Deanna Madden #1 The Girl in 6E (24 page)

AT MILE MARKER
84, on Alabama Highway 78, I put on my blinker, moving to the slow lane as I prepared to turn. Heading to Annie, I didn’t have time for personal errands, for walks down memory lane.

But now, with six hours ahead of me and no excuse other than fatigue, I need to stop. I need to see my family.

I get off on the exit, traveling twelve miles north till I enter familiar territory. Memories of my past seize me, causing a lump in my throat, and my hands grip the wheel tightly as I turn through the gates of the cemetery, bright red flowers framing my entrance.

I haven’t been here since the day of the funeral, but I will never forget the path, never forget the large tree that hangs over their graves. Trent would have loved that tree, its low branches perfect for climbing and jumping. I picked these plots because of that tree.

I park and step out into the sun, surprised at the weather. It should be gloomy, misty, sad weather for a sad occasion. But the weather is downright cheerful, fluffy clouds dotting a brilliant blue sky, birds chirping, frogs jumping from underfoot as I move through the thick grass.

I sit before their graves, four perfect spots with an empty spot on the side. After pulling off my tennis shoes, I dig my toes into the grass, appreciating the tickle of blades, the warmth of the sun.

I have avoided this for so long, the guilt at their deaths weighing heavily on my heart. Not because I feel responsible for them, but because I am alive and they are not. I have life, and they have only death.

I sit there for twenty minutes, speaking to each of them in turn, my conversation with my mother the longest. I tell her that I forgive her. And I realize, as I speak the words, that I mean it.

Twenty minutes later, I return to the truck and shut the door, staring for a long moment out the window at their plots. Then, feeling slightly lighter than when I arrived, I return to the road.

I complete the rest of the drive in a daze, running on pure adrenaline and caffeine, stopping every few hours and catnapping at rest stops. When I finally stumble down the sixth-floor hallway, Jeremy is outside my door, sitting on the nasty orange carpet. I stop a few steps away, my bones exhausted and eyes drooping. He stands when he sees me, his strong arms reaching for me and crushing me into a hug—a hug that I don’t want and don’t need, until the moment I am touched. I sink into his grasp, the strength of his embrace fortifying me, the affection so foreign, so forgotten, that I almost cry from the sheer beauty of it. I have been alone so long, scared of myself and for myself, deprived of so many freedoms. His hug breaks me, breaks every wall I have built, dam I have constructed, and weight I carry. He supports me, lifting me up with his arms, propping me against the wall as his eyes find my face, worry and concern in them.

“Are you okay?” he asks, his eyes sweeping my body, checking and reassuring him that I am in one piece.

“Please, hold me.” The words spill from me, uncontrolled—a tidal wave of emotion pushing in every direction out of my body, tears plummeting down my face.

He stares at me wordlessly and then leans over, lifting me easily, and carries me inside.

Jeremy helps me to undress, his eyes respectfully looking the other way as I pull on sweatpants and a T-shirt. Then he tucks me into bed, holding me in his strong arms as I curl to one side, my body tucked perfectly into his. I have never been held in this way, and the last thought, as my mind sinks into slumber, is that I never want to leave this spot again.

I wake once during the night. Staring at the ceiling, his arm resting across my belly, I wait for the urge to come. For my brain to explode with ideas for mayhem. But it stays quiet, exhausted. It allows me to sleep in his arms without consequence.

I sleep for two days, awakened occasionally by my bladder or stomach. Jeremy is always there, his strong presence filling the void left by my weak one. He feeds me, he brings me ice water and aspirin and chats with me until my eyes droop and I fall back asleep. And then, on day three, I am back.

I OPEN MY
eyes to a bag that I have never seen. I blink, trying to place the object, it coming in and out of focus as I awaken fully. It’s a backpack, gray and black, a carabiner hanging from the top handle.
Jeremy.
It must be his, which means he is still here. I sit up, squinting against the bright sun, and see him sitting against the front door, a laptop open before him. My eyes narrow on it, then relax when I recognize that it is not mine.

He glances over, a smile stretching across his face when he sees me. “You’re awake,” he says, setting aside the laptop and hopping to his feet.

“What time is it?” I say quietly. I feel drugged, too much sleep making my brain slow and sluggish.

“It’s nine thirty. On Friday.”

I nod, thinking of all the cam appointments that I have been a no-show for, of Dr. Derek and what he must be making of a missed Wednesday appointment. That has never happened; my schedule is precise in its lack of conflicting events. The cammers will forgive me. Dr. Derek will probably want to increase my meds.

“Want me to leave?” He picks up a bottle of water off the floor, drains it, and takes it to the trash. My eyes follow his movements, picking up on the sparkling kitchen counter, the clean floors, the foreign, faint smell of lemon.

“Did you
clean
?”

He grins sheepishly. “Just the areas I used. I didn’t want you having to pick up after me.”

I tilt my head toward my pink bedroom. “And what about over there?”

He widens his eyes, holding up his hands. “I didn’t even step on that…side of the apartment.”

I laugh, waving my hand dismissively as I stand. “I’m joking.” I notice my clothes, pale pink striped pajamas that I don’t own. I frown, looking at him.

“They’re my sister’s. I borrowed them. I didn’t want to go through your stuff…” He stops the sentence awkwardly. “Yesterday, during the night you went to the bathroom and came back naked. I couldn’t…it was hard for me to be around you when you sleep like that. I felt like I was violating your privacy.”

“Hard?”
I run my tongue lightly over my teeth, giving him a mischievous smile, laughing when he blushes. “Chill, I’m not judging you. Thank your sister for the PJs. I’ll give them back once I do a load of wash.” I stretch, my back popping, and roll my neck.

