Down Shift (27 page)

“Oh yes . . . while I disagree with your discrimination against strawberries, I do have to agree with you on sock, sock, shoe, shoe.” He taps the neck of his beer against my glass and then takes a long pull on it.

“At least we can agree on that.” The breeze blows off the ocean and the sparkle of the water distracts me for a minute.

“But I'd pick you in knee-high socks every damn day of the week if I had a choice.” This time his wide smile carries through to his eyes. And I know he's just being nice, but every part of me perks up at the silly compliment. “So we've got some of the basics covered—what else don't we know about each other?”

“You know I'm messy,” I say off the cuff, a shadow spreading across his face as he purses his lips.

“Nah. I don't think you're messy.” His comment catches me off guard.

“Are you kidding me?” I laugh, suddenly nervous as my gaze fastens to his. Deep down this feels like so much more than a
tell me yours and I'll tell you mine
example.

“Nope. The first night we met, I thought you were messy, yes. What with your skirt trapped around my ankle, but now I know it's your way of making a point to yourself. A reminder that you can do whatever you want, even if it's leave a trail of clothes down the hallway.” He offers me a slight smile, but it's the intensity in his eyes and the words he's spoken that really hold my attention.

He understands me. The why. The how. Even though I've never specifically told him about my time with Ethan, he still gets me. There's something extremely poignant about being heard and having your reasons validated by someone who matters to you.

Because no matter how hard I try to convince myself otherwise, Zander does matter to me. Way more than I want to admit to myself.

And just as I start to grow uncomfortable about him seeing me so candidly, faults and all, as if he's pulling my thoughts from the depths of my eyes, he leans even farther across the table and says ever so quietly, “You're forgetting the really important question, Getty.”

“Like what?”
What am I missing?

“Like . . . what is the point-of-no-return spot on your body?”

“Point-of-no-return spot?”

“Yeah, that one spot where once your lover touches you there, there's no turning back. The only thing ahead is sex and reaching an orgasm.” His voice is barely audible and yet I hear every single word along with suggestion lacing each one.

The question throws me. We've gone from playful, to serious, and now to the kind of interrogation that makes me squirm in my seat because I'm not used to the flat-out directness of him asking about my erogenous zones.

“Why?”

“It's important for your lover to know these things, Getty.”

I laugh nervously as the air between us shifts and twists into an unexpected undertow of desire. Unable to think with his salacious stare asking so much, I avert my eyes back to the ocean, thankful he's willing to give me a moment to collect myself before I respond.

Oh my God.
How do I answer him? First of all, this isn't something Ethan ever cared to ask me, and second, I'm not very good at voicing something like this aloud. Maybe under the covers in a dark room . . . but not with piercing blue eyes holding steadfast to mine watching for my answer. Add on to that the fact that every part of my body—mind, nerves, pulse—is reacting in some way to the look he's giving me and the topic he just introduced.

“Don't be shy, Socks,” he murmurs, and places his hand over mine on the table. My eyes flash back to his. Those parts of my body that were reacting a second ago now go into overdrive. “You don't get to be shy after last night.”

That grin again. But this time it's one reflecting full-blown arrogant male smugness over yet another bout of incredible sex. And there's something about that look that restores my confidence. The part that realizes I'm the one who put it there.

So I take a fortifying breath before looking back at him.
“Everywhere.”
It takes everything I have to maintain our eye contact. Every ounce of self-confidence I've found in myself to not look away and be ashamed for being honest. “In all the years we were together, Ethan never took the time to care . . . so I can't tell you for sure. My lips maybe? Because you kiss me like I matter. Like I'm innocent and a
vixen all in one. You worship them. Demanding at the same time you're so patient with me. Or maybe my skin? Because I love the feel of your hands and how when you run them over me . . . their strength and noticeable restraint reflects your desire for me. Or the curve of my neck? Because when your lips are right there, I can hear that hitch in your breath when I put my hands on you. That sound tells me you want me to touch you. So I don't have an answer for you. I like when you touch me
everywhere
, Zander. . . .” I pointedly emphasize the last words. Draw them out, making sure my tone sounds like how his touch makes me feel.
Greedy. Desperate. Consumed.

