Yield (15 page)

She nodded once.
 

He caught her, tossed her over her shoulder, and then carried her out of the kitchen, Max staring at them with his mouth open. “Now’s a good time to fuck off, Max.”

****

Kate - 2003

It was so innocent and innocuous, but standing by her bed she felt nauseous and terrified. As scared as she had been when her mother had been in her chair, the needle in her arm and the stink of death in the small trailer. As scared as she had been when the cops showed up and she had cowardly hid in her spot, tears of fear and heartache sliding to the floor. As scared as when she had come home and there was nothing.

Terror clung to her as she stared at the hockey jersey carefully laid out on her bed, the arms neatly folded in an almost lewd fashion. She felt dizzy when she saw the NO. where names went and the giant one smack dab in the middle of the back.

“You taste sweet, my pretty little No One. I bet you taste sweet all over.”

Resting at the bottom was a simple note. She clamped her hands over her mouth as the sob strangled there. She actually tightened her thighs, afraid she was going pee down her leg and over the sock of her uniform.
Danger, danger, danger.

Her knees buckled and she collapsed to the floor. She did what she always did when there was danger or a threat. She slid under her bed, craving the darkness and wishing there was the plywood door she could wedge in place. Just in case.

Just in case.

She pressed her body up against the pictures taped there. As if the glossy images from the magazines could save her. As if he would save her.
No one. No one.
Her uniform clung to skin turned clammy. Had he been in her room?
Danger, danger, danger.

No one.

No. One.

Number 1.

Happy birthday, No One.

Happy birthday, Kate.

Chapter 11

Kate was pretty sure she was the only one who used the storage room. Jace wasn't the type to hold onto things. Carefully wrapped in protective padding was her beloved white desk, and the matching chair was wrapped in its own layers and lay on the top. One day, when she had her own space, she would bring it out of this basement. There was a cedar armoire that held her favorite pieces of clothing. Her first uniform for school, the outfit she had worn when she had met Jace, her dress from the first Christmas and way too many concert tees for Cyanide that were of various ages. Sometimes she felt like a stalker in her own life when she saw the shirts from all the tours. Shows she hadn't seen but had wanted the mementos for the very reason that they were a part of Jace's life.
 

She had kept everything. School assignments, articles and magazines from when her existence had broken in the news. She had stopped hoarding food and had resorted to hoarding pieces of this life. Even now, years later, she justified holding onto everything with the simple reason that for one terrifying moment she had lost everything.

She wished she didn’t have this urge to keep items from crucial moments in her life, because then things wouldn’t be tangible for her. The box shoved under the blanket draped over her desk was very tangible.

Wiping her damp palms on the thighs of her jeans, Kate stared at her covered desk, well aware of what was buried under its shadows. She would have left it alone but for Doyle. Not that he knew that the box even existed, but talking about her past made her want to confront the dragon. A small part of her wanted to set it on fire and forget the box ever existed, to let it go.

A larger part of her wanted to thrust the contents at someone else with the whispered hope that they’d be able to make everything better. She wanted to unload it all. Until Doyle had brought it up, she hadn’t realized how tired she was of carrying this around. Not that she ever had anyone to show her past. Counseling had been good but she hadn’t felt safe to give all. Within a short week, Doyle had made her feel safe.

That was the thought that made her exhale the breath she felt strangling in her chest. She sank to her knees to flip the grey blanket back and reach back until her fingers touched the box. It felt cold to her, colder than the concrete floor. Dragging it free, she stared at the massive layers of tape covering the flaps. Keeping the dragon in.

All her boxes on the shelves were labeled: school work, books, Cyanide. This box had nothing on it. A label wasn’t necessary. She had sealed it with a savage desperation, almost using an entire roll of packing tape. Pushing the box aside, she eased the blanket back down, smoothing it to protect the desk.
 

Not until Kate approached the partially open door, did she hear low, deep voices and she winced at the realization that Jace was home. Usually she actively sought him out when they were both in the house. With the chill spreading through her because of the box, she felt too vulnerable to deal with the man who still didn’t know what to do with her. She wasn’t that complicated. Setting the box down long enough to lock the door behind her, Kate’s steps slowed even more when she realized what the topic of conversation was about.