“Do you want me to go?” He repeats the question I ignored earlier, the one that I got too distracted to answer. I stop midstretch, dipping into the dark bowels of my mind, looking for a red flag, a flicker of something dark and disturbing.

I shrug. “No. It’s okay. You can stay for a bit.”
Friday morning.
The day suddenly alerts me of its presence, smack-dab on a workday. I squint at him. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I called in. I have some vacation time accrued, so I took a few days off.” He sits back down, watching me as I move to my dresser, pulling open drawers and rummaging for panties and clothes. “You talk a lot. In your sleep.”

I slow my movements, my mind racing. “Really? What do I say?”

“A lot of nonsense. Mostly words that don’t exist. You mentioned summer a few times, and something about a trench.”

I shut the drawer, panties, jeans, and a T-shirt in hand.
Summer. Trent.
The loves of my life. I unbutton the top of the sleep shirt and tug it over my head, then finger the waistband of the pants, pulling them over my hips and dropping them to the floor. I am trying to think of a plausible explanation for the words of my sleep when I glance over and see him, his mouth open, his eyes locked on my body.

I’m naked.
The thought suddenly occurs to me. For me, it is second nature—this apartment is a world in which no one else exists, my own private sanctuary. My online world has conditioned me to being nude, my body on full, high-definition display to anyone who is willing to part with a measly seven bucks. I forget that for other people, a glimpse of skin is coveted—something to be withheld until the proper moment, once the correct hoops have been jumped and relationship boundaries established. “Sorry,” I mutter, sliding my arms through the sleeves of my shirt and ducking into it before stepping into my panties.

“No. I’m sorry for looking. I should have…” He closes his eyes briefly, shaking his head before opening them and looking at me. “God, you are beautiful.”

Beautiful. It is a word I don’t hear often, which is odd considering the days stacked upon weeks upon months upon years that men have spent ogling my body. Sexy. Hot. Gorgeous. Fine. Bitchin’. Pretty, when the man is short on words or unfamiliar with the English language. But beautiful is not a word often used. “Thank you. I should have gone into the bathroom, but I’m so used to being naked that I forget normal social protocols.”

“You don’t have to apologize. Trust me. And I remember,” I shoot him a questioning look. “The first time I came in, you were naked.” He gestures to the left side of the apartment. “On the bed, lit by the lights.”

I nod, remember the moment well, my admiration at his looks interrupted by the bloodthirsty lust I had for his box cutters. Just the memory of it causes a shiver of darkness to shoot through me, and I shift uncomfortably.

He laughs uncomfortably. “So, what? You do porn?”

I smile, shaking my head. “No.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you. It’s just the lights, the cameras, the toys…”

“I’m not offended. You might consider what I do porn, so I probably shouldn’t have answered so quickly. I webcam. Those cameras are hooked to my computer, and I broadcast the videos online, in private chat rooms. Men, and sometimes women, pay me to have cybersex with them.” I pull my hair into a ponytail and turn to him, watching his face, curious about his reaction.

“Cybersex? Like what people used to do in Yahoo! chat rooms?”

“No. Not like that. That was just typing. My clients type, but I communicate through a video feed. It has audio, so it is more like a FaceTime call, but my system is about ten times more sophisticated than an iPhone.”

His eyes travel over my equipment, the lights, the wires and connections, and the toys, which cover two dresser surfaces. “It’s a lot of equipment.”

It is a useless response, one that doesn’t give me any hint into his thoughts. “Yep.”

He laughs. “It’s not as bad as I expected. I don’t know what I expected. You do this for money?”

I nod.

“So the guys…they don’t actually come here.”

Oh, they definitely cum.
I smile. “No. The sex is all virtual.”

I don’t necessarily expect him to be okay with my work. But it is a non-negotiable, at least if we are discussing the possibility of a relationship. Which we’re not. Especially since my mind just wandered away from my superexciting inner dialogue and is envisioning his backpack straps wrapped tight around that gorgeous, hasn’t-been-shaved-in-three-days neck. I blink, bringing myself back to the present. “It’s what I do. How I support myself. I don’t expect you to understand.”

He holds up his hands. “Trust me, in the arena of odd, your Internet webchats are at the bottom of the stack as far as you are concerned. It doesn’t bother me.”

I try to frown, to look hurt, but “odd” is about the nicest word someone could pick to describe me.

He tilts his head slightly. “Well, maybe it bothers me a bit, but I don’t have the right to dictate what you do with your body.” He glances around the apartment. “It does seem like a lot of work for little pay. This building…one day it’s just gonna cave in around you. There’s got to be something else you can do for more money.”

I bite my lower lip, keeping a grin from slipping out, his concern over my finances laughable. “Like stuffing envelopes?” It was a joke, but something that I seriously considered my first week in 6E. Searching “work from home jobs” in Google brings up a plethora of choices, from telemarketing to taking surveys to working in technical support. I picked camming for two reasons: money and the desire to not be yelled at or hung up on. Online, I do the yelling, traditionally while brandishing a riding crop or seven-inch dildo. And when I do get hung up on, the cash register chings, signaling another successful orgasm-for-funds transaction.

“Like stuffing envelopes,” he says with a smile. “That’d probably give me more packages to deliver. More opportunities to stare at your closed door.”

“Maybe I’ll start opening it for you. Just to stop your hand from making any more girly signatures.”

He grins at me, and I grin at him, and there is a spark of possibility in our exchange.
Maybe.
Maybe there is a possibility for happiness after all, despite my online slutdom and psychopathic urges.

Then there is a different flicker inside of me, my dark demons reminding me of their power, and I meet Jeremy’s eyes. “You should probably go.”

Maybe. Maybe not. I have to remember what I am.