Before I can even take in his expression—wide eyes, tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip, the bob of his Adam's apple—and gauge how he took my confession, I think about me. About my unexpected candor and the comfort level I have with him.

What a far cry this woman I am is from the shadow I was months ago.

Now that the words are out, I can't take them back. And if the look in Zander's eyes is any indication, I don't think he'd want me to if I could.

“If that's not a challenge to touch every erogenous zone on your body until you can pick just one as your favorite, I don't know what is.
Shit.
” He blows out a whistle and unsuccessfully fights to hide the surprised grin on his lips. “I think I need a cigarette after that.”

It's my turn to laugh. Long and loud. And to wonder just what other parts of me he's going to awaken on his quest to make me pick a favorite.

No complaints here.

T
here's only one word to describe how I feel as I head home after wandering aimlessly around town for a bit. Content. I picked up the humidor, sat on the waterfront for a while eating an ice-cream cone, and then headed over to the farmers' market to pick up some peonies.

But the unyielding smile on my face is because of Zander. It hasn't left my lips since he unexpectedly kissed me good-bye on the boardwalk with the parting words, “I still can't believe you don't like strawberries.” Then he flashed that disarming grin of his as he took a few steps backward before turning around to head home and grab some kind of something for the mechanic on the boat.

Guess I can cross “kiss the repair guy” off the to-do list.

I laugh at the thought as I unlock the front door, making a mental note to add an item of my own to the list for him. Aware of the waning time before my shift starts, I put the flowers in a vase and head straight to my bedroom, distracted with thoughts of where I can hide the humidor. I don't want Zander to see it until I can explain my intentions.

Within seconds of tossing my purse on the bed and setting the humidor down, I have my shirt over my head and am toeing my shoes off.

“Now that's the proper welcome I'd expect from my wife.”

Every part of my body freezes—the toes on my right foot from pushing down against the heel of my shoe on my left foot, my fingers behind my back beginning to unfasten the clasp of my bra, my heart, my breath. The only things moving are the hairs that slowly stand to attention on the back of my neck and the dust dancing in the light of the room.

I'm not your wife.
The thought echoes in my head but never makes it to my lips. Nothing does. Instead, I concentrate on the buoyant specks for a moment. It's the only thing I can focus on, because it takes everything I have to tell myself to breathe, to exhale evenly, and to rein in every ounce of emotion that I feel. To put up the mask. To disassociate. To make him believe when I turn around that I'm not scared of him.

But I am.

Every.

Single.

Part.

Of.

Me.

Because while I'm Getty Caster now—strong, independent, confident,
hopeful
—all it took was the sound of his voice to transport me back. That calm, even, arrogant, calculating tone that never rises in pitch and yet orders, criticizes, punishes, demeans me. Fear returns instantly as I'm reminded of the times he'd lose his temper or take a ruthless and often unfounded revenge on an adversary because he got off on being the judge, jury, and executioner. And his methodical ways of putting
me back in line
.

“Now, now, Gertrude.” It's his warning tone. The condescending
Do as I say so you won't cause me to do something I'll regret
tone. The one that used to make me want to try to be as small as possible to avoid the dead zone from the fallout of his temper. “Did you miss me as much as I missed you?”

I swallow the bile that threatens to rise and take
another deep breath. “No, Ethan, I didn't miss you at all.” My voice is quiet, but at least its even tone doesn't reflect the fear ricocheting within me.

“Amusing, Gertrude.” Disdain. His voice drips with it. “As you were. Take your bra off and turn around.
Now.
”

My eyes flick around the room. To my purse on the bed with my cell inside. I wonder if Nick would be able to hear me scream next door through the closed bedroom windows.

The rush of blood is so loud in my ears I can't hear anything but its whoosh as I answer. “No.”

His hand hits something—a loud crack of a noise—at the same time his voice thunders, “Turn. Around.” I physically jump at the sound, and the dead calm in his voice is even more frightening.

And as scared as I am with him at my back—my mind trying to calculate how far away he is from me or where he is in the room—I also don't want him to think I'm obeying him. Or that I fear him. Because those two reactions will give him the one thing I refuse to give him ever again: power over me.

“Don't be scared, Gertrude. It's just me.
Your husband.
” His chuckle grates on my nerves.

Just jump.