Or rather who.

“You sure you don’t want to share with the class who you’re fucking?” There was a slippery, snide tone to Anderson Reeve’s voice, a cruelty that held barbs. Her numb fingers gripped the edge of her box.

“It doesn’t matter,” a familiar voice rumbled out and she looked down at the box of hell she was holding, not quite sure how she felt about that sentence. A sharp sensation was crawling under her skin.

“Well then.” Anderson wasn’t a nice person, especially when he was using, as if all the poisons inside him made him feel like he had to spread that toxicity. “Share.”

“No.”

“Why are we discussing D’s latest fuck toy?”
 

She shut her eyes as Jace’s voice clawed through her. She thought she heard Max softly curse.

“Because it’s a very interesting fuck toy.”

Fuck toy. The words bounced around her head, hammering at her. She told herself he didn’t know he was referring to his daughter as his band mate’s fuck toy. Not that he’d likely care. She saw herself standing in this very basement, stuttering and stammering at him, looking for him to step up and be her dad. Instead he hadn’t cared.
 

And there was this box.

This fucking box and everything it held. This box she was too scared to hold onto but too afraid to get rid of. The dark had always been a safe place for her and as she stood in the unlit, seldom used exercise room, it turned on her.
 

She wanted to hear that she wasn’t a fuck toy, that she was something…someone.

This house, she thought as she held her breath, waiting. This house of nightmares and shadows hungry to devour her up.
Stop them, stop them.
Defend. Just once…just once she wanted to not feel alone in this god damn house that was supposed to have been a safe place.
 

Always, always wanting.

“We’re here to work,” her dom snapped out, “not discuss my fuck life.”

There it was.

Or wasn’t.

The chill from the box was sliding up her arms until she was afraid of dropping it. The weight of it shifted until she swore it was trying to push her into the ground, bury her. All because she had wanted to not carry the burden of it, because she had wanted to trust him with
all
of it. Because she had wanted to trust him. Period.
Always wanting.

“Music. Album. Write,” Carl said. “I do not want to hear about D’s kink.”

“But it’s gotten so interesting,” Anderson drawled, dragging the word interesting out like he was torturing it. “Hasn’t it, D?”

“Stop talking,” Max muttered under his breath.

Considering he had probably been the one to tell Anderson, she thought that was a bit hypocritical.

“D’s fuck toy doesn’t matter. The music does. Let’s do this shit.”

She really wanted them to stop referring to her as a fuck toy. She wanted Doyle to stop them. She needed him to. Kate listened, waited.

What she got was “Is it just me or is this break utter shit?”

She really needed that one percent glimmer of hope to just give up and die. There was the rustle of paper.
 

Her throat felt tight and there was a burning in her jaw that was at odds with the chill in her hands.
 

She could, she realize, stand in the dark until they were done. All she wanted, however, was to get out. Out of this god damn house where she was inconsequential, where she was a fuck toy, where she was no one. This world. This toxic, horrible world.
 

He was right.

This wasn’t her world, because she couldn’t conform to it. She was tired. So tired of dredging it alone in this world. Exhaling slowly, she let it go. Let it die in the shadows of Jace Jennings’ exercise room.

“Red,” she whispered, and opened her eyes. Enough.
Enough, Kate.
That’s what he said: when it hurt or became too much, she had the power. She had the power to stop it from hurting or overwhelming her. Tightening her fingers on the side edges of the box, she made herself step out of the dark.

The stairs were situated on the other side of the sectional sofa were the band was. It was a familiar set up. Carl and Max with their guitars, Jace sprawled along the entire middle section of the horseshoe-shaped couch, while Anderson looked like a child who was about to have a massive tantrum because nobody was paying attention to him as he smoked a cigarette. Doyle sat on a cajón drum box, his legs spread while he quietly drummed his fingers on the edge as he looked at the music on the table.

