The Good Sister
Authors: Leanne Davis
The Good Sister
b
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Leanne Davis
Sister Series, Book Two
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Table of Contents
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
The Good Sister
COPYRIGHT © 2014 by Leanne Davis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information:
[email protected]
Publishing History First Edition, 2014 Digital
Sister Series, Book Two
Edited by Teri at The Editing Fairy
Cover Design by Steven Novak
To my dad, Rick Fletcher.
You never backed away from any conversation I wanted to have, or withheld anything I needed from you, whether they were little girl concerns or teenage angst. You were always there and in every way.
And to this day, I know with absolute certainty that you are still “there” for me, always, no matter what. You are the best father in the entire world, and no one will ever change my mind about that.
Acknowledgement
To Teri (theeditingfairy.com) for your amazing work on my novels. I could not comfortably contemplate publishing without your expertise and polish. Thank you!
Sister Series:
The Other Sister (Book #1)
Coming in 2014
The Best Friend (Book #3)
The Seaclusion Series:
Available from The Wild Rose Press
Poison
Notorious
Coming in 2014
Secrets
Seclusion
The Zenith Trilogy:
Zenith Falling
Zenith Rising
Zenith Fulfilled
Arlington, Virginia
Denial.
For most people,
denial
is a word often used to justify a wrongdoing or a series of wrongdoings. Generally speaking, it is not an anthem by which people govern their lives. Not so, however, for Lindsey Johanson. She strove to make her personal talent of denying all the evil around her into an art form that was simply devised to keep her alive.
She squeezed her eyelids shut tightly and concentrated deeply on her breathing. In and out. In and out. Breathing meant she was alive. Alive meant she was okay. Everything would be okay. Everything would get better. Everything would heal. Besides, the more she concentrated on breathing, the less likely she was to express her pain with a whimper or groan, sounds that only served to incite his cruelty all the more.
He was
not
kicking her ribs. He was
not
punching her stomach. He was
not
straddling her thighs as he undid his zipper. He was not, he could not, possibly mean to have sex with her now. She breathed harder, faster, in and out. In and out.
But he did. She gasped, biting harshly on her lip, trying to stifle any further groans of pain inside her mouth, before they withered in her chest. Her body shook against the carpet as he jerked violently inside of her. Her back inched up and down, scraping against the carpet in rug burns, all the while he slammed his penis like a weapon inside her, in and out. In and out.
She always kept her eyes shut. As long as she didn’t see him, she wouldn’t have to retain any images of his sadism. Later, she wouldn’t have to relive the thrill in his facial expressions. She never had to know if his eyes were open, and watching the pain contorting on her face. Was he smiling in glee? Or glaring at her with unreasonable hatred? She never knew. But not knowing was infinitely better than knowing.
With a guttural cry, he suddenly stiffened and came into her so hard and deep, she feared her womb would collapse under the pressure. His penis was like a sword, splitting her in two. He grunted as he fell onto her, his burdensome weight trapping her on the floor.
“You are only mine. Perhaps now, you won’t forget it,” he whispered. His breath felt warm on the skin below her ear, and his voice was calmer now, back to a more normal cadence. The warning was only his natural response to whatever she did to incite it.
Some women believe that being considered a man’s possession is sexy. It’s as if his claim on her is an honor, or that he is bestowing a gift somehow, by wanting to possess her. Only it isn’t. Possession and obsession are not sexy. His claim on her was merely his announcement of his ability, as well as his intention, to break her with his strength. To dominate and control her every word and every action, right down to
her every thought.
And eventually, it also entitled him to beat and rape her.
But it wasn’t rape. It could not be called
rape
.
He was her husband
. Husbands could not rape their wives. They had sex with their wives. They made love to their wives. Of course, not every husband’s foreplay began by first pushing his wife to the ground, then proceeding to kick and punch her, before jumping on top of her to stop her struggles and resistance as he forced his penis into her tight, dry, aching spaces. No, most husbands prefer to have sex with their wives after they are wet and ready, never forcibly entering them. Although she wasn’t wet or ready, it was not rape, and could not be because she was married to him.
Denial.
It was the only device she could muster to find the strength to open her eyes.