The thought comes out of nowhere, but it is exactly what I needed to fortify everything I've learned about myself in the months since I left this asshole.

I bite back the bile threatening to rise again. Stiffen my spine. Lift my chin. And turn around to face Ethan. He's sitting at my vanity, leaned against the back of the chair, perfectly groomed as always, but it's the hatred in his eyes that reveals his state of mind.

“Get. Out.” I grate the words out between gritted teeth, not wanting him to see my chin tremble.

The sound of his laughter fills my bedroom, but it's anything but humorous. It's empty, chilling. “I'm just here to take back what's mine.” A lift of one eyebrow. A mocking curl of his lips. His unrelenting stare, which causes chills to race up and down my spine.

“Fuck. You.”

He's on me in a flash. Closes the distance in a split second of time. I don't even have time to scream. Maybe I do. I don't know. There's a sound. A crash. A thump on the floor. His voice full of anger. Me trembling: my body, my mind, my heart.

But even through the haze of fear, I do something I never did before.
I fight back.
Using my hands and nails and legs and feet. Whatever it takes to stop him. I'm a ball of pent-up rage and hurt, even though I know I'm no match for his strength, honed by obsessive workouts and the most expensive supplements on the market. Yet, still,
I fight
.

I aim for connecting my knee to his crotch, to deliver the only kind of blow I know might incapacitate him, but he blocks it. I'm not sure how long we struggle. Seconds. Minutes. They feel like hours.

My lungs scream. My muscles burn. The sting of pain from his blows to subdue me doesn't register. Only my rage. Only my hate. Only my fear.

And in some move I can't even comprehend, he spins me so that I'm facedown on my bed, his knee pressed to my spine, my arms wrenched behind my back with one of his hands while the other fists in my hair.

My face is pressed into the mattress. The thick comforter smothers my mouth and nose. My lungs scream for air. I thrash my head from side to side, try to heave in a breath, try to think clearly, when all I can focus on is the comforter hot beneath my mouth as I suck in any air I can get through it.
Panic.
I'm no match for his strength.

And just as my mind starts to grow fuzzy and weird spots dance in the blackness of my closed eyes, I yelp out when he yanks my ponytail back sharply, lifting my face off the mattress.

There is no fear. There is no thought other than air. Gulp. Gasp. Suck it in as fast as I can.

I know this game. He's played it before. Deprive and demand.

Show who's in control.

Prove that I'm weaker.

But I don't care. Don't have the wherewithal to focus
on how to prevent the next push into the mattress, because when your body is starved for air, it's your only focus. How to get more. How to store it. How to inhale it. How much you're going to get before it's taken away again.

His breathing hitches from his exertion. The warm pant of it hits my ear as he leans down over me. “Are you this disobedient with your new boyfriend,
Getty
?” he sneers my new name. His fist twists in my hair, but I bite back the yelp of pain.

Don't let him have the power.

I close my eyes and wince at the pinpricks of pain all over my scalp. At the fire still burning in my lungs. At the ache where his knee digs relentlessly against my backbone, and the strain on my rotator cuffs as he pulls my arms up from my back.

“Does he know what a worthless whore you are? How your husband had to fuck other women because you couldn't satisfy him?” I draw in a ragged breath. The affirmation still hurts all this time later, although I always suspected it. The sudden meetings. The subtle scent of perfume on his clothes. And even in my oxygen-deprived state of mind, I know that my marriage wasn't a marriage by any real standards, and yet hearing the truth still stings. “Yeah.” He laughs. Taunts me. “I'd leave you with your listless legs spread in our bed and go straight to another's. A real woman who could pleasure a man.”

There's simply no comparison between him and Zander. Between selfish and selfless.

“I doubt you pleasured her.” The comment surprises me, coming out of nowhere, and my own voice sounds unrecognizable. Calm. Mocking.
Confident.
Something I'm sure I've never sounded like when responding to one of Ethan's verbal blows.

My chuckle follows the remark and it's audibly laced with a taunting tone. And I swear I must be going mad, because when he orders me to shut up, I just laugh harder. Yes, he's in complete dominance over my body, but my mind remains crystal clear and I'm so fed up with everything about him and this absurd situation.

Why come to take me back if you need others to get you off?

