishes became reality. Every facet of his life was governed by this personality trait. Some people, like his mother, found it to be ‘willful.’ His father was glad to see him put the family gene to good use. 

It took less than two minutes for Mitch to write out a terse reply and hit the Send button. Feeling more in control of the situation, he closed his laptop and headed downstairs to meet his friend for an evening of beer and baseball.

****

Rylie’s nightmare started just as it always did. It’s a warm summer night, just after dusk, as she’s walking through Boston Common. The breeze blowing gently at her back, the stars up above peeking quietly out from under their bluish-black blanket, she shrugs off her backpack to remove her jacket, revealing a green tank underneath. Hefting the bag back over her shoulder, she is aware of male voices coming up from behind her.  She turns her head slightly to the left to peer behind her, but sees no one. Her pace quickens. 

The hairs on the back of her neck begin to prickle. 

The next thing she knows, her bag is being savagely ripped from her arm, the strap catching in the crook of her elbow. She tries to free herself, but she stumbles instead. Trying to regain her balance, she looks up into a face that is shrouded by a black hoodie. A noise from her other side causes her to look in that direction, another hooded head and face. A dark pair of menacing eyes glare from under the baseball cap. Then a low, dangerous laugh escapes his lips, which are turned upright in a threatening smile. His hot, vile breath comes out in a rage of sound against her ear. 

“Don’t move, or you’ll
die.”

The kernel of panic rises from the pit of her stomach, a volcano of hysteria lodged in her throat, choking her from the inside out. Unable to formulate a word or a sound, she lays there in silent fear, terror stampeding through her veins. Her father had taught her what to do in a situation like this, but
nothing would come to her. She felt panic-stricken and paralyzed.