She blinked at the daylight that filled their living room. A deep “whoosh!” of air escaped her lungs. Her body felt like she’d been on a long, arduous, awful trip, rather than spending only the last ten minutes being beaten and raped,
no, not raped
, but having sex with her husband.
The vaulted ceilings rose up some twenty feet, peaking overhead with four different skylights that welcomed the deep squares of sunshine. The sun’s rays reached the floor that she lay on, highlighting the dust motes as they floated lazily in the air, orbiting her navy blue leather furniture and dark wood tables that so eloquently filled the room. The room that was mostly still intact. How could that be? How could nothing have been altered? Changed? Ruined? Everything was neat and tidy. What little dust that fell today would surely be gone tomorrow. She wiped it away every day. He hated dust. He hated mess. He hated chaos of any kind.
So she didn’t allow dust or mess or chaos of any kind to exist.
He pulled himself off her, resting on his knees, which were now on either side of her legs. Then he stood up in a lithe, quick moment. After adjusting his pants and tucking in his white, button-up shirt, he realigned his tie. He was slightly wrinkled. He hated that. The impulse filled her numbed brain: she must quickly iron his shirt.
His eyes roved over her as he frowned in annoyance. It was as if he discovered her lazing around the couch when she should have been doing something more constructive. What seemed to escape him eternally was that it was his fault she lay sprawled on their living room floor, too stunned to move. Maybe, this time, she was even too hurt to move. No. No, she couldn’t be too hurt, as that was not allowed. He would never have permitted her the luxury of going to the hospital. He always managed to stop just short of that. Just as he was always careful to never bruise her in visible places. She could always cover up the bruises he inflicted on her. Despite the heat of his most profound, emblazing rages, he still controlled where he left his marks on her.
And no one could ever know. Bruises needed a story. A story that could not be their story. Not the couple that someday soon, would be the next political hopefuls, Elliot and Lindsey Johanson. They lived in a large, three-story, pristine, brick Colonial-style house near Virginia Square, just across from Washington D.C. They had a full time staff of three: a housekeeper, a cook, and a gardener/landscaper. Lindsey ran their house and staff, as well as their social life. She always presented herself as a stunning, well put together, upper class wife and hostess at all times.
Elliot had money, the kind that allowed him to never have to work a day in his life. They could have lived much further beyond the means in which they chose to live. But Elliot preferred to keep his image as having much less than he actually did. He wanted to assume the façade of an urbanite, albeit well-to-do, but nonetheless middle class. He tried to conceal the overtly, crazy, filthy rich tycoon he really was. And it was up to his loyal wife to maintain that façade.
She got up at five o’clock every morning to do her exercise routine before getting ready. She endeavored to make herself as perfect as she could by seven o’clock every morning. It didn’t matter which day it was or what she had planned, she was always impeccably presentable.
That is, of course, except for right now. She closed her legs and twisted her lower body to hide it. She could feel the pantyhose he ripped off bunching as they rested awkwardly between her thighs. Her skirt was rashly pushed up over waist, and her high heels were several feet away. Her blouse was untucked, and twisted around her torso. She gulped in a sudden sob, knowing she could not cry.
She could not
. Shuddering a breath, she slowly, carefully sat up although her entire midsection burned and protested. Her breathing increased as the pain awakened all of her nerve endings. Her insides and womanly parts burned and stung in deep, ominous sensations.
“Clean up this mess, and get yourself together! Dinner is still at seven, so make sure you’re ready. Don’t dare disappoint me again.”
Turning on his heel, her chivalrous husband walked over to the mirror to adjust his hair. Her head fell onto her knees as the sobs suddenly stayed lodged in her throat. She bit her lip and gnashed her teeth. She could not cry, or he would know, and her tears would only betray her. So no, she absolutely could not cry. She glanced around and saw that only a small part of the room was in shambles, a macabre reflection of what just happened.
He caught her completely unprepared for his arrival, let alone, his rage. She was doing her daily touch-ups to the room. With a can of polish and a washrag, she was carefully wiping all the fingerprints from the dark tables, and dusting the valuable, mostly one-of-a-kind, knick-knacks that adorned their shelves and tables. Elliot traveled extensively and often came back with precious souvenirs, which she guarded with her life, dreading his reaction if she didn’t. She never allowed the cleaning staff to touch any of his things, and always maintained them herself.