But before I can voice it, my face meets the mattress again and what I thought humorous moments before now becomes a struggle to draw in air. To feed my body. And my mind.

I tell myself to calm down as the panic returns. Tell myself that if I struggle, I'll need more air, and I can't get more air, so I'll pass out sooner and he'll do who knows what with me.

Then as the seconds drag on . . .

. . . and on . . .

. . . and on . . .

My thoughts align one last time as the edges of my mind start to turn fuzzy.

With a clarity I've never known before, a new thought crosses my mind: He's going to kill me.

My vision turns white. Head feels light.

Before, I was
needed
in his life. I was Damon Caster's daughter. A symbol of their union. Of his future.

Did I fear him?
Absolutely.
Did I worry if he'd kill me?
Never.
He was too greedy to risk ruining that relationship with my father.

I was the glue in their business dealings. The flag raised in victory. The mascot for their world domination.

And now that I've walked away, I single-handedly proved to them that their relationship is solid without me. That I'm not needed.

My limbs are heavy. My chest has a wildfire blazing inside it. My thoughts fade. . . .

The sharp pull on my hair as he yanks my head up means oxygen. It means another chance. Tears sting my eyes as I gasp like a fish out of water. And when he hauls my body up to a standing position, the removal of his knee from my back opens up more space for my lungs to expand.

My legs are rubbery. My head still woozy. Was this his plan? Make me weak. Find the submission I refused to give him by starving my lungs and forcing me into our old roles.

When I open my eyes, he's face-to-face with me. His hazel eyes hold the fraudulent apology he's given me so many times over the years. The one I believed in at the beginning of our marriage. How I owned the guilt he placed on me when he said my disobedience made him do it. There was a cycle of my acceptance, his apology, then his promise never to do it again.

All the while there was also shame that would eat me whole, gnaw at and erode my self-esteem, because I knew I was never at fault. That he didn't really mean his apologies. That he was to blame. He was always to blame.

The apologetic look went hand in hand with his actions that broke me. As a human. As a woman. From feeling worthwhile. It was the catalyst that stole so much from me. The
me
that I'm trying to get back now.

So I find strength in the memory. Find myself clinging there, holding on tight to her, and meeting him stare for stare.

“Why, Ethan?” My voice is hoarse but steady. “If I'm such a horrible wife . . . then why do you want me back?”

His jaw pulses as he tries to wither my resolve with his stare. “Because image is
everything
, Gertrude,” he says, running the back of his hand down my cheek. “And the Caster name is the ticket to getting it.”

As prepared as I am for his kiss when he leans forward, I can't choke back the disgust. I thrash my head, but the unforgiving twist of my hair makes me freeze as his lips bruise mine. Revulsion ripples through me. The bile returns.

“Do you believe the lies he tells you?” he whispers against my ear.

He holds my hair hostage so I can't look to see what he's doing.

“Does he tell you you're beautiful? And smart? And funny?”

I close my eyes momentarily. Shutting out his words. Not wanting Zander anywhere near Ethan in my mind.

“
All lies
, Gertrude.” He singsongs the words in a hauntingly childlike tone that creates goose bumps all over my skin.

His free hand haphazardly hits against my lower belly. Then I hear the telltale sound of a belt buckle jingling as the end goes through the loop, the metal clasp hitting against itself.

No.

“Does he promise you things only I can give you?”

The sound of a zipper being unzipped.

My mind shutting down.

I choke on the rising bile. Knowing what comes next. Panic returns. Hatred so strong the thought of having to touch him makes me physically ill.

“I deserve a proper apology, Gertrude.”

My mind disassociating from this reality.

“No.” I swallow over the lump in my throat. Fight back my fear. Prevent the tears from welling in my eyes. Try to hold on to Getty Caster as he attempts to strip her away, layer by layer, until she becomes Gertrude Caster-Adams again.

Weak. Compliant. Fearful.

“No. Is. Not. An. Option.”

Our eyes war. His telling me
now
. Mine telling him to
fuck off
.

He yanks on my ponytail again. Trying to force me to drop to my knees like I would have done before. Take his punishment by giving him a
proper apology
without a fight, because a fight just made the repercussions that much worse. In my old life, giving in was the only way to survive.