She was always surprised the wooden box held him up because he made it look small and fragile. He didn’t bring his drums here, not since a drunk Anderson had grabbed one of the snare drums and threw it into the television. Anderson was why they now wrote out here instead of in Jace’s music room. Had to protect the important things.

“Fuck.” Max was staring at her. His gaze flicked from her to Doyle to the room she had just emerged from.
 

The light, steady tapping stopped and she made herself look at Doyle.
Enough, Kate.
This fuck toy says what?
“Red,” she told him. Clutching her box, she made herself go up the curved stairs. She was not going to cry in this house anymore.
 

She needed to put this box down, find someplace new to store it. She refused to take it back to her studio, refused to have it taint her haven. She also didn’t want it where she slept. That gave her nowhere.
 

She shouldn’t have come for it.

She should have left it in the dark, buried in the storage room. Leave it in this house.

“Kate–”

“Red. Didn’t you say a good dom listened, observed?” She had to set the box down to open the door to the garage and there was relief at not touching it. Once she had the door open, she hit the button for the far garage door. Jace’s fancy sports car and SUV took up the two main spots, but she got the last one. Well, not her. Usually whatever girl was currently living in his bed, but since there was nobody, she had been able to use the garage. A rarity.

The box. She could not leave the box. As much as she wanted too, she couldn’t. Grabbing it, she looked at Doyle, who looked irritated. Too bad. She was bleeding.
 

She was tired of it.

“You were right. This isn’t my world. I don’t want it anymore. So…red.” She wanted to scream it at him but that required far more than she was capable of.

“What do you think happened down there?”

“I think my dom let them call me a fuck toy. That’s what I think happened down there.”
Red.
Like the blood spilling from thin scars.
Red.

She kicked the door shut and the bang wasn’t as satisfying as it should’ve been. She shoved the box into her trunk before she slid into the driver’s seat. Her hands were shaking as she gripped the steering wheel, lowering her head down. Tired. She was so tired of this happening to her.
 

“Red, Kate. Red.”

****

Kate - 2003

There was no rhyme or reason to when a present would show up on her bed. Sometimes a week would go by, maybe two. Or for three days she’d come home to find something on her bed. Locking her door didn’t help. She’d come home and there would be an envelope that said
Pretty Little
No One
on it and inside would be a ticket to a movie or a play or a hockey game. Sometimes it was a gift card or a note. Nothing was signed but she knew. She knew.

She stared at the envelope propped against her pillow and her stomach began to hurt. Her knotted ribbon had finally disintegrated. She had found a pretty yellow one that had come wrapped around a present for Natalie, her half-sister. Since it had been in the trash, she had considered it fair game. The extra length was curled up in the top drawer of her dresser along with other ribbons she had salvaged.

Shaelynn and the baby were gone. Apparently Shaelynn had realized that Jace had no desire to be a father to her daughter. The fight had been loud and violent. The next day Shaelynn and Natalie were gone, along with all the pretty presents. It was nice to not have Shaelynn screaming all the time, but weird to be in a house where it was just her, Jace and the nanny, who used to live downstairs but was currently in Jace’s bed.

Sandra had decided Kate needed someone to look after her. Mostly though she had wanted to be Jace’s lover. She sure didn’t take care of Kate. At twelve, Kate really didn’t need anyone to babysit her. Actually, she never had.

Self-reliant. That’s what her teacher had said she was. She liked that word.

Now, though, she didn’t feel very self-reliant. She picked up the envelope and whatever was in it rattled, slithering from one corner to the next. Flipping up the flap she stared at the gold necklace inside. A simple chain with a charm on it. Her stomach cramped when she saw it was a number one. Dropping the latest present, she stumbled back from her bed.

For a short time, Kate had felt safe in her bedroom. There were walls, a comfortable bed. She had a pile of money hidden because at odd times she’d find an envelope filled with money tossed on her bed. Her birthday, Christmas. Two thousand dollars each time. What she’d do with two thousand dollars every time, she didn’t know. Now though, she wanted to grab all her money and run back to the trailer park.