He just stormed into the room without a word, grabbed her elbow, and spun her towards him. The face she saw before her was dark, menacing, with a rage that burned in his eyes and bordered on insanity.
He threw her onto a table, which toppled over. She fell onto the lamp, and inadvertently broke it. He snatched her up, pulling her arm behind her back as he trapped her against the couch. She feared he might dislocate her shoulder again, or break her wrist. But… that already happened before. He had to realize it would look suspicious, as she could only be so clumsy.
Of course, she had no idea of what she had done or why he came home intending to hurt her.
His voice was soft when he bent her over the couch and pushed her arm higher onto her back. “Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
She wanted to scream,
find out what
? What did she do? But she knew better. She remained silent and let him fill her in, as he always did. He seemed to relish that: imparting how many ways she failed him, how she caused this, and how he had no choice but to punish her more severely.
“You left your birth control pills in the garbage. I found them, but I had a meeting I couldn’t miss this morning, so I couldn’t discuss it with you then. Did you think you’d get away with it?”
No, she didn’t, because it wasn’t her birth control. She was sure of that. She knew better than to take birth control pills. They were too easily discovered, and too easy to be careless about disposing of. Long ago, she had an IUD inserted, so it couldn’t be detected. And yet… Was she enduring a severe beating for just that? What about the maid? The cook? Who would have left her damn birth control pills in the garbage? Someone cleaning out her purse? Some innocuous act by a woman starting her next round of birth control pills had led to this?
She shut her eyes. There was no use denying it, or pleading her case, as the damage was already done. Why risk his fierce reaction? Or get someone else in trouble? Not that he would have reacted like that to anyone else. He’d no doubt merely admonish them kindly, asking them to be more respectful and private; after all, they were a prominent family and preferred to keep their private matters from being aired to anyone. He was never aggressive, harsh, rude, or angry with anyone else. No one. Ever. Except her. She bore the gamut of his anger and rage.
“We
will
have a baby, Lindsey. And your hesitation in the matter is not appreciated nor will it be tolerated. Is that clear now?”
She stared at her feet. Of course, she understood that, but just telling her so was never enough for Elliot. He jerked her off the couch, slamming her to the floor, as his foot followed through by kicking her in the gut. She twisted, jerked and writhed in silent pain before he straddled her.
Lindsey shook her head and wondered why was she already reliving it? There was no point, ever in thinking about it, much less reliving it. She merely had to make sure it didn’t happen
again.
Now it was over and she stared hard at her toes. The red polish of her pedicure got chipped at some point and she knew she’d have to fix that before tonight.
“Lindsey? Are we clear on the subject of birth control now?”
She snapped her eyes up to his. His soft words suggested he may have said her name already. His tone was lethally tight, and indicated her behavior was frustrating him. He did not tolerate frustration, especially from her.
“Yes, we’re quite clear.”
His facial expression softened as he came closer and kneeled before her. He put a hand to her face and rubbed his thumb over her cheekbone. “Don’t you want my baby? Is there some reason why you would do such a traitorous thing? You do understand now, I hope, why this happened today.”
His green eyes held her gaze as he waited for an answer, and his head lowered a fraction of an inch while his eyebrows rose in anticipation. She knew what she was supposed to do now. She must nod, and say, of course she wanted
their
baby. She was terribly mistaken, and the only one to blame for this oversight today. Her blue eyes clung to his and she licked her lips slowly. She raised her head, then lowered it submissively. “I understand. I was… scared. I was wrong to deceive you. I will never take those again, not unless you order me to.”
He smiled, and his lips stretched back into a dimpled, perfect grin. He was responsible for capturing more than his fair share of women’s hearts. Charming, handsome, and almost breathtaking to behold, his smile spread from his lips to encompass his entire face. He was a beautiful, perfect, sophisticated, and sculpted monster.
He patted her cheek condescendingly. “That’s my girl. Now I have to get back to the office. See to this, and make sure you’re ready tonight. We’ll not discuss this again. And we will try again tonight.”